#didn’t think too hard about cleaning it up

[holeforzenin]

⟣ 𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐍 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐍𝐀𝐆 𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐌 𝐓𝐎𝐎 𝐌𝐔𝐂𝐇

⟣ 𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 — Toji x reader, Kento x reader, Satoru x reader, Choso x reader, Ichiji x reader, Yuki x reader

⟣ 𝐓𝐰 — Degradation + dumbification. blow job in Toji’s, backshots in Nanami’s, pussy eating in Gojo’s, Breast play in ichiji’s, breeding in choso’s, face sitting in Yuki’s. They’re prob a lot of grammar errors.

⟣ 𝐀/𝐍 — First multiply character fic in honor of my birthday, what do we think!!? :333

⟣ 𝐓𝐎𝐉𝐈 𝐅𝐔𝐒𝐇𝐈𝐆𝐔𝐑𝐎

Toji’s grumbling could be heard from the hallway as you padded into the bathroom, catching him zipping up his pants, a lazy yawn stretching across his face. You glanced at the toilet seat, then back at him with a deadpan expression. “Are you serious right now?”

He raised a brow in confusion while looking over his shoulder. “What?”

You stepped past him and pointed accusingly at the droplets scattered on the seat. “You really can’t just wipe the seat? It’s not that hard, Toji”.

Toji huffed, crossing his big arms over his broad chest as he leaned against the doorframe. “You’re really gonna whine about that?”

“Yeah,” you shot back, hands on your hips. “I live here too, you know. It’s gross”.

His eyes dragged over you, amusement flickering in the green depths. “Didn’t know you were so prissy, sweetheart”.

“Didn’t know you were so lazy,” you quipped, grabbing a wad of toilet paper and wiping it yourself with a dramatic flourish. “See? Easy”.

Toji’s jaw ticked, but the smirk was still there. “You wanna be a brat about it?”

“Maybe,” you chirped, tossing the tissue into the bowl and flushing with a pointed look his way. “Maybe if you actually cleaned up after yourself, I wouldn’t have to nag you like I’m your mom”.

He clicked his tongue, stepping forward until your back hit the sink, his hands bracing on either side of you as he towered over you. “That right?”

Your breath hitched as he leaned in, lips brushing your ear. “Guess I should shut that mouth up for you, huh?”

The smugness was gone, replaced with a flicker of thrill as you tilted your chin up defiantly as if you were challenging him. “You could try”.

Toji didn’t waste another second. His large hand cupped the back of your head, fingers threading through your hair as he forcefully pushed you down to your knees, the cool tiles biting against your skin. His belt clattered as he quickly unbuckled it, gaze locked on you with a feral sort of glint.

“Open up, sweetheart,” he rasped, voice dropping to a deep whisper. You obeyed, mouth parting as he tapped the angry tip of his cock against your tongue, the weight of it heavy and demanding as pre-cum smeared under your nose and lips.

His grip on your hair tightened as he rammed his cock in, stretching your lips around him and feeding his cock to you inch by inch, groaning low in his chest as you hollowed your cheeks to take him in. “There you go…knew you were good for something other than bitchin’, he grunted, hips thrusting shallowly as you wrapped your hands around his thick thighs for support.

The sound of his breathing roughened, and his eyes stayed locked on the way your pretty lips latched to his shaft as you sucked him, a big spit and pre-cum mixture leaking down your chin as he fucked your mouth deeper, his hips rolling with a much rough rhythm that’s causing you to lose your breath. “Look at that,” he drawled, thumb grazing the corner of your mouth to catch the saliva pooling there. “So messy—Got no fucking room to talk except for taking this cock”.

You moaned around him, nails digging into his pants as he picked up the pace, groaning your name as your tongue flattened along the underside of his dick. His hips snapped harder, the blunt head nudging the back of your throat, forcing tears to prick the corners of your eyes.

His hand cradled your jaw, rough thumb brushing the bulge of his cock through your cheek. “Gonna make you clean up every time,” he rasped, voice deep and raspy. “Since you like it so much, fuckin’ slut”.

⟣ 𝐊𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐎 ����𝐀𝐍𝐀𝐌𝐈

You stood in the doorway of Kento’s office, arms crossed as you surveyed the stacks of papers cluttering his usually wooden desk. “You seriously just gonna leave them like this?”

Kento barely glanced up from his monitor, adjusting his glasses with a sigh. “Darling, they’re already organized,” he replied simply.

“Organized?” you scoffed, stepping further in to pluck a random sheet from the mess. “There’s three different client names on here. What kind of system is this?”

He paused, fingers halting over his keyboard. “A working one”.

You rolled your eyes at his sassiness, shaking the paper for emphasis. “It’s chaos, Kento. I don’t know how you can even find anything in this mess”.

His jaw flexed, gaze finally flicking up to meet yours. “I find everything just fine,” he replied calmly, though the subtle edge in his voice wasn’t lost on you.

“Clearly,” you taunted sarcastically, flipping through another pile. “This is why you can never find your keys. Or your wallet. Or—”

Before you could finish, Kento stood up—his chair scraping back with an annoying sound as he approached you with measured steps, the kind that made your heart thud a little harder because of how calm his demeanor was. He stopped in front of you, gaze sharp behind his glasses. “If you’re going to waste your time nagging me,” he began, his voice low and serious, “I think you should be put to better use”.

You barely had time to respond before he's manhandling you around with his strong hands and pressing your front against the desk, papers crinkling beneath you as his hand splayed across your back to keep you pinned there. “Maybe a little distraction will shut you up,” he murmured.

Heat pooled in your stomach as his warm palm slid down, nudging your legs apart. “Kento!”

“Shh,” he soothed, lips brushing your ear. “You wanted my attention. Now you’ve got it”.

His hands were deft, hiking up your skirt and yanking your panties down to your knees. The loud drag of his belt coming undone had you shivering, anticipation coiling tightly in your stomach. “Think you’ll remember this next time you feel like running your fucking mouth?”

A shiver ran up your spine as you nodded. He chuckled at your obedience, fingers brushing over your slit and spreading the pre-cum dribbling out of his tip between your folds. “Good girl. Don't worry, I'll make sure of it”.

And with that, he was ramming his cock all the way in, stretching your poor pussy around him inch by inch over the cluttered surface, papers sliding to the floor and making everything even messier as he sloppily pounded his cock into your cunt, fingers gripping your waist with the kind of authority that left you shaking and whimpering. “Maybe I’ll mess this desk up more often,” he rasped. “Gives me an excuse to disrespect this pussy and shut you up like this”.

Kento squeezed your hips tighter like he was doing it on purpose, fingers digging into the soft flesh as he slammed into you like you were nothing but a warm hole to fuck, his breath hot and heavy against your neck, giving you goosebumps. “Fucking look at you,” he sneered, one hand sliding up to fist in your hair, tugging your head back just enough for his lips to brush your ear. “So mouthy until you’re bent over my desk like a little slut. Still think I’m disorganized, darling?” His hips snapped forward, the sharp slap of skin against skin punctuating his question, making your eyes roll back.

Your hands scrambled for purchase amidst the scattered papers, crumpling documents beneath your fingertips as his cock bullied its way deeper into your cervix, splitting you open with each unforgiving thrust that's ruining your poor pussy. “Bet you won’t be nagging me anymore, huh?” he growled, yanking your hair a little harder when you only moaned in response.

“Can barely think, can you? Fucked you so dumb already that you forgot how to run that pretty mouth of yours”. His hand left your hip to smack your rippling ass, the sting sharp and sudden, making you jolt against the desk. “I should leave you like this—bent over my chaos so you remember exactly where your place is”.

⟣ 𝐒𝐀𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐔 𝐆𝐎𝐉𝐎

You stood in the middle of the living room, running your hands over your face as you analyzed the mess. Candy wrappers were strewn across the coffee table, littering the couch cushions and even dotting the floor like he’d just flung them around for fun. Gojo was lying on the couch, unbothered with his legs manspreading and almost taking up the whole couch, a lollipop dangling from his mouth as he scrolled through his phone.

“Satoru,” you called, voice sharp enough to cut through his blissful ignorance. He raised his head lazily, pushing his sunglasses up to peer at you with that usual cheeky grin.

“Mm? What’s up, sweetheart?”

You gestured around the room. “This. All of this. You’re gonna pick up your candy wrappers or what?”

He tilted his head, sucking obnoxiously on the lollipop with a loud pop. “I was going to…eventually”.

You scoffed, bending down to snatch a few wrappers off the floor. “Eventually? Satoru, it looks like Halloween exploded in here. You can’t just live in your own trash”.

He chuckled, tossing his phone aside and standing up with a dramatic stretch. “I dunno, I think it adds character. Like, ‘Welcome to Gojo’s Candy Kingdom!’ You want a tour?”

You rolled your eyes, chucking the wrappers into the trash bin with a huff. “If this is a kingdom, I’m moving out”.

“Oh, don’t be so dramatic,” he teased, stepping up behind you and wrapping his long arms around your waist, chin propped on your shoulder. “You’re really this mad about some wrappers?”

“It’s disgusting,” you shot back, but your voice wavered when his hands slipped to your hips, thumbs rubbing gentle, teasing circles.

“Mm…you’re right,” he murmured, lips brushing your ear. “I should really clean up my messes”. Before you could respond, you were spun around, and in one swift movement, he had you bent over the arm of the couch, your hips up and your tits smushed into the cushions.

“Satoru!” you squealed, squirming and struggling against his grip, but he just laughed, pushing your skirt up over your hips and exposing your ass with zero shame.

“See? Cleaning up,” he cooed mockingly, hands squeezing your ass with a playful slap. “Starting with you, sweets”.

You barely had time to protest before his eager mouth was on you, tongue quickly lapping between your folds with a kind of greed that had your knees trembling within the first second. “S-Satoruuu” you gasped, hands clawing at the couch cushions at your clit twitches on his tongue.

He chuckled against your skin, the vibrations making you whimper. “What?” he purred, tongue swirling around your clit before sucking harshly like it was a piece of flavorful candy. “Thought you wanted me to stop eating candy. Figured I’d switch to something sweeter”.

Your face burned, hands fisting into the cushions as he licked into you with unrestrained enthusiasm, slurping sounds echoing obnoxiously through the room, it was so embarassing. “Much better than chocolate,” he teased, voice muffled as he nipped at your inner thigh. “I think I’m addicted to this sweet pussy”.

You moaned, back arching as he buried his face deeper into your wet cunt, hands gripping your thighs to keep you spread for him as he slides his tongue back and forth on your folds and collecting your wetness and tasting it on his tongue. “Think you could get mad at me more often?” he murmured, voice all bright and playful, even as his tongue dipped at the entrance of your soaking pussy. “I’m loving this version of clean-up duty”.

⟣ 𝐂𝐇𝐎𝐒𝐎 𝐊𝐀𝐌𝐎

The living room was a battlefield of toys—plastic cars, action figures, and stuffed animals scattered like remnants of some toddler rampage. You carefully stepped over a pile of building blocks, hands on your hips as you watched Choso lean against the wall, arms crossed and eyes half-lidded. He looked completely unfazed by the chaos, gaze drifting lazily over the room like it didn’t even register.

“Choso,” you called, voice sharp enough to break his trance. He blinked, head tilting as he looked at you, brows raised in mild surprise.

“Yes?” he drawled, voice soft and calm like the mess around him wasn’t something he should be responsible for. You gestured around the room. “You gonna pick up after your brothers, or are you just gonna let them turn this place into a war zone?”

He shrugged, pushing off the wall and stepping closer, his towering frame casting a shadow over you. “They’re kids,” he murmured, eyes flickering to yours with that familiar, sleepy smile. “Not that big of a deal”.

“Not that big of a—” you started, but he cut you off, hands slipping around your waist and pulling you in close. His touch was gentle, but his grip was sturdy, holding you in place as he dipped his head to brush his lips over your neck.

“You’re so uptight,” he whispered, breath warm against your skin. “Always scolding me but I like it”. His hands squeezed your hips, pulling you against him with a low, rumbling sigh. “Maybe I do want you to keep me in line”.

Your breath hitched, hands bracing against his chest as he pressed forward, guiding you back until your legs hit the arm of the couch. He eased you down, eyes locked on yours with that predatorial look. “You wanna boss me around?” he asked, his voice low and teasing. “Make me clean up, take responsibility?”

Your cheeks burned, hands fisting in his shirt as he hovered above you, his heavyweight pressing you into the couch cushions. “Maybe I do,” you shot back, your voice stronger than you felt.

He chuckled. “Good,” he murmured, hands slipping beneath your skirt to squeeze the plush of your thighs. “Then make me, please”.

You barely had time to process his words before he hooked your legs over his shoulders, his mouth finding yours in a desperate, heated kiss. His hands were everywhere—gripping, squeezing any flesh from your body he could touch, and pulling you closer as if he couldn’t get enough of your body. “Been thinking about it,” he breathed against your lips. “How cute you’d look all round and full—stuffed up with my child”.

Your eyes went wide because of how sudden what he’s saying was, a shiver running down your spine as his grip tightened. “Choso—”

“Yeah,” he groaned, cutting you off, his warm forehead pressed to yours, eyes glimmering with something dark and desperate. “Bet you’d look so good carrying it for me—wanna see you swollen. Wanna everyone to know that I did that to you, baby”.

His hands slipped down, grabbing your thighs and yanking you closer, his hips grinding against yours with shameless need as he humped his clothed cock against your panties, the bumpy outline of him creating friction and making your cunt leak against the material. “You gonna let me?” he whispered, his voice desperation as he awaited your consent. “Gonna let me fill you up? Make you mine for real?”

You swallowed hard, nodding before you could stop yourself, and that was all the permission he needed. He quickly pulled his cock out and slid your panties to the side before his hands grabbed at your waist, easily pulling you down onto him in one rough motion, the sudden stretch stealing the breath from your lungs.

Choso moaned loudly, his eyes fluttering shut as he bottomed out and felt your pussy clenching around him already, his hands gripping you tight enough to bruise. “F–Fuck! You feel that?” he rasped, his voice cracking. “Feel how deep I am?”

He starts pounding into you, every thrust pushing you deeper into the couch, his teeth grazing your neck as he speaks. “Gonna put a little baby in you—m’gonna keep you all full of my children”.

You clutched at his broad shoulders, your nails digging in as he set a brutal rhythm, his thrusts rougher than usual like he was on the verge of losing control. He’s panting against your neck, whispering filthy promises about how you'd be a wonderful mother and how beautiful you’d look carrying his child, how he’d keep you that way—barefoot and pregnant, marked and stuffed up by him.

His pace quickened, hips stuttering a bit and you could already tell he was close. The desperation in his movements mounting and he babbles into your neck. “Gonna stuff you,” he groaned, voice dropping to a husky whisper. “Over and over until it’s overflowing out of your pretty little pussy—gonna make sure you’re mine”.

Your back arched, your body shivering under his broken pace but Choso’s hands held you steady, keeping you right where he wanted you as he used you but with love, of course. His breath was ragged, his eyes fluttering as he hammers himself deeper, pressing his sweaty forehead to yours. “You gonna take it for me?” he murmured, almost pleading. “Gonna—fuck!—let me breed you?”

You instantly nodded, too fucked out to speak or think, and his expression shattered, his hips bucking wildly as he buried himself to the hilt, warmth flooding you in heavy, throbbing beats but his grip didn’t loosen, hands still holding you tight against him like he was making sure none of his seed would escape.

When it was over, he stayed there, panting against your skin, his hands still possessive on your hips. “Guess that means I gotta clean up the toys now,” he whispered. “Wouldn’t want you tripping with my baby in you”.

⟣ 𝐊𝐈𝐘𝐎𝐓𝐀𝐊𝐀 𝐈𝐉𝐈𝐂𝐇𝐈

The office was dimly lit, the late afternoon sun casting long shadows across Ichiji’s cluttered desk. Papers were stacked in uneven piles, data sheets scattered, and a half-empty cup of coffee sat dangerously close to the edge. You leaned against the doorway, arms crossed as you watched him pinch the bridge of his nose, eyes squeezed shut in clear frustration. You felt so bad for him.

“You’ve been at it for hours,” you said gently, your voice cutting through the tense silence. His head snapped up, eyes heavy with exhaustion as he met your gaze. “Maybe take a break?”

Ichiji sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “I can’t,” he muttered, eyes drifting back to the towering stack of reports. “There’s too much to do. It’s not going to finish itself”.

You stepped inside, moving behind his chair and placing your hands on his shoulders. His muscles were taut beneath your touch, tension coiled up tight that’s its aching. “You’re going to burn out if you keep this up,” you whispered, fingers kneading gently at the knots in his shoulders. “Just ten minutes, okay?”

His eyes fluttered shut at your touch, a shaky sigh slipping past his lips. “I don’t have ten minutes,” he replied, voice rough with fatigue.

“Five, then,” you coaxed, leaning down so your lips brushed the shell of his ear. “You can spare five”.

Before he could argue, your hands slipped lower, fingers tracing slow circles against his chest through the fabric of his uniform. He stiffened beneath your touch, eyes snapping open as you pressed yourself closer, your hands dipping to his collarbones. “You’re so tense, baby,” you murmured, lips grazing his temple.

Ichiji groaned, head tipping back as his hands found your hips, squeezing it almost desperately. “You make it so impossible to think,” he whispered with his voice strained.

“Good,” you shot back, voice lilting with mischief. “Stop thinking for a bit”.

He didn’t need any more encouragement. His grip tightened, and before you could blink, you were pulled down onto his lap, his hands rougher than usual as they squeezed your waist. His head dipped lower, lips grazing the exposed skin of your collarbone before he suddenly surged forward, calloused hands cupping your breasts with a desperate kind of urgency.

“Ichiji,” you gasped, fingers threading through his black strands as his mouth latched onto the curve of your exposed chest, sucking hot, open-mouthed kisses against your soft skin. His hands fondled with them, thumbs brushing over your nipples through your shirt, sending shocks of pleasure down your spine.

But it wasn’t enough for him. With a low groan, he tugged your top up, baring you to him before his mouth returned—hot and fucking eager, his tongue dragging across your skin with feverish need. His hands held you firmly in place on his lap, keeping you pressed against him as his mouth moved, licking and sucking at every inch of bare flesh he could reach.

His breathing was ragged, eyes heavy-lidded with need as he buried his face between the swell of your breasts, mouthing hungrily at the soft skin there. “You smell so good,” he murmured, voice muffled, his tongue flicking out to trace the curve of your sternum before dipping lower, pressing desperate kisses along the underside.

You shivered, your nails scraping gently against his scalp as he continued, mouth working furiously like he couldn’t get enough. His hands squeezed your breasts, thumbs brushing your hardened nipples in teasing circles that made your breath stutter. “You taste even better,” he rasped, pulling back just enough to meet your gaze, lips swollen and slick.

“Feel a little better now?” you teased, breathless and grinning as you cupped his cheek.

Ichiji just chuckled, his hands sliding back to your hips as he pulled you closer to his chest. “Not even close,” he whispered, eyes glimmering with intent. “I think I need another break”.

⟣ 𝐘𝐔𝐊𝐈 𝐓𝐒𝐔𝐊𝐔𝐌𝐎

The living room was a mess of unfolded laundry—shirts, socks, and lacy panties scattered across the couch like an afterthought. You stared at the chaos, eyebrows raised as you picked up one of Yuki’s crumpled t-shirts. “You call this folding?” you asked, voice laced with disbelief.

Yuki was sitting on the couch as she scrolled through her phone. She glanced up lazily at you, eyes twinkling with amusement. “It’s folded enough,” she replied, stretching like she hadn’t a care in the world.

“Folded enough?” you repeated, holding up one of her wadded-up hoodies like it was evidence of a crime. “Yuki, it looks like you just balled everything up and chucked it in the basket!”

Yuki just smirked, tucking her phone into her pocket and patting her lap. “You got a lot of opinions today,” she drawled, voice dripping with playful arrogance. “Why don’t you come over here and say it to my face?”

You hesitated, eyes narrowing. “What are you planning?”

“Nothing,” she replied, leaning back with a lazy grin. “Just wanna hear you complain up close”.

Against your better judgment, you stepped forward, and she caught your wrist, tugging you closer until you stumbled over her lap. Her hands were commanding as she adjusted you, making sure you were positioned just right.

“You know,” she mused, her fingers tracing slow circles along your hips. “You do talk a lot of crap for someone who’s about to get sat on”.

Your eyes widened, mouth parting to protest, but Yuki was already shifting beneath you, lifting her hips to slide her sweatpants and panties down her thighs in one fluid motion. The casual confidence in the way she kicked them off sent a thrill straight through you, and you barely had time to process before she grabbed your shoulders, pushing you back onto the couch cushions.

“Yuki, wait—” you started, but she just chuckled darkly, swinging one leg over your face and straddling you, her pushy thighs bracketing your head.

“Wait?” she mocked, hands settling on the back of the couch for balance. “You don’t wanna keep nagging me? Maybe list off my chores while you’re down there?” Her grin was wicked, eyes sparkling with mischief as she hovered above your face, she spreads her ass cheeks—letting you feel the warmth of her pussy on your face, so close your breath ghosted over her skin.

Her bare cunt was practically soaking—like she was waiting for this, sticky slick smearing across your lips the second she lowered herself, her folds warm and wet on your mouth. The taste of her was dizzying, all salt and sweetness as she ground her hips down, rubbing her pussy on you back and forth like she was trying to mark you with it. Her wetness smeared across your chin and cheeks as she rolled her hips in harsh circles, moaning softly above you as she used your facial features to get herself off.

“Look at that,” she purred, her voice sweet and sultry. “Already making such a mess of you.” Her fingers threaded through your hair, gripping tight as she rocked forward, her cunt dragging flat across your tongue with every roll of her hips. “Keep talking about how I don’t clean up—now you can clean this up instead,” she taunted, pressing her ass down harder like she was actually sitting on you instead of just hovering.

Your hands flew to her thighs, nails digging into her skin as you tried to catch your breath, but she wasn’t letting up. Her thighs squeezed your head, holding you still as she ground her soaked cunt in your mouth, the wetness spreading everywhere with every needy movement and her sweet scent filling your nostrils. “That’s it,” she cooed, voice dropping to a husky whisper. “Lick it up. Make it nice and clean for me”.

Her juices were everywhere—your tongue, your cheeks, your chin—and she was so persistent, hips circling with purpose, smearing more of her arousal across your face like she was marking her territory. Her hand found the back of your head, pressing you even closer until your nose brushed against the tight ring of her ass, and she let out a shuddering breath when she feels it tickling her.

“Not so mouthy now, huh?” she murmured. “Bet you’re too busy drowning down there to complain”.

She rocked her ass harder, your tongue slipping through her folds, tasting every bit of arousal she rubbed against you. She moaned sweetly above you, the sound shameless and greedy as she kept grinding like a bitch in heat, wetness leaking down your chin and soaking the poor couch cushions beneath you.

“Maybe I’ll make this a habit,” she mused, eyes half-lidded with pleasure as she looks down at you—even though she couldn’t really see your face because her ass was trapping you. “Every time you wanna nag me, I’ll just shut you up like this—smother that attitude right out of you”.

You didn’t even try to argue—your tongue was too busy lapping up everything she gave, your mouth coated with her cream as she rode your face with lazy confidence, grinding herself against you and using you for her pleasure like that’s what you were made for.

