#fuck ao3 (holds head in hands)

[madamechrissy]

Pour it Up Masterlist / Stripclub Owner Sukuna headcanons

Part One - Part Two - Part Three - Part Four - Part Five - Part Six - Part Seven - Part Eight (final)

Pairings: Stripclub Owner Sukuna x Stripper F!reader

Summary:- You are a single mother, your baby daddy is not just worthless, he also is actively trying to sabotoge you, so you go out on your own and raise your kid by yourself. Struggling your ass off, a friend of a friend named Toji decides to offer you a hell of a deal, a few hours a night at a strip club to make BANK. While there, you meet the other owner, Sukuna, and the moment he sees you? You annoy him how beautiful you are, how much he wants you, pushing him to insanity. He knows he must have you- no matter whose ass he needs to beat.

Warnings:- reader is a mom, lowkey/highkey Yandere Sukuna behavior (He's obsessed) recreational drug use, drug dealing Sukuna (the club lowkey a front lol) Mafia ties, EXPLICIT sexual content, blow jobs, cunnilingus, fingering, masturbation, teasing and mafia related violence, some former trauma of reader, lots of smut and also fluff, watch Kuna morph into a softie hehe.- Ties into the Satoru x reader story Losing Control Now

Ongoing- WC so far- 47k - ao3 link here - Playlist

Headcanons/story preview below!

Stripclub Owner Sukuna- who loves what he does, the money he makes, the women, the entire atmosphere. What more could he really need in life?

Stripclub Owner Sukuna lights up a blunt with his co owner, Toji, as they lounge back on one of the bright red Sofa's, watching their girls dance around them while they hold business meetings. Sukuna certainly doesn't mind beautiful women, nor does he mind snorting coke right off them.

Stripclub Owner Sukuna throws back a shot, when suddenly he sees someone so different, so fucking pretty it makes his heart thud in his chest. He can barely stop himself from yanking you right away from this. He's slicking back pastel hair when Toji introduces you so casually, wearing a pretty silver bikini that shows too much of your sexy body. You look shy? You look nervous?

Stripclub Owner Sukuna takes your hand then, smirking at you, watching the blush decorate your cheeks, when he finds you're going to be a dancer, he immediately wants to say no, dance for just him, a level of possession he's never even felt with his girlfriends. Sukuna's shared plenty of women, but if he got you!?

Stripclub Owner Sukuna smacks Toji for even bringing you here later, and Toji scoffs. 'She has a kid and shit, she'll make top dollar here' Sukuna falters at such news. 'Don't ya think she'll make bank?' 'Tch, of course she will... it's just she's so...' Toji snorts. 'you got the hots for her, huh? Well she ain't some easy girl, I know her'

Stripclub Owner Sukuna knows he must have you, when you're stepping around the stage, and he's eyeing you, sitting right in front of the stage as you get on your knees, crawling toward him and smiling shyly. 'how're you a shy stripper, huh? not gonna work' he huffs, and you tilt your head, hand slipping down his tie. 'No allure in a shy dancer, Mr. Sukuna?'

Stripclub Owner Sukuna loses his mind when he hears his name spilled from your glossy lips, as he thinks of shoving his cock deep inside that mouth, so close to his when you turn. You bend over, ass right in the air, begging for a smack as you look back at him, hair falling over your face. 'Why're you here?' he demands, eyeing the curve of your back, cock hard like he's some pathetic teenager or something.

Stripclub Owner Sukuna tenses when you say - 'I need the money, isn't it why everyone does this?' 'Toji says you got a kid' you tense then, turning toward him nervously, as the stagelights glimmer all over your skin. 'That a problem?' Sukuna shakes his head. "Nah, lots of girls here do...' You exhale. 'I'm a single mom, my friend can watch her at night, why not work while she's asleep? I can spend my time with her'

Stripclub Owner Sukuna admires the fuck out of you as you dance your pretty ass off, but he hates the men that see you, see you in just your little bottoms and tassells, breasts bouncing, ass jiggling as you shake it, as you move. You're a whole star quickly, the few hours a night you come in you make bank, but as soon as you leave, he's in his office, jerking it to you, imagining those nipples, that pussy he sees hints of with your spandex panties.

Stripclub Owner Sukuna On one particular night forgets to lock the door, you're still out there dancing but he can't take it, you're too fucking sexy, he's picturing burying his face in that nice ass of yours as you step inside, shutting the door quickly when you see it, his enormous dick in his hands, covered in precum. You gasp, looking away quickly. 'shit I'm sorry, it's my ex... he's such an ass and I didn't want him to see me...'

Stripclub Owner Sukuna pauses, in shock as you look back down at him, licking your lower lip. 'I'm interrupting...' you come closer though, watching, breath catching in your throat. 'Want me to beat him the fuck up? ruin him?' Sukuna murmurs, voice husky, when you keep walking towards him, and he slowly strokes, from the base to the tip of his veiny length, acting so casual. 'No, you don't have to do all that, you're already so good to me' he laughs then, shaking his head. 'You are, maybe I should... be good to you?'

Stripclub Owner Sukuna can't form a thought when you're stroking his cock, leaning so close, lips just a breath from his, taking two of his fingers and sucking his precum off them, cheeks hollowing. Sukuna loses his control then, using those two fingers to slip so deep you cry out, earning his groan, uncaring if anyone heard. He's curling them up in your walls as you stroke, his eyes laser focused on your pretty face when he grips your hair by the nape of your neck. 'wanna suck me, huh brat?' he tries to keep it together, but when you nod eagerly, on your knees, he can't take how good your throat feels.

Stripclub Owner Sukuna has his cock fucking up into your throat, his salty precum against your tongue, and he wonders if it's some dream it has to be, you're too fucking beautiful to just be doing this, you shouldn't even be working, he thinks. He'd like you just naked around his house, to fuck you on every surface, fill you up with so many kids you'd never leave. Sukuna is groaning while you suck him greedily, looking up at him with dilated, beautiful eyes, making him simultaneously want to fuck you and want to make love to you, stupid insane shit that irritates him.

Stripclub Owner Sukuna stutters when you suck harder, and he's cumming deep in your throat, not meaning to. No he wants to fuck your pussy, not this, but you make him cum so fast it's stupid, swallowing him with a pretty smile, as you lean up on shaky legs. He presses a kiss to your lips, desperate and messy, tasting all of his cum all over your mouth. You're gasping, until the door opens, and you pull apart, seeing an amused Toji. You are losing your mind later as you clean up to go home, wondering what's gotten ahold of you, when Sukuna is waiting right outside.

Stripclub Owner Sukuna loves it when you look down so shy and pretty, you're biting your lower lip to death, he releases it from the grip of your teeth. 'you free tonight, brat?' you blink in confusion. 'you want...' 'want you at my place, spread wide f'me, yeah?' you gasp at the thought, shaking your head then. 'I'm not, I have to get home to my kid... but tomorrow night?' he nods, ushering you to your shitty car, picturing you in something so much better soon, leaning over with a smirk as he seatbelts you in.

Stripclub Owner Sukuna now that he's had a taste, he can't stop thinking of you, when you're at work the next day you're quickly in his office again, this time he's got you grinding on his lap, slick arousal pooling in your little outfit. 'I'll fuckin pay you triple, take the day off' "Mr. Sukuna...' 'Take. The. Day. Off.' Sukuna finally gets you home, having you bent over his couch before you can blink, ripping your pretty costume to shreds, pumping you so full of his cock you're trembling, shaking, head falling back as he fills you so good, slamming your cervix.

Stripclub Owner Sukuna has never felt anything like you, like your cunt pulsing around his cock, like his balls slapping your twitchy little clit, as you're sobbing it hurts so good, tears streaming down your pretty face while he rails his cock so deep. Sukuna busts deep in you as he wraps a big hand around your throat, fucking into you over and over, feeling you milk his cock for all he's got. 'Gonna fill you the fuck up, huh brat? gonna drip on the goddamn stage'

Stripclub Owner Sukuna has your pussy on his mouth when he's busted in you, starting to lap all the gooey white cum from your pretty pussy. 'Sukuna! ah!' you've never felt like this, so fucked out as his tongue scoops all your cum out, he's leaning over you, spitting it right into your mouth, chuckling. 'pathetic, just how I fuckin need you'

Stripclub Owner Sukuna is pathetic for you, he doesn't let you leave, he pays you for another day, fucking you in every position, at some point he's holding you upside down, you're bobbing on his cock as he's gripping your ass, moaning against your hole, you're falling apart, so weak and sore. when you finally have to go home, because you have your kid, Sukuna can't stop thinking about you, about how he wants you to have his babies, to be under him every goddamn night, so excited when you come into work, only to see you devastated.

Stripclub Owner Sukuna demands to know what's wrong, only to see your shady ass ex, who wants to saunter up to him like he's shit, you shake your head, but soon Sukuna is beating the fuck out of him. 'you have no clue who he is, Mr. Sukuna...' you tell him then, earning Sukuna's chuckle, his big grin. 'You don't know who I am, baby'

Buy me a glass of wine🍷 - Gen Masterlist - ©All works by Madamechrissy you may not reproduce

[s0dium]

𝐖𝐄𝐈𝐑𝐃 𝐆𝐈𝐑𝐋 𝐏𝐔𝐒𝐒𝐘

A/n: For all my weird tumblr smut AO3 girls Synopsis: No one expects the weird girl to have such a good pussy. Warnings: Male whimpering, squirting, pussy drunk men, pervert y/n, unprotected sex

No one suspects the weird girl to be a perverted fiend.

No one suspects the weird girl who reads AO3 and Tumblr on the bus and has key chains of their favorite chibi anime guy. No one suspects the girl who fumbles over their words during a presentation, the girl who goes to classes in sweaters and sweatpants, the girl who spends her time daydreaming about fictional scenarios. No one suspects the girl who always seems shy and sweet, only to have a secret stash of explicit fanfiction hidden on her phone, the kind that would make even the most confident person turn red.

And of course, no one expects the weird girl to have such good pussy.

So when the confident, smooth-talking guy gets you in his bedroom, how the hell is it possible that he is trembling from pleasure just from slipping his tip in?

"Fuck, I c-can’t—" he groans, his voice breaking as he stumbles over the words. His usual cool demeanor is completely shattered, replaced with breathless gasps and desperate sounds. His head is thrown back, neck taut, and his eyes are screwed shut like he’s trying to hold onto every ounce of composure, terrified that if he opens them, the mind-numbing pleasure coursing through him will slip away. Every time your pussy squeezes around his aching dick his body trembles uncontrollably, muscles tensing and relaxing in waves as he tries to keep himself together.

"Look at me," you coo, your voice steady despite the pounding of your own heart. You may be practically a virgin, but you're by no means an idiot. Hours of reading smut, scrolling through Twitter porn threads, and indulging in endless fantasies have taught you more than you'd ever admit. You've spent too many nights alone, lost in stories and scenes where you imagined yourself in control, learning every filthy detail in your mind until it felt like second nature. So now, laying here with him unraveling over you, you're anything but inexperienced.

He locks eyes with you, big and desperate and you cup his perfect face with trembling hands.

"You're mine tonight ok?" you whisper, bringing him in just enough for your breath to tickle his lips, your voice low and dripping with confidence you didn't know you had. "Every sound, every breath—your mine."

"F-fuck, y-yeah I'm yours" he groans, accentuating his words with a sharp thrust right into your cervix, knocking the wind out of you.

"Mmm!" You cry. It’s painful, but in the pain is so much pleasure. He presses his forehead against yours as he slides in and out of you, gripping the sheets with his supporting hand as your hot, wet entrance swallows his cock. Instinctively, you're cunt squeezed around the foreign intrusion, trying to push it out, making him let out a low groan of his own as he thrusts even deeper into you. 

“Y/n I-I can feel you doing it to me,” he says hoarsely.

His fingers gently press into the skin of your hip, guiding and steadying you as he pulls back and thrusts into you. The sudden friction and collision with your G-spot makes your brain go fuzzy. Ticklish pleasure courses through your veins and you immediately throw your head back against the wall as he rams into you.

"Hnghh, s-so good~~" You whine. It was dizzying, the curvature of his dick digging itself against your g-spot, scraping against your vaginal walls every time he backed his hips up.

Simultaneously, his other hand sought yours, finding it with a purposeful tenderness. His fingers intertwined with yours, locking them together in a grip that was both a clasp and a caress.

"Were we doing it like this in your head baby?" He grunts, his Adam apple bobs as he groans from the pleasure of how fucking heavenly your pussy feels. "Because this is how we were doing it in mine." He felt good? Try euphoric. How could it be possible that pussy feels this good?

You can't even open your mouth to respond. The friction of his dick against your walls is just too good and as his pace intensified, a dizzying warmth spread through you, filling every corner of your being with a euphoric haze. The sensation of being completely enveloped, utterly connected, sent electric flesh arrows of pleasure through your body, making your eyes flutter and roll back slightly in sheer bliss. Every motion he makes, every time his fat tip collides with your cervix, leaves behind a trail of sparkling heat that seems to light you from within.

And of course, no one expects the weird girl to be a squirter.

You don't know whats happening and you don't have enough to warn him. Release washed over you in an all-encompassing wave, radiating out from your core to the very tips of your fingers and toes. It swept through you like a storm, leaving a trail of starbursts in its wake. Your body arched instinctively, clinging to him as the wave crested, then gently, slowly, began to ebb.

He stills his motion and watches through wide eyes as clear liquid sprays onto his abdomen and you tremble and moan. As you floated back down from the heights of bliss, your breath came easier, softer, the lingering aftershocks of pleasure pulsing gently through you.

"Why did you stop?" You whisper.

Sukuna, Gojo Satoru, Geto Suguru, Toji Fushiguro

#weirdgirlpussy

[gloomwitchwrites]

Oh please, please, please something short, funny with 141 where their wife calls them on their way home from work “yea, I think I’m having contractions!” And by the time they rush home, she’s sitting in the bath tub with their new baby. And she’s all casual like ‘Hey! Look at this cool thing I’ve got!’ And it’s their baby.

(My Grandmother had this happen! Each kid under an hour. My grandfather nearly had a heart attack! He’d always hesitate to leave her alone. Suspicious she was ‘purposefully’ going into labor when he wasn’t there to help her. Lol…)

Okay, that is so funny and adorable! Hehe, omg, I love this. Dad!141 is my favorite. I love writing them as fathers or as potential fathers. And this prompt is just an excuse to do that! Thank you so much for sending it in. Enjoy!!

For the masterlist and how to submit your own request, click HERE

Task Force 141 x Female Reader

Content & Warnings (MDNI): married life, pregnancy, childbirth, domestic fluff, swearing, humor

Word Count: 2.1k

ao3 // taglist // main masterlist // imagines & what if series

John Price

Price rubs at his temple, releasing a deep sigh.

It’s late. The base is nearly empty. Another late night filled with paperwork.

His phone buzzes, the cellular device vibrating on the desk. Price reaches for it, checking the screen. It’s you calling him, and his stomach flips.

“Cabbage,” he greets with a smile, answering the phone.

You’re pregnant, due date just a week or two away. Price doesn’t like leaving you home alone, but this is the last push. After tonight, he can come home early.

“John?”

His name is a question. There’s a hint of worry—of nervousness—and Price immediately picks up on it.

“Everything okay, love?” he asks, slowly standing, paperwork suddenly forgotten.

“John. I—I think—”

“What’s wrong?”

“I think I’m having contractions.”