[m-robinavitch]

in passing.

Pairing: Dr. Jack Abbot/Wife!Reader Summary: While working opposite shifts for two weeks, Jack Abbot finally gets a day off to spend with his wife. But in true Jack Abbot fashion- he needs to make sure you knew what you had missed out on. Warnings: 18+ MDNI, smut, age gap relationship (older man/younger woman), soft!Dom Jack, overstimulation, teasing, spanking, and Dr. Yapper with his gremlin smile comes with his own warning. Crossposted to AO3

“Hmm, there better be a damn good reason you’re waking me up, Jack.” You smile, sighing into the way your husband’s lips dragged across the back of your neck- his heavy hands pushing your hair to the side as he makes little bites and nips with no particular direction set yet. He needs to shave- you think to yourself, biting your lip a bit from the scratch of his stubble along your neck because it feels good.

“Mhm,” he nods, smiling into your neck and wrapping his arms around your waist to drag you closer into his chest. “Missed you.” Mumbling, his fingers tease along the bottom hem of the shirt you were wearing to bed- his shirt, the one he was given in basic. Ratty, seams coming apart slightly with every wash but it was so soft and smelled like him and didn’t even fucking fit him anymore yet he still complains that you steal his clothes. You weren’t asleep- not really. You knew that he would be home soon and you expected him around now, 6 am- crawling into bed behind you and grumbling about how you’re on his side, in his spot. His pillow smelled like him, his side was firmer and it felt like sleeping in his arms when it was like this. 

What was this? This- was two weeks of opposite shifts. Two weeks of him working evenings and you on rotating shifts- working wherever you were needed and currently one of the ED residents was on leave, so the morning shift was where you were needed for the time being. It was fine. You liked everyone you worked with but it was hard because you missed Jack. Not just working with him- which honestly was fun but he annoyed you to no end with his incessant need to be the dominating player on the team. But you worked well together- he could count on his wife favorite resident to flank him when he needs, hands working in unison, knowing which clamp he wanted or what to push in the patient's IV before he even asked. Missing him at work aside- you obviously missed him at home too. You missed sleeping next to him, wrapping your arms around him, eating dinner together and laying on the couch with him to watch whatever stupid war documentary that was on because he just had to see. 

You had both been trying to work with seeing each other only in passing for the last few weeks. Where you were waking up to make breakfast for you both- spending only 30 minutes together while you sip your coffee before work and Jack fights sleep to spend those few precious minutes with you. Where you were coming home from work while he showers before he leaves for the night- then jumping in with him, kissing the freckles along his shoulders until he has to physically tear himself away from you to not be late again. Where you were making him something to eat for when he wakes up and he was making you dinner so you can just go home and rest, not worrying about anything else other than sleep. A quick kiss while you’re leaving the Pitt, passing him in the stairwell on his way in. Where you were sitting for a few minutes on the roof together after he’s brought you coffee so you can wake up for your shift, just giving each other details of what to expect or what patients were waiting on what before he leaves to go home and sleep. You didn’t even have any days off together. On his days off, Jack had been at the VA hospital with Mel- volunteering some of his limited free time. On your days off you had been helping the resident who had been on leave, maternity leave to be exact- cooking, cleaning, or just holding the baby so she can have a shower or nap. It was fine. Everything was fine. You just missed Jack. And he missed you. And you both finally had a fucking day off together.

“Prove it,” you smirked, still laying on his side of the bed with his chest at your back- kissing your shoulder while letting his hands skim up under your shirt now. You knew he missed you but right now it’s been so long since you’ve had him in bed with you- you just had to tease him. “You don’t miss me. Such a very neglectful husband.” Joking, hearing him scoff at your words but continued dragging his hand up your shirt to cup your breasts. 

“I am- so fucking neglectful,” he nods, shoving his hand to come out the neck of your shirt, just so he can grab your jaw and turn your face to him- catching your lips in a desperate kiss. “You should just divorce me. You can keep the house, the kids, the cars” kids meaning the ones you’ve adopted at the hospital- Whitaker, Mel, Santos, Mohan, and Victoria, “just let me fuck you one more time- one more time and I’ll sign wherever the fuck you want me to.” His hand returns to its spot on your breast, palming at it now and you try to giggle at his ramblings but he’s pushing his hips into your ass now- letting you feel how fucking hard he was, moaning in your ear and dammit you missed him so fucking much. His other hand trails down to snake into your underwear- well, it would if you had any on and he groans when he realizes it. 

“Think you can slip the kids in there like I wouldn’t notice?” Mumbling into his lips, moaning at the feeling of his fingers running along your slit, collecting the wetness that accumulated after only moments of finally being with him after two weeks. “We split custody, 50/50.” He’s manhandled you a bit- hovering over you now and dragging your shirt up just enough so he can circle his tongue around your nipple, hooking your legs over his hips for him to be able to grind into your uncovered center. 

“70/30 and I keep a car.” Jack negotiates, biting your nipple and tugging a bit before coming back to kiss up your neck and lips again. Thrusting your hips up, you use a leg as leverage to roll him back against the bed- clambering up to straddle his hips now and grinding your own down to elicit a whine from him. 

“60/40 and you can borrow a car.” Giggling, you pull at his clothes, tugging his boxers and undershirt off- the remaining few clothes he hadn’t rid himself from in anticipation and excitement of getting into bed with you as soon as he was home. You were able to drag your bare pussy over the underside of him now, he was impossibly hard- his cock pointed up, laying flat against his lower stomach and the veins were giving you the perfect texture to grind on. Jack’s large hands settle on your hips, digging into them to guide your movements a bit and if you tilt your hips back just so- the tip of him could easily slide into you and-

“Deal,” he nods, sitting up so he could nip along your jaw- pushing your hair back from your face as his teeth map out a path to your lips again. You sigh into the feeling- letting your arms hang off his shoulders while you lazily kiss him, enjoying the way his slightly chapped lips you know you gave him lip balm and you’re sure it’s shoved into his backpack and lost way at the bottom gave texture to the pleasure, it was something that felt very- Jack. You don’t stop the way your hips move, canting into his slowly while he traces his tongue along your bottom lip- opening your mouth for him so his tongue can swirl around yours. “Now let me fuck you baby, it’s been two weeks.” He thrusts his hips up now, trying to roll you both over so he can be on top but you shove him back down to lay flat. 

“What do you think you’re doing?” You ask, reaching under you to grab his cock as you rise up on your knees- teasing the tip along your lower wet lips. Jack rises up on his elbows now, groaning at the feeling of your wetness and anticipation of finally being inside you but- 

“Trying to fuck my wife? What are you doing?” He raises his eyebrows and shakes his head like it was obvious- oh. Oh no he’s acting like he doesn’t remember. You knew he remembered, he tries to sit up fully so he can hover over you but you shove him back down again.

“No? I’m fucking you- it’s Monday, I’m on top.” Yes- you did have to make a schedule due to some nights there would be fights over who would be on top and sometimes no sex would happen because neither of you would relent. And of course in true Jack Abbot fashion- he would always try to switch days or say he’s had a hard shift and deserves to be on top or ‘Are you sure it’s not my day?’ And before he could argue more or poorly gaslight you into believing it’s his day- you sink down onto him quickly, gasping and sighing in relief. Two weeks has maybe been the longest you’ve gone without fucking him, not counting the time you banned him from the bedroom while you were studying for your Step 3 exam- that was purely a necessity because there was no way you’d be able to focus with the man literally breathing down your neck. 

“That’s not- f-fuck that’s not fair.” It was never fair. That’s the point. And you giggle at his frustration- rolling your hips into a steady and slow rhythm. Jack didn’t try to argue the point anymore, his hands found their way onto your thighs- caressing gently while you got to work on fucking your husband the way you wanted. You liked it slow, loved rocking your hips just right to where you could feel every inch of his thick cock rub against your g-spot, where the curls that collect at the top of his pubic bone kiss at your clit with every roll of your hips. You have one hand on his chest- hand flat to keep him from leaning up and trying to roll you over really pulling the dog tags around his neck slightly, then brushing against the dusting of hair along his pecs before dragging your nails down to his taut stomach- still maintaining his fucking abs at his age was a gift you didn’t know you wanted. Your other hand dragged up your own body, feeling his eyes on you because if anything, your husband had a staring problem and especially loved to stare at you. You kept his eye contact- biting your lip in a smile when you lean back now, hand on his thigh to brace yourself and continue to roll your hips, sighing at the feeling of his cock just grinding into your wet pussy. 

“Keep going baby, just like that,” he’ll let you have your fun, for now- but Jack couldn’t deny that you looked fucking ethereal in this moment, riding his cock like you were made for it, sunlight just peeking through the blinds now and kissing your skin in a golden glow. He’s obviously been on edge the last few weeks- but he’s not too proud to admit that burying himself into your cunt keeps him sane, that fucking you into your shared mattress keeps Jack’s patience leveled. Because he can already feel the stress melting away from his body with every slow move you make. He’s watching you drag your hand down your body, fingers circling around your clit and you shudder- clenching around him at the feeling and Jack groans out something almost painful. He can’t cum yet- fuck he needs this to last. “Good girl- play with your clit a little more.” If you cum first then he’ll feel better about blowing his load so fucking fast. But you need to cum first. 

“Play with it for me,” You smirked, grabbing his hand from where it was squeezing your thigh- dragging it along to right above where you both were connected. He blacks out for a moment- he thinks. Jack circles his calloused thumb around your swollen clit, slow tight movements that work in tandem with the way you rolled your body on top of his. Your other hand grabs his free one and drags it up your torso, settling on your breast, palming at it with warm heavy hands- leaving you moaning from the added sensation. You started to roll your hips faster, leaning forward a bit to place both your hands on his chest to secure your movements. You were so fucking wet- you could hear it with each pass of your pussy across his cock and you would almost be embarrassed from the sound but you were so fucking worked up that you gave no shits. He could feel you leak from around his cock- using the collection of wetness to rub your clit faster. “Like that baby- fuck keep doing that.” You praise him. Even with such a minimal effort, the swirl of this thumb along your clit had your body on fire- the sparks of your orgasm starting to tease along in your gut. Jack rolled your nipple between his thumb and index finger- groaning when you whined, clenching around him again. You were close- he could tell. He could feel it in how your body was reacting- he just needed to push you a bit farther. 

“Let me help you baby,” Jack sat up now, ignoring your protests as he removed his hand from your breast- using his arm now to wrap around your waist and pull your chest closer to his face so he can get your nipple into his mouth. Oh. Fuck- it’s was good. His mouth sucked and bit your nipple while he continued rubbing perfect circles around your clit- stubble scratching your chest but gave that extra bit of pleasure that had your thighs tightening around his hips. Fucking asshole, he knew exactly what to do- exactly how to make you cum fast. You tug on his curls at the back of his head- making him moan and bite down on your nipple now before giving a soft kiss so he can give the other equal attention. Fuck you were so close and this was so good- but you needed him deeper. Using his shoulder as leverage, you rose up on your knees until he was just notched at your entrance- looking down at him from where he was sucking marks along your chest and smiling when he nodded, almost begging you to slam down on his cock and you’re definitely not one to deny your husband. You are and you’ll deny him on purpose to be a bitch- just not this time. 

Slowly, so teasingly slow, you sank back down on him as you stared into those fucking eyes you love so much- seemingly dark and brown but you spent so much time staring into them when you first met that you realized they’re hazel. Golden flecks on the inside and rings of green on the outside- you could get lost in them if he’d let you. He would. He would do anything that you asked- minimal complaints. He groaned now, eyebrows scrunched up and mouth slightly open as you sank back down onto him so devastatingly slow- just to feel every ridge and vein of his cock until you were seated onto him once more. Tugging on his hair again- you force his mouth against yours- moaning into a hot kiss, tongue and teeth mostly but shared breaths from the panting of your efforts. The hand around your waist dipped down a bit to grab a handful of your ass, helping to guide you onto his cock- up and down and he’s trying to get you to move faster because he needs to feel the slickness of your wet pussy around him. “Faster.” He barks out- tugging your bottom lip between his teeth, slapping your ass hard for emphasis. 

“Stop topping from the bottom Jack.” You scoff- trying to comply, but honestly your thighs were starting to burn and were sore now from just the width of his hips keeping you open. He needs more and it’s so hard to keep composure when you're gently bouncing up and down onto him and he can’t fucking take it anymore. You’ve had your fun- his turn now. He reluctantly removes his fingers from your clit- kissing your cheek when you whine but grabs your hips with both his hands to keep you still, hovering just above him. You knew what he was going to do- you braced yourself on his strong freckled shoulders for it. He keeps you immobile- heavy hands settled on your hips and you couldn’t move even if you fucking tried as he thrusts up into you. Dammit- he was going to ruin you. You couldn’t take the hammering, the devastation and ruin of the pace he started to pound into you from below. You couldn’t make a sound- mouth hung open from the pleasure that started to build up in your veins. You’re so fucking glad that you were still impossibly wet- aiding the slide of his thick cock spearing up into you because the were still some resistance just from the fucking girth of him. 

“Someone sounds pretty fucking ungrateful for how good they’re being fucked right now-” he growls out- removing his hand to slap your ass again. He was only slightly right. You weren't being completely ungrateful because he was fucking you so good- just how you like it. He tilts your hips just slightly back, angling them so he can fuck up into your g-spot and you’re sure you scream from the pleasure and you just pray the neighbors don’t call the cops again. Heat courses along your veins- the familiar height of a peaking orgasm strangles its way down your spine to settle into your gut, pulling each wave higher with every thrust of his cock up into you. His pace doesn’t falter- one thing about your husband is that his stamina is still that of a fucking soldier. More than 10 years your senior and you’re the one panting and exhausted after being fucked into the mattress while he can go at least another two rounds with just a sip of water- as a treat. You bite his shoulder- not carrying if it hurts him because this feels so fucking good and you need to not scream in his ear but he’s threading his fingers through your hair and forcing you to look at him and- “don’t hide now baby- you wanted this remember?” He doesn’t stop wrecking into you, doesn’t stop slamming his hips up into your wet pussy- smirking when you close your eyes and his hand slams back down onto your ass because ‘you know better honey. 

“Wait Jack nooo-” You whine, feeling him shift so he can shove you back to lay at the foot of the bed while he settles on top of you, cool metal of his dog tags now against your chest to soothe the marks he made- never fully leaving the delicious tightness of your cunt. Asshole. At least you lasted longer on top this time. “You’re such a dick.” You moan out- wrapping your legs around his waist instinctively before he can do it for you. He didn’t care- well he did but in his mind he’s fucking you so you can relax and let him do the work, ‘it’s a love language honey’ he’d tell you. And it was so hard to deny that logic as he drives himself into you deeper, burying himself so fucking deep that it pushes you farther down the bed and your head is hanging off the edge now but it gives him access to kiss along your neck and suck marks on your collarbone to match the ones adorning your chest. 

“I know- a neglectful dick of a husband who fucks you so well,” he replies in a mocking tone- taunting you while kissing along your neck and jaw now, so gentle and sweet in contrast to the way his hips were slamming into your own. The sound was bouncing around in the room you shared- sweaty hips against each other, panting and moans that were muffled by sloppy kisses, Jack fucking talking so much that you know he’s about to cum when he finally does shut up, which he hasn’t- not yet. “Now you can’t divorce me- who will treat your pussy this good baby?” He’s baiting you now- getting you riled up from the way his mouth spews filth and nonsense into your ear while he tugs the lobe between his teeth. You just accept the pleasure, sinking into the bed with one hand braced on the wall next to you and the other clawing at his back while he drills right into your tight heat, unwavering speed that has you gasping for air, holding your breath with the impending orgasm in sight. “I said who?” He slows, pulling out and letting his cock rest between your folds now- slapping the side of your thigh now and grabbing your jaw so you can look into his eyes. “Lemme see those pretty eyes while you tell me who fucks you this good.”

“J-Jack- don’t stop,” you whine, your voice pitching at the end- frustrated and wiggling your hips a bit to get him to wreck into you like he had been. He chuckles, squeezing your jaw tighter and it opens from the pressure- his thumb sliding in for you to suck. 

“Don’t be greedy,” he clicks his tongue while slowly dragging his cock back and forth between your wet lips and letting the tip catch your clit but pulling back before it can really do much else other than stress you out and beg, “I’m being very fucking nice to you right now- don’t be a greedy little girl.” He notches at your entrance again, just teasing the tip slowly in and out to annoy you now. He doesn’t count on you still being so fucking pent up from two weeks of deprivation that you roll your hips into his, shoving yourself forward so he can ram back inside your wet cunt. It catches him off guard, the way you angle your hips so you can fuck yourself on his cock in desperation- sucking on his thumb and moaning helplessly while trying to catch back up to the fleeting orgasm from only moments ago. You’re fucking sight to behold in his eyes- chasing your own orgasm, taking it from him and he smiles now because- “that’s my fucking girl.” Pulling his hand away from your jaw and burying his face into your neck, he grab both your thighs to spread you open for him now so he can absolutely fucking ruin you. 

“Fuck- Jack,” the way you say his name is stuttered a bit with every thrust he pounds into your tight pussy. Your thighs start to shake, being forced open by his hands- you’re sure there will be bruises tomorrow in the shape of his fingers wouldn’t be the first time- won’t be the last. “I missed you so much baby, fuck I love you, I love you so fucking much.” He moans into your neck, nodding with every single whisper or whine that you spit out as you drag your fingers through his curls to pull. When you’re close to a mind altering orgasm, you start talking- babbling almost incoherently about anything, how good his cock feels, how good he fucks you, how much you love him. When Jack is close- it’s the only time he ever fucking shuts up, concentrating on making you cum first before he can even think about getting there, listening to the way your voice gets higher like it does when your about to cum, feeling your thighs shake and your pussy clenched around him. 

“I’m- I need you to cum okay?” Pressing his forehead against yours, gritting out the words because it takes so much of his fucking energy to think and speak as he’s sliding viciously between your legs- the feeling has him drunk off your pussy and he needs to concentrate. You just nod, whimpering and inching your hand between you both to rub your clit but he catches it- pulling it up to kiss your knuckles before- “let me do it baby- let me.” He mumbles, dragging his rough hand down your body now and you swear you see stars when his fingers finally trace around your clit lightly. Even when he’s teetering on the edge of cumming so deep inside you with so much of his load- he needs to make sure you’re taken care of first. You tried. Fuck- you had tried so hard after that first week to get yourself off. Laying in bed with your fingers as deep as they could reach- but they weren’t like Jack’s. Didn’t reach like his could- didn’t fill you up like his and you just ended up annoyed and frustrated and digging in that box of toys for that vibrator he uses on you when you’re tied up to the bedpost and begging him to fuck you. It still didn’t work and after hours of trying you were in tears. 

“A-almost, fuck- almost there Jack,” the thick drag of his cock was laying waste to your pussy- demolishing every single thought you had about anything. The only thing you cared about in this moment was your husband on top of you, burying his face in your neck and biting his dog tags to keep from cumming until you’re ready. A few more rough thrusts, a few more rolls of his fingers around your clit and then it finally happens- the drop. The sick fucking drop of your gut and the pleasure takes over to seize your body in a blinding orgasm that has your mouth open in a silent scream- which would’ve been his name if you had any neurons available to do so. You thought your orgasm would inspire one in him- thought the spasms and clenching would push him to cum but he preserves. His pace falters slightly but Jack doesn’t stop, lets the dog tags fall from his mouth to lick up your neck and into your mouth now- tasting the way you whine and sigh, lazily letting his tongue trace along your own. His pace is slow now, removing his hand from your sore clit and inches his way slowly through your walls because he doesn’t want this to end. He’s been deprived of your body for two weeks- he tried to use his hand, fucking his fist in the shower while leaning against the tiles but it did nothing. He couldn’t cum no matter how much he thought of you, no matter how he stroked himself, fast, slow, hard, gentle- he wanted you. 

You know he wants to cum, you know Jack is using whatever sense he has left to force himself to make this last. You’re whispering to him- telling him it’s okay to cum, that you want him to cum inside you so bad. That makes his hips stutter, his resolve starts to crack because you’re begging him to cum now- begging him to fill you up with his cum and he’s fighting within himself. Between the feeling of wanting to cum so fucking back inside you and wanting this to last- he’s struggling. He forces himself to slow down more, resting his entire body on yours for a small bit of relief while just- grinding into you now as he figures out if he wants to cum or feel your hot, tight, throbbing pussy for longer. You’re bordering on the edge of too much- but you’ve missed Jack so much that you just lay there and take it. Take the impending overstimulation from how he lazily fucks into you. One of your hands comes to thread through his sweaty curls now, almost trying to soothe the tension that he’s creating within himself. You feel the tightness in your gut again- the first orgasm opening the door to countless more because your husband is fucking relentless and can’t make a decision on which way he wants to kill you. Jack mindlessly kisses and licks at your neck- moaning when he feels the trembling of your thighs from another devastating orgasm and you can only whimper through it. He pauses- momentarily because if he kept fucking your through your orgasm he’s sure he’d cum from the way your pussy flares and gets so much wetter. And once he knows you’ve came, his pace continues. Slow. Nowhere to be but in bed with you. Inside you

“J-Jack-” helplessly whining, ignoring the few tears that fall from your cheeks from a combination of pleasure and inching on pain. Not hurting but raw and sensitive no matter how fucking wet you still were. He doesn’t care- he makes a little shake of his head and a- ‘nuh uh’ sound that was muffled from being buried in your hair and shoulder. He can’t. Not yet. A few more minutes but not yet. He promises, mumbles that he will cum soon but he just needs to be inside you for a bit longer. The grinding of him inside you, not even thrusting just grinding to conserve his energy- has him rubbing against your sore clit and you can fucking feel another orgasm clawing its way up your chest and you have no time to mentally prepare because it’s slamming its way into you again. You shake and cry and whimper against Jack but he’s steady, sighing into the feeling of you trembling underneath him as if it was a comfort to him. He’s found his voice again- softly whispering praise into your ear and telling you how much he loves you, that he’s going to fill you full of his cum soon- ‘you’re being such a good girl for me baby, always my girl.’ You’re so tired and sore and the sun has finally risen fully to bathe your bedroom in light but you can only stare up at the ceiling, sighing with how softly Jack fucks into you because it’s so good- so fucking good but almost getting to be too much again. You can feel him throbbing inside you, his slow grinds have gotten sloppy- no real pace or rhythm to them as he’s losing the grip he had on his determination. 

“Cum inside me Jack-” you whimper, turning your face to nudge against his, making him look into your eyes. “I want you to cum inside me baby- I need it so bad. Please Jack?” God his heart and strength shatter when you beg. He’s never really been able to tell you no- not when it mattered really. You were his biggest weakness, Jack Abbot was a man fucking whipped for his wife- you who just have to bat your pretty lashes at him and he’ll fall to his knees for you. And asking him to cum inside you? He only gets a second- maybe two before he’s stalling and tensing while he cums inside you, making sure to get it as deep as he can. He doesn’t move- not just yet. Mumbling incoherent praise and kissing along your jaw and neck that was red and rare from his stubble making a mental note to yourself to make sure he shaves later. Leaning up on his elbows he pants, groaning just a bit when he finally pulls his cock out of you but doesn’t leave your arms just yet. Shared breathing and giggles, soft pecks of your lips against his- pushing the sweaty curls that have fallen onto his forehead back. 

“I love you,” he repeats, a final kiss as you happily moan into his lips, wrapping your arms around his shoulders and stretching the aching muscles a bit. Jack rolls off of you, coming to lay shoulder to shoulder now and his hand drops to catch yours, bringing it up to his lips to kiss where your ring was nestled comfortably on your finger. 

“You need to shave,” turning to face him and running your hands over his jaw to emphasize the point. “Lucky you didn’t eat me out- would’ve had rug burn on both my fucking lips.” He barks out a laugh- intertwining your fingers together and letting your hands rest between you both. 

“Guess I know how I’m waking you up then,” he smirks, turning his head to meet your eyes and-

“If you give me beard burn on my pussy you’re taking full custody of the kids,” you throw back, sitting up to stretch and for a yourself to stand because you absolutely need a shower now and-

“So is that a no to licking you awake or?”

[iamasaddie]

push, push

Tommy Miller x f!Reader summary: you've been pushing Tommy's buttons too long for him to ignore, it was time he gave you a piece of his mind. warnings: MDNI, infidelity, Benji doesn't exist, PWP, dirty talk, tiny manhandling, naked grinding (is that a thing?), cum eating, big girthy age gap (reader late 20s-30s; Tommy 55), thick Tommy, kinda rude Tommy and kinda brat-coded reader? wc: 2.3k (that's 1.3k more than i intended oh well) a/n: tommy miller brainrot y'know what i'm sayin'. this is not heavily edited, english is not my first language all mistakes are my own and yada yada. special thanks to my special boo @cuppajoel for talking me reading through it ao3

Tommy was done with your shit. You were taking it too far to go unnoticed even by the most obtuse members of Jackson, let alone his fucking wife. 

It started when you felt enough at home in Jackson. The moment you came you were a trembling deer, still learning what it was like to live in safety; fed, warm. But when your nightmares became a rarely reoccurring echo of the past, another part of you showed its darker self and Tommy smelled danger. 

It all started with a simple hello, a bat of your eyelashes, a compliment to his shirt. Innocent, polite. But then your eyes started to wander to parts of his body no one but his wife touched for the last six years. And that wandering gaze didn’t falter when he cleared his throat to announce that he noticed, oh no, a vicious smile tugged on your lips, and you walked away but not before winking at him. 

Tommy wasn’t an idiot, he knew when someone was making a move on him, but he played stupid in front of you. Giving simple thanks and nods whenever you said that his hair looked good tied up like that. He was never rude, never gave you any emotional reaction, but that only fired you up more until you finally caught him alone in the Tipsy Bison cleaning up and doing inventory. 

“Here all by yourself, handsome?” You chirped, climbing on a bar stool. The apples of your cheeks became more pronounced as you gave him a toothy smile. Somehow this simple and innocent-sounding phrase tipped him off.

“You gotta stop with this shit,” he used more force to dry a freshly cleaned whiskey tumbler, his hand gripping the glass dangerously hard.

Your fingers tapped on the top of the bar table, the rhythmic sound imitated a timer, counting down beats before Tommy would explode. He couldn’t look at you, couldn’t see your eyebrows jerking up in a mocking confusion.

“What are you talking about, Tommy?” There was laughter in you voice. Tommy threw the wet rag on the table a little too hard, slapping it with his opened palm at the same time and making you jump at his movement.

“You know damn fuckin’ well what I’m talkin’ about. Trottin' around me, touchin’ me, saying stuff you ain’t supposed to say to a man twice your age. To a married man twice your age.”

You shrugged your shoulders, tugging at a strand of hair that was tucked behind your ear. “I think you’re just angry ‘cause you want me, and if you weren’t stupid you’d already have me.”

Tommy’s jaw went slack as he counted to three, red hot anger blinding him and he exhaled heavily, like a tired bull at a bullfight. You could almost see steam coming out of his flaring nostrils. He finally looked at you, face screwed in a myriad of conflicting emotions, from anger to annoyance to… curiosity? 

“Have you thought that maybe—just maybe—I just love my wife? Maybe I’m a decent fucking human being?”

It was like he was asking questions from a test you’d spent your whole life preparing for. Didn’t even take you a minute to think before responding, calm and collected, everything Tommy wasn’t.

“Not asking you to love me.” You said it so simply, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. You put your elbows on the table, placing your face between your palms and not taking your eyes off him. “And if you were decent, you wouldn’t have let me watch. You like it. Bet you fuck your fist thinking how I much want you. How I moan imagining your cock instead of my fingers as I fuck my pussy.” 

Your mundane, matter-of-factually tone made him turn around, and he circled the bar getting to you in several heavy steps. Your hawkish gaze never left him and you turned on the bar stool as he approached. Without a second thought, he stood between the legs you spread in an inviting manner and pressed your back into the bar table painfully. The wood counter cut into your skin and it made you hiss, but it was short-lived as Tommy grabbed you by the cheeks, thick fingers making your lips pucker. 

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” The anger tethered on being wondrous. As if he was shocked someone like you would even be there. You wrapped your hand around his wrist and pushed his hand down. 

“I don’t pretend that we live in a normal world, maybe you should stop, too.”

His face dropped and you gave him a victorious chuckle. Your right hand found his neck, squeezed it gently feeling his rapid pulse under your thumb and he shuddered under your touch, but didn’t stop you. You took it as an invitation, tracing it lower, while Tommy stood still. Didn’t push you away when your nail scratched his nipple through his worn white top; let you squeeze at his prominent belly that hung above his jeans. And then he let you touch his hardened dick through the rough denim. In turn, you graced him with a moan while he stayed silent, studying the fire in your eyes.

And then you just climb off the chair, your body almost fully pressing into him as he failed to take a step back. Your lack of bra let him feel your hard nipples dragging along his chest, the proximity of you felt criminal, deadly to everything good he’d ever thought of himself.

“You know where I live.” You leaned to press a kiss to his cheek, but he jerked his face away, so you gave his belly a gentle pat and left. 

When your door slammed open at 8PM that day, you couldn’t say you were confident enough for it not to bother you. You knew that most of the town was at the cinema, watching a cult classic from way before you were born, so you jumped to your feet leaving your cozy chair and grabbing running into the hall.

Tommy looked hot, not just because his hair were a bit unruly with a few greying strands falling over his forehead, his jaw set tight and eyes darker than the night during winter solstice. But also because he still radiated that fuming anger that made him warm enough to cross the street with his jacket wide open.

“Tommy,” you smiled as kindly as you were physically able to, “so nice to see you in my-”

“Shut up,” he bit back crossing your tiny hallway after slamming the door shut. He came up so close to you that you could count his freckles even in the flickering light that stretched from your kitchen.

You made a silly movement with your fingers across your lips, pretending to zip your mouth shut, but he didn’t give you a single chuckle. Instead, he grabbed your shoulder—his fingers painfully digging into the skin revealed by the short sleeves of your simple t-shirt— and dragged you to your room. You had one of the newer houses that were built for the expanding population of Jackson. It was ridiculously small, only one-story high, an open kitchen that leaked into the living room through the narrow hallway, the only rooms fully divided by walls were your bathroom and your bedroom, both holding only as much space as necessary, no excess. With a few other similar places, it stood out among the older two-story buildings, but you didn’t even think to complain. It was light years away from the places you’d nested in before.

Tommy practically shoved you into your modestly decorated bedroom, pushing you hard enough to make you fly onto your bed. The old mattress creaked, and your body bounced like a ragdoll.

“Make yourself at home, I guess.” 

If looks could kill you’d be already six feet under. 

Slowly, you scrammed up, your legs open wide as you moved and settled on laying on your elbows. Tommy looked too big for your room, it barely fit him in. With his broad shoulders, and thick flannel, with his belly standing out and thighs as big as tree trunks. You focused on the belt buckle, it was shiny and big and dragged your attention to the part of him you’re yet to familiarize with. 

“Will having my cock finally calm you the fuck down?” The anger in his voice subsided, giving space for mockery. It was cruel, and it made your sleeping shorts soak through with arousal. 

“I don’t know, why don’t we find out?” Your words merely a whisper, thick and sinful, just like the man in front of you.

He just nodded, taking off his jacket and throwing it on your bed but missing. The item fell to the floor next to it, but Tommy didn’t bat an eye. His hands unbuckled his belt with practiced ease, and then he just dropped his pants, no teasing, no foreplay. 

You were taken aback by such a mechanical action, but when he climbed on the bed you decided no to test your fate and quickly got out of your sleeping shorts, throwing them into an unknown direction.

When your wet, bare cunt was on full display for him, Tommy licked his lips. For a split second you thought he was gonna eat you out, but instead, he hiked up his wife-beater to bare his stomach. A thick black happy trail guided to the soft looking tuft of hair around his cock. A little outgrown, but that didn’t bother you, because you were too impressed by the thing that bush of hair surrounded. 

Modestly long, around 6-6’5 inches, his cock was as thick as your wrist, and you felt saliva pooling in your mouth as you imagined the thing splitting you open. Taking him would definitely take some preparation, so you shuddered when he slapped your slit with his cock.

“Tommy, I—” You stuttered.

“Shut up.” That was his phrase of the day, it seemed. You braced yourself, you weren’t afraid of a little pain and with the amount of slick arousal your cunt was pushing out, it wouldn’t take long to make the whole thing something pleasurable. You wanted him too bad and for too long to push him away now.

But he didn’t push into you, didn’t even press the head to your weeping entrance. He left the shaft to lay on your slit, pressing it pleasantly into your clit. He held his fingers like a cage around the top side of his shaft, making sure he’s stimulating your clit with every thrust of his hips. Tommy was teasing you, mocking. His cock glided through your slick irritating your clit, not giving it enough pressure. The thick, hot shaft was caged between your cunt and his hand and you dug your short nails into his bulging biceps to get his attention.

“Come on, I can take it,” you assured him, thinking it was his way to prepare you, make you even wetter.

“You’re not getting more,” he grunted back, concentrated on the way your silky skin felt on him. Grinding through his teeth when he felt too close to the sun. “Either you cum like that or you’re gonna cry your needy cunt to sleep.”

“Not fair.” You whined, even though you knew you were more than halfway done on your way to a somewhat satisfying orgasm. Your own thoughts about him riled you up, and now, being surrounded by the smell of his sweat, his hair dangling so close to your face you could smell the pine shampoo. And with his deliciously thick cock relentlessly teasing your buzzing clit? No, cumming wasn’t really a problem, but you wouldn’t be able to forgive yourself if you didn’t push his buttons just a little. 

“No shit. I am not fucking you.” He spit, his lips twisted but not with anger, no, he was holding back. “I know how much you want it, how long you waited.” Tommy cooed, his mustache tickling the shell of your ear as you soak in the words.

“Will you deprive yourself just because you are a stubborn little shit?” He leaned back, his hips still lazily thrusting to make sure you were constantly stimulated. He looked into your eyes, almost gentle.

“Know you can do it, know you wanna show me how good you look when you cum.” His hand traced the curves of your body before returning to pressing the underside of his cock into your slick slit and nudging your clit. “Come on, show me.”

Your mouth opened in a silent scream as a wave of pleasure consumed you. Tommy kept sliding his dick through your slit, every time the ridge of his tip would kiss your clit you’d hiccup and sob with overstimulation. One look at you like that and he could finally admit that he loved this, loved seeing you ruined, nothing to say just pathetic little whimpers and pleas. 

He fisted his cock tightly, giving it a couple of strokes before erupting on his own knuckles and leaving a few ropes on your sweat-covered cunt. Tommy grunted with the sound of a wounded animal as the last drops of his pearly cum left his angry tip. 

Your fucked out look could easily be mistaken for love, if only he didn’t know you better. If you didn’t know yourself better. Silently, he brought his fist to your face, and you circled his wrist with shaking hands while your tongue cleaned his cum off his skin. When he was satisfied that you licked up every last drop, he ripped his hand from your grip. Without saying another word, he tucked himself in his jeans, tightened the belt and grabbed his jacket from the floor. 

“We should do it again sometime,” you laughed as his footsteps sounded more distant. With the way he slammed the door, you knew he heard you. 

PLEASE LEAVE A COMMENT AND REBLOG, IT IS VERY IMPORTANT TO ME <3

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[rosachae]

she plays bass | megan skiendiel x reader

⁍ song: she plays bass - beabadoobee ⁍ requested: yes ⁍ genre: band AU. non!idol megan x musician!reader. a little bit of angst, a little bit of fluff ⁍ a/n: thank you again for the prompt, anon! i hope this is what you were looking for. ⁍ wc: 5.3k ⁍ warnings: none that i can think of. ⁍ synopsis:

y/n falls. hard. just, not for the right girl. megan had long gotten used to being on the sidelines while she watched y/n pine after her best friend. if she couldn't call y/n hers, then she supposed being her confidant was the next best thing.

hyunjin’s garage always smelled like the ghost of gasoline and febreze. sharp and synthetic, like something trying too hard to cover up something worse. the cement floor was stained with oil spills from years ago, smudged into abstract shapes no one had bothered to clean, and every surface had a fine layer of dust that clung to fingers and instrument cases alike. wires snaked across the ground like vines, half-taped down with mismatched duct tape that peeled at the corners. an old fan groaned in the corner, doing very little besides moving the heat around in slow, humid circles.

y/n wasn’t sure which scent she hated more, the fuel or the floral, but they both clung to her clothes by the time she left. it was loud, so loud her ears buzzed between songs. the garage was hotter than it had any right to be, the fan hopeless against the summer bleeding in through the open door. kai had just broken another one of the cheap sticks they bought in a plastic-wrapped bulk pack from the club, splintered wood rolling across the floor like tired confetti.

she sighed and leaned against a crooked amp, watching hyunjin fumble with the aux cable again like it was some ancient artifact.

“dude,” hyunjin groaned, sliding off his stool and letting the aux cord fall to the floor with a defeated clatter. he grabbed a bent sheet of chord progressions from the amp and started fanning himself dramatically, like a wilted victorian heiress. “quit breaking my sticks. that’s the third one this week.”

kai didn’t even blink. “i’ve got rhythm and rage. sue me.”

“you’ve got weak wrists and commitment issues,” yuqi muttered from behind her mic, barely looking up as she tuned her guitar with one hand and sipped from a sweating iced coffee with the other. “we have a gig on friday. i’m not dragging your pretty ass out of another mess with mr. choi. he already hates it when you break his equipment.”

“mr. choi loves me,” kai said, flashing a grin that had absolutely no basis in reality.

“mr. choi has a heart condition,” hyunjin deadpanned, blotting his forehead with a faded bandana. “every time you walk in, he clutches his chest like he’s halfway to the light.”

then hyunjin let out an exaggerated sigh, dramatic enough to ruffle the sheet music still clutched in his hand. “anyway, is anyone going to acknowledge that i’m dying? of heatstroke? of being underappreciated? of being too hot for this mortal realm?”

y/n didn’t bother looking up from her bass, fingers still working through a scale she barely needed to think about. “you’ve been saying that since junior year.”

“and i’ve been right since junior year,” hyunjin shot back, fanning himself harder. “consistency is a virtue, y/n.”

all y/n could do was roll her eyes. honestly, she wasn’t sure how she managed it—spending hours holed up in hyunjin’s sweltering garage, surrounded by a chaotic blend of egos and inside jokes that grated on her nerves more often than not. still, they were her people. loud, messy, ridiculous— hers.

maybe that’s why she put up with the heat, the noise, the endless bickering over broken drumsticks and who drank the last of the lukewarm soda.

she figured she could overlook it all. for now. a small, reluctant grin tugged at the corner of her mouth before she buried it behind the low thrum of her bass.

especially hyunjin. for all his self-proclaimed glamour and melodrama, he was her best friend. they’d basically grown up side by side. sandboxes, scraped knees, and all. his mom still lit up like a marquee sign whenever y/n came over, insisting she stay for dinner, fussing over whether she’d eaten, if she was warm enough, if she needed anything at all. sometimes y/n swore hyunjin’s mom was secretly waiting for the day he’d turn around and admit they were dating. but that was never their dynamic. never had been.

they both liked girls. y/n, truthfully, wasn’t quite sure if that was a problem or perhaps the glue that held them together. it turned their friendship into a quiet battlefield of shared crushes and unspoken one-upmanship, always dancing on the edge of competition. they clicked a little too easily, probably because they were cut from the same cloth. same dry humor, same impulsive streak, same incurable weakness for a certain kind of girl.

it was a curse. or a cosmic joke. probably both.

y/n still got shivers thinking about chaewon, the girl from high school who had the misfortune of being exactly their type. soft-spoken, pretty, polite. practically a walking bullseye. they both zeroed in on her like moths to a chandelier, oblivious to the disaster unfolding in real time.

chaewon transferred schools halfway through senior year. honestly, it was probably the best thing that ever happened to her.

y/n still wasn’t sure how she lasted as long as she did, stuck between two emotionally chaotic teenagers who spent most of their free time either teasing each other or trying to one-up the other’s flirting. but through it all, nothing ever shifted between her and hyunjin. they were friends. chaotic, codependent, sometimes insufferable—but just friends. always had been. always would be.

this was i don’t care. the band that wasn’t supposed to be a band. born from a running joke they said out loud one too many times, sparked by a half-finished song y/n left in hyunjin’s car. something raw and messy that yuqi covered on a whim, recorded in one take, and posted to instagram with the caption: we’re sad and hot and broke. somehow, it took off.

now they had real gigs, a decent local following, and an accidental manager– yuqi’s cousin’s girlfriend’s sister, who claimed her marketing minor and “a vision” were all they needed to blow up.

it wasn’t that they weren’t good. they were. talent wasn’t the issue. but the soul of the thing had always been the chaos.  the late nights in hyunjin’s garage, the impulse decisions, the fact that he once made a logo on canva at 3 a.m. and printed it on t-shirts without telling anyone. that was the band.

it was noise and laughter and friendship and half-eaten takeout on amps. it was making something that felt like them. unfiltered, unpolished, real. nothing had ever been that serious. and maybe that’s what made it work.

until, of course, the friday night show where everything changed.

__

megan skiendiel had a lot of opinions, most of them half-baked and delivered with the kind of timing that made people pause mid-sentence. earlier that day, she’d announced that 80s synth-pop deserved a cultural renaissance while buried elbow-deep in a crate of dusty vinyls at the record shop. a few hours later, she’d loudly speculated that their coworker jake was obviously into lara, citing the fact that he kept offering to cover her saturday night shifts like it meant something.

megan said things like they were gospel, as if the world would catch up eventually.

“it’s not because he’s nice,” megan said, tossing a cracked duran duran record back onto the shelf. she straightened up, brushing dust from her hands, her voice full of certainty. “he’s got crush energy. you can see it in the way he hovers. limp-wristed, overly eager, always offering to help with the trash like it’s some romantic gesture.”

lara didn’t even look up at first, just clicked her pen and made a note on her clipboard before glancing over, one brow raised. “so basically you, but with worse shoes.”

megan gasped like she’d just been shot. “excuse you. these are vintage.”

lara finally looked down at the scuffed platform boots on megan’s feet, the left one with a barely visible patch of duct tape near the sole. “those are a hate crime,” she said flatly.

megan clutched her chest like lara had just insulted her entire bloodline. “they’re from a thrift shop in sapporo,” she declared, eyes wide with the kind of faux betrayal she’d perfected over the years. “i had to elbow a grown man to get them. he had biker gloves on, lara. biker gloves. it was life or death.”

lara gave her a once-over, slow and unimpressed. “yeah, well, something tells me those boots were meant for that man. all gruff and dusty and slightly unhinged. they look like they’ve seen a bar fight.”

“they’re lived-in,” megan snapped, offended but not surprised.

“they’re tragic,” lara corrected, scribbling something on her clipboard before adding, “you look like you stole them off a trucker with emotional baggage and a fifth divorce.”

megan scoffed. “it’s called edge, lara. ever heard of it?”

“not when it’s flaking off the soles,” lara muttered, deadpan.

megan grumbled.  “you’re lucky i believe in nonviolent communication.”

they were opposites in a way that just worked. where megan was all impulse and noise, lara had a sharp-edged charisma, the kind that made people pause and take a second look. they'd been inseparable since high school, partners in crime, co-conspirators in chaos. now, they ran the town's only indie record shop, a place that felt like a hipster’s fever dream, filled with dusty vinyl and the pervasive scent of incense and intellectual pretension. they’d already given up trying to convince yoonchae to join part time while she finished her senior year. the poor korean girl was too buried in coursework to even think about it.

with a sigh, megan pushed past the mess of records on the next rack. some kids had come in earlier, scattering vinyls like confetti, leaving chaos in their wake. but as she dug through the disarray, something caught her eye. something she’d never seen before. there, buried beneath a pile of mismatched album covers, was a record that felt out of place. the cover was stark white, almost blank, with an almost minimalist design. ‘i don’t care’ was printed in lowercase, as if the title itself couldn’t care less—simple, effortless, and unpretentious, like it wasn’t trying to make a statement.

“never heard of them,” she mumbled, turning it over. “should i?”

lara shrugged. “local maybe. looks cool.”

so they played it.

and god, the bassline. the low hum that thrummed right through her chest. a voice that sounded a little messy and a lot emotional. lyrics like inside jokes you weren’t quite in on but wanted to be. megan leaned against the counter, eyes wide.

“we’re going to their show.” 

__

it was one of those club venues that tried too hard to be cozy but ended up just being loud and sticky. the floor clung to your shoes, the lights pulsed a relentless red for no real reason, and the bartender wore a look that suggested he hated everyone under thirty-five on principle. megan, though? she was right where she belonged. she couldn’t quite remember how she’d talked the whole group into coming out tonight, but low and behold, there they were.

"okay," megan practically shouted over the music, nursing her overpriced drink and scanning the stage like she was looking for hidden treasure. "which one do we think writes the lyrics?"

lara hummed. her eyes scanned the stage, no particular keen interest on her face. then she perked up as if the answer came to her in a dream. "oh, definitely him. he’s got it.”

megan followed her line of sight to the guy on drums. his dark brown hair bounced with sweat and clung to his forehead, pure concentration cemented across his face. she didn’t need to know what ‘it’ was. he was lost in the rhythm, eyes closed as his hands moved like they had a mind of their own. she couldn’t deny that there was something a little too intense about him. 

before megan could reply, manon chimed in. the swiss girl leaned over, glass in hand and a fun loving grin painted across her lips. "it has to be the keyboard guy."

sophia and daniela had practically run to the dance floor the moment they’d entered the club, drawn in by the pulsing beat and the chaos of bodies moving to the music. sophia, already a few drinks in, was swaying slightly as she made her way back to the group, a wide grin plastered on her face. she wiped her hands on her jeans, clearly more tipsy than usual. 