By the time the words leave your mouth, Price is already grabbing his coat. “Okay,” he says. “Okay.” He swallows, pushing down his own anxiety, smothering it so he can be strong for you. “Stay on the phone with me. I’m coming home.”

On the other end of the line, you breathe heavily. Each whimper worries him.

“John,” you gasp, voice strangled as he throws himself into his car and turns it on.

 “I know. I know. I’m coming.”

Price is doing his best to stay calm, to stay alert as he drives off base and heads for home, but all he can focus is on you.

“Keep talking to me, love,” he says, attempting to sound encouraging.

“Okay,” you reply, but then go quiet.

 “Cabbage?”

When you don’t answer him, Price uses your name. Nothing. No sound at all as if the line’s gone dead.

“Shit,” he mutters, holding the phone out to check.

Call Dropped.

“Fucking shit,” he says, louder.

Price continues to dial—continues to call. Every time, he expects you to pick up, but you never do. The worry grows, becoming deafening as the seconds tick by. Traffic laws are broken, but it gets him home faster.

He’s throwing himself out of the car, dashing to the house, not caring if he forgot to put the vehicle in park. In the front entryway, he calls out to you, using your name.

There is no response.

 “Fuck,” he whispers as he dashes up the stairs, heading for the bedroom. He enters, and it’s—

Empty.

“Where are you?” he breathes, turning away to check the rest of the house.

But then Price hears your voice, soft and soothing. Frowning, he checks the bedroom again, only to head toward the bathroom.

You’re sitting on the floor, back pressed against the tub. There’s blood and a fluid Price doesn’t recognize smearing the floor between your legs.

You glance up. Smile. “Hi,” you laugh as Price drops to his knees beside you.

There’s a baby in your arms. Its hands are tight fists, face pinched like it’s annoyed to be here.

“No wonder you didn’t answer the phone,” sighs Price, placing his hand against yours that cradles the infant’s head.

“A bit busy,” you chuckle.

Price laughs with you, taking his phone out his jacket pocket to dial the hospital.

Simon "Ghost" Riley

“I’m not leaving.”

“It’s fine, Simon. Really.”

Simon crosses his arms over his chest. “The last time I left you this close to your due date, you gave birth while I wasn’t here.”

You dismiss him with a wave of your hand. “That’s not going to happen again.”

“It might,” he growls.

“It won’t,” you insist.

As you start to walk away, Simon blocks your path. “You’ve been complaining about your lower back all morning.”

You sigh, rolling your eyes. “I always complain about my lower back.” Simon begins to object but you continue on. “And we need milk. And eggs. And bread.”

“Fine,” mutters Simon. “Fine. I’ll go. But you call me immediately if anything happens.”

 “Okay, dad,” you reply, mocking him.

Simon drapes his arm over your shoulders, pulling you in to kiss the top of your head. “Pumpkin,” he replies, and you hear the smile in it.

“The sooner you go the sooner you’ll be back. You can worry and fuss over me all you want then.”

Simon pulls you in for another kiss before heading out the door. The trip to the store isn’t peaceful. In the back of his mind, Simon stews, a little voice telling him that you’re going to call him any second and tell him you’re in labor. That’s what happened with your first, and Simon came home after you’d given birth.

He was devasted. Upset. Not with you—never with you. He was upset with himself for not being there to support you through it. To hold your hand. To encourage and shower you with love.

Simon is standing in line at the meat counter when you call him.

“Don’t be angry,” you say when he answers the phone.

“Are you having contractions?”

“…Yes.”

“Goddamn it.”

Simon abandons the shopping trolley, apologizing to the workers as he rushes out the door and to the car. When he enters the house, he hears your labored cry. Dashing up the stairs, Simon enters the bathroom at the same moment you cry out, clearly pushing. You’re on your hands and knees, sweat beads your brow, hair sticking to your face.

He dives to his knees, arms outstretched and reaching beneath you as the baby’s head emerges.

“I’m here,” Simon says, keeping his voice calm and soothing.

You start crying, head tilting to lean against his shoulder.

Another push, and then the rest of the baby is out and in Simon’s hands. The infant is silent at first, then releases a cry of displeasure.

“Bloody hell,” exhales Simon, “I’m never leaving you alone again.”

John "Soap" MacTavish

I’m having contractions, reads the text.

Johnny’s mouth drops open, gaze growing distant.

You’re having contractions. You’re having contractions, and he is on the other side of the city. With traffic, he’s likely an entire hour away from you.

“Soap?” asks Gaz, waving his hand in front of Johnny’s face.

“I have to go,” says Johnny quickly, shooting up from his chair, almost knocking it over.

Gaz and Ghost both stand abruptly, clearly startled by Johnny’s sudden panic.

“Everything good?” asks Ghost.

Johnny shakes his head. “The missus is having contractions.”

“Oh,” replies Gaz, eyes growing a bit wide. “Damn. Go. You should go.”

“We’ll cover your tab,” adds Ghost.

Johnny groans. “Her due date isn’t for another bloody week.” He grabs his jacket.

“You’re going to be a father, Soap,” chuckles Ghost, punching him in the shoulder.

“Fuck. What if she has it while I’m not there?”

“Don’t these things take forever anyway?” muses Ghost. “Contractions don’t mean anything. Right?” He glances at Gaz.

Gaz shrugs. “I think you should worry if it’s close together.” Gaz holds his hands close to indicate the lack of time.

“Shit,” mutters Johnny, tapping away at his phone.

Are they close together?

It’s a few seconds and then the three little circles pop up, indicating that you’re typing back.

They’re close. A few minutes apart. I’m on the phone with the midwife.

“Oh fuck,” mutters Johnny, elongating the vowel as he tugs on his jacket.

Gaz grimaces. “It’ll be fine,” he tries to reassure as Johnny rushes past him. “Congrats!”

Johnny hardly hears him, he’s too focused on getting to the car. Every second is agony—not knowing what’s happening while he’s driving. When he pulls up to the house almost an hour later, there’s a car Johnny doesn’t recognize in the drive.

As bursts through the door, he hears calming music. Rushing forward into the living room, he finds you on the floor, wrapped up in a blanket, propped up by a nest of pillows. The midwife putters about as you gently rock back and forth, cradling an infant in your arms.

You glance up. “Look,” you laugh, lifting the infant that you’ve just birthed, presenting it like you’ve completed a fun DIY craft project.

Johnny almost faints.

“Oh, babe,” he exhales. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

The midwife makes a sound of annoyed agreement and Johnny winces.

“It’s okay,” you murmur. “She came quickly.”

“I should have been here,” he groans, sliding to the floor next to you, draping an arm over your shoulders.

You lean into him. “You’re here now,” you sigh, eyes closing as you snuggle against him.

Johnny looks to the midwife, and she smiles at him—a reassurance. You’re fine, and so is his daughter.

Kyle "Gaz" Garrick

Kyle’s phone vibrates in his pocket. Ignoring it, Kyle keeps his attention on Captain Price, focusing on the briefing for the upcoming mission. The phone goes silent. Seconds later, it starts up again. Frowning, Kyle reaches into his pocket, sliding out the phone just enough to see the screen. Your name and picture appear on the screen, your smile bright and lovely.

“Need to answer that?”

Kyle’s head snaps up at the sound of Captain Price’s voice.

“Sorry, Captain. It’s the missus.”

Price inclines his head, the middle of his brow creasing slightly. “It’s she pregnant?”

“She is,” affirms Kyle.

“Then you should answer it.”

Kyle gives him, Ghost, and Soap a brief nod. “Excuse me,” he mutters, standing and heading for the door.

When the meeting room door slams shut, the phone starts up again.

Kyle answers, his words falling from his mouth quickly, sounding like one solid word instead of several. “What’s going on, love?”

“I’m having contractions.”

You sound panicked.

 “You’re—are you sure?”

“Pretty sure,” you gasp. “Water broke earlier—"

Kyle’s voice rises slightly. “Your water broke and you didn’t call me?”

“I wasn’t feeling anything,” you reply, as if that makes it okay. “But now, it’s constant.” Your sigh is labored. Tired. “They’ve come on so suddenly, Kyle. I’m sorry.”

“No. No, love. Don’t apologize.” You have nothing to be sorry for. He’s just happy you called. “I’m coming home. Right now.”

“But you have that meeting. You can’t—”

“I’m coming home,” he reiterates. “I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

“Hang in there, dove. I’ll be there soon.” Kyle disconnects the call and bursts through the meeting room doors. “It’s happening,” he announces.

Soap blinks, confused. “What’s happening?”

Ghost side-eyes him. “He’s about to become a dad.”

“Fucking shit. Really?” Soap turns to Kyle, beaming. “Congrats.”

Price crosses his arms over his chest, a look of pride on his face. “Go, Sergeant.”

Kyle nods, giving a half-wave as he backs out through the toward, heading toward the parking lot. He’s practically running—rushing to turn the car on. Taking off, Kyle hardly cares if he hits anything, and he doesn’t blink when breaking nearly a dozen traffic laws.

He makes it home in half the time he usually does. Every second counts. Every moment important. If the contractions are coming quickly and close together, it means the baby is ready, and he needs to get you to the hospital.

As he enters the front door, he calls out to you. Your answer comes, but it’s distant. Upstairs. Kyle takes the stairs two at a time, walking into the bedroom to find it empty. But the bathroom light is on.

A few steps, and he pushes open the door.

You’re not standing at the sink putting on your makeup or getting ready to leave. You sit inside the shower on the tile floor, the glass door wide open, pantless, and cradling an infant in your arms.

“Shit,” he breathes, moving forward. “Shit.” Kyle crouches just outside the shower door.

You grin sheepishly, lifting the baby like it’s an accident. “She came minutes after I got off the phone with you.”

“Oh, bloody hell, love,” laughs Kyle.

There are tears in your eyes, but you’re smiling. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. Don’t be, my love.” Reaching out, he grasps the back of your neck. Leaning in, he presses his lips to your forehead. “She’s beautiful.”

taglist:

@glitterypirateduck @suhmie @z-wantstowrite @kylies-love-letter @keiva1000

@iloveslasher @ravenpoe67 @sadlonelybagel @nishim @arrozyfrijoles23

@voids-universe @itsberrydreemurstuff @sageyxbabey @glassgulls @miaraei

@weasleytwins-41 @eternallyvenus @chaostwinsofdestruction @cherryofdeath @ninman82

@fern-reads @waves-against-a-cliff @beebeechaos @smileykiddie08 @whisperwispxx

@jianyi22 @sethell @atpeacee @konigssweatyhood @dreamingoftomorrow

@katerinaval @morguethemagpie @galactict3a @sarah-the-bird-nerd @mikachu-bitez

@unclearblur @kurochan3 @sans-chara @all-by-myself98 @hisuccubus

@km-ffluv @thriving-n-jiving @carbonnite-copy @sobbangchan @codeseven

@youre-a-wallflower-charlie

[bi-writes]

anatomy of us (2) | alpha!ghost x f!omega!reader

type: limited series, part 2 (7.2k), AO3 in an attempt to tame an unruly alpha, you are given. he did not come with warning labels. but neither did you.

series cw: reader described as plus-sized/curvier, alpha/beta/omega dynamics + universe, dark!simon, mature language and content, suggestive language and content, graphic depictions of murder + violence, military criticism, protective!simon, dubcon (but reader does consent), possessiveness, dom/sub dynamics, size kink, praise kink, unprotected piv, cumplay, oral (fem!receiving) 18+

PART 1

Tradition is not something you are fond of.

It’s something forced on you. When you question it, it’s offensive–how dare you question these things, made sacred over time? Why would you want to betray thousands of years of history? Time makes it definitive. Your being makes it natural. You submit because that is the natural thing to do, so in that sense, you submit to it all.

That is your duty. That is your calling. When you are claimed, you belong to them. You are property. Autonomy be damned–your place is on your knees, keeping your mouth shut, and any behavior against that is nothing short of a punishable offense, proper. Disobedient omegas make for troublesome households.

To keep you in line, you must be held at a short length from your alpha. It is what is done. It is what is expected.

Tradition.

Simon keeps a hand on you, curled at the base of your spine as he leads you back to where the sleeping quarters are. You know it’s for your protection, but the better part of you wants to smack him off of you whenever you feel his palm press just slightly against you. When you make it back into your room, Simon pauses in the doorway after he opens it for you. He looks nervous almost, sheepish. You turn to face him, looking him up and down. “You can come in if you want. I’m not gonna carry all my stuff by myself, you could probably carry a fucking tank looking at you.”

Simon finally comes inside, ducking his head a little to make it in. You know this room wasn’t meant to house an alpha, but it’s still startling to see him do it, taking up way too much space to be anything but claustrophobic. He watches as you pack your things, stuffing your clothes into your bags and picking up small trinkets around the bedside table and desk. After the bag starts to get heavy, you shove it into his arms as you look towards the bed. It’s a standard issue twin-sized, with barely enough sheets to keep you warm and a lumpy pillow that you hate. You make a face at it before turning around and putting more things into Simon’s arms as you empty the closet.

“Tha’ it?” Simon mutters, still able to peek over the mountain of items that he holds, and you shrug.

“That’s it.”

Simon’s own room is like a hospital room. It’s too clean–there’s nothing personal anywhere, no pictures or barely any clothes other than military issue fatigues. The only civilian clothes he has wouldn’t even make you think twice if you saw him in a bar–Simon will always look like a soldier, through and through, and his room stinks like it. It smells clinical, and nothing about it is cozy or warm. You stand in the middle of the room as Simon puts your things down. You ring your hands together nervously, eyeing the bed with one single, thin sheet on it. It’s too small of a bed for the both of you. It’s too small of a bed just for Simon–you don’t want to think about the kind of sleeping arrangements you’ll need to fit with him on it.

“Wot’s wrong?” Simon asks lowly. You look over your shoulder at him. He’s putting your things into the closet. He’s divided it in half already, and some of your clothes are already hung up next to his. You look back at the bed, pursing your lips.

“There’s not enough blankets,” you say softly. “A-And…And the pillows, here, I don’t like them.”

Simon turns back to your bag, picking up another shirt to hang. You glare at the back of him. It doesn’t do anything; he doesn’t erupt in flames like you might have hoped, but it does give you a moment to notice how well those jeans fit him.

Fuck. Keep it together.

“I’ll get you more blankets,” he shrugs. “And a different pillow.”

The answer is immediate. No fuss. You want to complain, to bite back at him for it, but you don’t know how you would explain your displeasure. You’re looking for a reason to tell your omega that she’s a scheming, hopeless, naïve little shit.

“...I don’t have to win you when y’r already mine.” Isn’t that what he had said? Isn’t that what he had said when he gripped you by the throat and made you realize that everything you had thought about alphas was true? Hadn’t he already shown you that none of them are redeemable?

Not Kate. Not John. Certainly not Simon–they’re all scheming, terrible fucking people, and you cannot wait until you can sink your teeth into Simon’s jugular and rip it out.

Belonging to, being one’s own, fuck if you care. Simon can claim ownership all he wants, but he’ll never tame you. Your omega might be pulling the strings at the moment, but you’re going through withdrawals, you think. Your medication was your lifeline. It kept you from falling off the tightrope, and you just need to learn how to stay upright without it. You can. When you get it back, when it’s in your hands again, she’ll understand.

She has to understand that only you know what’s good for you.

Simon places the rest of your things on his desk. A couple personal things, like your jewelry and some knickknacks, and then your bag with the rest of your clothes to be folded and put away. You take a seat on the edge of the bed, taking a deep breath. At least before, you could pretend like things were still a little normal. You could pretend that in your own room, you were simply waiting for another assignment, that you were just waiting for Kate to give you a call and move you somewhere new, somewhere safer.