“what’s going on?" she asked, her voice laced with mischief, slurred. "are we picking which one of them cries in the shower?"

daniela, just behind her, looked like she was on her way to catching up to sophia’s buzz. she leaned against the bar, still catching her breath, eyes sparkling with curiosity. daniela squinted at the stage, then turned to look at keyboardist. "i’m voting for him too.”

megan grinned. "i think we’re all in agreement then. cheers to keyboard guy."

the set was already halfway through when megan saw her. she wasn’t sure how she didn’t notice sooner, but when she did, her heart thumped.

she wasn’t flashy, wasn’t trying to draw attention. she didn’t jump around or put on any kind of show for the crowd. but when megan’s eyes landed on her, everything else seemed to blur out. the girl was holding her bass like it belonged to her. like it was a part of her, like it meant something. her fingers moved with a calm precision, her face focused but distant, like she was lost in a world that was all her own. megan couldn’t help but watch, her heart suddenly a little too loud in her chest.

there was a look in her eyes, almost like she was listening to a secret only she could hear, and when she smiled, it wasn’t big, wasn’t one of those stage smiles people perfected. it was crooked, soft, like it happened by accident. it was the kind of smile that made megan forget to breathe.

“you’re staring,” lara said, leaning in slightly with a knowing grin.

megan blinked, realizing she hadn’t said anything for a few seconds. her hand was still clutching her drink, but it was starting to slip a little. "i’m admiring,” she corrected quickly, her voice coming out a little more flustered than she intended. “huge difference."

lara didn’t say anything at first. then, with the kind of dry humor megan knew too well, she added, “sure, romeo."

megan's cheeks flushed and she quickly looked away, trying to act like she hadn’t just made a fool of herself in front of the whole bar. but she couldn’t stop the way her eyes kept drifting back to the girl, as if there was something magnetic about her presence that megan just couldn’t look away from.

little did megan know, that would be the start of everything.

the crowd was still howling when y/n unplugged her bass, the last notes still humming in her fingertips. sweat clung to her collar, the adrenaline thrumming beneath her skin like a second heartbeat. hyunjin was already off his stool, dramatically twirling a drumstick and tossing it into the crowd like he was born to do it. the four of them slipped offstage, ducking into the narrow backstage corridor that smelled like beer and electrical wires.

someone’s drink had already spilled on the floor. the walls were lined with peeling posters, curling at the corners. the sound tech gave y/n a nod as she passed, and she returned it with a crooked grin, cheeks aching, the kind of post-show daze that made everything feel like it was moving half a second behind.

then came the chaos.

“oh my god, you—” a sharp voice broke through, right before a blur of limbs barreled past the security guard like a wrecking ball in lipstick.

y/n blinked.

a girl in a halter crop top and low-rise jeans launched herself forward– tall, pretty, absolutely hammered, her glossy lips moving faster than her brain. she headed straight for kai, arms outstretched like she’d just spotted a long-lost lover across a war zone.

kai, to his credit, looked horrified.

before security could step in, four other girls came flying in after her, looking every shade of mortified. manon and daniela managed to grab sophia by both arms, hauling her backward with a practiced desperation.

"we are so sorry—" manon started, breathless, still grappling with sophia like she was trying to wrangle a wild animal.

before she could finish, sophia whipped her head back in protest and caught manon square in the nose.

“ow! what the hell—”

“she has this thing for keyboardists,” daniela finished, like it was an explanation she’d given one too many times. she tightened her grip as sophia tried to lunge again.

“i swear to god, sophia, if you get us banned—”

“i just wanted to talk to him!” sophia whined, slurring a little as she dug her heels into the sticky floor.

kai blinked at them, shell-shocked, holding his keyboard like a shield. he only lowered it and shuffled away the moment he was sure manon and daniela successfully wrangled sophia out from backstage.

y/n stood frozen for a beat, trying to process what the hell she’d just witnessed. then she laughed. sharp and startled, the sound of someone caught between disbelief and secondhand embarrassment.

hyunjin leaned in. “that’s gonna be us one day,” he said, nodding sagely.

“stormed backstage by strangers?”

“groupies, y/n. we’re building a brand.”

“right,” y/n muttered, tugging her strap off her shoulder. “well, your brand just pissed off security.”

she raised a hand, waving security off when they moved to come over.

that’s when two other girls stepped forward. not charging like their friend, not slurring or flailing. megan looked like she’d sprinted halfway there and only just remembered to slow down. her hair was a little windblown, her expression wide-eyed and caught somewhere between panic and awe. lara, on the other hand, was all cool detachment, hands tucked into her jacket pockets, eyes scanning everything like she was cataloging it for later.

y/n straightened slightly, unsure whether to brace or laugh again.

“hi,” megan said, breathless. “um. sorry about our friend. she gets flirty when she’s drunk.”

“she almost ate kai,” hyunjin hummed, biting back another laugh.

“believe me, we know,” megan stammered, embarrassed, rocking back and forth on the balls of her feet.  “sophia once hit on a waiter mid-order. it’s a full-time job trying to keep her from getting banned from establishments.”

“well, thanks for wrangling her,” y/n said, her voice steadier than she expected. “and for coming. to the show, i mean.”

but then y/n’s eyes trailed over to the girl standing behind her. she was stunning. tall, dressed in tailored black, sleek hair and gold jewelry catching the low light. there was something about her that immediately made y/n want to straighten her back. magnetic. she looked confident, the kind of confident that made you feel like she knew exactly who she was, and didn’t care if you didn’t.

“you guys were great,” lara said, flashing a smile. “really. we just found your record at the store and figured why not come check it out.”

“music store?” hyunjin perked up. “which one?”

“garrison’s. we both work there,” the first girl said. “i’m megan, by the way. this is lara.”

y/n repeated both names in her head. megan. lara. 

however hyunjin, naturally, latched onto the pretty one.

“lara,” he said, already dialing it up. “you have a beautiful name.”

y/n nearly snorted.

“how about we get you girls a drink?”

__

to megan’s bad luck, both y/n and hyunjin seemed taken with the very pretty, very social girl standing beside her. it was obvious. painfully so. and yet, she couldn’t help herself. she kept gravitating toward y/n anyway.

hyunjin was shameless about it. all charm and theatrics, practically ignoring megan in favor of lavishing attention on lara. but y/n… y/n smiled at her. offered to buy her a drink. asked for her name. it was friendly. casual. meaningless, probably. 

but it meant something to megan.

in that moment, she decided that if both of them were going to fall for her best friend, she’d rather it be y/n. if it had to be someone, let it be the one who smiled gently. who asked questions. who noticed. besides, she always believed what people said—if your friends can’t stand the person you’re dating, maybe that’s a red flag worth listening to.

maybe that was the real problem. megan got along with y/n a little too well.

megan and y/n became good friends. it started simple. megan showed up to shows, bought the merch before it was cool, called y/n’s bass lines sick even when they both knew the sound system was trash that night. they hung out between sets, shared fries at late-night diners, argued about which the smiths album aged the worst. it was easy. it was enough.

then, the love came slow. like a sunrise. subtle, steady, then suddenly everywhere.

megan realized it a year in. their friendship already carved deep, unshakeable. they were mid-set, stage lights flaring red and gold. megan stood in the crowd, bass thudding through her chest.

and then y/n looked up. their eyes met, and something in her splintered. after that, it hurt. a little bit, every day. a slow undoing. a soft ache she learned to live with.

but she never left.

at some point, maybe five months after they met, hyunjin and lara started dating. five months of half-flirting and inside jokes that weren’t so inside anymore. five months of megan watching y/n pretend she didn’t care.

the band had gotten bigger by then. not international– god, not yet– but local enough that strangers started recognizing them in line for coffee. their sound was sharp around the edges now, tighter, cleaner. more people were paying attention.

but still, y/n was pissed. quiet about it, mostly. but it lived in her shoulders, the way they hunched a little tighter when lara laughed at hyunjin’s jokes. in the way she stopped volunteering stories about her day whenever lara was around.

“i was the one who listened,” she told megan once, voice low like it was a secret. “to all her dumb little tangents. about which incense gives her migraines, or how her dog only eats if the bowl’s rotated a certain way. he wasn’t there. he didn’t even know the dog’s name.”

megan nodded, said nothing, and let her vent.

“i gave her my coat that night,” y/n added, quieter now. “when she shivered. he didn’t even notice she was cold.”

it was just something she needed to let out. and megan… megan made space for things like that. a quiet pocket of the world where y/n could be soft, small, furious, grieving, without ever having to say sorry for it.

it was always megan who showed up. not just for the gigs or the late-night diner runs. but at 2am, when everything felt too loud, too much. megan, who picked up the phone without hesitation. who sent stupid memes until y/n laughed again. who knew when she needed silence and when she needed to scream. who carried gum and painkillers and the exact words y/n needed to hear tucked somewhere behind her tongue.

megan knew every version of her. the messy ones. the moody ones. the ones that cried at shampoo commercials and flinched at confrontation. and she loved them all. quietly. stubbornly. without asking for anything in return.

because they were friends. just friends.

so megan kept her mouth shut. swallowed her feelings like bad medicine. because y/n was already hurting, and megan knew– intimately– what it felt like to love someone who didn’t love you back. she’d never wish that kind of loneliness on anyone. least of all her.

still, it was megan who listened. who stood in the sticky venues with bad acoustics and worse lighting. who cheered the loudest, even when the set was off. it was her y/n called when the world tilted sideways. it was her y/n trusted with the fragile parts, the ugly truths, the things she couldn’t tell anyone else.

megan never missed the details. how y/n took her coffee, which hoodie she wore when she was spiraling, the playlist she avoided when she was heartbroken. megan paid attention like it was a religion. like y/n was a language she was learning by heart.

she loved y/n in silence because it was safer. because it was easier than risking everything. because some part of her still hoped that one day, maybe, y/n would choose her.

for now, she settled on simply being. 

__

two years had passed. the band got louder. not just in sound, but in presence. local fame turned regional. “i don’t care” started slipping onto playlists they’d never heard of, getting tagged in stories by strangers from cities they hadn’t played yet. they still rehearsed in hyunjin’s garage, still argued about setlists, still tripped over the same tangled cords. but the rooms got bigger. the lights got brighter. the noise followed them home.

through it all, megan was constant.

y/n couldn’t pinpoint when it changed. maybe it was always there, just quiet. maybe it was the way megan always had gum when her throat went dry before a set. maybe it was the way she cheered—arms in the air, mouthing every lyric like it mattered. maybe it was the night y/n crashed on her couch and woke up to tea already steeping, a blanket tucked around her shoulders like it had always been there.

she remembered calling megan when she found out about hyunjin and lara. she hadn’t cried, not the way she expected. just sat on megan’s floor with a pint of mint chocolate chip between them, watching reruns until the theme song blurred into background noise. megan leaned her head on her shoulder. y/n didn’t flinch. didn’t pull away. she just leaned back.

it stayed with her. for days. for weeks.

then it started happening more.

megan, humming along to rough cuts that weren’t even mixed yet. megan, lip syncing the bassline with a wink, like it was just for her. megan, dancing in the front row like no one else in the world existed.

and something in y/n started to unravel.

she started noticing things. the curve of megan’s smile when she was teasing. the way she always smelled faintly like coconut shampoo and old records. the way she made everything—music, heartbreak, life—feel easier just by being around. and then one day, in the middle of a show, y/n looked out into the crowd and found her.

megan. grinning like she had a secret. eyes bright. mouthing along to every word.

y/n forgot her next chord for half a second.

that’s when she knew. not all at once. not in some dramatic epiphany. but in a quiet, steady way.

then came the jealousy. sudden, sharp. it happened that night at manon’s rooftop party. it wasn’t like y/n to care who megan flirted with. she always chalked it up to megan being magnetic. of course people wanted her. megan was loud, energetic, silly and charismatic in her own socially awkward way. but it was charming. it was a sort of way that made her feel real. a type of authenticity that she found herself craving. 

the energy was charged, an intimate gathering between friends. the whole time, she found herself watching her. when megan laughed at something a girl in a  yellow dress— sophia— whispered in her ear, she felt herself stiffen. she recognized her briefly from the time she barreled backstage at their first big gig and the time she awkwardly apologised to kai a few months later. sophia was pretty. painstakingly so. watching it happen before her felt like a punch to the ribs.

“you good?” hyunjin had asked, nursing a warm beer beside her.

y/n didn’t answer straight away. just stared across the rooftop, jaw tight.

“is that megan jealousy?” he asked, tilting his head.

she still didn’t say anything.

“oh my god,” hyunjin whispered, turning to her in slow motion. “it is.”

y/n sighed, leaning back against the railing. “shut up.”

“i won’t. you’re pining. this is pining. this is textbook.”

“i’m not pining.”

“you’re glaring at a girl for speaking to your best friend. that’s at least two stages past pining.”

y/n groaned.

hyunjin leaned closer, voice soft. “why haven’t you said anything?”

she stared down at the street, lights blurring in her vision. still, she masked her internal worry with a quick joke and a teasing grin.

“why’re you interested so suddenly, hwang? gonna fight me for this one too?”

hyunjin chuckled good-naturedly. his eyes briefly glanced over to lara, the desi girl dancing with a younger korean in the middle of the dance floor. then he turned back to his friend with a shrug.

“you’ll get no push from me. you should go for it, y/n. what’s the worst that could happen?”

and she thought about it. about all that could go wrong.

they were friends. megan was phenomenal. what if she ruined it? for now, she’d wait. she’d bite back her jealousy.

though sometimes, the heart simply wants what it wants. 

the confession came later. sooner than she expected. it wasn’t planned—just spilled out, raw and real, like most things y/n did when she finally let her heart speak louder than her head.

it was after a show. one of their best. the kind that left your lungs burning and your skin buzzing. the energy clung to them like static.

megan found her side stage, eyes bright, hair a mess, smile even messier.

“you guys killed it—”

“i love you,” y/n said. blurted, actually. no warning. no buildup.

megan blinked. “wait—what?”

“i love you,” she said again, steadier this time. her voice still shook, but there was no taking it back. “i know you’re with sophia, and i know this might screw everything up, and i’m sorry if it does. but i’m in love with you. i couldn’t keep pretending i wasn’t.”

megan didn’t move. didn’t speak. just stared, eyes wide and unreadable.

“it’s okay if you don’t feel the same,” y/n rushed on, heart racing. “i just… i needed you to know. because you’ve always been there. you’ve seen the worst parts of me and never walked away. and somewhere in all of that, i fell for you. hard.”

silence.

then megan stepped forward, slow but certain, and cradled y/n’s face in both hands.

“i’m not dating sophia,” she said softly, almost like a secret. “you could’ve just asked.”

she laughed then—a quiet, breathless sound—and shook her head. “idiot.”

and then she kissed her. not just a kiss. the kiss. the kind that unraveled something deep in her chest, slow and aching and warm. the kind that made the noise of the world drop away, like a stage going dark after the final chord.

it was everything megan had imagined. every half-dreamed moment, every day she spent loving y/n in silence. for as long as she could remember, it had been her. from the first late-night walk, the first shared laugh, the first time y/n looked at her like she saw her. megan had loved her then, quietly and completely, like it was stitched into her bones.

and now, y/n had chosen her. out of everyone. not lara. not anyone else in the crowd. her.

the kiss tasted like every unsent text, every time megan had almost said something and swallowed it down instead. it tasted like hope. like relief. like a door finally opening after years of standing in the hallway.

all the waiting had led to this. all the almosts, all the quiet pining, all the nights she convinced herself to be content with friendship. it washed away in a single, breathless moment.

because y/n was kissing her like she meant it. like megan had been the one all along. and god, she had.

outside, the crowd screamed for an encore. but y/n?

she already had everything she needed.

[strawb3rryhachi]

i don’t talk about the other LADS guys much but caleb is def the poster boy sub.

He’s so so good at following direction, hanging onto your every word and following orders to a ‘t’. He is the colonel after all.

That is until he’s seen what punishment is. It started off small, small teasing, assuring you what you were doing wasn’t enough, that he could take more and more. Assuring you that you were being too soft.

“You’ll be on cleaning duty today.” Your huff, sending a glare his way out of the corner of your eye, feigning frustration. You have to turn your head away from him to hide the utter glee you feel seeing his looming form on his knees, so perfectly submissive.

Cleaning your panties with his tongue? Easy, you didn’t even have to ask. He’d already been doing it in secret, eyes lolling back as he sucks your essence from the pretty fabric.

“Oh no, Caleb. I think you misunderstand me.” You smile, eyes alight with primal desire. “You’ll be cleaning your mess from them.”

His eyes blow wide, panties still caught between his lips. His cock is throbbing, painfully hard. The pleasure stirring within the two of you is almost palpable, reverberating in the spaces between.

“Go ahead, pull that pretty cock out.” And truly you ached to see it. Watching as he pulled his pants down, long, heavy dick springing out and slapping against his stomach with a loud smack!

“Can I touch myself, now?” He begs, purple eyes boring into yours as he pulls the fabric from his mouth.

“Yes, pet.” You stride over to him, hands pushing his hair back from his sweat slick forehead, eyes practically turning to hearts as he wraps the pink fabric around his staggering girth, leaning into the comfort of your hand.

“Such a big cock for such a pathetic man.” You croon, a mocking grin taking over your face. Both of his veiny hands are wrapped around his length, fabric gripped tightly underneath them. His flushed face hides nothing, always the open book when it came to being dominated and demeaned by you.

“I- Is this all, pipsqueak?” He lets out a shaky laugh, craving more.

“Well if this isn’t enough, should we let the whole fleet know what their big, mean colonel is really like?” His eyes lock onto your phone, camera pointed directly at him. His balls squeeze, pulling tight to his body. Fucking up into his hand as he hears you press record.

“Please.” He begs, “Please show everyone what a mess you make of me.”

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

sorry this is kinda half assed, i just got the idea and rushed to write it! plus toji and sylus are really the only guys who get me super hot and heavy lol

xoxo

Hachi

[thepinkpanther83]

Can you please do this as a blurb or one shot, where person A is Reader and person B is Eddie. Please?

Ask and you shall receive! 🙌🏻

Truth or Dare

One-Shot Request

Eddie Munson x Reader

Thank you to @meankenna for the one-shot request. I hope this meets with what you had in mind. 🫶🏻

Masterlist

Find me on AO3.

Read this story on AO3.

Summary:

After a movie night at Eddie's trailer, the rest of the group heads home, leaving just the two of you. Between cleaning up popcorn bowls and dodging his nervous glances, you decide it’s time to call Eddie Munson’s bluff. A simple game of "Truth or Dare" turns into something neither of you can laugh off... and it might just change everything.

Click "Keep Reading" below the cut to read. 😘

Truth or Dare

One-Shot Request: “Truth or Dare”

The door clicked shut behind your last friend, and the quiet that followed felt heavier than it should’ve. You stood there a moment longer, eyes lingering on the chipped wood, half expecting someone to knock and say they forgot their keys or jacket or whatever. But no one did. Just you and Eddie now.

He sighed, a soft huff through his nose, and started gathering empty soda cans from the coffee table. “Well,” he muttered, “that was... chaotic.”

You snorted, stepping over a pair of discarded sneakers to scoop up the half-full popcorn bowl. “You invited Gareth. Chaos was a guarantee.”

“Point taken,” Eddie said with a grin, one of those small, lopsided ones that made your stomach flutter like it was trying to break dance.

You followed him into the tiny kitchen, where the overhead light buzzed once before steadying. It was dim enough that the warm flicker of the lava lamp in the corner cast long, drowsy shadows across the room. He bent to shove a pizza box into the trash and knocked into the counter, swearing under his breath. You elbowed him lightly on the way to the sink, laughing.

“Graceful,” you teased. “Very rockstar of you.”

“Shut up,” he said, flushed, but there was no bite behind it.

When the last of the mess was cleared and the couch was freed from its cluttered chaos, Eddie headed toward his record player, flipping through sleeves until he found what he was looking for. “Too late for anything loud,” he murmured, more to himself than to you. He slid out a vinyl and placed it carefully- Zeppelin, soft and moody, the kind of track that lingered in your chest.

You sank back onto the couch, tucking your feet up beneath you. The cushions were still warm from earlier, and the leftover scent of weed, popcorn, and Eddie’s cologne clung to the air. He moved around the trailer like he wasn’t sure what to do with his limbs- restless, jittery, like his skin didn’t quite fit right. You watched him with a tilted head, narrowing your eyes.

Something was off.

Not in a bad way… just in that weird, twitchy, “I’m thinking too loud and trying to look cool” sort of way Eddie got when he didn’t want to talk about what was actually on his mind.

You bit your lip. You could call him out on it. Could cross your arms and demand to know what was rattling that brain of his so hard. But where’s the fun in that?

Your lips curled into a slow, mischievous smile.

“Truth or dare?” you said, casually, like it hadn’t just shifted the entire air in the room.

Eddie froze mid-step like you’d lobbed a grenade instead of a question. His eyes snapped to yours, and for a second, he looked like a deer caught in the glow of your very specific, very pointed headlights.

He blinked. “You’re gonna kill me with these random games of yours, one of these days.”

You grinned, lazy and feline as you flopped back onto the couch, one arm draped over the cushion, the other reaching for the nearby throw blanket to pull over your legs. “Then die with honor, Munson. Choose.”

He groaned, dragging a hand through his curls. “Truth.”

You turned to face him fully now, propping your head up on your hand, the blanket slipping slightly to reveal your bare shoulder. His gaze flicked to it and immediately snapped away.

You tilted your head, voice syrupy-sweet. “Do you want to kiss me?”

The silence that followed wasn’t heavy. It was electric. Buzzing like an amp wire.

Eddie coughed- on what, exactly, you weren’t sure, but the sound came out strangled. He made a weird little choked noise in the back of his throat, somewhere between a laugh and a gasp, and rubbed the back of his neck so hard you thought he might give himself friction burn.

“W-what?” he stammered. “That’s- That’s not a real question. You can’t just…” He gave a breathless laugh, his eyes darting everywhere but to your face. “I mean- who even- what kind of… That’s illegal, sweetheart. I’m calling the cops.”

You arched a brow, smirking. “I don’t see any sirens.”

“I pick dare,” he said suddenly, practically shouting it like a buzzer on a game show.

Your smirk widened. “Oh, do you now?”

He looked like he instantly regretted it, but you didn’t give him a second to backpedal. You leaned in slowly, arms folded on your knees, letting him see the sparkle in your eyes- the wicked curve of your lips, but underneath all of it, there was a softness. A risk.

You weren’t joking anymore. Not completely.

“I dare you to kiss me.”

His breath hitched.

You felt the air leave his lungs in a short, startled burst, and his whole body went still. Rigid. His knee bounced once, then stopped, like even it was waiting for his next move.

He opened his mouth.

Closed it.

Swallowed.

“Never have I ever,” he said, voice high and cracking like a teenage boy discovering boobs for the first time.

You blinked, looking at him with exasperation. “That’s not the game!”

“It is now,” he blurted, practically scrambling backwards on the couch like you’d brandished a weapon instead of a dare. His arm knocked into a throw pillow, which he promptly hid behind like it was a shield. “New rules. Emergency override. This round’s sponsored by panic and terrible ideas!”

You laughed, loud and delighted, the sound bubbling up and bursting out before you could stop it. “You wish you could get out of this that easy, Munson.”

“I’m invoking my Fifth Amendment rights.”

“You’re in my court now, counselor.”

He buried his face in the pillow. “I hate this game.”

You were grinning so hard your cheeks hurt, but beneath it was that same buzz- the ache of unspoken things straining against the surface.

And you weren’t letting him off the hook this time.

You leaned in again, not enough to touch, just enough to press the moment harder. “You know,” you said, voice quieter now, rougher around the edges, “for someone so bold onstage, you’re kind of a coward.”

Eddie flinched like the words hit something soft inside him. He finally looked at you- really looked, and something in his face shifted. Like a mask slipping. Like a door he’d kept locked swinging open with a rusty, reluctant creak.

He looked shattered. Not in the usual flustered, dramatic way- this was quiet. Vulnerable.

“I’m not… I’m not trying to be,” he said, the words spilling out like they’d been waiting behind his teeth for years. “It’s just- I’m not scared of kissing you, okay? I’m scared of what happens after.”

You tilted your head, heart already doing Olympic-level gymnastics. “After what?”

He ran a hand through his hair, eyes bouncing between yours and the floor. “After you figure out I’m not actually all that brave. Or cool. Or whatever version of me you’ve built up in your head.” He breathed out a humorless laugh. “I mean, you’re… you, and I’m-”

“-Eddie,” you cut in, your tone soft but firm, “you’re you. That’s kind of the point.”

“But what if I screw it up?” he said, more earnest now, like his mouth was moving faster than his fear could stop it. “What if I kiss you and things change and I lose you and- god, I’d never forgive myself.”

There it was. Raw and unfiltered.

You leaned back, folding your arms, trying to keep your own voice steady. “I don’t want what we have,” you said slowly, “if it means pretending I don’t want to kiss you every time you smile at me, Eddie.”

His eyes widened. His mouth parted. Whatever breath he’d been holding escaped in one sharp exhale.

Then- just like that… he moved.

It wasn’t graceful. It wasn’t planned.

It was desperate.

He surged forward, dropping the stupid pillow between you, his hand cupping the side of your face with this careful kind of reverence, like you were something fragile and burning hot at the same time. And then his lips were on yours.

The kiss was everything. A year’s worth of restraint unraveling in a single breath. His mouth was warm, soft, trembling against yours, but there was urgency there, too. A hunger he’d tried so hard to keep buried, now spilling through every brush of lips, every shaky exhale.

Your hands found his shoulders, his hair- anything to ground yourself because the room was spinning, or maybe that was just you.

And still, he kissed you.

Like he’d finally found the courage. Like he wasn’t afraid anymore.

When he finally pulled back, you were both breathless. His forehead rested against yours, curls brushing your skin, and his thumb traced a shaky path along your cheekbone.

“So…” you murmured, your voice teasing and a little wobbly with adrenaline. “Still scared of losing me?”

His lips curved, just a little. “Only if I stop getting to do this.”

He kissed you again. Slower this time, deeper. Less panic, more promise.

This wasn’t an ending.

This was the beginning of everything.

Who loves Eddie Munson, show of hands! 😂 Let me know if you want to be added to my tag list!

@justalotoffanfiction, @yorshie, @jackalope-in-a-storm, @v1per1ne, @daveythorntonslocker, @cokepowder55, @kelsiegrin

Masterlist

[silkpagess]

Every Summertime - Part I

Summary: Fresh off a breakout role, Y/N is cast in the year’s most anticipated romcom. She’s ready for the spotlight—until she finds out her on-screen love interest is Harry Styles, and the lines between fiction and reality start to blur.

Content Warning: none :)

Word Count: 4,311

This is a 5 part story that I've started writing last year and finally had the courage to post lol, I hope you guys like it 🤍

The kitchen smelled faintly of orange peel and clean linen. Y/N stood barefoot by the sink, towel-drying her favorite mug—the one with a tiny chip on the handle that she always used anyway—when her phone rang.

She nearly didn’t answer. It was past noon, and she’d promised herself a day off: no emails, no self-tapes, no endless doom-scroll through industry chatter. But then she saw the caller ID: Miriam Klein – Agent.

She grabbed it immediately.

“Hey,” she said, balancing the mug on the drying rack. “What’s up?”

“I hope you’re sitting,” Miriam said, too calm in that way she only got when something big was about to land.

“Not yet,” Y/N replied, already walking to the kitchen table.

“Okay. Here’s the deal. You’re being asked to read for Every Summertime.”

Y/N sat down hard. Her heart did the exact thing it always did when something she’d dared to want actually started to happen.

“You’re serious?”

“I’m very serious,” Miriam said. “It’s happening. Big studio, full greenlight, same producers from Before the Fall. Sadie Bloom’s doing the script.”

Y/N blinked. “As in Sadie Bloom, the Sadie Bloom?”

“Yes. She adapted the novel herself. It’s been buzzing for months. Everyone’s been asking who’s playing Ivy. They’ve done weeks of auditions already, but apparently they’ve been holding off on final callbacks because the director wanted to take a look at a few new names. You’re one of them.”

Y/N leaned forward, elbows on the table. She’d read the book a year ago, cover to cover in two days, sobbing over the last few chapters and immediately texting Mara to do the same. It was that kind of story—summer and heartbreak, family and longing, slow-burn romance and two people who find each other just as their lives are unraveling in opposite directions.

She had loved Ivy. Had quietly imagined playing her, though she never said it out loud. The role was delicate. Not easy. The kind of part that asked for both lightness and real emotional weight. She hadn’t seen a female lead written like that in a long time.

“What’s the catch?” she asked, finally.

“No catch,” Miriam said. “Just that the room is tight. They’re only seeing three people, total. You’re one of them.”

Y/N’s chest felt tight in the best possible way.

Then Miriam added, as an afterthought, “Oh, and Harry Styles is already attached. He auditioned a few weeks ago and got cast as Theo.”

She blinked again. “Wait—he auditioned?”

“Yep. Just like everyone else. He read three times. Apparently, he worked his ass off for it.”

“Oh wow,” Y/N said. “I mean, I figured it’d be someone big, but I didn’t think…”

“I know,” Miriam said, “but I don’t want that to throw you. You’ve got just as much shot at this. They asked you. That means something.”

Y/N nodded, even though Miriam couldn’t see her. “Okay. Okay, yeah. Send me everything.”

She spent the next two hours reading the sides, walking through the scenes quietly in her living room, letting the language settle into her skin. Ivy was just as rich and warm on the page as she was in the book—witty and careful and emotionally bruised but still hopeful. She understood her immediately. Not just as a character, but as a person.

By the time Mara and Gia showed up at her apartment uninvited—with iced matchas and a chaotic playlist of "songs you can fake-date to"—Y/N had already color-coded the script, flagged three emotional beats she wanted to dig deeper into, and made a Pinterest mood board for Ivy’s wardrobe.

“You’re disgusting,” Mara said, watching her set up a ring light for practice. “You just got the call and you’re already in prep mode.”

“You don’t understand,” Y/N said, breathless, holding the script to her chest. “It’s Every Summertime. It’s Ivy. And they asked for me. They didn’t even make me chase it.”

Gia threw herself on the couch. “Wait, and Harry Styles is Theo? Like, officially?”

“Yes. But that’s not the point.”

“That is absolutely the point,” Gia muttered.

Mara leaned forward. “Do you think he’s going to remember your name? Or like… do that thing where he knows way too much about your performance in something you did three years ago?”

Y/N rolled her eyes but couldn’t help smiling.

“I don’t care if he remembers me,” she said, and she meant it. “I just want to walk into that room and be Ivy. That’s the only thing I care about.”

And she meant it. This wasn’t about him. It was about her. And if there was even a small chance that this role—the one everyone in the industry was quietly circling—could be hers, she was going to show up ready.

No matter who else was in the room.

The studio was quiet in that specific, clinical way only casting buildings managed to be—sterile, over-air-conditioned, and filled with soft voices and the occasional sound of someone clearing their throat in a hallway.

Y/N arrived fifteen minutes early.

She always did, not because she wanted to impress anyone, but because she hated walking into a room while her heart was still racing. She liked having a moment to breathe, to ground herself, to flip through her pages one last time and pretend that this was all normal—that she wasn’t sitting in a casting office about to read for the role every young actress in the industry was dreaming about.

She kept her headphones in while she signed in at the front desk, though no music was playing. Sometimes she liked the illusion of noise, the space it gave her from being approached or spoken to. Her hair was pulled back in a low bun, clean and simple. She wore a soft cream knit top tucked into well-tailored navy trousers—comfortable, but confident. She hadn’t overthought the outfit. She’d learned the hard way not to try and look like the character. The work had to speak louder than the styling.

She sat down in the holding area, a sleek gray couch pushed against a glass wall. There were no other actresses waiting outside. That meant they were being seen one by one. Intimate. Focused. Possibly recorded.

Her heart thudded softly against her ribs.

She reread the scene again, even though she didn’t need to. The one where Ivy and Theo were walking through a parking lot at night after an argument they didn’t totally finish. It was quiet and tentative and messy—full of unfinished thoughts and sideways glances, two people trying not to say the thing they were thinking. The kind of dialogue that lived in pauses, in breath, in what wasn’t said.

She loved it.

“Y/N?” a woman called gently, peeking her head out from a side door.

She stood quickly, smoothing her pants as she walked.

The room was bright and white and warmer than she expected. A camera on a tripod faced the taped floor marks, and a few people sat behind a folding table covered in notebooks, iced coffees, and half-eaten snacks. The director—Elaine Kim, a sharp, perceptive woman Y/N had read about in interviews—looked up from her notes and smiled.

“Hi, Y/N,” she said, warm but professional. “Thanks for being here.”

“Thanks for having me,” she replied, stepping into the light and placing her water bottle gently on the ground beside the mark.

And then she saw him.

Harry Styles sat on the folding chair just behind Elaine. He was relaxed in that effortlessly casual way some people managed to be—wearing dark jeans, a light blue sweater, sleeves pushed to his forearms, his hair a little messy like he hadn’t tried to fix it before walking in. He was holding a copy of the sides in one hand, a pen tucked behind his ear.

He looked up when she walked in.

And smiled.

It wasn’t flashy. It wasn’t flirty. It was quiet. Just… acknowledgment. Recognition. Maybe even a little curiosity.

She gave a small nod back—professional, polite, but not overly familiar.

Elaine gestured to the center mark. “So this is the parking lot scene. Let’s start from the top and just run through it once. No pressure. We’ll play with it after.”

Y/N nodded and shifted into place.

Harry stood, moving to his own mark opposite her, flipping his page to the correct scene. Up close, he looked exactly like you’d expect him to—but also not. Less glossy. More present. There was something focused in his expression. Something serious.

They locked eyes for the first line.

And something clicked.

It wasn’t fireworks or electricity—not yet—but it was ease. He listened, which was rare in reads like this. He responded, didn’t just deliver lines. He watched her mouth when she spoke. He took a second before replying. His body language changed with hers. And when she shifted her tone halfway through a sentence, he adjusted like he’d already lived in this character for months.

When the scene ended, there was a beat of silence. Not awkward. Just thoughtful.

Elaine leaned back. “That was great,” she said. “We’re gonna try a version where you lean into the frustration a little more, Y/N—like Ivy’s holding in a thousand things she doesn’t want to say. Can you try that?”

“Absolutely,” Y/N replied, already feeling her body recalibrate.

Harry stayed quiet, letting her take the lead.

They read again. Then again. They tried new beats, changed pacing, added a half-second pause in the middle of a breath and watched the tension stretch out like taffy between them.

It was the most fun she’d had in weeks.

When they wrapped, Elaine stood and clapped her hands once. “That’s great, guys. Thank you so much.”

Harry turned to her and gave a small, genuine nod.

“You were really good,” he said simply, in a soft voice that made her want to double-check if she’d imagined it.

“Thanks,” she replied. “You too.”

They exchanged one more look. Just a moment of eye contact. No lingering. No flirtation. Just… mutual awareness. Two people who understood what this scene could be. Who knew that if they ended up doing this together, it would work.

It wasn’t chemistry in the cliché way.

It was trust.

And that, she knew, mattered more than anything else.

The moment she stepped outside the studio building, the sun hit her straight in the face. She hadn’t realized how long she’d been inside until the daylight made her squint.

She didn’t rush home right away.

Instead, she walked three blocks up and sat on a quiet bench tucked next to a tiny bakery she used to visit when she was still auditioning for short films and background roles. It felt like a good place to land for a second. Familiar. Neutral.

She took out her phone and opened the Notes app—not to write anything in particular, just to look busy, to give her hands something to do while her body caught up with what had just happened.

The read had gone well. She knew that. Not in the arrogant, self-congratulatory way. But in the honest, I-was-present-and-I-did-the-work way. She had hit the beats she wanted. Had felt the tension she built in the back of her throat as Ivy. Had watched Harry adjust and lean into the shifts in energy, the kind of give-and-take that felt real.

She hadn’t felt that kind of scene partner chemistry in a long time. Not the fake “oh my god we just clicked” type people always said in interviews, but the real kind—the kind that made you breathe differently when the camera was rolling.

Still, callbacks were a strange kind of limbo. You left everything in the room and walked out with your hands empty, unsure if what you gave was the version they wanted.

Her phone buzzed with a message from Mara.

MARA:

Did it happen?? Did you cry? Did he cry?

She smiled but didn’t reply yet.

She wasn’t ready to open the door to speculation and “what ifs.” Not yet. Not when her heart was still beating in callback rhythm, not regular rhythm.

Instead, she ordered an iced tea, sat with her thoughts, and let herself do the hardest part of the job: wait.

Two days passed. Then four.

By the fifth, she had convinced herself she didn’t get it.

It was ridiculous—how the brain worked. She could feel confident one minute, and then in the next, be absolutely sure she’d imagined the connection, that the casting team had probably already offered it to someone else. Someone with a bigger name. A better following. A longer résumé.

She went about her days normally—pilates, meal prep, overdue errands—but there was a thin string of tension running through everything she did. An invisible thread tied to her phone, which she kept just slightly too close. Just in case.

Mara and Gia didn’t help.

GIA:

I keep checking Deadline for a casting announcement like I work there. Do you think you’d know before they publish?

MARA:

Should I casually follow the director on Instagram or is that too obvious?

Y/N replied only with a gif of someone staring out a rainy window.

She wasn’t trying to be dramatic. She just didn’t want to break the spell.

The call came on a Friday afternoon.

She was folding a blanket over the back of the couch when her phone rang—and this time, unlike before, her stomach dropped the second she saw Miriam’s name. Her breath caught in her chest.

She answered slowly.

“Hey.”

“Hey,” Miriam said, a smile already in her voice. “You ready?”

Y/N didn’t speak. Couldn’t.

“You got it.”

It took a full second for the words to land.

“What?”

“You. Got. It. Ivy Carter is yours.”

Y/N stood still in her living room, one hand still holding the corner of the blanket.

“You’re serious?” she whispered, barely able to say it.

“I’m serious. They just called. Elaine said—and I quote—‘She is Ivy.’ You nailed it, Y/N. It’s yours.”

She sat down, knees folding underneath her like they couldn’t hold her up anymore.

A full breath left her chest. A real one. The kind that only comes when something you’ve wanted quietly, patiently, for longer than you let yourself admit… actually becomes real.

“Oh my god,” she said softly, tears springing to her eyes before she could stop them. “Oh my god.”

“I’m so proud of you,” Miriam said. “Start wrapping your head around it. You leave for pre-production in two weeks.”

Y/N laughed through the tears. “You’re really just gonna say that like it’s nothing.”

“I’m saying it like it’s everything.”

She hung up and sat for a long moment, letting her body catch up to the news. Letting the weight of it settle gently, instead of crashing.

She didn’t need to scream. Or jump. Or call everyone she knew.

She just needed to sit there, quietly, hand over her heart, and smile like she hadn’t in a long time.

Because she had done it.

Not because someone asked for her. Not because of luck. Not because she was “someone’s pick.”

Because she earned it.

She didn’t text them. She could’ve—God knows they’d been obsessively waiting for an update—but this felt bigger than a three-line message or a gif. This deserved real faces. Real reactions. Real yelling.

So she told them to come over.

No context. Just “Please come by tonight, I made dinner. And wear something cute.” Which, in their language, was code for something is up and we’re not taking it lightly.

By seven o’clock, her tiny apartment smelled like garlic and lemon and the fresh rosemary she’d tucked into the sauce just because she could. She wasn’t a show-off cook, but she liked the rhythm of it. Stirring, chopping, laying the table—things that made her feel grounded when everything else was floating.

She’d even lit candles. Mara was going to be suspicious the second she walked in.

When the buzzer went off, her stomach jumped. Nerves, again. Not the kind from auditions, but the kind you get when something good has happened and you finally get to say it out loud.

She opened the door before they even knocked.

Mara walked in first, hair piled up in a claw clip, carrying a bag of chips and a bottle of prosecco. Gia followed, dramatically overdressed in a vintage floral maxi dress with a belt that jingled when she walked.

“Okay,” Mara said, eyes scanning the apartment. “What is this vibe?”

“Why are there candles?” Gia added, narrowing her eyes. “Are we mourning something? Are we casting a spell?”

Y/N grinned. “Sit down.”

Mara raised an eyebrow but dropped onto the couch without another word. Gia flopped down beside her, kicking off her boots and reaching for the chips before the bag was even open.

Y/N took a deep breath.

Then she grabbed the script off the counter, walked over, and dropped it gently on the coffee table in front of them. No words. Just the bold-font title staring back at them:

Every Summertime

FINAL SHOOTING DRAFT

CONFIDENTIAL

There was a pause.

Mara leaned forward slowly. “No. Way.”

Gia blinked. “You got it?”

Y/N nodded, and just like that, the room exploded.

Mara let out a shriek so loud she startled herself. Gia screamed into one of Y/N’s throw pillows. Someone knocked over the chips. Y/N just stood there, laughing and trying not to cry again while her two best friends lost their collective minds.

“YOU’RE IVY?!” Mara yelled, grabbing her by the shoulders.

“You’re fake-dating Harry Styles in a movie based on that book?” Gia yelled right behind her. “Do you understand what you’ve done to me emotionally?”

“I can’t believe it,” Y/N said, the words still tasting new. “They called this afternoon. It’s mine.”

Mara paced a circle around the living room like she needed to walk off the adrenaline. “I’m so proud I think I’m going to vomit. This is not a joke. I might actually cry.”

Gia was already pouring prosecco into mismatched glasses. “To Ivy Carter! To our girl! To the woman who is going to be impossible to sit next to in a movie theater because I will be whispering ‘that’s my best friend’ the whole time.”

Y/N finally sat down between them, letting their joy fold over her like a blanket. Her cheeks hurt from smiling. Her stomach still fluttered every time she pictured that moment on the phone—You got it.

“Did he say anything to you?” Mara asked suddenly, already fishing for gossip.

“About me getting the part?”

“No, about like… your aura or whatever. Your essence. Did he cry when he looked into your eyes?”

Y/N laughed. “We just read the scene. Nothing dramatic. He was focused.” 

Gia sipped her drink. “So you’re telling me he wasn’t completely in love with you already?”

“I’m telling you he was doing his job. And so was I.”

“Boring,” Mara muttered. “But fine. We’ll allow it. For now.”

Y/N rested her head on Gia’s shoulder, letting the room go quiet for a moment. She watched the candle flicker on the coffee table. The script sat between them, the pages fanned slightly from being flipped through too many times already.

This was real.

No more waiting. No more wondering. She was Ivy. She was going to spend the summer fake-dating a man half the world was obsessed with while bringing to life a character she’d secretly been carrying in her chest for months.

And she got to share that moment—with them.

“Thank you,” she said, suddenly serious. “For making this feel… big. It’s easy to pretend it’s not. To try and act like it’s just another job. But it’s not. It means something.”

Gia reached out and gently clinked her glass against hers.

“We know it means something,” she said. “We’ve always known.”

The building didn’t look like much from the outside—just another converted studio space in the middle of a quiet block in West Hollywood. The kind of place you’d walk past without thinking twice unless you were part of it. Inside, though, it was buzzing. Quietly. Like a hum under the surface.

Y/N was greeted by a production assistant with a headset and an iced coffee in one hand, who led her down a hallway lined with framed posters from past films and into a bright, high-ceilinged room that smelled faintly like paper, Sharpie ink, and someone’s very expensive cologne.

The long table was already half-filled when she walked in.

Labeled name cards sat in front of every chair. A stack of fresh scripts lay at each place setting. Crew members milled around the edges—producers, assistants, someone from hair and makeup who gave Y/N a small, polite wave as she walked past.

It was her first table read for a major studio project. And even though she had already been cast—contracts signed, emails exchanged, fittings scheduled—it didn’t quite feel real until now.

She spotted her name about halfway down on the left side. Y/N Y/L/N — Ivy Carter. Seeing it printed, so simply, gave her a little jolt in the chest. She ran her hand over the card before sitting down.

She glanced to her right—and there he was.

Harry Styles, sitting just one seat away, wearing a soft gray hoodie and black trousers, flipping through the top pages of the script like he hadn’t already read it a dozen times. His hair was slightly damp, like he’d just showered. He looked relaxed but alert—attentive in that calm, still way he had in the callback room.

He looked over when she sat and gave her a warm smile.

“Morning,” he said.

“Hey,” she replied. “Nice to see you again.”

“You too. Congratulations, by the way.”

She blinked, a little caught off guard. “For what?”

“For getting the part,” he said, matter-of-factly. “I heard they saw a lot of people. Said you were the easiest decision they made.”

It was such a quiet, sincere compliment that it took her a second to respond.

“Thanks,” she said, smiling back. “That means a lot.”

Before she could say more, the room began to settle. Elaine, the director, took her spot at the head of the table and greeted everyone, her voice calm and no-nonsense, but not cold.

“Thanks for being here,” she said. “This is going to be a long day, but a good one. We’ll read straight through, pause halfway for a break, and then meet the department heads after. But for now, let’s just live in the story.”

A few people clapped quietly, and then the rustling of scripts filled the air as everyone turned to page one.

The table read began.

The first scene was a quick one—an establishing moment in Ivy’s flower shop, full of overlapping dialogue and neighborhood energy. Y/N found her rhythm quickly, her voice soft at first but steady. It was strange, hearing the lines spoken aloud by real people instead of looping them over and over in her head. They lived differently in the air.

Then came the first scene with Theo.

It was early in the script—scene eight—a chaotic rental pickup gone wrong. Ivy arriving to find out the place she thought she’d have to herself for the summer had been double-booked by a tired, borderline-annoyed journalist who couldn’t believe she still arranged flowers for a living.

Y/N delivered her first line.

Harry replied in character, voice a little lower, a little dryer than his usual one. It was subtle. American, but not distractingly so. Wry, but not smug. He nailed the tone. The sarcasm. The guarded frustration. He even underplayed the joke in a way that made it land harder.

Their back-and-forth built naturally. A little sharper than in the callback room. Quicker. Like two people who had known each other long enough to know exactly how to get under the other’s skin.

By page twenty-four, someone at the far end of the table laughed out loud during a bickering scene.

By page thirty, they were all leaning in a little closer.

They broke for coffee halfway through.

Y/N stood in the corner of the room, quietly sipping a too-hot green tea and listening to the murmur of conversations happening around her—crew members catching up, producers on quick phone calls, someone from casting laughing softly near the door. She felt out of place for exactly forty seconds before Harry walked over.

“How’s it feeling so far?” he asked, nodding toward the table.

“Honestly?” she said. “Like I’m still dreaming it a little.”

He smiled at that. “I know what you mean.”

There was a pause.

“You’re really good,” he said. “You’ve got this way of landing emotion without forcing it. It makes the scenes feel… like real moments. Not written ones.”