“Am I just supposed to stay here and wait for you?” You ask finally. Simon shuffles around the room. He doesn’t look at you; instead, he takes a seat at a desk way too small for him and spreads a few papers around, frowning when he reads something that he doesn’t like. “Is that…is that my job?”

“Dunno.” Simon takes his phone out of his pocket, and he starts typing. “Don’t really feel like babysittin’.”

“I can take care of myself, you know,” you tell him. “I…I have combat experience. I was in training before this.”

Simon snorts, still focused on his phone. He shakes his head a little.

“Cute,” he mutters. “Tha’s cute.”

Patronizing shit.

“I bet I can shoot a target ten times better than you,” you spit at him. His fingers hover over the screen for just a moment, irritated, before he goes back to typing. “And I can hold my own. I don’t need a babysitter.”

Simon puts his phone back into his pocket. He crosses his arms over his chest, letting out a deep breath before coming over to stand in front of you. You tip your head back, and he reaches down with a hand to cup under your jaw, holding you there. Just like that–your omega has you. You lean in, just that much. Simon sees it in your eyes, and he sniffs, looking you over.

Maybe he thinks you’re pathetic. In some sense, you agree with him, because what the fuck is wrong with me? You get one look into Simon’s eyes, and something chemical in you fires. You bend, and you relax, and you know if he asked you to open your mouth so he could spit in it, it would take a tremendous amount of effort to tell him no. It angers you and excites you all the same, and the conflicting flashes under your ribs bring tears to your eyes.

You hate yourself. You hate yourself for not being able to say no. You hate yourself for being everything they said you would be. You hate yourself for being nothing like you thought you were.

You’re soft. Sweet. All bark, no bite, a spiteful kitten that deep down, aims to please. The only thing that really baffles you, though, is why you only feel this way with Simon.

Is it because they told you that you were his mate? Is it because he’s done something, that he’s projecting some kind of scent? Has he already unknowingly changed your very makeup so your body knows that you are bound to him? When you look into John’s eyes, you see alpha. You see big, salivating dog, and if you could, you’d rip the hairs of his beard out just to see him in pain.

But Simon–it’s like you can’t move. Every time you look at him, and he looks at you, he holds you there. Just like now, he’s got you, and you feel like he can read everything you’re feeling. He’s being fed your secrets, and you hate him for it, but I can’t look away, please look away, please don’t make me–

“Need to get you somethin’ to eat,” Simon says finally. “And it’s time to meet the rest of the lot.”

Simon is starting to get used to keeping a hand on you. It annoys you a little, to feel his hand at your back, but the annoyance dissolves when you realize this base is filled with sneering alphas. They holler and yell, and they are very large and angry, but they still are small compared to Simon. They quiet whenever they walk past you, and even the whiff of omega doesn’t deter them with Simon behind you.

In the mess hall, you see Captain Price sitting at a table with two others. When you get closer to the table, you cough a little, stumbling back, and Simon catches you around the waist to hold you upright. The stench of alphas hits you like a truck, and Simon grunts as he tells you relax, fuckin’ hell.

You give him a hard stare–how the fuck would he know? There’s four alphas in your close vicinity, and they’re all puffing their chests and smiling, and it stings to smell them all at once. You turn your head a little to shield yourself, and when you filter everything else out but Simon, it frustrates you a little how much of him seems to calm you down.

Smells so good. Get closer. Press your nose to it, I-I want more–

“I see you two are getting along nicely,” John comments, leaning back in his chair. You roll your eyes a little, and when you lock eyes with him, you purse your lips and try to look anything but pleased. Simon guides you to sit down; he motions to the bench, just to the left of where someone else is already sitting–a big, burly soldier with crazy blue eyes. He has a terrible haircut, short along the sides with tufts of curls falling down the middle and over his forehead. He’s wiggling his eyebrows at his lieutenant behind you. Across from him, there’s another alpha with dark eyes and soft skin, and he’s smiling like an idiot around the rim of his plastic cup. You’re a little nervous–you had spent most of your time on your old base surrounded by betas who barely gave you a glance, and now you’re off your meds and being hit with a million different sensations everywhere you go. Simon’s touch on your back eases your shoulders a little.

“Tha’s Johnny,” Simon points to the one next to you. “Tha’s Gaz. ‘n I’m sure ya had the pleasure of our Captain.”

“Yeah, looks like your beard is still in tact, so glad to see it,” you say curtly, crossing your arms over your chest. The two sergeants laugh, ducking their heads, and John raises a brow before looking at Simon with a clenched jaw. Simon just shrugs, stretching his arm out on the back of your chair, and you get the feeling this happens often–John giving Simon that look, and Simon merely brushing it off. You smile to yourself a little, looking at Simon from over your shoulder. When you meet eyes, he stares back, looking over your face. He lingers on your lips for just a second too long before looking back up again.

I bet he tastes good under that mask. Let’s find out.

“Hungry?” He asks, and you blink. Your omega has never been inside of your head like this. You nearly opened your mouth and asked him for it, asked him please, please–let me taste, I won’t look, just let me taste you. You swallow her down a little, and you just nod to keep yourself moving. Simon stands up to make his way towards where the food is, and you watch curiously as instead of standing in line, he pushes open a door into the kitchen and disappears behind it.

“LT’s been gettin’ ye special meals,” Johnny says with a full mouth. You frown a little, and not just cause he’s chewing with his mouth a little too open.

“What do you mean?”

“He has the cooks make you somethin’ special,” Gaz says as he takes a sip of water. He leans back, smiling again, and it irks you a little. Alphas are brutes, disgusting big things with too many hormones, and you hate that this one gets to be pretty, too. Not that John or his sergeant aren’t attractive, but this one definitely enjoys a good mirror selfie, and it shows. “Something not on the menu. He didn’t like that you weren’t eating much, at the beginning. Made a fuss, and now he gets you better food.”

“He can do that?”

“Well, would ye say no to tha’ big man?” Johnny snorts, dipping his crusty bread in sauce. You look back towards the door, and Simon comes out holding a tray. He sets it down in front of you, and you bite your lip looking down at it. It smells so good, and you pick up your fork gently, sticking it into the pasta and twirling it. When you take a bite and sigh, Simon takes a seat next to you, and you can barely hear the sweet rumble in his chest of satisfaction.

Providing for you. Taking care of you. He’s so capable, isn’t he? Look at what he does for you.

If Simon notices you scoot closer to him, he doesn’t say anything. You don’t react either–it wasn’t a conscious choice.

Simon’s shower has hot water. Not that the showers you’d had were cold, but the communal showers were just that–communal. Shared, and although your escort always made sure you were the only one in there while you showered, it was still feeding off a water heater that always had barely any juice left. Lukewarm showers, so you tried to finish quick.

Simon’s shower turns the water scalding. You giggle with relief when you stand under it, letting it loosen your sore muscles and relieve your aching bones. It feels good, and you take a little longer in there, taking your time and enjoying the heat.

When it’s time to wash your body, you realize you’re missing your own soap. You look around for something else, noticing the unlabeled bottle that rests on a ledge. You squirt a pump of it into your palms, and when you raise it to your nose, your eyes flutter shut.

It’s the eucalyptus you smelled on Simon. A little plastic aftersmell, which you know is from whatever backwater dollar store the military buys it from, but on Simon, it smells so good. You lather it in your hands and hold it up to your nose, and you sigh deeply.

He’s just outside. Why don’t you call for him? I bet he’s listening. I bet he’s waiting for us.

You slide your hands down your arms. With the heat of the water, the whole bathroom starts to smell like it, and you let your hands slide down further, over your waist, between your thighs. When your fingers touch your puffy clit, you’re nearly jolted back into reality.

“Fuck–” You gasp, reaching for the level, shutting the water off. The last of the water curls down the drain, and you cough as you look around. You curl your toes, grounding yourself, and then you get out of the shower and reach for the towel. When you look into the mirror, your pupils are blown wide, and you feel like you don’t recognize yourself. You drop the towel and dress yourself, trying to keep your mind occupied with menial tasks.

Get your shit together.

When you open the bathroom door, Simon is back from his little errand he had run. He’s carrying a few blankets and a thick comforter, and there’s a few new pillows on the bed with it. You use the towel to keep drying the wet strands of your hair, and Simon turns around when he hears you walk in further.

You pass by him wordlessly as you reach the bed. You put your hands on the blankets that he put down, and you close your eyes when you feel how soft they are. Threaded cotton and fleece, lots of thick feathers in the comforter to make it nice and fluffy. When you turn to look over your shoulder, Simon does a terrible job of pretending like he wasn’t just staring at your ass in the little sleep shorts you’re wearing. You want to snap at him, but your omega pinches your tongue.

Take them off. Take them off. Take them off.

“So, what…” You clear your throat. “How are we supposed to sleep in that bed? T-Together?”

Simon tilts his head to the side. You start to despise the mask. You hate that you can’t tell what he’s thinking, not even a little, and after the rather joyous conversations you’ve had with Simon (barf), you can’t say you’re entirely excited to be in this close of a space with him.

“Don’t worry,” Simon murmurs. “I’ll be good.”

Oh, that totally makes you feel better.

Prick.

He makes you get into bed and turn facing the wall as he turns out the lights. He pulls at the edge of his mask uncomfortably, and you realize he doesn’t want you to see his fine. Fine, you think to yourself, throwing the sheets back with a huff, bet you’re fucking ugly mug would blind me anyways.

You cuddle under all the blankets, snuggling into the new pillow that sinks under your head. You hum gently, closing your eyes, and you aren’t able to see Simon rubbing his chest warmly as he watches you. He sucks on his teeth, not truly understanding what he feels, but knowing that it’s soothing the beast in him to take care of you.

It rattles him. Simon isn’t used to this. He’s not used to feeling like he doesn’t have control. He resisted this for so long. He tried so hard to fight, he said no to Kate over and over and over again.

Omegas to Simon were liabilities. To care was to have a target on your back. To be mated meant having something to lose.

Ask Price, is what he told her, ask the fuckin’ sergeants, anyone but me, but she wouldn’t hear it. It had to be him, it had to be, and then she locked him into a room with her, and she leveled with him.

She told him that you are special. That you are precious. That omegas like you don’t exist, that you are one in a single generation, and there isn’t anyone else in the world that will do except for him.

Price, married to the field. The sergeants, immature and might as well be titled barracks bunnies. But Simon–purebred, quiet, controlled. Terrified of himself and what he is. His unofficial pack that he defends with his entire being, that is the only alpha worth giving to you.

Kate had thought about it before. What it might be like to push the hair away from your neck and sink her teeth there. As easy as putting her signature to paper, she could have the CIA running laps to keep you protected, but she knew that wasn’t the life for her. It couldn’t be.

In every situation, Kate would have to choose that lesser evil, and in her world, it would mean her choice would unlikely be you.

Simon? Simon answered to no one. Unlike his sergeants, he cared little for authority; he wouldn’t blink twice saying no to his superior. Unlike his Captain, Simon didn’t mind choosing the bloody way out. He was the first with his finger on the trigger, and the last to sweep a room. Kate knew–if Simon had to choose between the greater good and the omega he claimed?

Fuck the greater good. That, she could count on.

If Kate only asked for one thing, it would be this. She did promise you. She promised she would keep you away from it all. She promised that she would make things right. She promised that she would protect you, but even Kate answers to others, and the reality of this kind of world is that the only way to really protect you was to give you away.

To put you into the same world that you had only begged to be kept away from.

Nobody likes playing matchmaker, but maybe putting together the most stubborn and angry people in the world might save you from yourselves. At least she hoped so.

You’re nearly asleep when you feel Simon come to bed. All the lights are off, and it’s pitch black in the room. There’s some shuffling around the room, and then you feel the blankets move. All of the sudden, a heat stronger than you’ve ever felt takes up the entire bed. Pressed against your back, a solid chest, and then a huge arm falls over your waist.

“We cuddling now?” You mumble sleepily, and Simon breathes out slowly, not responding. When you fall asleep, it’s unnervingly easy. Your omega purrs, digging her nails into you, and when you turn your head in the dark and feel the brush of his unmasked face against yours, she preens.

He’s right there–just a little taste. Just a little. Please, please, please–

Omegas cannot claim, but they can bite. It takes everything inside of you not to sink your teeth into him.

“You smell that? Smells like fuckin’ sweets, mates.”

You take off your headphones and safety glasses, looking over your shoulder. There’s a few recruits a few lanes down from you, wiggling their eyebrows and licking their lips. One of them crudely grabs his crotch, winking at you. You make a face.

Gross.

“Let me see you, baby. Smell so good.”

You holster the gun you’re holding, leaning against the counter with your hip. You raise a brow, tilting your head to the side.

“Are you done?” You ask, and they take that as their cue to start walking closer. An invitation.

They don’t get very far. You smell him before you see him. On instinct, your shoulders relax with that whiff of charcoal. You push off the counter just in time for him to come up behind you, and you feel the heat of his chest as it presses against your back. The recruits in front of you stop immediately, and you feel a disgusting sense of satisfaction when Simon bends over your shoulder to look at you.

“‘n wot’s this?” Simon growls. You shrug, crossing your arms over your chest.

“I don’t know. They wanna have a dick-measuring contest, but I think they’re afraid they’re gonna lose,” you say. You let out an annoyed sigh, turning again to put your safety glasses on. You put the headphones back over your ears and take the gun out of your holster, turning the safety off as you line it up with the paper targets near the back of the course. “You know. Cause my dick is way bigger.”

You unload the clip just for fun. You’re supposed to be practicing on accuracy, which for you meant slower, spaced-out shots to try and hit the same spot over and over, but the sound of the gun going off again and again helps distract you from the laughing, untrained dogs that are littered across the shooting range.

When you put the gun down after emptying the magazine, Simon is salivating. The paper target head is obliterated, each bullet almost next to its last. When you turn around, Simon tilts his head to the side. You holster the gun, starting to walk, and Simon lets his eyes drop to the sway of your hips as you pass by him. It’s not a conscious decision, the way his fingers curl into fists and squeeze hard.

“Told you,” you say to him. “Huge dick, right, baby?”

Something flares in Simon’s chest when he hears it. Like a switch, his legs start moving, following you, and when he passes by a recruit that is standing much too close to you, Simon shoves the recruit back so hard, they smack their nose against the wall and curses from the impact, blood dripping under their bruised nose.

The rest of the day, you don’t see another rookie walk even five feet into your vicinity. Even without a mark on your neck, you are claimed, and right before you leave your room for dinner, Simon is fitting a dark hoodie over your head. The smell overwhelms you. It’s soaked in his scent, and you turn to face him, looking at him suspiciously. Your omega keeps you from questioning him. She wants you to start walking, because she knows he’ll touch you when you do.

It’s that night that Simon asks John for you to join them. All Simon does is slide the shredded paper target across his desk. John picks it up, tacking it onto the wall. He chuckles, shaking his head. It’s an impressive piece of paper, but being a good shot isn’t the only reason someone is cleared to work with them. Even besides that, it’s forbidden.

“Omegas aren’t allowed in the field, Simon,” John reminds him. “You know that.”

“Think tha’s why we should take her,” Simon mutters. “She’s a distraction. A good one.”

“A weapon,” John frowns. He can already hear Kate screaming into his ear if she ever saw you geared up between them on an op.

“A tool.”