Y/N raised an eyebrow. “Was that feedback or a compliment?”

He shrugged. “Both, I think.”

She laughed, and he smiled wider.

The second half of the read went even smoother. Their final scene of the day—the one where Ivy and Theo slow dance under string lights in the middle of an accidental town party—ended with a pause so soft, no one moved for a second afterward. Not even Elaine.

When she finally looked up from her script, the director just gave her a small, meaningful nod.

The whole room felt different after that.

She didn’t say anything on the way out. Didn’t want to break the stillness. But as she stepped into the hallway, script tucked under her arm and nerves finally quieted, Harry caught up with her and said simply:

“See you on set.”

And she believed it. Not just that she’d see him—but that this story, this world, this version of herself she was stepping into… it was real now.

And it was only just beginning.

[dumbgoondog]

Yuta NSFW Alphabet

Cw/Tw- yandere implications, stomach bulge, degradation, CNC, power dynamics, pervert, rough, hyper sexual

Hiii Yuta baby, love you boo

(A)ftercare - please please please don’t think you can go anywhere without him now. He’s trying to make you food, get you and him a bath running, massages, and so much love. Praise, kisses, light after teasing just because he loves the way you twitch.

(B)ody Part - Hard to name one part, but he loves the bulge in your tummy<3

(C)um - oh in you every time please! As many times as you’ll let him, and he can go a LOT. As deep as possible too!

(D)irty Secret - hah! Which one. That he keeps taking your dirty clothes on long missions to keep him “company”? That he saves your selfies to a jerk off folder to use and imagine to even before you’ve started dating? That he was more rough with you last night because some guy was flirting with you and you didn’t even realize?

(E)xperience - None. “B-but he had a wife!” I just think he’s super super fucking repressed. His precious Rika? How could he ever taint her like that? She’s shown no interest in it! He’s a ticking time bomb

(F)avorite Position - any where he can see himself pumping in and out of you. God it’s a spectacle seeing you take all of him!

(G)oofy - hey look… not really. He’s nervous and softer spoken around friends, but when he gets down to business and work? Not really. He does come more and more undone the longer you let him go at it and the more times he comes.

(H)air - groomed, but he’s got hair! It’s like an upside down heart. He smells good too! It’s kinda a cold smell, like rain in the city, graves, and a doctor office. He loves a good bush, trimmed or wild! He loves it! He doesn’t mind shaved either!

(I)ntimacy - He’s so sweet… he’s giving you so many kisses as he’s breaking the backboard, he’s holding up your thighs watching you whimper and those pretty eyes start to tear up from how much it all is. “Ah- baby I’m so sorry- you look so pretty, I’m sorry I’ll get a heating pad once I finish alright?” He’s rough, he’s apologetic, he’s thinking of only you.

(J)ack off - often. As soon as he’s figured out all of the workings of Rika-gami? Whenever and as much as he can. He’s addicted to that high, the pleasure.

(K)ink - please don’t laugh at him… roleplay. Sorcerer on curse roleplay. He wants you to play the curse and he’s a sorcerer coming to exercise you but things get steamy! Oh and if you’re up for it, maybe taking it a bit darker and lean into making it a CNC scene

(L)ocation - preferably the bedroom, but if you rile him up enough? Anywhere works. Hood of a car, alleyway, rooftop, anywhere.

(M)otivation - he’s like Curse!Yuji in that most things get him going, but for Yuta it’s things that can be misconstrued. Eating ice cream? No. The ice cream drips on your chest? A bit. You asking him to clean it off for you? Yes.

(N)o - most things are on the table, hard to think of anything he’s not up to at least try

(O)ral - he loves kissing you and giving you hickeys like he’s a vampire. Marking what’s his, seeing his work? Beautiful. Oh but also, he loves giving your oral, and he loves receiving!

(P)ace - Fast and rough! If you ask for him to be gentle he’ll try, he’ll start slow, but then he’s apologizing and fucking you rough like some animal. My advice? Try some ropes and cuffs!

(Q)uicky - please please please. Even if he doesn’t get to cum, please. He’s addicted to you and the pleasure. He’s worried he’s turning into an incubus or something!

(R)isk - god yeah. Risking getting caught? He fucking loves it. “They’re gonna ah- hear you-! Sorry baby you gotta be more mph- quiet, unless you wanna get caught~?”

(S)tamina - A lot. Training with Gojo, with Miguel, keeping up with Rika, Yuji, and Sukuna? Oh but he will be cumming at LEAST 3 times. One from foreplay, one from pleasure, one from you cumming. At least 3.

(T)oys - doesn’t own any, super embarrassed too. He’s very educated about them though!

(U)nfair - pretty unfair sorry :( he’ll apologize tho! It’s cute<3

(V)olume - Starts off pretty even, but each time he cums makes him louder

(W)ild Card - you can peg him.

(X)-ray - plain black boxer briefs except for one pair of briefs that is pink with cat prints. Thanks Toge.

(Y)es - Degrading you. Surprise! As he’s ramming into your guts like you owe him money, while he’s still apologizing even, he’s degrading you.

(Z)zz - it’s not common for him to want to sleep after, he’s just not tired. He’ll happily cuddle you after though! Just don’t leave him! Ever.

[sxnnimoon]

would you perhaps write something fluff for bucky, he's my hyperfixation and I'd really like to hold him :'))

Authors Note: He’s my comfort so i completely relate!! Thank you for the request!! Sorry this took so long hun ><

“Shit..” was all you heard followed by some rustling and what sounded like the dishwasher? You looked at yourself in the mirror going back to finish your routine. Shutting off the light, you walked into the kitchen to join Bucky on what he attempted to cook. Only to be welcomed by a disgruntled Barnes in just his tank as he pulls his arm out of the dishwasher.

“Didn’t realize the dishes needed cleaning again.” You teased, leaning on the counter of the island earning an annoyed look from him.

“Oh come on,” you spoke softly, moving around the island to be at his side, arms wrapping around his side. “You made a mess didn’t you.”

He sighed, “It just dripped a little..” he tried to play it off.

“Is that why your cookbook is sitting on top of the trash and your shirt in a ball over there?” You looked up at him as he looked away embarrassed.

“Hey.” Your hand coming to his face so he’d look at you. “It’s okay, really. Things happen.”

He didn’t say anything. Just turned until he was fully embracing you, your face at his chest as he kissed the top of your head. “I think I was just tired..”

You nodded, “Between the campaign and gathering intel on Valentina I don’t blame you.”

Reaching up on your tippy toes you placed a kiss to his lips.

“Shall we call it a night? Start brand new tomorrow?” You pulled from his embrace some to look up at his face. All he could do was nod.

“Lead the way darling.” you smile as he lifts you with ease bridal style towards your shared room.

Letting you down to your feet so you can stand once again.

“I just got flashbacks to our wedding night.” you giggling going to grab some pjs for the night.

“Except that leads to something very differently than what just happened.” he says, grabbing his own.

“Well that’s too bad,” you sass playfully. “None of that is happening tonight.”

He rolls his eyes.

“Hey!” you throw your shirt at him as you go to lay in bed.

“I’m kidding!” he laughs, joining you allowing you to snuggle into his side.

“I could stay here forever.” you sigh once your body is tangled with his comfortably.

“That’s kinda the point of this.” he taps your wedding ring.

“I meant staying in bed.” you roll your eyes. “Just here with you.”

“Me too doll,” he kisses the top of your head. “Me too.”

The feeling of fingers running through your hair makes you sleepy but you refuse to sleep so soon.

“I just wish you weren’t so hard on yourself.” you say between yawns. “I know what this means to you but please don’t run yourself through the ringer.”

You raise your head to look at him.

“I know,” he sighs. “I’m just nervous I'll blow it.”

“I believe in you, I'm here through it all baby.” you smile leaning up to kiss him. “Now, enough about that. Time to relax.”

He doesn’t say anything but smile as he sinks into the bed more so he is cuddling you properly. You both spent the rest of the night talking about the most random things before falling asleep peacefully.

[velvetinks]

Parent-teacher chemistry

Joel Miller x f!Reader

Warnings: Soft tension, single dad sweetness, light teasing, no smut

It started with the late pick-ups.

Sarah Miller was one of your favorite students—bright, kind, and a little sarcastic in a way that made her seem older than she was. She loved to help clean the whiteboard after class, always asked questions that made you pause before answering, and doodled little stars in the margins of her tests.

But her dad? Joel Miller? He was always five to ten minutes late.

You weren’t mad about it, not really. Life happens, especially when you’re a single parent working a full-time construction job. Still, it gave you more time to get to know Sarah, and slowly, her father too.

The first time you officially met him, it was a sweaty Texas afternoon. Joel came rushing into the classroom, hard hat tucked under his arm and dust still on his boots.

“Sorry I’m late,” he said, breathless and sheepish. “Traffic on 290’s a mess.”

You gave him a smile, wiping your hands on your skirt. “Don’t worry about it. We were just finishing a debate on whether Pluto should still be considered a planet.”

Sarah grinned. “I said it should. Miss [Y/L/N] agrees.”

Joel raised a brow, his Southern drawl pulling just slightly as he said, “Well, guess I’m outnumbered.”

You tried not to notice the way his smile lingered. Or how nice his voice sounded when he said your name for the first time at the next parent-teacher meeting. Or how Sarah once casually told you, “Dad asks a lot about you. I think he likes you.”

The nerve of a twelve-year-old.

You started seeing more of Joel.

Sometimes he’d swing by early, pretending to ask about Sarah’s homework, when really he’d just stand around awkwardly and talk about anything but school.

You’d tease him for it, gently, of course.

“Did you really need to drop off that permission slip in person, Joel?”

He gave you a half-smile and rubbed the back of his neck. “Maybe I just wanted to see how your day was.”

There was something warm about him, something steady. He had this way of looking at you like he wasn’t afraid to really see you. And it made your heart beat a little faster every time.

One Friday afternoon, after Sarah had been picked up by her aunt for a sleepover, Joel showed up to your classroom door.

No excuse this time. Just Joel, hands in his pockets, eyes soft.

“Thought maybe you’d let me buy you a cup of coffee. Or dinner. Somethin’ that doesn’t involve parent-teacher conferences.”

You leaned against your desk, heart fluttering. “Well, I guess I should say no… but Sarah did say you liked me.”

He laughed, and it was the best sound you’d heard all day. “That kid’s got a big mouth.”

“Lucky for you,” you said, grabbing your coat, “I’ve got a soft spot for dads who are always late.”

Joel held the door for you, his hand brushing lightly against your lower back as you walked out together into the warm Austin dusk.

And for the first time in a long time, life didn’t feel like something you were just getting through.

It felt like something that was just beginning.

[badkitty3000]

Every Version Of You

Five Hargreeves x Female Reader, 5.4k words, one-shot

Summary: It takes a close call with death for Five to realize what kind of man he wants to be and what kind of life he wants with you.

Warnings: Smut, domestic Five, soft Five, lots of fluff

A/N: Five is very soft and loving in this one, but still with a little bit of his normal flair. Let me know how you like it! 😽❤️

Five has been away from home for too long. He didn’t realize this latest job was going to be so complicated. If he had known that, maybe he wouldn’t have said the things he had said to you. Maybe he wouldn’t have been so short with you.

Now, here he is, parked on the rooftop of some building, hunched over in the cold and swirling snow with his overcoat pulled up around his ears as he waits. He waits for his target, the man he’s been hired to kill, to come into view. Preferably alone. 

While he waits and shivers and blows on his hands to keep the feeling going in his fingers, he thinks of you. He thinks of how he wishes you were there right now. Well, maybe not exactly right there on that rooftop; he would never put you in danger like that. More like he wishes he were with you. 

He misses you. Shit, he misses you so much. And not just your body, although he can’t seem to stop thinking about that, either. But your voice, and your eyes, and just the way you look at him. Your laugh and the way you always seem to know how to take care of him in the exact way he needs. 

He misses his home the two of you have together. And his bed, made even more comfortable with you lying next to him. He never thought he’d have a home like the one he has now. But then again, wherever you are is his home.

He wants to make things right again. Because, not for the first time in his life, he fucked up.

Images of your face just minutes before he had left flash before his eyes and he has a hard time concentrating on the task at hand. You had told him you needed him there, at home. You hadn’t wanted him to leave. He had been gone too much lately, according to you. You worried about him. It wasn’t good for him. 

So, there had been a fight.

Five isn’t proud of it. He didn’t like fighting with you. He hated seeing the hurt on your face, or even worse, the tears that had been caused by him. When he got defensive, he lashed out. And when he lashed out, he said things he didn’t mean. Hurtful things he wanted to take back.

 You had called him selfish. He had called you delusional and naive.

How long has it been, now? Five days? A week? With all of the tracking and stalking and assessing of the situation, he has lost track. Too long, though. He knew that much.

You knew what he was, obviously, that wasn’t a secret. A hitman for hire that only took down the ones that deserved it. He was the good guy, cleaning up the streets. The assassin with a heart of gold. 

What a load of shit.

As Five had told his brother, Luther, all those years ago, there are no good guys or bad guys. There’s just people. And Five is sometimes hired to kill those people. End of story.

Back in the beginning, you had decided you didn’t care that he was a killer. Hell, it used to turn you on. He’d come home, smelling like dried sweat with a splatter of blood on the cuff of his shirt and he could barely make it in the door before you were jumping on top of him. And you loved him, that was the even crazier part. You loved him, and as much as that defied the odds, he knew it was true. And he loved you, too. He loved you more than anything.

You even, by some small miracle, agreed to marry him a while back. Five is still waiting for someone to jump out from behind a bush on the street to reveal that this whole thing has been part of an elaborate prank show. Because he’s still not quite sure how he landed you.

The two of you have made this life together, and it’s insane, but it works. You make him happy and god knows he is overdue for some happiness. Five twists the plain gold band on his left hand as he exhales a white puff into the air. 

Sometimes it feels like a dream. You are his wife. You are all he ever wanted, but never dared to imagine. 

Which is what he should have told you before he left. Instead, he had turned away from your pleas, blinking away without even a goodbye. 

You knew not to contact him when he was on a job. There were too many factors at play and too many ways he could be tracked. So, he hasn’t spoken to you since that day. And now here he is, cold and miserable, and cursing himself for being so fucking stubborn.

There is some movement in the building he is watching across the street and he peers through his sniper scope. The man in question is perfectly positioned in front of his high-rise office window. Five only needs one shot and he’ll be done. The guy will be dead, Five can blink away, and he’ll be back home by dinner. Piece of cake.

Five’s hands are red and chapped as they grip the rifle, his finger twitching ever so slightly against the trigger. One eye closes while the other finds its mark again. He begins to pull back on the trigger when there is a noise from behind. The sound of a pebble being kicked by a shoe. 

He spins around, the rifle still against his shoulder, and aims it at the man that has attempted to sneak up on him. There are two shots fired, one from the other man’s pistol and one from Five’s rifle. Five feels a slight sting in his upper arm. The other gunman drops to his knees as the hole in his chest bleeds a river of red and he collapses on the rooftop. Dead.

Five swings back around, aiming again for the man across the street. If one person has tracked him down on that roof, there could be more. He shoots again, hitting his target with perfect aim and watches as the man slumps to the floor of his lavish office.

“Fuck,” Five mutters as he looks down at the body behind him. Steam curls out of the bleeding crater in the dead man’s chest and rises into the cold winter air.

Five assesses his arm. It was just a graze, with only a small laceration visible beneath the torn part of his coat and shirt. He swears again, angry that his favorite overcoat now had a hole in it. He hurriedly packs up his weapon and gets the hell out of there, blinking several blocks away into an alley, and then blending into a large crowd of tourists. He walks a few more blocks and then grabs a cab that he takes ten miles out of town in the opposite direction of where he actually needs to go. From there, he makes a few more blinks, just in case he is being tailed. Once he is sure he is in the clear, he takes another car home to you.

************************************

It’s late when he arrives home. He’s a little disappointed that you aren’t up waiting for him, but he knows that’s unfair. You hadn’t even known when he was returning. The table lamp in your apartment living room is on, though, so he knows you were at least thinking of him. 

Five stashes his weapon and grabs a glass of water from the kitchen. He rummages through the cabinets to find a vase for the bouquet of flowers he bought for you at the crappy bodega on the way home. A last-ditch effort to try and ease his guilt.

As he sets the flowers in the vase and arranges them the best he can, he sees they are already starting to wilt. The blue, artificially-dyed daisies in the bunch look garish in the bright light of the kitchen. He sighs at his sad attempt at an apology.

Cheap ass flowers.

He notices one of the lightbulbs is burned out over the kitchen table. The same one you had pointed out to him last week. Five had insisted he would take care of it. He didn’t want you climbing up on the table to reach it. So why hadn’t he just done it when you asked?

He strips off his coat and throws it on the back of a chair. He runs his fingers over the hole in his dress shirt, frowning when he sees it’s still oozing just a little bit of blood. 

Before he does anything else, though, he finds a new lightbulb and replaces the burned out one. He feels another pang of guilt in his chest because it takes him a total of two minutes.

In the bathroom, he takes off his shirt and cleans up his arm. It’s hardly anything, a minor flesh wound. But he doesn’t want to smear blood all over your shared bed, so he bandages it up. When he looks in the mirror, he startles himself. He looks tired. Exhausted. He looks like shit.

He knows tonight could have gone a completely different way. It was just happenstance that his assailant kicked that pebble, alerting Five to his presence. And it was pure fucking luck that the dude’s aim was off. Another inch in the other direction and Five would be the one lying on that roof with a bullet in his chest.

Why does he do this to himself? Why does he do this to you? He shakes his head at his own reflection, unable to answer those questions. He just doesn’t know. The best he can come up with is that he’s an idiot.

Five creeps quietly into your bedroom. It’s dark and he can hear your deep breathing while you sleep. It’s music to his ears and he smiles to himself. He sheds his pants next to the bed and slips in next to you, the warmth from your body already heating up the small space between you. 

He knows he shouldn’t wake you, but he needs to. His eyes adjust to the darkness and he props himself up on one elbow. He reaches over, stroking your cheek lightly and tucking your hair behind your ear. You rustle and let out a sigh as you start to wake.

When your eyes flutter open, he smiles warmly as his hand rests on your cheek.

“Hello, darling,” he whispers.

“Five?” you say, still unsure if you’re dreaming or not.

“I’m sorry I woke you, but… “

You don’t let him finish, because as soon as you realize he’s really there, in bed with you and home safe, you burst into tears.

“I’m sorry!” you wail in between sobs. “I’m sorry… I love you… I’m so sorry!”

He sits up, taking you in his arms as you press your face into his bare chest. “Sweetheart, no… I was selfish, you were right. I love you so much,” he tells you as he kisses your head and squeezes you tighter, brushing his chin against your hair.

You pull back, your cheeks still streaked with tears, as you take his face in both of your hands. You kiss him, softly but urgently as you take in the taste of him that you have missed so much. You breathe in his scent and feel the familiar outline of his cheekbones. He hasn’t shaved in a couple of days and the stubble scratches at your fingertips. Your body relaxes for the first time in days.

“Five,” you say, in between kisses. “You scared me. You really scared me.”

“I know,” he tells you, drawing his head back so you are forced to stop your frenzied kisses and look him in the eyes. “I scared myself.”

“I just kept thinking of all the bad things that could have happened to you. What would happen if you never came home. It was awful.”

“I’m so sorry,” he tells you. “I never meant to be gone so long. Or make you worry.”

“Next time, don’t leave without saying goodbye. Please,” you beg through your tears.

“There’s not going to be a next time.”

You pause and sniff loudly, wiping your nose on the back of your hand. “What?”

“I’ve decided I’m done. For good this time. I’m not leaving you again.”

You hesitate. “Five, I don’t want to stop you from something you want–”

“You think that’s what I want? To leave you here while I go out and murder people?”

You pause, blinking. “No, but… it is what you do.”

He sighs and leans back against the headboard while you rest your head on his shoulder. “I kept telling myself that I would never be able to handle an ordinary life. That I wasn’t cut out for a normal marriage. But tonight, I had a really close call. Too close. And it made me realize what I really want out of life.”

“What’s that?”

“You.”

You smile up at him. “You have me already. I’m your wife, remember?”

“I know that. But I want you all of the time. I want to be home with you. I want to go to sleep next to you every single night and wake up next to you every single morning. No more shitty hotel rooms. No more lonely dinners in some piece of crap diner. I want to be with you. Always.”

“I want that, too.”

He traces your lips with his fingers. “And I want to make you happy.”

“Five,” you sigh. “You do make me happy.”

“Well, then I want to make you even happier. I want that to be my main goal in life. Not mindless killing for money.”

“But I want you to be happy, too.”

“Darling, if you are happy, then I am happy. And if you’re not… then I am miserable.”

“Five, I just don’t want you to get bored or regret anything, or–”

He shakes his head again. “Impossible.”

“Are you sure this is what you want?”

Five kisses you again, gently with his hand in your hair. “Yes, it is. With one more added thing, if you’re game.”

“What’s that?”

“I want us to start a family,” he says, his voice suddenly very soft and cracking with nervousness.

You wait, searching his face to make sure he’s not just saying this to try and appease you. But he’s sincere. You can see it. A slow smile breaks over your face.

“Really?”

He nods. “Do you think that’s something you would want?”

“Yes, I would love that,” you say with a laugh. “I would love to have a family with you.”

He looks happy but nervous. “I don’t really know how to be a dad, I didn’t exactly have the best role model.”

“Five, you are amazing at everything you do. Being a dad will be no different,” you tell him, laying the palm of your hand on his cheek. “I love you and our child will love you. I guarantee it.”

“Thank you,” he says before diving in for another kiss. 

When you climb on top and straddle him, he lets out a long, relieved sigh. You can practically see his muscles loosening up by the second. You are willing to bet they’ve been wound tight with anxiety and stress for days. You make a mental note to have him soak in a warm bath later.

“I’ve missed you,” he says as he closes his eyes and places his hands on your waist.

You sit up, running your hands over his shoulders and down his arms, when you notice the bandage. You frown as you touch it gingerly.

“What’s this?”

Five smiles at your concern. “It’s nothing.”

“It’s not nothing. You’re hurt. What happened?”

“Just a little wake up call, that’s all.”

“Five, tell me–”

You are being flung onto your back, with Five climbing over the top of you, trapping you under the weight of his body. 

“Darling, we can either sit here and have a very boring discussion about a very minor injury, or we can get busy making this aforementioned family of ours,” Five tells you with a mischievous smirk.

“I’m still on my pill,” you explain.

“Then we can practice.”

“Oh,” you breathe out, dragging your hands down his back. “Ok, we can talk about your injury later.”

He leans down to kiss you. “Good choice.”

From there, you let Five take charge. He is hungry for you, desperate even, but he paces himself. He wants to take his time with you. He wants to savor each and every kiss and touch and beautiful moan. He wants to watch you lose yourself to him, to forget all sense of reality, as if you are the one with the power to manipulate time and space.

He helps you with your clothes, slowly dragging your shirt over your head and your shorts and underwear down your legs. His hands roam over your entire body, warm and firm as they map out every inch of you. It feels new, somehow, even though he’s touched you like this hundreds of times. You move your hips against him as your kisses become deeper and more fervent. His hard cock, still trapped inside his boxers, slides across your thigh.