“And what does she think of that, eh?” John slips his hat off, tossing it onto his desk. He sighs, running a hand over his beard, and he shakes his head. “And Kate…Kate would hang my fuckin’ head.”

“Not Kate’s responsibility anymore, she’s mine,” Simon bites back. He knows it’s wrong. In all honesty, the sentiment tasted bad from the moment he said it to you, but it is easier to let you believe that he’s using you then try and make you understand him. You wouldn’t understand. You wouldn’t get his reasons, and that’s fine, so if he has to be the bad guy, so be it.

The least he could do is make himself useful. Put your skills to work, poke your mind. See what you can really do.

“Don’t let your girl hear you talkin’ like that, Simon,” John says lowly. “Not her, and certainly not Kate.”

“But you agree,” Simon continues, chuckling lowly. “I speak for her. ‘n I think she’d be right in on it, Captain. Wot else is she to do, eh? Sit in my fuckin’ quarters and wait f’me? Wot kind of life is tha’? She needs this. She’s good. I can teach ‘er. She’ll learn. Well and good she will, I know it.”

John sniffs, running a big hand over his short hair before tapping a pen over the target paper on the wall.

“I need her OK,” John relents finally. “I need to hear it from her. I get that, I’m alright with it. But she has to know what she’s getting into, Simon. And no one but you is responsible for her. If she gets into something, I’m not gonna risk Soap or Gaz for it–”

“I know,” Simon mutters. “She’ll be my shadow. I’ll teach ‘er.”

She’ll be good. She’ll be good because she’s mine.

“Bravo-7, sitrep.”

“Eyes on target. Waiting on confirmation.” Simon looks over his shoulder for a moment, where you’re sitting as his cover. You look cute, he thinks. All geared up. He lets his eyes sweep over the cargo pants that are cinched around your waist. Your nice curves. Thick thighs. Fuck, you smell good, even with all the sand up his nose and the smoke clinging to his mask. You have your rifle tucked into your elbow, and you’ve got it aimed towards the door of the roof.

“Is it always so fucking hot?” You ask, running your wrist over your lip. You’re sweating; you can feel it dripping down the back of your neck and along your back. You’re wearing a lot of gear, but you’ve done this before, and you don’t remember it being so uncomfortable. It must be the climate–you’re not used to this kind of desert, and you need to get it together.

Despite the irritation you feel every time you look at Simon, your omega wants to please him. She wants to show him she can do this, that she’s capable, and you’re starting to not like that she’s behaving as if you and her are one and the same.

I’m in control. Shut the fuck up. Let me focus.

“Just watch the door,” Simon mutters, turning back to focus. He adjusts the scope of his rifle, taking a deep breath as he leans into the stock. He gets his target into his line of sight, and he narrows his eye a little more to watch the group more closely on the ground. It’s hard to ignore you. Normally, the person covering him goes almost unnoticed. Their scent never affects him, not enough to make him look away from his scope, but there’s something in the air way too close to him, and he scrunches his nose a little as he adjusts his position on the ground. “You stink, by the way.”

“Shut the fuck up,” you snap. “Not my fault.”

“Certainly is y’r fault.”

“You reek, too, you ass,” you mumble, wiping your forehead again. You adjust how you’re sitting, clearing your throat. It’s scratchy, and you’re starting to itch a little all over, too. “Like wet dog.”

Simon smiles under his mask. He keeps his index finger next to the trigger, and you keep yours on it.

“How much longer do we have to do this? I mean…I thought you were SAS. Don’t you guys…get your hands real dirty? I mean, don’t you go tearing doors down? Get a lot of action? I mean, we’re just sitting ducks on a roof here right now.”

“Wot, you wanna go kick some doors down now?” Simon asks. He shakes his head. “The real job is boring. We do things nice and clean, we only get dirty when we ‘ave to. If I can get a target from 1000 yards away, then tha’s wot I’ll do. Besides. This is wot I’m good at.”

“Yeah, you look real good there on your knees, honey.”

Simon blinks hard when something strong hits his nose. It stings, makes his eyes water. He coughs a little, dropping his head for a moment.

“Fuckin’ Christ,” Simon hisses. “Wot the fuck is wrong with ya?”

“I-I don’t know,” you whisper. You take your hand off your rifle for a moment to adjust the collar of your shirt, but it doesn’t help. You shift a little, loosening your tactical vest. You want to take it off, but you know that’s a bad idea out here. It’s hard to think clearly, though, when your brain is cloudy and you’re starting to see things in double every so often. “It’s…it’s too hot.”

Simon huffs, “‘n when was the last time you had a heat?”

“I’ve…I’ve never.” You clear your throat. “I’ve never had one.”

Can you smell him? I can smell him. He smells so good.

Simon nearly leaves his post. He grips his rifle tight, gloved hands squeezing the metal, and he turns to look at you incredulously.

“Fuckin’ repeat tha’?”

“I know you’re blind and dumb, but don’t tell me you’re fucking deaf, too,” you mumble. You swallow, wiping your face again, and Simon presses on the radio on his shoulder.

“Bravo-7 to Bravo-6, how long do we got?”

“Just observation on target for now. Why?”

“Need 10 minutes.”

Simon shuts off the radio. You blink, starting to see double pretty consistently now, and you take a shaky breath as you grip your rifle a little tighter. You hear shuffling behind you, and you look back to see Simon moving from his position.

“What are you doing? Simon–”

“Get over ‘ere.” Simon sets his rifle down. “Tha’ wasn’t a fuckin’ suggestion, tha’ was an order!”

There’s something different in his voice at the end. Something more animal that lilts his drawl, and it makes you coherent enough to start moving–like his voice made all the fog clear up for just a few moments, long enough for you to realize you need him.

Closer. Closer. Closer.

You put your rifle down, crawling over to him, and just as you stumble, Simon catches you. You put your hands on his shoulders, falling into his lap, and he hoists you up until you’re straddling him. You feel him starting to tug on your cargos, and even in your daze, you squeeze his shoulders.

“S-Simon? What are you…What are you doing?”

“Y’r gonna go into heat soon,” Simon mutters. Alarm bells go off in your head, and you dig your nails into his shoulders. He can see it clearly–the panic on your face.

“H-Heat? R-Right now?”

“Not right now,” Simon clicks his tongue. “More like a…pre-heat. Get y’r bloody pants off–”

When Simon tugs your cargos down enough, you gasp when you see the mess your panties are in. They’re soaked, drenched until the cotton is a darker color, sticking to your cunt, and you whimper as Simon tugs you back into his lap with your pants around your ankles. It’s awkward and messy, and you’re sweating bullets, hot and bothered, and your chest feels tight. There’s nothing romantic about it, nothing sweet about the way Simon turns you in his lap. It’s hurried, but you’re just as desperate, clawing to whatever piece of him you can touch and trying to sink into him. If you could, you’d pry him open and force yourself to tuck yourself inside of him. You want to live there forever. You want to be in his skin, soaking it all in–you want it. You want this, don’t you?

He’s touching us! He’s touching us! Let him in!

“W-What’s happening t-to me?”

“‘s olright,” Simon whispers in your ear. “I’ve got ya. There we are…” He cups your pussy, making you squirm. You jolt in his lap, throwing your head back against his shoulder, and he hums as you sink into his touch. Something inside you curls and lights on fire. Your vision blurs, and his scent surrounds you. “Oh…fuck…tha’ wot ya needed, swee’eart? Yeah…”

Yes! Yes! Yes!

“Simon–” Your back arches, and you push your hips into his hand. When he touches your clit, your omega seizes inside your head, and it’s a feeling like you’ve never felt before.

She takes the reigns; and God, does she fucking pull.

You palm at the zipper of his pants. There’s something there, something you want–and you need it. There’s something in your chest that blinds you, that familiar voice in your head that chants–take it out, take it out, take it out.

“‘m workin’ on it, love,” you hear from behind, and you realize you’re talking. You’re out of your body, you think. You’re not yourself. When you feel him in your daze, big and throbbing under your hand, you whine. It comes from deep within your chest, a bubble of nonsense, and Simon coos. He drags your hips closer, and his cock slips under you, between your folds, and you use your palm to keep him pressed to you. You can’t see him, but you felt him when you first met him, and you’re feeling him now.

If there was any doubt that he was anything but an alpha, that thought disappears when his fat tip kisses your clit. He’s hot and throbbing under your hand, and he is more than enough to appease the voice in your head that’s screaming for some kind of inherent relief that it knows he can give.

“Simon, I need it–I need it–”

“I know, love.”

Fuck, Simon would win any dick-measuring contest, you think. Barely the tip of him, and you’re baring your teeth, gripping his thighs and digging your nails into him as you try and breathe through the stretch. He’s not even fully hard yet; the blood is rushing to his cock, and you moan and cry as he sits you down further and further and further–

“What the fuck–what is it you have in your fucking pants, a-a fucking pipe–?!”

“Y’r so much prettier when y’r mouth ain’t runnin’,” Simon mutters. “Ahh–fuck–’s mine, oll mine–”

You put your hands on his knees and throw it back. You’re feral, brain foggy, and all you can think about is getting yourself off. Your body clings to Simon like a thick, curling vice, pussy clamping around him and taking him to the root. You’re dripping down your thighs, wetting his cargos, and you’re thankful that he’s wearing black, otherwise you can’t think about the mess you’d really be leaving on him. The sounds are lewd. Frantic smack, smack, smack against his thick thighs, and the sound is only making you drool for more. He’s so big. He’s hitting you deep, and you swear your insides have never been stretched this far, but it’s like your body is molding itself to fit him. Like you’re making room for him.

It’s so good. It feels right. Your omega growls like an animal, crying with relief. It’s the only thing she’s ever wanted, and she has it in her hands, and she licks at your scent gland until it practically vibrates. Simon’s face is pressed to it, like he can hear her calling. His mask is the only thing separating you, but you can feel his teeth straining against the fabric. They cut over the gland, wet like his tongue is poking against it, too, and your omega screams.

Bite me, bite me, bite me.

“Not yet,” Simon grunts. “Won’t take.”

“You’ll make it take.”

He laughs, and then he punches the air out of you with a nice thrust. Then he’s on you. Suddenly, you’re on your knees, your tummy against the sandy rooftop, with a stallion of a soldier on top of you, taking you like his last meal.

He sounds like more bear than man. Growling, spitting, both hands on either side of your head as he fucks you into the floor. There’s a smile on your face, soft relief that leaves you in your pretty moans and gurgled pleas. It feels so good. The tip of his cock curves and hits against the same place each time, sending pulses that rack your body over and over and over again. Your thighs are shaking, and then Simon slips one hand under you and cups your pussy, fitting it just right until you can grind down on his palm in perfect timing with the way the fat tip of him hits you just well enough. It should hurt. You’ve never taken anything so big–of course you’ve practiced, but nothing can prepare you for the real thing.

This is still practice. You’re not in your heat, not really, and Simon hasn’t lost his fucking mind yet.

Like a fiend, you chase it. The stars, the mountain to climb, the beautiful end. You get up a little more onto your knees and you wrap a hand around his neck, force him against your jaw. You goad him on with pretty words, soft moans–that’s it, right there, please.

It’s not his first time. It’s not his first time relieving an itch he can’t scratch, and it’s not his first time taking an omega by the neck and pounding into her until she can’t speak, but it’s the first time his resolve shatters.

He wants to bite. He’s never felt the urge to bite. If it wasn’t for the mask, his teeth would be an inch deep in your neck, and he’d be memorizing what your blood tasted like for the first time. Your scent is just that much off that he knows it isn’t the right time, but fuck–the need is there. It’s clear.

Special. One of a kind. No one like her. Soft. Sweet. Mine.

His knot swells a little, but it doesn’t lock. You’re not in a proper heat, so it’s not right just yet, but you can feel the edge of it, like the preface to a glorious poem. Thick and spongy, hot, and when he comes, your eyes roll back in your head. It feels like being thirsty for days on end and finally getting that sweet drink of crystal clear water. He pumps you full, creamy and thick and dribbling between your thighs as you squeeze them together. Subconsciously, you’re trying to keep it inside, and Simon groans when as he latches his mouth over your scent gland under the mask and sucks–so hard, it pinches you just right.

The stars align. The tide wanes. You mumble softly, dopey smile on your face, and when your own high hits you, and you’re squirting into his hand, you let his rumbling, low voice pull you back to earth.

“I ‘ave ya, swee’eart,” he says. “Shhh…easy, kitty…Shh…yeah, easy.”

You sigh with relief. Simon handles you with ease. He picks you up, gets you to sit back on your heels. You don’t see it, but Simon fits his wet fingers under the mask, and you keen when you hear him suck on his fingers and hum.

He likes us. Hear that? He likes us.

“Want you to eat me,” you giggle suddenly, and Simon wipes you down, picking your pants back up and zipping them. He pats your ass gently, smoothing a hand over the back of your neck. He knows you’re still in a different headspace. He knows there’s still something else drawing your breath, but he’s trying not to think about it too much. It sounds so much like you.

“Do plenty o’tha’ when we’re in the thick o’it, kitty.”

Back in the humvee, Johnny is smiling like an idiot. He’s sitting next to Kyle, hitting him with his elbow as he wiggles his eyebrows at you and Simon sitting across from them. You tilt your head to the side, glaring.

“What?” You snap, and Johnny cackles. His eyes are flashing, and he reeks like happiness.

“Smells like ye had fun.”

“My gun is loaded, shithead,” you warn him. “And I know how the fucking safety works.”

When Johnny moves to sit in the front near your captain, you try not to think about the sudden warmth over your knee, and the squeeze of Simon’s hand on you.

NEXT

[slut4thebroken]

Baby Fever

── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

Pairing | Tommy Shelby x wife!reader

Summary | Free use wife.

Warnings | Smut, breeding kink, free use lol, in public, exhibitionism, pregnancy (very few details cause… c’mon lol… I’m the one who wrote it💀), light humiliation.

Words | 1.5 k

Notes | Yeah this gif still makes me feral

Ao3 link | <3

Masterlist

Kinktober | day 2: free use + breeding kink

Tommy didn’t expect much from you as a wife. There were already staff who cooked and cleaned and you didn’t have any children yet. The one thing he did expect from you though, was being ready and willing to take his cock at any time of the day. 

Sometimes he’d be more gentle about it, coaxing you away from whatever task or conversation you were involved in to somewhere more private where he’d ravish you until you could only think about him and his cock. Other times, he’d be more desperate. 

If you happened to bring him lunch on a particularly stressful work day, he’d drag you in his office and bend you over the desk, fucking away all of his stress, if at least for a few minutes. 

Sometimes at the race track he’d pull you away to a more secluded— but still very public— area and cover your mouth as he plowed into you, rough and desperate, borderline animalistic. If the sound of your muffled moans didn’t give you away, the loud slapping of skin definitely did, but he didn’t care. If he wanted you, nothing was stopping him from taking you. 

A few times you even woke up to him lazily rutting into you, fucking you deep, but keeping the pace slow. He’d moan quietly, kissing and biting your neck, even sucking on the sensitive skin to leave marks. 

If he was ever short on time, he’d force you to your knees and fuck your face, making you gag and choke on his cock until tears streamed down your cheeks. Sometimes he’d blow his load down your throat. But if you weren’t in public or in too much of a hurry for anything, he’d paint your pretty face with his come, marking you as his. 

He knew you were embarrassed everytime you came back after he dragged you away. Every single time, without fail, you always looked like you were just fucked stupid. But that only encouraged him. He liked showing people that you belonged to him— that his wife was more than happy to satisfy him, even in public. 

It was also common for him to pull over and make you ride his cock in the car, smiling at all the people who drove past. If he couldn’t pull over, he’d grab your hair and force you down on his cock. Even if he arrived at the destination, he wouldn’t stop until you drained his balls and swallowed every last drop. It didn’t matter if it was the middle of the day or if it was pitch black out— it didn’t even matter if the window was open or not. He’d fuck your face and throw his head back as the pleasure consumed him until he finally fell over the edge. Sometimes, his sounds would attract attention, and he loved the look on people’s faces when you lifted yourself up, smiling and wiping the lower half of your face with the back of your hand. 

This didn’t happen often, but if he were ever in the middle of fucking you, too consumed by the feeling of your tight cunt squeezing his cock, and someone knocked on the door, he’d tell them to come in. It was usually someone you didn’t even know— one time it was Arthur… that was a particularly humiliating experience for you— but he wouldn’t stop. He’d keep you bent over his desk or on his lap and continue fucking you as you tried to not make any sounds. He always thought it was amusing when you tried to be quiet. 

One time, he walked in on you holding Ada’s baby, smiling and cooing at him, making him giggle relentlessly. As soon as Tommy got you alone, his cock was inside you and he rambled on about fucking a baby into you, breeding you nice and deep until he knocked you up. His words were almost incoherent with arousal as he described this fantasy of your belly full with his kid, your tits swollen with milk, and the glow that you’d have from all of it. He rambled on about raising them together, how good you’d look as the mother of his kids, how he wanted to fuck baby after baby into you… breed you until he fucking ran out of come. 

That sparked a conversation between the two of you. While the original plan was to wait a few years, you both agreed to shorten that time frame. So less than two years later, you were off of birth control and he was breeding you every chance he had. Honestly you were getting a little worn out, but you never complained. No matter how tiring it could be, you still absolutely loved it. 

It became even more of a frequent occurrence for you to be walking around with either come soaked panties or come running down your thighs. He also took a liking to cock warming. In bed, on his desk chair, in the car— anywhere he could— he’d fuck you and fill you with his come, then keep you plugged up, wanting to make sure it really had a chance to take. 

At home, he’d put you in the mating press position, then stuff you full of his come. Only instead of letting you relax, he'd keep your hips tilted up so none of it could leak out and make you come again with his mouth as a reward for staying in that position. 

The first time he fucked you after finding out you were pregnant… he was practically feral. The fact that there was a baby inside you— that it was his baby, made him all but lose control. He ravaged you with an intensity he’s only had a few times, rambling on about how he planned to fuck you like this for a while since he would eventually have to be gentler— if he could even fuck you at all. The problem was that his promise didn’t just apply to when he fucked you in the privacy of your own home, but it was just a problem for you. Tommy loved that you couldn’t keep quiet. 

Months down the line, rough, hard fucking turned into gentle love making. He’d kiss you tenderly as his hips rocked into you, keeping the pace almost tortuously slow. He tended to kiss over your stomach whenever he could and caress it with gentle hands. Both of you were surprised and disappointed by the fact that your breasts were far too tender for any touch to feel good. So he kept his hands and mouth elsewhere. 

The love making usually took place in bed. But every once in a while, he’d come up behind you and wrap his arms around your small frame, placing his hands on your belly as he kissed your neck until he finally got too impatient and lifted your dress to slip his cock inside. 

Around eight months, and even for weeks after the birth, he showed no sign of needing you like that. He never made you feel pressured either, even when he’d hold you at night. You were grateful though because your body definitely wasn’t ready for that yet. 

It was a little after two months postpartum that you were becoming a bit too needy though. One day, after watching him play with and hold the baby, you finally snapped. The second you were alone you practically jumped his bones, kissing him almost animalistically and pulling on his hair until he moaned into your mouth and finally grabbed your hips. 

“Love,” He started, but cut off when you unzipped your dress and let it fall to the floor, pooling around your feet.

“If you don’t fuck me right now I’m going to lose my mind.” You warned breathily, working on ripping his clothes off. 

“Slow down, darling. You have to be careful.” He said gently, making you more frustrated.

“Thomas Shelby, I swear to god if you don’t fuck me, I’ll go find someone who will.” You growled, giving him one last warning. He raised his brows, shocked and amused by your words. “I carried your child for nine months. The least you could do is make me come on your cock until I forget my own name.” 

“You’re that needy, eh?” He smirked, making you scowl. “Calm down, Mrs. Shelby, I’ll give it to you…” you still get butterflies when he calls you that, “but you know I can’t resist teasing you.” 

“You’ve teased me for months. Either fuck the shit out of me or I’ll get it from someone else.” You said, voice low and almost threatening, but you knew it only made Tommy more amused. 

“How have I teased you for months?” He asked innocently. 

“Christ, Tommy— just fuck me already. You have to do what I say because I just birthed a whole baby for you.” 

“I guess you're right.” He said with a sly smirk. “Until you forget your own name?” You nodded eagerly and he walked you backwards until your legs hit the bed. Once you were laying down, he crawled over you and kissed you deeply, making you moan against his lips and bring your hands up to his hair. “As you wish, darling.” 

[plutotheplum]

Blurred Lines

leon kennedy x fem!reader

summary: you’ve decided to get intimate for the first time with your boyfriend, and who better to ask for advice than his best friend?

cw: nsfw (18+) - mdni!!, smut, kissing, oral sex, vaginal fingering, masturbation, p in v, possessive sex, praise kink, cheating/infidelity

wc: 4.4k

a/n: i don't support cheating at all, this idea just would not leave me so erm... i just had to write it

also on ao3!

You might be a little in over your head.

Sure, the entire thing had been your idea, but now that you’re standing outside of Leon’s apartment, duffle bag clutched in hand, you think you might’ve made the wrong decision.

But… you did really like your boyfriend.

It was why you were doing all of this after all. You wanted the first time with your new boyfriend to be perfect, especially after your last relationship had practically turned out to be a disaster. The sex hadn’t been enjoyable and the heated conversations between you and your ex even more so.

So, who better to ask for advice than your boyfriend’s best friend?

Eyes squeezing shut, you mutter a few words of self-encouragement. The doorbell looks oddly ominous when you open your eyes again. 

You weren’t even sure why Leon had agreed to this entire thing. He’d always just been there, barely acknowledging your presence at all. All in all, you were convinced Leon hated you. It didn’t matter though, you didn’t particularly like the man either. Leon was just an unfortunate addition to things you had to endure. 

An irritated huff of air leaves you and your hand jerks out, your own body having grown tired of your indecisiveness. The doorbell rings promptly and you shift on your feet, biting your lip nervously.

When the door creaks open, you have half the mind to run away. Leon’s gaze keeps you pinned in place however, his bored eyes dipping over you, brows raising slightly when he sees the duffle bag you were holding. 

“You were serious about this, huh?” Leon asks, crossing his arms over his chest, peering down at you.

“Uh- well,” you begin, tongue feeling heavy, “I- I can just leave,” you laugh awkwardly, “you’re probably busy and I don’t want to bother you and-”

“Stop rambling,” he interrupts, a hint of irritation creeping into his voice, “just get inside.”

You’re grateful for his timely intervention, nodding rapidly and stepping inside. Taking off your shoes, you place them by the door neatly, not wanting to annoy Leon even more. He motions with his fingers and you follow him in, letting him guide you into his bedroom.

“What’s the bag for?”

“Oh, I packed a couple of outfits,” you shrug, watching as he sits down on his chair, “thought you might be able to tell me which one would work the best.”

Leon stares at you blankly, his lips pursing. 

“You’re fucking weird.”

A sharp scoff leaves you, your eyes narrowing as you glare at the man in front of you. “You agreed to help me!”

“I didn’t think you were being serious,” Leon retorts. 

You glare at him a little more and he lets out an exasperated sigh, motioning for you to sit down on the edge of his bed. You do as he says, although your movements are begrudging, feeling miffed.

“So?” He asks, leaning back and crossing his arms over his chest, “what do you want to know?”

“Se- sex stuff,” you reply casually, although your posture betrays you. It’s difficult to feel comfortable around Leon, his gaze uncomfortably intense and probing. You don’t think you’ve ever sat with your back this straight for so long before. 

“Watching porn would’ve solved that problem for you,” Leon says drily. 

“You’re a real asshole, Leon.”

He rolls his eyes at your jab, slouching a little further in his chair, thighs spreading as he gets comfortable. Leon’s fingers tap against the arm-rest, seemingly lost in thought. You couldn’t feel anymore awkward, agitatedly playing with your fingers in your lap.

“Can’t you just tell me what he likes?” you blurt out, growing desperate, “you guys talk about that stuff, don’t you?”

“I don’t understand what the big deal is,” Leon says, leaning forward, his forearms resting on his knees. “Just do what feels natural. Sex isn’t supposed to be something you spend weeks worrying about.”

It’s surprisingly solid advice…but Leon could’ve told you all of this over text. You cross your arms over your chest, pouting slightly.

“But what if he doesn’t like it?” you mumble, averting your gaze.

“Then he’ll tell you,” he says, hands clasping together. Leon gives you another once-over, tilting his head. “Go get changed, let’s see those outfits.”

You nod, tugging your bag into his bathroom and pull on your first outfit. It’s a pretty dress, flowy and a little short, but you’d figured it’d be a good pick.

“What do you think?”

Leon’s eyes flick up to meet yours, silently evaluating the dress. His brows furrow for a moment, something imperceptible passing through his eyes before he shakes his head. A sigh escapes you, but you disappear back into his bathroom obediently to pull on your next outfit.

Leon doesn’t like that one. He doesn’t like the one after either. Your patience is running thin by the time you’ve changed into your fourth outfit, a nice top and skirt. You tuck your hair behind your ears, staring at yourself in the mirror. You look cute, at least from your perspective. You don’t understand what he finds so unappealing about your sense of style. Leon’s eyes barely drift over you before he’s shaking his head again. 

“Pass,” Leon drawls, looking bored out of his mind as he slouches in his chair. Irritation festers inside of you, teeth gritting together as Leon simply ignores you, scrolling through his phone.

“This is cute!” you protest, looking down at the outfit you put together, “I look cute!”

“If that makes you feel better, then keep telling yourself that,” he replies, not sparing you a second glance. 

“You’re the worst!” you snap, stomping back into the bathroom.

Your temper gets the best of you when you scrutinize your irritated reflection, cheeks flushed with anger, the stress of being here with Leon bubbling past your own breaking point. You tug your top off, along with your bra, bathroom door slamming open as you move to stand in front of him, hands on your hips.

“How about now, asshole?”

Leon’s eyes widen when he sees your bare chest, surprise making his grip on his phone falter, the device falling towards the carpeted floor as he stares at your tits. His jaw seems to go slack, a sharp breath of air getting sucked in as he stares for a bit longer. You glare at him, chest rising and falling, watching as his gaze dips over the curve of your waist. 

“They’re just tits,” he says nonchalantly.

Leon’s expressions betray his true emotions, however. You catch the bob of his throat as he swallows, the subtle clench of his jaw as he stares at your tits. Your eyes dip down between his thighs and a small smile spreads across your face when you spot the bulge forming in his shorts.

“Do you like ‘em?” you ask, tilting your head.

“What?” Leon sputters, his cheeks flushing lightly.

“Do you like ‘em?” you repeat, taking a step closer, “my tits, Leon.”

He swallows again, trying and failing to look away from your tits. “They’re fine,” he manages out after a moment, “normal, or whatever.”

That makes a frown pull at your lips. Your head tips down, taking in your own breasts. They weren’t anything special, but you thought they looked nice, at least. Embarrassment has your skin crawling, cheeks heating up when you realize how stupidly you’ve been acting. 

You move to turn on your heel, but Leon stops you, his hand curling around your wrist. He tugs you forward, your feet stumbling slightly as he pulls you until you're standing between his spread legs.

“Maybe I should feel them,” Leon offers, peering up at you, his tongue darting out to wet his lips, “might- might help me judge a bit better.”

Surprise flits across your face, heat shooting through your body. You really shouldn’t let him do this, you shouldn’t even have your tits out in the first place but when Leon’s hand lands on your waist, all rational thought seems to leave you.

“Okay,” you whisper, “you can touch.”

Both of Leon’s hands are on your waist now, sliding upwards. You bite your lip to stifle a whine, back arching to push your chest into his touch when his thumbs brush the underside of your breasts.

Leon lets out a low hum, stroking his thumb over the same place again, staring intently at your hardened nipples. His fingers reach for them, pinching your nipples between his thumb and forefinger as he tugs lightly before letting go, watching as your breasts move at the sensation.

“Gonna let me taste ‘em too?,” he asks, pinching your nipples again before rubbing his thumbs over your areolas. 

“T- taste?” you echo, feeling your breath catch in your throat when Leon leans forward, his touch growing greedier as he grasps at your tits, squeezing the fat roughly. Your legs shake slightly, little twitches running up through your body and Leon notices, pulling you closer, his hands on the backs of your thighs as he helps you climb up onto his lap.

You can feel how hard he is when your cunt presses up against his clothed cock, a low whine slipping out of you at the feeling. Leon grins, squeezing your breasts a few more times, seemingly taken with tugging your nipples and watching your breasts bounce back into place. 

“Yeah,” he murmurs, “just let me put my mouth on you, hm?”

A single nod leaves you and Leon takes it as permission to kiss the space between your breasts. He’s surprisingly gentle with you, peppering soft kisses around your breast and over your nipples. Leon’s tongue lolls out before long, a groan emanating from him as he pulls you flush against him, his hips bucking up into your clothed cunt.

You gasp, fingers settling in his hair, pulling his head closer. Leon’s mouth opens wider, sucking your tit into his mouth, tongue flicking across your nipple harshly as he silently urges your hips to move against him. You do as he wants, grinding against his lap, mewling when he sinks his teeth into the fat of your tit. He switches his attention to your other tit, sucking it into his mouth, pressing his hand into your back to make your chest jut out so that he can get more of you into his mouth.

“Do oh- do you like my tits now, Leon?” you ask breathily.

“Yeah, yeah, fuck, yeah,” he mumbles out drunkenly, “love your tits, baby.”

A light flush covers your cheeks when Leon pulls away, both of your chests rising and falling. He stares up at you, perched on his lap prettily, his hands squeezing at your waist soothingly. Your hazy eyes dip down to his lips, fingers tightening into his shirt as you imagine his lips on yours.

That would make everything all the more real however, so you refrain, simply peering down at him. Leon can see the uncertainty that makes you squirm, the flash of guilt that seems to dim down the spark in your eyes. He doesn’t exactly like the situation either, what the two of you are doing, but when your lower lip juts out into a cute, little pout, Leon wonders what might’ve been if he’d gotten to you first. 

“We should stop,” he says after a while, fingers tapping the sides of your thighs. 

“Yeah,” you murmur, humiliation flitting across your face, “we should.”

Leon helps you get off his lap, smoothing his hand over the ruffles in your skirt. It’s a weirdly considerate action and too out of place for him. You disappear into the bathroom, pulling your top back on. Leon waits for you, his eyes dipping to the bulge in his shorts. It’s uncomfortable, his half-hard cock straining against the fabric of his boxers.

A heavy sigh leaves him, his hand reaching down to adjust himself before you come out. 

“Thank you for letting me come over,” you mumble as he walks you over to his door.

“Don’t mention it,” Leon murmurs, his voice low.

Don’t mention it. You know deep down you won’t be mentioning anything to your boyfriend. 