Five draws a line from your stomach up to your breasts, using the tips of his fingers to slowly and tortuously circle your nipples. Then he is moving up again, over your neck, your jaw, and onto your lips. He presses two fingers to your mouth and you open up, knowing that’s what he wants, and you close your lips around them.

Five groans and his eyes shut for just a moment before they open again to watch you suck on his fingers. He moves them in and out, like he’s fucking your mouth, feeling your tongue slide against them. You can taste the salt of his skin and feel the callus on his trigger finger.

He moans your name quietly. “Do you know how fucking pretty you look right now?”

You give him a small smile, keeping his slender fingers latched between your teeth, as you blink up at him. He caresses the side of your face with his other hand, watching you intently, his eyebrows pulled together as if he is studying something he doesn’t understand.

But he does understand. He knows exactly what he is doing. And fuck, he gets you every single time.

Five draws his fingers out, slowly and deliberately, painting a trail with your saliva as he follows the same path back down again, between your tits, and over your abdomen. He continues south, still watching your reaction, as he finds the warm silky crease between your legs.

You lift your hips up in response and he enters you gently, fucking you slowly with his hand as you tip your head back.

“Five,” you gasp. When he presses his thumb to your clit, your back arches off the bed. Yessss,” you hiss out. “Oh god.”

“Look at me,” he tells you, but it’s not demanding like usual. It’s a plea. You meet his eyes and your lips part. “You are all I need. Understand?” You nod and he curls his fingers inside of you. 

When you come, hard and intensely, you soak his hand and the sheets underneath you. You moan his name like you’re in pain, the spasms of your climax making you thrash violently against the bed. 

You are panting loudly and your body feels boneless as you start to relax. Five pulls his fingers out, glistening and wet. His eyes don’t leave yours as he raises his hand to his mouth and sucks them clean. 

“Don’t want to waste any,” he tells you with a smirk. 

Your laugh comes out as a breathy huff. “You’re so dirty.”

He climbs over you again, laying his body on top of yours, holding himself up on his forearms beside your head. He gazes down on you, his hand stroking your hair gently. Something in his expression changes. That wolfish glint is gone from his eyes, replaced by something much softer.

He kisses you, slipping his tongue inside so that you can taste yourself. “I’m so sorry,” he whispers as his mouth moves down your neck, and he sounds sad. “Fuck, I am so sorry.”

Your hands rest in his hair and you arch your head back. “What do you mean?”

He is still kissing down your neck and over your shoulders, but you can hear the break in his voice and feel the subtle shift of his body against yours. He does this sometimes. He’s thinking and he doesn’t want to look you in the eyes.

“All these years… “ he starts, his hand drifting down your side and over your hip. “I’ve never been the man you deserve.”

You are so startled by his words that you actually gasp out loud. He is still not looking at you, but he has stopped his kisses. His forehead rests against your chest as his warm breath washes over you.

You want to scream in agony and rage; to tell him he’s fucking insane. But you have to choose your words carefully. He’s letting his guard down. One false move and the wall goes back up again.

“Five,” you start quietly, stroking his hair and the back of his neck. “Since I’ve known you, you have been many men, and I have loved each and every one of them.” He finally lifts his head and you smile. “And I will choose you, no matter what, every single time. That means you give me exactly what I need and what I want with every version of you that exists. Because you are my man. All of you.”

“I promise to try harder,” he says, as if you hadn’t just said anything.

“Five, please listen to what I am telling you,” you say, looking him in the eyes. “I don’t need you to promise anything, or try harder, or change in any way. I just need you.”

Five raises himself up again, kissing you while you run your palms down his shoulders and biceps, avoiding the wounded area. “You have all of me. I am nothing without you,” he tells you with a small smile before leaning down again to brush his lips against yours.

Suddenly you are overcome with so much emotion, it’s like you can’t see straight. Your life together starts flooding your brain, flipping through each moment like shuffling a deck of cards. 

The first time you laid eyes on him. The first time you kissed. The first time you fucked. The first time he tried to drive you away. The first time he confessed his love to you and all the times after that.

You want to cry just from the sheer amount of love you feel for him. Instead, you take his face in your hands and kiss him like you’re afraid he might leave you again. Although, you know he won’t now. 

He groans into your mouth and when he moves his body against yours you can feel how hard he still is. Reaching down, you start to maneuver his boxers off, and he helps while still trying to keep his mouth on yours. When he finally kicks them off, he positions himself between your legs. His hard cock presses against your slit, already wet for him again.

Five draws his head back, placing a hand on the side of your face. Just like when he fucked you with his hand, he wants to watch you as he enters you. He could easily slam his entire length into you, but he doesn’t. He takes his time. You watch as the creases deepen between his brows and his lips part just slightly. When you let out a soft whimper, the corner of his mouth turns up. He is breathing hard and fast, but he is moving at an agonizing pace. You push yourself up to try and hurry him along, but despite his gentleness, he still has the upper hand and you are denied.

“Let me take my time, my love” he says before going in for another soft kiss. “We have nowhere to go.” He kisses you again. “We have all the time in the world.”

He is finally buried within you, and you could swear that each time his cock is inside you is better than the last. You don’t think you will ever get tired of it; that feeling of him stretching you open and filling you up. You could live in those few blissful seconds forever.

Well, maybe not forever. Because when he starts to move inside you, you throw your head back with a lustful groan. Your fingers press harder into his back and you bring your legs up around his waist.

He pumps into you slowly but purposefully, covering your face and neck with long sucking kisses. You inhale giant gulps of air and exhale his name in wanton moans. He talks to you, quietly, close to your ear, like he always does. He loves to talk during sex. Five can be silent and brooding, but never when he fucks you. There is always a running commentary.

Tonight he is loving and worshipful; his voice low and husky.

The things you do to me… you shouldn’t be that powerful

Fuuck… you feel so good… I want to stay inside you forever

I would die without you

You are all I need. All I want

You are my everything

You clutch at his body; his shoulders, his back, his ass. He tightens his grip on yours, holding you close while he rocks rhythmically on top of you. 

“I love you, sweetheart,” he tells you and there’s a catch in his throat that makes you wish you could take away all of the fear and uncertainty you know is rattling around in that brain of his. 

Instead, you say, “I love you, too, Five. So much.”

He buries his face in the crook of your neck. His hair falls across your cheek and the scruff on his chin and jaw scratch lightly against your skin. You breathe in his scent that you have memorized. The scent that both drives you crazy and makes you feel like you are right where you are supposed to be. 

He has quickened his pace and the increase in intensity has you arching into him, pulling him closer with your thighs. His ragged breath mixes with the soft grunts and moans he makes with each thrust. He knows you well enough that he can tell you are reaching your threshold, but he asks you anyway because he wants to hear you say it.

“Want to come for me?” His voice is strained with the effort of holding himself back.

You nod, digging your nails into his back. You’re fairly certain his back should be littered with scars after all the years of clawing and raking you have given it. 

“Yes… yes, just keep… oh god, Five!”

“That’s right… fuck!”

Five stills against you at the same time your body trembles with rolling shock waves. He spills inside you, groaning hotly against your neck. You ride your shared climax out together, your loud panting and hissing curses filling the room.

As your muscles start to relax, you let go of your death grip on Five and lower your legs. He doesn’t move until his cock starts to soften and he slips out of you. When he lies next to you, he slings his arm over your stomach. His eyes are closed but when you reach over to move a piece of hair from his forehead, he opens them.

He draws you to him with a hand on the back of your head. His skin is damp and his eyes are hazy. He kisses you, smiling against your mouth.

“I really am a fucking idiot,” he tells you with a laugh as you pull away.

“Well, I can’t agree or disagree to that until I know what for,” you tease.

“Shit… where do I start? For one, I left when I could have been doing that with you the whole time… then getting fucking shot wasn’t too great… and then–”

You sit up suddenly, your eyes wide. “What do you mean you got shot?!”

Five realizes his mistake and closes his eyes with a loud sigh. “And for opening my big mouth… “ he mumbles to himself.

You run your fingers over the bandaged area of his arm again, this time with a whole new worry. “Five, what the hell?”

“It’s fine. Like I told you, it’s just a minor thing.”

“You getting shot is not minor!” you protest, gesturing wildly with your hands. “Jesus, Five! You could have been killed!”

“I realize that–”

“Are you ok? Does it hurt? Who did it? What happened to them?”

“Well, I–”

“And what was I supposed to do, huh? Just go on living, wondering why you never came back home that one time?”

“If you let me–”

“I knew I shouldn’t have let you go. I had a bad feeling about the whole thing. And I was right!”

“Ok, but you couldn’t really stop me from–”

You start to tear up, but you’re still rattled, so you hastily wipe at your eyes. “Are you sure you’re ok?”

“Yes, I–”

“Because if I find out you lied to me, I’m going to be so pissed!”

“As opposed to now when you’re being so cal–”

You put a hand on your chest, trying to slow your breathing. “Oh my god, I don’t know what I would do if something bad happened to you. I mean, I know you have a dangerous job, I know that. But you’ve never been shot before!”

Five frowns. “Actually, that’s not–”

“I think I should take a look at it,” you say, starting to reach for the bandage.

Five catches your wrist in his hand, halting you and forcing you to look at him. He is smiling at you in the most irritating way.

“Darling,” he says with a small laugh. “Am I allowed to say something now?”

He’s making fun of you and your outburst, but you don’t care. Your reaction is perfectly valid. But you nod and keep quiet.

“Yes, I caught a bullet in the arm. It’s just a graze and I’m fine, I promise,” he starts slowly, making sure you are looking at him and listening to him. “But that is the whole reason I’m quitting. Because it was too close of a call. And I don’t want to leave you alone.”

Your eyes well up again. “I couldn’t bear it,” you say softly.

Five pulls you into him and you rest your head against him. His voice sounds deep and rumbling with your ear pressed to his chest.

He strokes your hair and kisses your forehead. “You won’t have to worry anymore, ok?”

You nod. “Ok.” 

“And now that I’m going to be around more, I’m going to start stepping up around here. I haven’t been appreciating you enough. I want to take care of you and give you everything you want.”

You smile and kiss his chest. “Thank you, Five. But all I really want is the two of us together.” You raise your head to look at him. “Or maybe the three of us.”

Five leans in to kiss you and your eyes fall shut as you give in to it. “I will take care of you and our child. I swear to you.”

“I know you will. You’re going to be an amazing dad, Five.”

He looks uncertain again, like he doesn’t really believe you. “How do you know?”

You place your palm flat against his heart, feeling the strong pulse beneath his sternum. “Because I know you and you will become the best version of yourself that you can be as a father.”

“Promise me one thing, my love?”

“What’s that?”

“Never stop loving me. No matter what version I become.”

You kiss him passionately, swinging your leg over the top of his as he holds you against his firm body. “Impossible,” you tell him. “I’ll love you forever. Every single one of you.”

[idrawweirdstuffnominors]

(Another angst unrequited love fic

Title:"The Fender Bender

> "You blind or just stupid?"

Pete DiNunzio slams his car door shut, stalking toward your crumpled bumper with the grace of a pissed-off raccoon.

"Jesus, what the hell were you doing? Jerking off behind the wheel?"

You step out, heart already racing—not from the crash, but from him. Pete. That Pete.

> "Nice to see you too, DiNunzio."

"Wait... No way. Are you—?" He squints. His face softens just a little before jerking back into that familiar scowl. "You gotta be shitting me."

> "Hi."

"Holy crap. You got older."

"So did you."

"Yeah, well. Life’s a bitch." He waves at your cars. "So is your driving."

You both laugh, despite the dented metal between you.

---

Two Weeks Later

Your phone buzzes.

> [Pete D] “u owe me a drink. unless ur scared of me now”

You:

> “i’ve always been scared of you.”

> [Pete D] “good. meet me @ dex’s. 8. wear a helmet”

---

The Hangout

Dex’s Bar is a dive with flickering lights and one broken stool. Pete’s already there, beer half-gone, tapping his chipped lighter on the table.

> "Look who showed. I was this close to thinking you ghosted me."

"What, and miss the chance to see if you’re still a jerk?"

"You hope I’m still a jerk."

He’s quieter now. Rough around the edges in a way that doesn’t look deliberate. Not like high school. This isn’t some persona. It’s just who he became.

> "You ever think about high school?" he asks suddenly, staring at his glass.

"Not really. Why?"

"’Cause I do."

He flicks his lighter again. "Mostly about you."

> "Me?"

"Yeah." He snorts. "You were the hot girl who didn’t know she was hot. Or maybe you did and you were just nice to me outta pity."

You blink. "I wasn’t nice out of pity, Pete."

He stares at you, and for the first time all night, his voice cracks.

> "You were the only one who ever looked at me like I wasn’t just some f*up with a smart mouth and a porn addiction."

You hesitate. "What do you want me to say?"

> "Nothing," he mutters. "Just needed to say that out loud before it festered anymore."

---

Later That Night

You're outside his place. You weren’t planning to go in, but he invites you with a shrug and a:

> "Don’t worry, I cleaned the worst of the mold."

His apartment smells like burnt coffee and old socks. A broken mask from some horror movie hangs on the wall.

He pours you two shots of something warm and mean.

> "So, you seeing anyone?"

"No."

"Figures. You're always chasing guys too good to deserve you."

You sigh. "And you're still pretending like you never cared."

Pete doesn’t speak. Just leans back on the couch, arms crossed, eyes fixed on the stained ceiling.

> "I used to jerk off to the idea of you saying my name."

"Pete—"

"Don’t act shocked. I’m not romantic, babe. I’m real."

You sit in silence. He swallows hard.

> "I didn’t think anyone would ever love me. Not really. Not me me."

"Why not?"

"Because I’m gross. Loud. Got anger issues. I’m broke. I’ve never been with anyone sober who didn’t regret it afterward. Why the f** would anyone want this?*"

He gestures to himself, broken and bitter.

You want to say something. But nothing comes.

So he says it for you.

> "It’s okay. I know you don’t. Not like that."

"Pete—"

"Don't." He laughs, but it’s not a good laugh. "You're good. Too good. You still see the best in people, huh? Even when they're f*ing ruined?"

He leans forward, elbows on knees, voice shaking.

> "I just wish... I wish I’d been less of a coward. Maybe if I told you back then... maybe you’d be mine now."

> "You don’t know that."

"*I do. ‘Cause I knew you. And I knew me. And I was never gonna be the guy you picked."

You look at him. His eyes are glassy, cheeks red. Not drunk—just done.

> "You want me to stay?"

"Nah."

He smiles, but it’s all teeth and no warmth. "You should go. Before I say something that makes you hate me."

You leave.

He doesn’t watch you go.

But he listens for the sound of the door closing.

---

Later

You get one last text.

> [Pete D] “u made me feel like i wasn’t scum. no 1 else ever did that. thx”

You never reply.

Because you know he didn’t want a conversation. He just wanted to be heard—just once, by the girl he never stopped imagining.

Even if it never meant anything to you the same way it did to him.

---

A Week Later – You Invite Him Over

It’s late. You’re not sure why you texted Pete. Maybe part of you felt sorry for him. Maybe you were just curious. Whatever it was, he shows up looking exactly how you remember him: pissed off and pretending not to care.

He’s got a six-pack in one hand, hoodie sleeves pushed up, his hair messy, like he’d been fighting with himself the whole walk over.

> "This ain't a fuckin' date," he grunts as you open the door. "Don't get ideas."

> "You always this charming, or just with old friends?"

"Friends? Pfft. We weren’t friends. You were hot. I was horny. Let’s not rewrite history, sweetheart.*"

He pushes past you like it’s his place, drops the six-pack on your table but doesn’t crack one open.

> "So. This where you live now? Kinda sad."

> "Thanks, Pete."

"Just sayin’. You always seemed like one of those girls who’d end up with, like, a yoga studio and three dogs."

"Guess I disappointed you."

"Wouldn’t be the first time."

He doesn’t smile. Just stands there, chewing the inside of his cheek like he’s trying not to say something worse. You finally sit, and he follows, but he won’t relax. Just leans forward, elbows on his knees, twitching.

> "Y’know I used to jerk off to you? Back in high school."

> "Jesus, Pete."

"What? You invited me here. You knew who I was."

You don’t answer. He lets the silence stretch, then:

> "Can’t even talk to girls without thinkin’ about fuckin’ ‘em. Can’t remember the last time I looked at someone and thought somethin’ nice instead of somethin’ dirty or violent. Ain’t normal. I know that."

> "Where’s this comin’ from?"

"Nowhere." He sniffs. "Everywhere. You, probably."

He leans back, arms folded now, eyes on the ceiling.

> "My old man used to say there was somethin’ wrong with me. ‘You ain’t right in the head, Petey,’ he’d say. ‘All that gore bullshit. That horror crap. What kinda kid jerks off to zombie movies?’"

"Jesus."

"Yeah. Tell me about it. My brothers weren’t much better. I got tied to a fuckin’ chair once for drawin’ a flayed body in my sketchbook. Real funny, right?"

His voice cracks, just slightly, but he covers it with a laugh that doesn’t reach his eyes.

> "So, yeah. I don’t get turned on by rom-coms and pillow talk. I get off to the shit you can’t say out loud. Ain’t never had a girl stay, ‘cause they see it in my face. That look. That thing that says, ‘This guy’s thinkin’ somethin’ fucked up.’ And they’re right. I am. I’m always thinkin’ about it."

> "You ever try to fix that?"

"Nah. What’s the fuckin’ point? I wasn’t built for the good stuff."

He finally looks at you—really looks—and his mouth goes tight.

> "You were the only one who was ever nice to me, y’know that? And I spent the whole damn time tellin’ myself you were just another tease. Some stuck-up broad pretendin’ to be into horror ‘cause she liked the attention."

> "Is that really what you thought?"

"Nah. I thought you were different. Which scared the shit outta me. So I told myself you weren’t."

He rubs at his face like he’s tryin’ to scrape his own skin off.

> "I can’t talk to people right. All I know is how to push, and joke, and fuck, and bail. But I keep thinkin’ about you. Keep dreamin’ about you. And I don’t know if it’s love or if I’m just obsessed with the one girl who didn’t run away screamin’. Maybe both."

> "Pete..."

"Nah, don’t gimme that look. That pity look. I’ll say somethin’ worse if you do."

He stands up fast like the floor’s on fire, starts pacing.

> "You don’t get it. I’m not some bad boy you fix with a bath and a hug. I’m not a ‘healing project.’ I’m the kinda guy who’ll fuck you, say somethin’ cruel, and then sit in the car after pretendin’ he didn’t feel a fuckin’ thing. That’s me. That’s all I got."

> "I didn’t ask you to change, Pete."

"Yeah? Well I ain’t gonna. I can’t. This is it. This is what you get."

Then, quieter:

> "But if I could be different—for anyone—it woulda been you."

He looks like he might cry. Instead, he laughs.

> "You remember that zombie movie marathon we did junior year? You fell asleep on my shoulder. I didn’t move for hours. Back hurt like hell. Best night of my life. Pathetic, huh?"

You shake your head. He shrugs like it doesn’t matter.

> "Anyway." He grabs the six-pack, leaves one can on the table. "This one’s for you. ‘Cause you saw me once. Even if you ain’t lookin’ no more."

And just like that, he’s gone.

---

[pixelwritez]

Young dumb reader x Vendetta leon drabble.

(NSWF, leon’s kinda pervy here, not proof read, should I make this into a story?)

Younger reader, i’m thinking college age so like 22 ish who goes to a bar on a saturday night. Vendetta leon is there because when is he not when he notices a pretty young woman sitting next to him.

It was you who initiated a conversation, finding a random excuse to talk to him because he was hot.

He almost couldn’t believe you were taking to him. A pretty young think like you, he could see your tits practically spilling out of that tank top you were wearing. And the more he talked to you, the more he realized you were dumb. You didn’t know what the hell you were talking about.

He bought you drinks, turns out it didn’t take much to get you drunk. 2 vodka cranberries and a margarita and you were out.

Drunkingly clinging onto him, and giggling. By now he knew practically everything about you. Your name, where you went to school, where you grew up, your parents names like everything. Luckily he’s not a serial killer, but when you sobered up he was gonna lecture you about this.

So he took you back to his place, obviously he couldn’t just leave you there. And you were all over him. Sitting on his lap, trying to kiss him, grabbing his muscles, basically being a horny girl.

Leon wasn’t quite sure how to react. You were drunk, he shouldn’t do anything with you. What if you regret it when you sober up? Sleeping with an old broken man like himself. But damn you were hard to resist.

Maybe some kisses wouldn’t hurt…Well at least that’s how it started. Before he knew it he had you in his bed, on your back, *naked*, still deciding if he should do this. Of course he ended up doing it.

It started with placing a few kisses on your neck, then your chest and before he knew it he had your tit in his mouth. And you were loud, little whiny moans leaving your lips as you tugged at his hair.

Fuck. Those sounds were going straight to his now hard dick. He swiped his thumb over your clit, eletating a moan from you. He didn’t even need to do anything because you were so wet. And BAM there was.

Thrusting in and out of you, his hand on the headboard to stabilize himself. Your leg tossed over his shoulder and his thumb moved to play with your clit again. And you were a mess.

Whining, moaning, eyes rolled back and back arched up on the bed. He was so big…and with each thrust you lost another brain cell. It didn’t take long before he came, right inside of you. You followed shortly after, he stayed nestled inside you for a few moments. Just enjoying this because it’s been way too long since a he’s got any pussy. It’s a miracle he was still able to get it up.

After he finally pulled out, he basically collapsed against the bed. He really ment to clean you up but fuckkk he was so tried. He definitely did not mean to fall asleep but when he woke up you were gone. There was a note on the nightstand that he picked up to read.

It had your number on it with a “call me”. Maybe he didn’t ruin his chance after all.

[ginandvodka-riley]

Daddy's princess

Have you seen this video?

Well, what about a female reader that’s just like that girl in a psychological way? You can be more feminine, tomboyish, a between (like, you use lipstick and like pastel colors but that’s all, not too feminine, not masculine either), or whatever you like to be.

Reader is cheerful and friendly, sociable but that also enjoys her time alone, she knows how to take slightly heavier jokes (of course not stupid immature jokes that could harm someone) (Kyle and Johnny are so delighted with it) and just fits so well with the team.

You joined approximately six months ago, and now that the guys love you so much and consider you part of the family, they finally take the final step: invite you to John’s house.

Now you’re enjoying yourself with them, John’s wife’s so sweet and motherly, Kyle and Johnny are so funny to mock since it’s the sixth time you won UNO and they cannot accept it, so they’ve been whining and complaining during the last hour.

And Simon? Well, he’s just there chilling and chuckling at the poor Sergeants. Or well, that and looking at you since you arrived.

Don’t tell him that he’s not that subtle and you have already noticed it from the start (and from the moment that you joined the team and he couldn’t stop looking at you)

Anyway, John’s wife wanted to try something new now that she’s been going to cooking classes and learnt about Mexican food. So, she decided to make esquites and elotes preparados as snacks.

The moment she brings the elotes in a serving bowl, she tells you all how to eat them, with chili powder, crumbled fresh cheese and mayonnaise, inserted into a stick. They all tried to insert their elote without success, they’re hot and their center is so hard that those grown burly men just gave up and decided to eat it with their bare hands once it’s cooler. Everyone but Simon, that even being a brute of a man couldn’t do it, so just as if it was the most normal easiest thing in the world, you took his burn elote, a stick and begin to insert it just with two hard blows, right in the center, then you gave it a little kiss on the tip, put it on his plate and winked at him.

Everyone fell silent, motionless, just looking at you incredulously.

And Simon?

Well, let’s just say his brain short-circuited, his whole face was red and the only thing he could hear was his blood running fast inside him.

When everyone finally reacted and began to laugh and ask you how you managed to do that, he excused himself and went to the bathroom to put his whole head under the sink to get wet with cold water and fresh himself.

From that day on he tried to get closer to you, it didn’t matter if his hands were sweating just by seeing your smile, he wanted to be with you and know everything about you. For him, you were destined for each other.

That was until two weeks later you both were in his office doing paperwork, enjoying each other’s company. In a moment you received a message and when you read it you smiled brightly, of course that caught his attention.

“Why the smile, luv?” You showed him your cellphone with your father’s conversation open; he had sent you a picture of you two when you turned 18 and joined the army. You explained that your family, and especially your father, who was more than proud of you, decided to throw you a party, he bought you a beautiful military green dress and a flowers tiara, that you matched using a pair of combat boots.

He smiled heartfully at your story and the photo, and before he could think about he was going to say, he spoke.

“You’re daddy’s princess.” It was a sweet comment, tender and kind, and it was somewhat true. However, you smiled flirtatiously at him, stood up, leaned into his desk and took his chin softly making him look at you.

“No, baby.” Since he had his balaclava pulled over his nose as he was drinking coffee, your thumb grazed his lip softly like a butterfly’s touch, cleaning a small coffee stain. “I’m daddy, and you’re my princess.”

And just like that day in John’s house you winked at him, then let him go and without saying more you left his office to prepare you both more coffee.

He was left speechless, frozen, with his trousers tighten and his brain melting. He swore he could hear bells ringing around him, the bells that will ring the day you two get married.

In that moment he confirmed; he was already yours, and if you wanted him to carry the baby and be a pretty little husband, he will, just for you.

Your 6’3’’ brute princess.

[hyuniemyunie]

afab simon "ghost" riley x gn reader

(ФωФ): smut, fingering, squirting, semi-public, dom!reader, sub!ghost, reader pulling him aside mid mission, mask stays on, praise, fingering, climax control, explicit AFAB anatomy, oral (reader giving), post orgasm overstimulation, eating out, gn reader

just thought id try something new. my finals r startinggg so I'll be busy for a while😞 I'll prob post some shorter stuff

The door slammed behind you both, the sharp metallic clang echoing off the concrete walls of the supply closet before silence swallowed the room whole. Only the soft buzz of fluorescent lights filled the heavy space between you and Ghost. He stared at you, still breathing a little hard from the last sweep of the outpost, fingers twitching toward the weapon still strapped to his thigh. The shadows danced over his mask, but even beneath the skull-painted fabric, his eyes were sharp, confused—and just a little wild.

“What the hell are you doing?” he muttered low, voice thick with suspicion. But he didn’t move to leave. Didn’t bark a real command. Didn’t stop you when you stepped into his space and flattened your palm against his chest rig.

You leaned in close. "Been watching you squirm through the whole mission, Ghost. Kept clenching your thighs. Breathing funny. Thought you were hurt."

“I’m not,” he replied, but it sounded like a lie.

“Yeah?” You raised a brow. “Then why’d you damn near flinch every time you took cover?”

His jaw worked under the mask.

“Didn’t think I’d notice?” you murmured, dragging your hand down his front. Not touching, not yet—just gliding your palm over the front of his vest, ghosting over the waistband of his fatigues. "Or maybe you wanted someone to notice. That it?"

He didn’t answer, but his silence said enough.

You grabbed the strap of his plate carrier and yanked him against the wall—none too gently. He hissed low through his teeth, maybe from the surprise, maybe from the sharp press of cold steel against his spine. Still didn’t fight you. His hips jerked forward a bit, involuntary. Desperate.

“Tell me what’s got you wound up, Ghost.”

“I’m fine,” he snapped again, and his hand went to grab yours.

You caught his wrist easily, pinned it against the wall, and with your other hand slid your palm over his belt, pressing low. His hips bucked so fast it made you grin.

“Yeah,” you murmured, dragging your voice slow, “real fine.”

He inhaled through his teeth when you pressed your fingers lower, cupping the front of his fatigues where the shape of him swelled, warm and pulsing through the fabric. Still soft, still shy, but aching. Wet already.

You nosed along the side of his hood, lips brushing the shell of his ear through fabric. “You soaking yet?”

“Don’t,” he growled, low and uneven.

You kissed the spot anyway, just below his mask. “You could’ve pulled me aside. Asked for help like a big boy.”

“Fuck you.”

“Maybe later.”

With one clean jerk, you opened his belt. His breath hitched audibly. The Velcro tore loudly in the quiet room. The soft pop of his button. You felt the heat rolling off him, heard the subtle wet squelch when your fingers slid under the waistband of his briefs. He was soaked. Dripping.

“Fuckin’ hell, Simon,” you said, almost reverently, fingertips barely skimming over the sticky mess between his legs. “You walked around like this all day?”

“Couldn’t—fuckin’—couldn’t stop thinking—” He hissed as your middle finger slid through his folds, circling the swollen bud so lightly he whimpered.

“What were you thinking about?” you whispered, pressing your body flush against his. “Tell me.”

“You.” It came out broken. “Your fuckin’ fingers. Your mouth. Wanted—fuck—wanted your fingers so bad.”

You chuckled softly. “Then hold still for me.”

Your hand was slick immediately. You worked slow, circling that swollen clit with the kind of calculated attention that made his hips quake, sliding back to tease his entrance before coming up again to rub the tip of your finger just under the hood of his clit. The pressure was featherlight at first, maddening, the kind of teasing that left him panting into your shoulder.

He bit down hard on a sound when you eased one finger inside. Tight. Wet. The heat of him clamped around you like a vice, walls fluttering with need. You watched the way his shoulders tensed, every muscle twitching like he wanted to fuck down onto your hand but didn’t dare. Not without permission.

“There we go,” you whispered, lips brushing the edge of his mask. “There’s my pretty little soldier.”

“Don’t fuckin’—” He choked on the protest. You crooked your finger just so, curling it up into that spongy spot that made his legs buckle, and the rest of the sentence died in his throat.

You moved slow, deliberately slow, dragging your finger in and out until you added a second, stretching him open inch by inch. He clenched around you, thighs trembling, knees buckling slightly until you grabbed his hip to hold him upright. The squelch of your fingers pumping into him echoed against the concrete, filthily loud in the silence.

“You’re dripping, Ghost.” Your tone went soft. Adoring. “Soaking my hand. That pussy was starving, wasn’t it?”

His response was a whimper—full, raw, bitten off behind grit teeth and the mask that kept him safe. His face was flushed deep under the skull mask, jaw slack now, trembling from restraint. You stroked his clit again with your thumb, just light flicks while your fingers curled up inside him, fucking deep and slow.

And then—there it was.

That twitch.

That tiny tremor deep inside him, a stutter in his breath, the first hint that you were hitting the edge.

You pushed in harder, curling your fingers fast and deep now, pounding that spot with merciless precision, keeping your thumb locked against his clit with steady, relentless friction.

“Gonna come,” he gasped, broken, voice cracking. “I—fuck—I’m gonna—”

“Not yet.”

“Not yet,” you repeated. You stopped. Froze your hand entirely, pressed deep inside but unmoving. He writhed, nearly yanked your wrist trying to fuck himself on your fingers, but you held him steady.

“Please,” he whispered. “Please let me come, I need it—I need it—”

You waited. Waited until he was panting again, nearly crying from the frustration of it. Then you started again, slow and gentle. Circling that little button until he was twitching all over.

“Now,” you said.

He shattered.

It started as a scream—muffled in your shoulder, muffled by the mask—but his whole body jerked forward. He clamped down on your fingers, body curling inwards as he squirted, soaking your hand, his thighs, his pants. Gushing. Messy. It wouldn’t stop. You kept your fingers moving, curling into that sweet spot over and over while your thumb pressed in tight, helping him ride it out.

“God damn,” you muttered, watching him unravel.

His legs gave out entirely. You caught him before he could slump all the way down, pinning him to the wall with your weight while you slowly pulled your fingers from his soaked, twitching cunt. He gasped. Shivered. Nearly whimpered from overstimulation.

“You good?” you asked softly, brushing your clean hand over his flushed cheek through the mask.

He nodded slowly, still trembling.

You kissed the edge of his jaw, lips soft against the salt of his sweat.

“Good job,” you murmured. “Fucking soaked me.”

He exhaled hard, dizzy with release. Voice wrecked.

“...Can’t go back out there like this.”

You grinned and wiped your hand on the inside of your jacket. “Then you’d better hide behind me.”

He didn’t argue.

He was still trembling, even as you helped him to the floor, easing his back down against the wall with slow, careful hands. His body folded like wet paper—delicate now, undone. The high of orgasm was still buzzing through his veins, visible in the way his fingers flexed helplessly at his sides, the way his chest rose too fast under the tactical vest. His thighs were slick and shining, still twitching with aftershocks, absolutely soaked with his own fluids.

You crouched in front of him, eyes flicking from his masked face down the line of his flushed, glistening body. Your fingers rested lightly on his thigh, and his eyes—hooded and wide—met yours.

“Not done yet,” you murmured, voice low and velvety. “Gotta clean you up, don’t I?”

He shook his head once, desperate and weak, a whisper of “Don’t,” leaving his mouth like a plea. But his legs still spread for you when your hand nudged his knees apart.

You leaned in. “You say that,” you said, hot breath teasing over the inside of his thigh, “but look at you. Fuckin’ wrecked. You want it.”

Ghost clenched his jaw. You could see it under the mask. He was trying to keep himself from begging. From melting entirely. But then you dragged your tongue over the soft, sticky inside of his thigh—just once, slow and deliberate, licking up the mess you’d made—and his entire body jolted. His hips bucked slightly off the floor, and you felt his fingers clutch uselessly at the fabric of your jacket, scrabbling for anything solid.

“You taste good,” you said, a little filthy, a little too honest. “Been thinking about this since I first had my fingers in you.”

“F-fuck, please—” His voice cracked.

You only smiled. “Begging already, and I haven’t even touched your cunt again.”

With both hands, you spread him open. He was swollen, flushed and glistening, twitching from sensitivity, but your mouth watered anyway. The slick that had poured from him earlier still clung to his folds. His entrance twitched when the cool air hit it again, fluttering, aching.

You didn’t tease. You didn’t make him wait.

You dove in.

Your mouth sealed over him, tongue dragging up through his folds, savoring the way he shuddered when your lips latched around his clit. He cried out, soft and choked, his thighs snapping closed for a second around your head before he forced himself to open back up. You groaned into him as the taste flooded your mouth. The mask stayed on, the whole time, and you felt him panting above you, hips trying to jerk away and grind in at the same time.

“Too much,” he gasped. “Fuck—fuck, I can’t—”

You just held him down tighter, fingers digging into the tops of his thighs, spreading him wider as you worked your mouth in deeper. You alternated between slow, deliberate licks and fast flicks over his clit, just enough variation to keep him on edge. His moans were wet, desperate, barely muffled by the mask now. You glanced up once and saw his head tipped back, eyes squeezed shut, hands clutching at the edge of his plate carrier like it was the only thing tethering him to the earth.

Your tongue slipped lower. You flattened it over his hole, tasting the wet still dripping out of him, and he made a sound like he’d been shot. One of his legs jumped violently, and you had to pin it down with your forearm to keep him still. You licked into him, slow and deep, feeling the way his entrance fluttered around your tongue like it wanted to pull you in.

“Jesus,” he sobbed. “You’re gonna—fuck—you’re gonna make me come again.”

You didn’t stop.

He started to tremble in earnest, chest heaving, moans pitching up into soft little keens that sounded like they’d been ripped out of him. His pussy was soaked again, slick and glistening, lips parting around your mouth as you devoured him like a man starved. Your nose brushed his clit with every pass of your tongue, and that was what finally did it.

His entire body locked up.

“Oh fuck oh fuck—I’m—” he started, but the words collapsed into a high, broken sob.

You felt it when it hit. His cunt clenched hard around your tongue, and a fresh wave of slick gushed out of him, flooding your mouth, soaking your chin. He was squirting again, uncontrollably, spasming with it, hips jerking hard into your face. You held on, letting it happen, drinking down every drop he gave you. He writhed, overwhelmed, body slick with sweat now, mouth open in a silent cry.

You didn’t stop licking him until his legs started to go stiff with overstimulation. Until the mess between his thighs had been cleaned, then made worse again, then cleaned once more. Even then, you stayed between his legs, breathing him in, kissing the soft skin near his scarred hips.

“Still with me?” you asked softly.

He didn’t answer for a long time. Then, a breathless, muffled whisper: “Barely.”

You kissed his thigh. “That’s okay. I’ve got you.”

One hand brushed along his stomach, where his vest had shifted enough to reveal the sheen of sweat along his lower abs. You pressed your forehead there and exhaled, grounding yourself in the warmth of him.

“We’ve got five minutes before they start looking,” you said finally. “Think you can walk?”

He gave a hoarse, bitter little laugh. “Not without leaking down my fuckin’ leg.”

You pulled a cloth from your jacket pocket—standard issue, folded for patching wounds, now soaked in him—and wiped him gently. Carefully. Reverently. He flinched, then sighed, and leaned back against the wall again, the fight completely gone from him.

As you helped him re-fasten his belt, you leaned up to press a kiss against the mask over his mouth.

“You taste like heaven,” you whispered. “And you’re lucky I don’t drag you back to my bunk and keep tasting ‘til you cry.”

His eyes met yours, dazed and wrecked.

“…You say that like it’s a threat.”

[allmightstoehair]

— ➔﹒ { ㅤ꒰ — You Deserve Way Better ꒱ }.’ㅤ ۪ ୧, Kuroo Tetsuro—

GENRE: angst / hurt-comfort / friends. PAIRING: Kuroo Tetsurou and fem!reader. quick oneshot SETTING: Post-high school / College AU.

SUMMARY: You’ve been in a relationship that’s slowly chipped away at your sense of worth—little comments, sudden tempers, and bruises that you make excuses for. Kuroo Tetsurou, your longtime best friend, has seen it all. And it’s killing him.

— ⠀༏ ୨୧⠀˚ ⟡ ⋆⠀　 .⠀⠀ .　　  ⠀༏ ୨୧⠀˚ ⟡ ⋆⠀　—

You sat at the small table near the window in your dorm, your hands wrapped tightly around a chipped mug he remembered from your first year of college. You were second years. The sleeves of your sweater were pulled down to your knuckles—unusual for a warm day like this.

He noticed.

You didn’t look up when you spoke. “He’s not a bad person.”Kuroo’s fingers curled tighter around the edge of the counter. “Didn’t say anything.”

You finally glanced at him. Your smile was a faint thing—worn thin at the edges like an old ribbon. “He was just having a bad day…work’s been tough for him and—“

“Why do you keep making excuses for the guy?” Kuroo questioned. He stopped himself when he saw your expression. You rolled your eyes and looked off to the side, exhaustion lingering in it. He hated seeing you like this. Your boyfriend was abusive, demented, and didn’t care about you in the way you hoped after you tried to pursue a psychology career instead of being a “stay at home” mother. You were too young and told him no. You had a life ahead of you. When you didn’t answer Kuroo, he sighed, leaning on the counter with his mug in his hand.

“You didn’t answer my texts last night, tried to get that missing assignment done,” he murmured, shifting the subject a little bit. Your lips pursed and you stared into your still tea he had made you. The split wound on your bottom lip would only burn if you drank it. “Yeah. I was working on it.”

“Sure.” He responded. There was a lingering silence that met the both of you in the middle. He noted your twitching lip, and huffed gently. “You don’t have to drink it. I know it hurts,” he looked down at your lips. “Did you at least clean it?”

You didn’t answer right away. You just stared at your tea again, then gave the smallest shake of your head. Kuroo exhaled through his nose, setting his mug down with a quiet clink. He didn’t say ‘Of course you didn’t’ , though you knew he was thinking it. Instead, he turned and opened the cabinet above your sink, pulling out the small first-aid kit he’d helped you stock months ago after a kitchen accident you barely remembered now.

You heard the quiet rustling of supplies, and then he was at your side, leaning over you. His eyes searched your face—not just your lip, but the way your shoulders curled inward, the bruise forming faintly on your cheekbone, the way your hands trembled just enough to give you away.

“Can I?” he asked, holding up a cotton pad and the antiseptic bottle.

You hesitated, but gave him a small nod.

He was gentle—so gentle it made your chest ache. His hands were warm, fingers steady as he dabbed at your split lip, careful not to press too hard. You began to cry. Your tears spilled from your eyes and you sobbed. Sobbed your little heart out. He paused, the antiseptic brushing against your lip as he stared into your creasing expression. Kuroo let a sigh brush past his lips and he set the things in his hands down, standing there and letting you lean on his chest, clutch at his shirt and cry. Your shoulders shook, your lungs pulsing and trying to grasp the air that had left them so quickly. He winced, clearing his throat so he wouldn’t cry either but damn it, he hated seeing you like this. His hand cupped the back of your head and he soothed you with little ‘shh’s and ‘it’s alright’s. But it wasn’t alright. None of this was.

Your breathing was shallow now, hiccuping, like your lungs were still remembering how to work.“I didn’t want to bother you,. I’m sorry kuroo..” you choked out, voice muffled. “I didn’t want to be—”

“Don’t.” Kuroo pulled back just enough to look at you, hands still holding you like you’d disappear if he let go. “Don’t finish that sentence, Y/N.” Your eyes were glassy, red-rimmed, but wide and still somehow afraid.

“You’re never a bother,” he said. “Never too much. You hear me?” You nodded again, slower this time. “I swear to you,” his voice dropped, low and sharp with something buried beneath it, “if he ever lays a hand on you again, I’ll—” He stopped himself. Bit his tongue. But the way his fingers curled against your arm told you the end of that sentence.

You didn’t know how long you sat like that. The ache in your chest had dulled to a low throb, and your fingers were still curled in the soft fabric of his shirt. But the crying had stopped. At some point, your body just couldn’t do it anymore.

Kuroo didn’t say anything for a while. Then, softly—almost too softly—you said, “I don’t know what to do.” He stilled for a second.

Kuroo gently pulled back to look you in the eyes again. “Do you want to leave him?” You hesitated. It wasn’t because you didn’t know the answer. It was because the truth tasted so much like guilt, like fear, like shame that had been trained into you. But you gave a tiny nod.

“Yes,” you whispered. “I just… I’m scared.” It was almost as if your ex was around and you needed to keep quiet. “I know” he murmurs.

“I can get you out,” he continued, more practical now. “I’ve got space at my place. You can stay there as long as you need. We’ll tell the professors what’s going on. They’ll understand. And we can look into a restraining order. File a report. Whatever you want. You call the shots—I’ll just be there to help you pull the trigger.”

Your lip trembled again, but it wasn’t from fear this time. He squeezed your hand, then reached for your phone.

“Let’s start small,” he said. “Block his number.” Your lips creased, as if you were going to repeat what he just said in disbelief.

“He’ll come for me.” You say urgently.

“You really think I’m letting him come near you?” he pondered, tilting his head. He urged his head upwards. “Come on, you can do it.”

Your fingers trembled, but you nodded. Then—without another word—you tapped the screen. Blocked the number. Deleted the messages. Erased the missed calls. A silence followed, heavy but different this time. Not fearful. Final.

You looked at him, breath shaky. “That’s it?” Kuroo smiled—not the usual cocky grin, but something smaller. Softer. “That’s the start.” He stood, offering his hand again. “Now come on. Grab what you need. We’re leaving tonight.”

You blinked. “Tonight?”

Within an hour or two, you sat yourself in Kuroo’s car, a bag of things you wanted to bring with you in the back seat. The drive was quiet after that, but not the same kind of silence you’d known for months. This one was soft. Open. Like you could breathe in it, even if it was a little shaky. Eventually, he pulled into the lot outside his home. It wasn’t much—modest, kind of outdated—but the light above his door was on, and the curtains were drawn. Like it was waiting for you. Kuroo parked the car and looked at you. “We’ll carry your stuff up, order food, and then you can crash. Couch or bed—your call.”

And with that, you were placing the last of your clothing into an empty drawer he had sitting inside his room. It wasn’t much. Just a few sweatshirts, jeans, T-shirts that you’ve owned since high school. You ran a hand up your arm and winced when you brushed over a bruise. You hissed, lifting the big long sleeve you were wearing up and over your body to get a better look at it. Shirtless, you loomed over his dresser, looking in the mirror at everything your ex had done to you. You hugged yourself, tilting your head at the stranger looking back at you. You looked…haunted. Not like someone who was living, but someone who was just surviving. Your fingernails dug into your hips. You didn’t do it so it could hurt, just so you could feel something.

Kuroo pushed the door open, mumbling something under his breath about what you wanted for takeout but paused when he saw you. Standing there, shirtless and scowling at the mirror in front of you. His eyes squinted as he watched you lock eyes with him in the reflection and heard you huff. “Sorry—didn’t think you’d come in,” you paused. “then again this is your room—“ he chuckled under his breath as you reached for your shirt and put it over your body. It was one you wore a lot in high school to his games.

He still remembered spotting you in the stands—face painted, screaming louder than anyone else. When you had the freedom to be your unique self. Before you were simmered down with narcissism.The corners of his mouth lifted, just a little. “Didn’t know you still had that.”

You shrugged, not meeting his eyes. “Yeah, I didn’t know I still had a lot of things… until I started packing.”

That quiet settled between you again. But this time it was less suffocating, more reflective. Like the kind of silence you sit in when you’re too tired to pretend but not ready to fall apart either. “You were always our loudest fan,” he murmured, stepping farther into the room. “Even when we lost.”

You let out a small laugh, breathy and surprised. “You lost like, twice.”“Still counts.” He gave you a small, lopsided grin. “I remember you yelled at a ref once.

You turned slightly toward him, arms crossing over your chest—part for warmth, part for comfort. “He made a bad call.”

Kuroo clapped his hands once, breaking the quiet. “Alright, you hungry?”

You blinked. “What?” “Takeout,” he said, like it was obvious. “You’re staying here, so first things first—we establish food rituals. Vital for survival.”

Your lips twitched, just a little. “I don’t even know what I want.”

“Good thing I know exactly what you used to want,” he grinned, already fishing his phone out of his pocket. “Same combo as always? Spicy ramen, gyoza, and those weird soda candies you made me try once?”

You stared at him. “You remember that?” Kuroo looked up briefly, his tone softening. “Yeah. I remember.” There was a beat of silence before you gave a small nod. “Yeah. That sounds… good.”

“Perfect,” he said, scrolling through the app like this was just another Thursday night in your old rhythm. “I’ll add a second order of gyoza in case you’re lying and actually starving. Which you are. Don’t deny it.”

You snorted quietly, eyes following his movements as he placed the order. There was something grounding about the way he moved—casual, familiar, but careful. Like he didn’t want to spook the air between you. He clicked the confirmation button and glanced at you with a proud little smile. “Boom. Food’s on the way.”

(lmk if i should make this a full fanfic 😓)