You go to open the door, but before you can, Leon’s stepping up behind you, his chest pressing into your back as he cages you in against the door. A soft whine spills out of you when he wraps his arms around your waist, his face pressing into the crook of your neck.

“You’re making things difficult,” he says, voice muffled with how closely he’s pressed his face into your neck.

“I- I’m leaving,” you retort weakly, managing to get your hand on the doorknob. 

He hums, pressing one of his hands against the door, keeping it shut.

“Leon,” you sigh exasperatedly, “we can’t. You’re the one who said we should stop.”

“If I hadn’t said that, would you have stayed?”

The question hangs in the air. Your silence is answer enough. Leon’s mouth on your tits had been more than enough to convince you to stay, the memory of his clothed cock pressed up against your panties making you bite back another whine. His hand has begun to slide to your leg, smoothing up over your skin and under your skirt.

“Tell me,” Leon coaxes, his fingers grazing your panties, “would you have stayed?”

A strangled gasp is your response as he presses the pads of his fingers up against your panties. Leon lets out a low laugh, landing a soft kiss to your neck, his fingers rubbing at your cunt through the fabric of your panties.

Your head tips forward, forehead pressing against the door and mouth opening in a silent moan when Leon rubs faster. He trails kisses down your neck before nuzzling into the crook of it, pressing you against the door harder to grind his cock into your ass.

“C’mon, baby,” he urges again, “I wanna hear you say it.”

“I- I hate you,” you grit out but you rock your hips across his hand anyways, wanting more friction against your pussy.

Leon clicks his tongue, drawing his fingers away.

“Ngh- nooo,” you whine, trying to get his hand back to where you want him to touch you, “Leon!”

It’s too late though, Leon’s already unlatched himself, taking a few steps back to put some space between you two. He shoves his hands into the pockets of his shorts, pursing his lips as he stares down at you.

“You’re a piece of shit, Leon.”

“You know, that makes me less inclined to want to touch you.”

“Fine,” you say, throwing your hands up, “I’ll just do it myself.”

“W- what?” Leon blurts out, gaze fixated on the sway of your hips as you push past him. He watches as you settle down onto his couch, your head tipping back as your hand disappears under your skirt and slips past the band of your panties.

A soft sigh escapes you when you touch yourself, eyes fluttering shut. You’re wet thanks to Leon, body squirming as your fingers circle your swollen clit to find some relief. 

“Fuck,” Leon hisses, watching as you masturbate on his couch without a care in the world. His cock throbs painfully and he’s dropping to knees before he can stop himself, hands grabbing at your legs.

“No,” you glare at him when he tries to pull your panties down, swatting his hand away.

“Please?” he pleads, eyes darkened with lust, “baby, please? I- I just wanna see.”

“‘m not your baby,” you grouse, trying to shove his face away as your fingers slide through your slick folds.

“You could’ve been,” Leon mutters.

He looks a little bitter and you raise your brows in question. “You hate me.”

“No I don’t,” he replies, nuzzling into your knee, lips pressing against your skin in a gentle kiss, “I want you.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” you murmur, rolling your eyes when he manages to capture your wrist in his hand, stopping you from pushing him away. A soft gasp escapes you when he curls his arms over your thighs, spreading you open for him.

“Been wanting to fuck you ever since he brought you ‘round,” Leon whispers, peppering kisses to your inner thighs, “you’re so pretty.”

You mewl, hips bucking as he pulls your panties down your legs. Leon’s eyes darken as your fingers move, spreading apart the folds of your pussy so he can get a good look.

“Fuck,” he groans, “pussy’s so fucking wet, baby.”

Your fingers run through his soft hair, pulling his head closer. Leon goes more than willingly, his tongue lolling out to lick a stripe up your pussy. He lets out a guttural moan, arms tightening around your thighs, hands disappearing up your top to squeeze at your tits as he all but shoves his face into your cunt.

“You- oh- you should apologize, Leon,” you whisper, pushing his head away when he tries to suck your clit into his mouth. “You didn’t like any of my outfits and you were mean.”

“Are you serious?” he asks, trying to nuzzle back into your pussy.

You nod, and he groans, half-lidded eyes never straying from your leaking cunt. 

“‘m sorry,” he breathes out, inching closer and managing to land a soft kiss to your aching clit, “‘m sorry, okay? I was an asshole and fuck-” Leon shudders, nudging past your hand to kiss your clit again as his eyes meet yours, “I didn’t him to want to see you like that, all pretty and dolled up.”

There’s a strange fluttering sensation in your chest, heart skipping a beat at his confession. You stare down at him, letting him kiss your clit one more time before you rub your fingers through your folds, pressing your slick fingers against his mouth. Leon moans, mouth opening, sucking your fingers into his mouth, swirling his tongue around them.

“Don’t stop,” you mumble when Leon licks your pussy again.

He hums, squeezing at your tits, fingers pinching and tugging at your nipples as he eats you out. Soft mewls spill from your mouth, hips rocking to meet his mouth, back arching to press more of yourself against him.

You jerk in his grasp, an involuntary twitch running through your body when he strokes the pad of his thumb over your clit gently, his tongue burying itself inside of you. 

“Leon,” you whine, tugging at his hair while your head tips back, “‘m close.”

He doubles his efforts when you say that, pinching your nipples roughly as he slurps and sucks at the wetness of your pussy. The sounds are lewd, the soft smack of his lips around your slick folds and aching cunt making you flush.

“Taking my fingers so good,” he whispers, pushing two of his fingers inside of your cunt and cooking them so that they brush against your sensitive spot.

You fist his hair tighter, moans growing louder as he fucks his fingers in and out of you, his mouth latching onto your clit, tongue flicking and stroking across the swollen bud before sucking hard.

“Ah!” you squeak out, shoving his face further into your cunt, thighs trapping his face and squeezing tight as you cum, body shuddering and toes digging into his back, “Leon!”

Leon groans into your cunt, taking your orgasm eagerly, sucking and licking at your wetness, drinking it down. He huffs a breath when you try to push his head away, moving your hand away to lick over your pussy despite your twitching thighs and the painful grip you have on his hair.

He pulls away finally with a kiss to your clit, grinning up at you, his eyes hazy with lust. The lower half of his face is wet and Leon licks his lips before leaning towards you, his nose nudging against yours.

“Kiss me, sweetheart.”

You whine, arms wrapping around his neck to pull him closer. He stares up at you, lips parted and you lower your head, hesitation and guilt forgotten as you press your lips against his. Leon lets out a contented sigh, his arms wrapping around your waist, lips moving against yours eagerly.

He gets off of his knees and crawls on top of you instead, hips slotting between your thighs. Your legs wrap around his waist, kissing him languidly and gasping into his mouth when he grinds his clothed cock against your bare cunt.

“Want it?” he whispers, trailing kisses down your neck, “want my cock, baby?”

“We- we shouldn’t,” you whisper weakly, watching as he sits back to pull his shirt up over his head.

You gulp nervously when you see his bare upper half, cunt clenching at the sight of his muscled abdomen and thick biceps. Leon ignores you, his lips slotting over yours again, hand caressing your waist soothingly.

A sigh leaves you, hands smoothing over his shoulders to pull him closer. He stares down at you, panting softly, his face pressing into the crook of your neck.

“You’re right,” he murmurs.

Neither of you make any moves to detach from each other however, Leon’s hand stroking over your hair as he grunts and rocks his hips against your cunt again.

“Just- shit- just the tip,” Leon offers, groaning when he feels your hands on his chest, “just the tip, baby.”

You whimper into his mouth when he kisses you again, fingers creeping down to pull at his shorts impatiently. 

“D- doesn’t count if it’s just the tip,” you agree breathlessly, hand wrapping around his fat cock.

“Yeah,” Leon says, his voice shaky, “yeah, doesn’t hah- doesn’t count if it's just the tip.”

Leon mutters out a curse when your thumb swipes over the sensitive head of his cock, kissing you roughly as he grasps his cock, pumping it a few times. You watch, flushed and eager as he presses his cock against your folds, rubbing it against you.

“Feels so fuckin’ good,” he snarls, moving his cock and slapping it the tip of it against your swollen clit, smearing pre-cum across your folds. “‘m gonna make you forget about him,” Leon slurs, “gonna make you mine, sweetheart.”

He presses the tip of his cock into you and you whine, clawing at his biceps, feeling the initial stretch of his cock. Leon grunts, his face pressing back into the crook of you neck, fucking you shallowly.

“Bet my entire cock would feel good,” he mumbles, kissing your neck, “wouldn’t that be nice, baby? My fat cock filling you up?”

“But- but we can’t,” you babble, gasping when he pushes his cock in a little more, “Leon- oh fuck-”

Your words die on your tongue when Leon drives his hips into you, cock filling you up completely. A strangled moan leaves you, head tipping back as you cry out, Leon groaning as he pounds his hips into you.

“Take it, sweetheart,” he grunts, hand smoothing over your hair as he kisses your cheek messily, “doing so good, made to take my cock, my sweet girl.”

The praise is making your eyes roll to the back of your head, legs tightening around his hips as your nails claw down his back.

“Kiss,” you whine, lips parting for Leon, “kiss me.”

Leon lets out a low growl, his lips crashing onto yours, cock dragging in and out of your clenching walls rapidly. The sounds of your skin clapping together fills his apartment, but you’re too cockdrunk, too utterly gone to have any care in the world. All you can think about is his weight on top of your body, his lips dragging across your skin, his cock pounding into you.

“Squeezing me so tight,” Leon moans, “gonna make me cum, baby.”

You nod rapidly, cunt clenching around him as the coil of pleasure in your stomach grows tighter and tighter.

“Leon!” you wail, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes, body twitching.

“Cum,” he grunts, squeezing your hips tightly, “c’mon baby, cum on my cock. Be a good girl and cream my fucking cock.”

His lips slot over yours and you whimper, kissing him back needily as you shake in his grasp, orgasm racking through you as you cum. 

“Fuck-” Leon whispers, feeling the clench of your cunt around his cock, “baby, baby, baby.”

His hips stutter, his head falling between your breasts, soft pants filling the air as he cums. Leon’s hot cum floods your pussy, another whimper escaping you as you feel his cock twitch. 

You both lay there, chests heaving.

“I hate you,” you whisper, running your fingers through his soft hair.

“Yeah,” Leon rasps, “I know.”

He kisses you anyways. 

-

Your boyfriend’s been promoted.

It’s how you find yourself here, latched onto his arm as he talks with his colleagues with a tight smile on your face. Unfortunately for you, Leon happens to work at the same place which is why you spend most of your time trying to avoid him.

You’d tried to get out of attending the anniversary dinner, too ashamed and sick to your stomach, but your boyfriend had pleaded with you, which had only made you feel guiltier.

You can’t escape Leon’s gaze either. His eyes bore into you no matter where you go in the spacious venue and it gets to the point where you’re telling your boyfriend that you need to get some fresh air. There’s a fire escape and you take your chance, pushing past the heavy door to suck in a deep breath of the cool night air. The expanse of the city lies out before you, buildings lit up and roads bustling with traffic. You rub your aching temples, eyes squeezing shut. 

Unfortunately, you don’t get to cool down for long, not when Leon’s joining you. He looks as handsome as ever, especially in a suit, his hair combed back neatly.

“Hey, sweetheart.”

“Go fuck yourself, Leon,” you hiss out, pointing your finger at him accusingly.

A lazy grins spreads across his face, his arm curling around your waist to pull you flush against him. Your hands land against his chest, breath hitching when he lowers his head, the tip of his nose brushing yours.

“Fuck me yourself, hm?”

You end up bent over the railing with Leon’s fat cock stuffed inside of you. He grips your hips roughly, groans as you cry out into the night, peppers kisses over your shoulder and shoves his fingers into your mouth while he whispers sweet nothings to you. 

“You’re my girl.”

[digitald0rk]

TEAR YOU APART

pairing : sinister! mark grayson x afab! florist reader.

synopsis : in which mark discovers your dirty little secret and decides to help you recreate it in real time.

(18+) warnings : kidnapping. nasty petty perv mark. allusions to cannibalism. mention of kinda gory violence. hair pulling. biting. mean name calling duh. giving each other head. p in v unprotected sex. creampies. marathon sex as in multiple orgasms. squirting. overstimulation . . . ++ just really nasty smut lol [ all consentual though! you two are freaks like in capital FREAKS ]

w.c : 5.5k.

notes : erm. yeah idk what possessed me to write this but lemme know what you think ! it's my first time writing smut this long and detailed [ my search history is crazy rn lol ]. let's just say this takes place in sinister mark's universe before he starts acting like a murder machine and all, so yeah :] again interactions are always appreciated, also do let me know if you think there's any warning i should add!

taglist : @vm4879bb-blog [ for the others, i wasn't sure if you guys would be okay being tagged in a fic like this so i didn't, let me know if you wanna be added tho :p ]

now on ao3 too!

he's going to kill something, or someone.

“oh yeah this? my boyfriend got it for me!”

he hears you talk about him, your lover, everyday and it annoys him deeply, the subtle furrow of his eyebrows barely noticeable but definitely there — sometimes a twitch of his eye, clear cracks in his carefully constructed facade give away his irritation if you choose to look closely.

“that reminds me, this one time he-”

he loves that pretty voice of yours — dare he say, he's grown fond of it, but he wants to shut you up forever whenever your boyfriend's name leaves your lips.

mark wants his name to be on your tongue — to be said with the same love and fondness that accompanies the name of your lover.

he tried, he really did, to give you signs — a squeeze of your hand there, a stare that can practically undress you on its own. but it seems you're oblivious to it all, or you're playing hard to get, either way his patience is running thin.

he'll get what he wants. just you wait.

every time he visits your little shop, it smells like flowers mixed with your perfume, that sweet and sugary scent with just a hint of citrus — he had asked you about the perfume you wore during his third visit, bought it the same day so he could finally get off because his imagination wasn't enough at this point, that kept him somewhat satisfied for a bit, but it wasn't nearly enough.

so when he stopped by next time, not even buying flowers to play along with whatever this is, he asked you, “where do you buy your clothes?”

you blink a couple times, clearly taken aback back by the sudden question but nonetheless, answer him — although you're not quite sure what to make of his disheveled hair and blown out pupils.

here he is, acting like a feral dog in heat, buying anything and everything that he can at the shops you frequent that resembles your clothes. and when he's back at home, he's spraying them with the perfume you always wear, rutting like a madman into the mattress as he mouths at a pink shirt — the same one you own and the one you were wearing when he first saw you, his drool leaking and staining the shirt as he holds it close to his mouth and closing his eyes, your scent surrounding him as he suckles on the chest area of the shirt, imagining it's your chest instead which has him groaning and cumming in his pants. that keeps him going for another week or so.

next thing he knows, he's acting on pure instinct and his desires — snapping photos of your panties underneath your little skirts like a fucking pervert, looking them up online so he could order them and make a mess of them. and he does, he stains each and everyone of those panties with his hot, thick cum and sometimes his spit when he imagines eating your pretty pussy out. his desires however continue to only grow.

he visits your little shop, like he always does, mentally preparing himself to not grab your throat and shove you down to make you shut up if he hears about your stupid boyfriend again.

he's being nice, can't you see? you should be thankful.

mark sees a new ring on your finger, the small silver zircon on it shining underneath the sunlight, he wonders if it's another gift from your boyfriend.

the thought leaves a bitter taste behind, regardless, he maintains his usual aloof facade, waiting for you to finish wrapping up his bouquet that he's going to end up tossing away the next day — just like the other flowers he's bought from you, they don't compare to you or your beauty, he wants you, a flower that won't rot away once he's done playing with it.

surprisingly, you don't mention the name of a certain man who he wants dead and buried six feet deep but he doesn't comment on it, in fact, a small barely imperceptible smile tugs at his lips.

he's just about to leave your little flower heaven when he hears something that makes his heart, uncharacteristically skip a beat.

“yeah i heard, i’m so sorry,” a voice, which he recognizes as your friend speaks softly, sympathetically.

“yeah, i don't know what i was thinking,” you start, “the signs were there, i just never thought he'd cheat like that,” you blink away the forming tears, “i trusted him.”

he stops dead in his tracks. that bastard cheated on you? he'll make him pay for being the reason you cry, although your tears do make his cock twitch in his pants. he'll lick them off of your face if you let him, god he really wants to.

should he simply keep your boyfriend to torture? he's sure he could lure you in with it, after all you are way too sweet for your own good.

he'll slowly tear each of his limbs apart, making sure the man hears his bones cracking and skin ripping, he'll make that fucker bleed to death. hell, he'd even record those painful, agonizing sounds that your ex would cry out, he's sure you'd cry more if he lets you hear them, maybe he just wants to see you cry — though he's sure you'll do that when you choke on his cock.

he snaps out of his little fantasy when the bell rings, indicating the opening of the door — another customer in, he sighs. he's losing it, he's not sure how much he can withstand not having you with him. but he's trying, for you.

for the sweetest girl who he can't wait to devour.

with his restraint hanging on by a thread, he steps out of your shop, his hands clenching and unclenching into fists by his sides. he needs to have you.

and that restraint finally snaps the next day when he discovers that his favorite florist is a fucking freak.

as you're tending to customers — clearly overwhelmed by their number as valentine’s day is approaching and flowers are definitely a safe option for your partner, his eyes stay locked on your laptop's screen that you had put on one of the small tables, lid only half closed, his eyes frantically scan over some of the words as he fully opens the screen, trying to stay out of your vision.

he quickly decides to go somewhere where there aren't so many people so he could take a look inside his sweet girl's sick mind. and with that he skillfully slips outside — he feels awfully excited, sneaking into the small bathroom of some shop.

and with each click of the cursor and another tab opening, he learns your most depraved, disgusting fantasies — the kind of porn you're into, your kinks and fetishes, the smut you read, all of it.

he even stumbles upon a small blog you run, oh now we're talking. each lewd image or post you've reblogged, followed by some words of “wish that was me rn”, has him hard. and these date back before your break up, meaning your boyfriend was definitely not keeping you satisfied and that has him grinning like a maniac.

oh he'll give you what you want.

he shamelessly palms himself when he finds your dairy entry with his name, rambling about how you feel guilty fantasizing about him ruining you. he would've cum right then and there if it weren't for the knocking on the door, “hey man, you mind hurrying it up?”

oh right he's still in a bathroom and not in you, like he should be.

he manages to sneak your laptop back in, thanking the absurd amount of customers mentally which helped him go in and out without raising suspicion.

he can't take it anymore, it's only been a couple hours since he's discovered your filthy secret and also saw you tearing up earlier because of that asshole who broke your heart.

he knows he's a hypocrite — he doesn't care for your dumb feelings and your big heart, okay well maybe that's a lie.

it is a lie.

and there are definitely these feelings that he refuses to acknowledge but still, the only reason why you should be crying is because of him fucking your brains out.

and so he waits, like a predator waiting to pounce — he holds his breath, watching as the sun sets and you lock up your shop, ready to go home and get some sleep but your plans are interrupted as a hand sneaks up behind you with some sort of cloth, muffling your panicked noises and before you know it you're knocked out.

it takes you hours to gain your consciousness back, eyes all heavy and mind disoriented you blink, once. then twice, your eyes widen and your mouth suddenly feels too dry. you're all tied up to a cold hard metal chair, you're only in your bra and panties, the rope is too tight, it's constricting and will definitely leave behind angry marks on your skin.

standing before you is one of your regular customers, mark. you stare at him, dumbfounded — eyes darting around to look for an escape okay to see a single door, desk and some chairs, panic settles in your bones, the coldness of the room does nothing to soothe your nerves.

you mindlessly try to shift around, a desperate attempt that leaves you wincing in pain — the friction of the thick black rope burning against your skin.

you try to speak, but nothing comes out, only a small choked sob — looking at him with those wide eyes which are brimming with tears that are oh so close to spilling and staining your cheeks, you look utterly helpless. the sight alone makes him excited.

he takes a deep breath, he wants to take his time with you, savor you. but goddamnit, if you keep looking at him like that he's sure he'll end up doing the opposite of that.

“open your mouth,” he commands, leaving no room for argument and you hate the way it sends a shiver down your spine and a throb to your core. 

you hesitantly open your mouth, with his back turned to you — doing god knows what, you try screaming for help, it is a weak attempt that makes him chuckle, “no one's going to hear you sweetheart,” he coos mockingly, “i suggest you play along if you wish to live.”

he's not joking, his voice makes it clear. 

so you reluctantly keep your mouth opened, hot tears falling down — lucky for you, he's being nice, at least for now because he brings a glass of water, holding your jaw and pouring the water in your mouth, some of it spills, the coldness of it on your bare skin making you shiver — but you swallow all he gives hastily, hoping it really is just water.

you sputter a bit of the water out onto him in surprise when he licks a stream of you tears away, his tongue hot against your skin and his spit leaving a shiny trail on your cheek. scared, that he'll hurt you because of what you've just done, you close your eyes shut as if the mere action would actually rewind back time and do something for you.

he laughs, loudly.

god, you're adorable. he could just eat you up.

“are you scared of me?” he asks, knowing damn well it's a pointless question but the genuine fear in your eyes has him reeling with joy and a desire only you, his sweetheart, can fulfill.

he puts the now empty glass of water back on a small table, “you know, you look real pretty like this,” he starts, dragging a chair to sit across you, “but i bet you'd look real pretty without anything on.”

you don't answer, you don't know how to. your eyes are still looking around the big room for any exits, any openings — he smiles at your desperation, it's cute really.

“or maybe you'd look even prettier with some blood on you hm?” his tone although amused is firm enough to leave you unsure if he's being serious or not, he drags a finger across your belly, “what if i make a cut right here?”

you immediately shake your head, trying to speak but he shuts you up by pinching one of your hard nipples through your bra, your protests die down into a small whimper — the sound has him grinning from ear to ear.

his eyes glint with something sinister that has you both scared and turned on. “i know you want this slut,” he holds your jaw harshly.

shame settles in your bones as you realize he's right.

“don't play coy sweet girl i saw all of it,” when you give him a confused look, he continues, “that little blog of yours, that disgusting shit you're into.”

oh fuck.

he sees the look of absolute horror mixed with embarrassment on your face and he tuts like he's disappointed, “dirty girl,” like he isn't the one who literally kidnapped you here.

“i don't know what you're talking about,” you both know you're lying, but sure he'll play along if that's what you want — he's feeling good today.

he reaches for your bag and rips it open — a clear display of who's still in charge here and how he definitely could kill you in an instant.

mark opens your laptop and asks you the password. you don't tell him at first as if that would change anything.

“i asked you a simple question,” he walks closer to you, grips your shoulder hard enough to make you regret your words, “or do i need to rip something else for you to answer me hm?” his grip tightens and you know he's not playing around, your voice shakes as you give him the four number pin, breathing heavily when he lets go of his hard bruising grip on your shoulder.

“good girl,” fuck him, he's doing this on purpose now! and the smug look on his face only confirms your suspicions.

he shows you the deepest, filthiest fantasies of yours that you keep tucked in your laptop, away from the world.

“what's wrong? don't pretend you're not dripping wet right now.”

again, he's not wrong.

“why are you doing this?” you ask him, still struggling a bit against the ropes that bind you.

“i wanna give you what you want,” he says, like it's the most obvious thing in the world. he also wants to make you forget about your ex boyfriend, but he's not admitting that, jealousy is a weakness. and one that he suffers from immensely.

“you what-”

“drop the act,” he huffs, irritation visible in the way his eyebrows furrow. “just admit it already. you're a sick disgusting pervert who goes prancing around like she's not thinking of having her holes filled,” he tugs at your hair to keep your head up, his eyes dark with lust boring right into yours.

“are you crazy? you fucking kidnapped-”

he cuts you off again, “so you don't want this?”

silence.

“i’ll untie you right now and let you leave, just tell me you want to leave.”

silence, again.

you're not fooling anybody.

“yeah that's what i thought,” he let's go of your hair, “the safe word is-” he mutters your ex’s name and before you can even comment on the sheer absurdity of it all, he's ripping your panties away from your throbbing pussy, groaning at the sight of your glistening wet folds, all needy just for him.

he quickly pockets the ripped panties. pervert.

“look at this needy cunt, all for me hm?” he muses aloud, spreading your legs apart and breaking apart the ropes that tried to interfere with his ministrations. he shakily inhales when he sees your arousal slowly spill out — you're so fucking wet. his heated gaze leaving goosebumps on your skin.

he presses a chaste kiss to your folds, practically salivating as he breathes you in — he's gonna end up cumming in his pants, he's dreamt of this exact moment for so long.

he gathers a considerable amount of saliva in his mouth before spitting it onto your neglected cunt which twitches at the action, the sight is downright filthy and it makes you moan.

he wastes no time — getting on his knees, licking a strip up your slit before devouring your pussy like a man starved for days, shamelessly rutting into the chair you're sitting on at your taste. you taste so good, he wants to drown in it.

he's messy and loud, your hands are still tied behind your back so you can't push his head away and grip his hair when he attacks your clit with his tongue, sucking on it relentlessly. your hips lift up and buck into his face, your noises only getting louder as he fucks his tongue into your warm wet hole. he moans at the feeling of your thighs squeezing around his head and nearly suffocating him — your walls clenching around his tongue as you cry out his name in utter pleasure.

he shoves two of his thick fingers in without any warning — a surprised small squeal leaving your lips, while his tongue works in torturous circles around your sensitive bundle of nerves and eagerly licking between your folds. your pretty whimpers are music to his ears.

clearly overwhelmed with pleasure, you make a pathetic attempt to squirm away from his touch, which earns you a harsh smack to your thigh followed by a bite — his teeth dig into your flesh, leaving behind bruising marks that will sting for days, the line between pain and pleasure blurring.

a familiar feeling settles in your belly, it only builds up as he continues to go down on you. “mark! mark! i'm i’m-” you try warning him, but his fingers only speed up, he sucks harshly on your clit, holding your hips down when you cum — your body shaking, crying out his name oh so sweetly, he wants to hear it again and again, until the only word you know is his name.

he doesn't pull away from your cunt though, drinking up every bit of your release and arousal that you offer — holding you down and forcing you to submit to the relentless pleasure he's giving you, moaning into your pussy like he's having the best meal of his life.

he doesn't let you rest, inserting another finger in — easily massaging that sweet spot that you can't reach as easily as he does.

“oh fuck!” you whine out loud, when he keeps overstimulating your poor pussy, the squelching wet noises only increasing as he eats you out. he loves the way your brain is turning to mush, mindlessly babbling his name along with your sweet noises.

and when you cum again, he still doesn't stop. 

you've lost count of how many orgasms you've had at this point, body too sensitive and shaking almost like a leaf.

with eyes brimming with seemingly never ending tears, vision practically blurry from the overwhelming sensations coursing through your body, it doesn't take him long to bring you to the edge again — except this time you end up squirting all over his pretty face, a surprised noise leaves your mouth as your body jolts hardly.

he finally pulls away. a small moan leaves your lips as you take in the sight in front of you.

mark grayson, on his knees, face all wet and drenched in your juices and his spit, breathing heavily — looking at you like he's going to eat you alive.

he's breathing really heavily, your dazed state makes it hard for you to comprehend things but you can clearly see the big wet spot on his pants. he came — from just eating you out.

“messy fucking slut,” he spanks your already oversensitive pussy making you hiss and cry out, body still quivering and twitching from that intense release.

he pushes your legs apart again, spreading your pussy open for him to see, he mutters a curse under his breath as he sees remnants of your release clinging onto the sensitive skin. he needs to get up before he ends up eating you out — as much as he would love to do that, he can't wait much longer, he needs to be buried inside that sweet cunt of yours and make you see stars.

he gets up from his knees. grabbing your hair, mark makes you lick his face clean, you taste yourself on his face and feel yourself getting worked up again. “good fucking girl, gonna put that mouth to better use, just you wait,” his hand reaches down to pinch your clit, laughing when you let out a small pained noise.

he hastily tears away your bra, the fabric discarded somewhere on the cold floor. he pinches and lightly grazes his nails against the perked up sensitive buds, making you squirm and let out small whimpers — it stings, but it also gets you insanely wet.

“look at that, pretty pussy’s practically begging to be fucked,” he bites down on your shoulder, a pained groan escapes your mouth and he bites harder, pulling away to admire the mark his teeth left.

you barely have time to look at the new addition of marks he's left on your body so far, before he's untying your hands behind your back, taking your wrists into his and pulling you down. you stumble a bit at the harsh tug — legs practically jelly from all those orgasms.

he draws you closer by your arms, manhandling you easily so you're sitting in between his open legs — the cold floor against your warm body.

“take it off,” he commands, gesturing to his pants. you hesitantly take them off, his ruined boxers coming into vision.

he's an impatient man, he always gets what he wants.

mark grabs a fistful of your hair and forces your head down onto his clothed — aching cock, making his impatience very clear.

“dumb bitch, can't do anything herself,” his tone demeaning, shutting up your protests by shoving his thumb in your mouth. he lifts his hips up to finally free himself of his boxers, his cock standing up — bobbing and leaking with pre. you gulp, eyes flitting back over to his face.

he lets out a small moan as you gather some of your saliva to spit on his hard cock, licking teasingly up his length over one of his prominent veins.

“don't be a fucking tease,” he takes ahold of your jaw harshly, tugging your tongue out before you can close your mouth — that he can't wait to be in and spits on your tongue, making you swallow it, before shoving you back a bit.

he pushes your hair out of your face so he could watch you better, the gesture so sweet and gentle — it makes you almost forget how mean he's been.

you slowly start pushing his length into your mouth, “thaaat's right, take it like the good slut you are,” his words die down into a groan as he feels your tongue swirl around his sensitive tip.

he's being nice for once, letting you take your time, your head bobs up and down as you suck him off while your hands jerk the rest of his cock that you can't fit in your mouth, tongue working against his sensitive spots.

but your mouth feels so good, so warm, so wet — his hips jerk up involuntarily, making you gag and tear up at the burn you feel at the back of your throat.

you look so pretty like this, those pretty lips wrapped around his cock, eyes glassy — don't blame him for wanting to ruin you when you look like that.

he pulls himself out of your mouth slightly — just to make sure he doesn't end up cumming too soon, before shoving himself back in, moaning in pleasure at the sensations he feels. you keep sucking, forcing all of him in your mouth, almost choking on his cock, some drool leaking out of the corners of your mouth, but it's worth it — worth those small whimpers and grunts he lets out, ones he can't hold back because of how good he feels right now, all because of you.

and when your hand reaches down to lightly toy with his balls, cupping them, he shivers and lets out a low moan of your name, without a proper warning his cock twitches in your mouth and he cums, hard — flooding your mouth with his thick salty release.

you try to swallow as much as you can but it's too much, however, mark being the fucking asshole he is, forces your head back down on his twitching cock and pinches your nose shut making it hard to breathe.

he breaks into a full blown laugh. oh how he loves the way your eyes water up — that panicked expression on your face as you struggle to breathe, some of his cum leaking out your pretty mouth, squirming and still trying to push him away. it only turns him on more, “it's rude to talk with your mouthful,” he quips, holding your gaze.

he lets you go finally and you pull him out of your mouth quickly, throat already feeling sore — you cough, wiping away his cum and your spit from your face with the back of your hand.

“you should've seen the look on your face,” he chuckles darkly — clearly pleased with himself, shifting closer to you to pin you down, wasting no time shoving his tongue in your mouth, messily kissing you. he lets you pull off his shirt, his hips buck a little when you start feeling him up.

he can taste himself on your tongue and god that only adds to his growing arousal.

he pulls away a little so he can start biting and sucking down your neck, his other hand sneaking down to tease your pussy — tracing circles onto your clit, he grinds against you, “gonna fucking ruin you for everyone else,” he bites your earlobe, tugging on it, his fingers moving to tease your other hole, “gonna make sure this fucking pussy is always full of me,” he slaps your pussy, making you cry out his name.

he quickly aligns himself with your wet entrance, taking a deep breath before nudging his tip in — shoving it all in one go, making you tremble in both pain and pleasure that'll build over time, “come on i know you can take it, isn't this what you wanted?” he coos mockingly, pressing sloppy wet kisses to your face, licking your face like some fucking dog, leaving your face covered in his spit.

as soon as your muscles relax the tiniest bit he's thrusting in and out of you like a madman — you yelp loudly, holding onto him for dear life, nails digging into his back.

“fuck- oh my god!”

the only sounds in the room are the fast wet sounds of him thrusting into you, your pussy squelching loudly at the action and your combined moans and whines.

your gummy walls clench around him harder with each thrust, his cock hitting that sweet spot so well it has you seeing stars, all you can think about is him.

“oh fuck,” he grunts into your ear when he feels you tighten around him, gripping him like a vice, “think she needs to be filled all nice and warm with my cum, don't you agree baby?” he accentuates each word with a harsh thrust, relishing the way your body writhes under him.

you nod mindlessly, desperate for that sweet release more than anything.

“aww what's wrong?” he leans down to suck on one of your nipples, pinching and toying with the other one — a choked out sob leaves your lips, you feel tears pooling in your eyes, you clench around him even harder, desperate to milk him for all he's worth. he lets out a whine when he sees the outline of his cock in your belly going in and out, fuck he's going to cum.

the movement his hips falter at the feeling of your pussy gripping him tightly, “oh fuck,” he breathes heavily, muscles tensing up a bit. he pulls out, moving you on your stomach, giving your ass an appreciative spank when you arch your back for him.

“guess she answered for you hm?”, he muses — pumping himself a few times before settling back into your warm needy cunt, “fucked too dumb to answer but can still arch your back like a needy whore? you're so fucking pathetic,” he licks over the opening of your little hole, an arm coming around to hold you in a headlock that has your vision blurry — in the best way possible. getting impatient, you try to fuck yourself back onto his length but he doesn't let you.

“nasty girl, i can feel you clenching around me” spank “you like it when i’m being mean hm?” spank “oh right you can't answer,” spank “not a thought behind those pretty eyes hm?” spank “don't worry, you don't have to think at all, you wouldn't have to, when i’m done with you.”

he starts rutting into you again, his filthy mouth doesn't stop as he dicks you down like his life depends on it. his arm around your neck — squeezing, leaving you dizzy as he pounds into you from behind like he's in heat, you've given up on trying to control your noises. he sneaks a hand down to pinch and toy with your clit — making your walls clench and toes curl and you cum for the nth time with almost a scream of his name, your body shakes vigorously as a result of your intense orgasm.

it doesn't take long for him to cum as well, especially with you screaming his name like that. with a few more sloppy thrusts he fills you up with his warm sticky white release, head thrown back as a soft whimper of your name is uttered out of his mouth.

breathing heavily, he makes sure to not waste a single drop — once again buries himself as deep as he can, admiring all the various marks that he has littered your skin with.

he pulls out after awhile, keeping your thighs apart with his rough calloused hands so he can see the sight of his cum mixed with yours leak out of your hole, shit, he's getting hard again.

he's honestly not sure if you can keep up — he doesn't want to end up hurting you- well you're his toy, nothing more than that he doesn't care if he hurts you, he really doesn't.

he wants to break you, ruin you. yeah, that's it.

his eyes definitely do not soften the slightest bit as he takes in your disheveled state, back still arched prettily for him, your ass red from all his spanking, skin battered with various marks, a proof of the intense passionate sex you two had.

but when you crane your head back, looking at him, “I can take it,” you're still trying to catch your breath, wincing a bit as you shift your body around, “give it to me mark,” you sound so sweet — swaying your hips side to side to make him give in and fill you up again.

you want him to break you.

and he does just that.

again and again, until he's sure your cunt remembers each vein and curve of his cock, stuffing your hole full to the brim each time.

so when your body finally gives out — almost passing out after another orgasm that he pulls out from you, lying on top of the only desk in the room as he drills into your cunt, he stops. pulling out and painting your tits with his release with a loud groan, his hair is sticking up in all different directions from the way you've kept pulling on it, body coated in a sheen layer of sweat — shaking as his chest heaves unevenly with each breath he takes just like yours.

he watches as your eyes close shut and you drift into a light slumber after a few minutes. his heart beating weirdly in an erratic manner, he chalks it up to the sex, although he has to admit he finds your sleepy face quite adorable, he may or may not want to hear that giggle again — the one you let out when he ended up cumming a little too fast when you praised him.

but he'll think about that when his face is not buried between your thighs, tongue sinking back into your folds — he can't get enough of you.

and with the way you whimper loudly, tugging on his hair oh so eagerly.

it seems like you can't get enough of him either.

so he'll indulge you to your heart’s content — maybe he'll save that video of him torturing your ex boyfriend and leaving him to die in a ditch for some other day.

© digitald0rk 2025. do not steal, repost or translate any of my work. want more? click here ★

[thundersoothers]

spike, the dog (still derogatory)

who: John Price x wife!reader

what: continuation of this fic and this thought about john price being a softie for his wife and the dog you found on the side of the road (y’all LOVEDDDDD this, thank u omg)

word count: 0.9k

“We are not naming the fucking dog Gremlin.”

“Pooh Bear.” 

“No.” 

You and John are sitting in the living room, staring at the dog you picked up from the side of the road a few days ago, trying to come up with a name for him.  

Convincing your husband to let you keep the dog was a challenge.  It felt like you were debating with judge, jury, and executioner.  Stakes were high.  He was sitting across from you at the dining room table, leaning back in his chair, arms crossed.  His eyes were narrowed at you and his face was expressionless, giving nothing away as you plead your case. 

Somehow, you won. 

So now, here you both are, brainstorming names to replace “Puppy”.  You’re holding the dog in your arms on the couch and John is sitting across from you in his chair. 

“And where the hell did you come up with these names?” 

“I have a list.” 

“You have a list?” 

“I have a list,” you say, “of dog names and baby names.  Every girl does.” 

And then, for just a second, the room stills. 

“Baby names?” John asks. 

A shiver runs up the bottom of your spine and you sit up a little straighter.  You feel the air buzz and John’s heavy gaze on you. 

“Yeah,” you say, glancing at John and then back at the dog in your lap.  “But—Pooh Bear?” 

After a long second, he says, “No.”

“Georgie Banks.” 

“The actress?” 

“Wha— no, fucker, Georgie Banks from Mary Poppins.” 

“… I’ll consider it.  What else.” 

“Ja’Marcus.” 

“My love,” he says, leaning forward to put his elbows on his knees and clasp his hands together, looking at you seriously.  “What the fuck are you talking about.  It’s a dog.” 

“Tra’davious.” 

“I’m making a list,” he scoffs, sitting back again.  “Jesus.” 

“It’s a nice name!” you exclaim.  “What are you gonna name him, Scout?” 

He looks at you.  

You look at him. 

“No.”  Your face drops and you almost shudder.  “No, John, that’s not even funny.” 

“Oreo?”  The corner of his mouth twitches but he quickly steels himself. 

“Stop.”  You hold the dog close to your chest, horrified. 

“Rocky?” 

“No!” 

“Buddy?” 

“John.” 

“We could just call him Puppy.” 

“What is this, Bird Box?  When Sandra Bullock named her kids Boy and Girl?  We can’t just name the dog Dog.  We would sound like neglectful parents.” 

“Your friend has a dog named Cat,” John says. 

“And that gets confusing because she just got a cat.  I think she’ll have to rename Cat.  And by Cat I mean the dog.  Jesus,” you mutter, shaking your head, eyebrows furrowed.  What a mess that would be. 

“We could name him after your team…?” you say, the idea popping into your head.  Then, you frown.  “I’m not calling him Kyle, though.  That’s too human.  Ghost?  He is—you know.”  You rub over the dog’s mangey back gently.  “A little ghastly, still.” 

“Riley?” 

“Who’s Riley?” 

“No one.”

You eye him.  “Must be one of your other wives…” 

He ignores you.  “It would inflate their egos too much.  They’re already insufferable enough.  And,” he adds, “they don’t need another reason to suck up to you.” 

“They don’t suck up to me,” you say. 

“Sweetheart,” he says.  “They suck up to you.” 

“A pun with Price?  Uhhhh… High?  Low?  Buy one get one?  Bogo?”  You hold up the dog, as if to present him.  “Bogo Price, son of Mr. and Mrs. John Price?” 

“You think you’re funny,” John says. 

“I think I’m hilarious.” 

“How about Mackie?  For Mack?  Soap’ld love that–Scottish for ‘my son’.” 

“… I’ll consider it.” 

“You did find him near Notting Hill.  Maybe Notting?” 

You shudder.  “No.” 

“Why not?” 

“Knotting.  It’s a—I’ll explain it to you later.”  

(By later you mean never.  Explaining A/B/O to your husband who doesn’t have any social media?  And has never heard of the website Ao3?  He’d have an aneurysm and then wonder why you know about it.  And you cannot have that conversation.) 

“What are the characters from Notting Hill again?” he says, scratching his chin. He needs to shave—well. You need to shave him, rather. “We just watched it.  William Thacker, Anna Scott, uh, her shit husband, what’s his name—“ 

“Jeff King.” 

“Jeff King, yeah.  King, maybe?” 

“Look at him, John.”  You turn the dog to face him.  He wiggles in your hands and yips, his tongue falling out of his mouth.  “He’s not a King.” 

He sighs and shakes his head.  “He’s not a King.” 

“What about William’s weird roommate?  Uh, Spike?” 

“Spike,” John repeats slowly. 

You nod.  “Spike.” 

You both focus on the dog. 

“I like Spike,” you say. 

“I like Spike, too.” 

You hum, considering this.  “Spike…”  You narrow your eyes and study the dog closely, holding him tighter in your hands. 

He yawns with a high-pitched whine and then hacks.  

“Jesus,” John mutters, shaking his head. 

“Better than Georgie, Banks, or Mackie?” 

“Yeah,” John says, “look at ‘im.  He’s a Spike.” 

“He’s such a Spike,” you muse.  “He’s gonna be huge, too.  I mean, look at his ears and paws–they’re already too big for him.  Shit, he’s probably gonna be 70 pounds or 30 kilos.” 

“We need to train him.” 

“Yeah.  I can hire a trainer?  Find one online.” 

“I could get a trainer from base.” 

“I do NOT want an army dog.” 

“It wouldn’t be an army dog.  It would be a dog trained by the army.” 

You eye him.  “John.” 

“Love.” 

You sigh.  “Fine.”

“Good girl.”

note: prob gonna make wife!reader and spike a universe/series bc i loveeeee them. I hope you enjoy!!!!

posted 01.02.2025.

do not repost or modify any of my original words on any other platform.

to masterlist.

[anantaru]

⚝ DAY 7 — MONSTERFUCKING/DRAGONCOCK

kinktober 2024. — masterlist | ao3

— including. — dan heng, boothill, sunday

— warnings. — fem! reader, monsterfcking, size kink/size difference, needy boyz

⚝ — DAN HENG + dragon

dan heng was looking at you utterly enthralled—majestic in a way that almost feels untouchable or unable for you to grasp on. and ugh, he does have quite a bit of energy to burn, making himself get to work when he twists his fingers into your plump flesh, kneading your ass.

a much nicer detail was that his horns gleamed under the shadowed light in the bedroom, his tail flicking in a slow, deliberate rhythm as you rest your hands within his tousled hair, holding yourself close as dan heng pumps himself slowly at first, oh yes, quite sure of himself and trying to stretch your twitching, little cunt well enough in order for him to fit entirely.

the sheer beauty of the scales gathered on his chiseled body shimmer in a soft cascade of iridescence as they sought out to reflect in your tear-stricken eyes.

almost but not quite, only when he begins to pick up on pace, shifting his hips to find that spot which you've been aching for— making you feel like he embedded galaxies and trapped them beneath your skin, panting, moaning, growling at the things your milking cunt did to him.

and when his golden eyes meet yours full of lust, dan heng groans at the desperate squeezes and the tight contraction of your walls clamping for dear life— a quiet, steady kind of warmth seeping into your bones as his hands explore your body and pull you further into him.

he holds you, finding solace that despite his impossibly big size, you curl your back into him ever so slightly, like you trusted him wholly— your cunt melting within his shaft as his touch— when you allowed it, grew more desperate, his clawing hand brushing over your shoulder, fingertips ghosting over your wrist in passing as if he fears his strength might be too much.

⚝ — BOOTHILL + cyborg

despite the cold nature of his exterior, boothill's heart—if it could be called that— was as warm as any human's, if not more.

with a gentleness that contrasted his imposing presence, he leaned closer into your warm body, his hand, though metallic, tender as it cupped your cheek before he drove into you.

it's never boring with boothill, because you never know how he's about to handle you each night.

more gentle? or a little harder this time? do not be fooled, it always starts slowly, he doesn't want to actually induce any pain on your precious body, not when he was barely a human himself anymore, his frame long since altered to appear much different.

you bite your lip, urging yourself to fight back a desperate whimper as boothill strokes himself inside of you deeply, your slick long since smeared along the length of his hard, impossibly big cock— your skin shivering at the contrast of cold metal, warm touches, filthy kisses as you failed to keep quiet, your jaw dropping open from another blow rattling through your drained frame.

"feels so- so- good," you wince, squirming as much as you could, attempting to pull him in deeper by clasping your legs around his waist, "f-faster, please—."

your legs felt like jelly— and you knew damn well you won't last, but right now it's fucking insane. you give yourself to boothill as you're being spread open wide, while also being fucked stupid and satisfied, the blood ringing in your ears walking in unison with the fast blows of his hips connecting with your pulsing flesh.

⚝ — SUNDAY + monster

to your very pretty gaze, sunday looked like something out of an ancient legend, a being sculpted from the very essence of a myth which his beauty you'd tell children about before they'd head to sleep.

for outsiders the man might appear quite dangerous, although to you there was nothing terrifying about him.

not when you loved him so dearly.

beneath the guise of elegance and power, beneath the warm voice and charming smile, you were aware there was something else— something vast, unknowable, a presence that stretches beyond flesh, which sunday would show you a glimpse of whenever his scent and kisses lingered in ways your mind couldn't fully grasp on.

should you fear it? or him?

the emotions that he set free when he played with your chest to make you feel good, lapping at your erected nipples addictively, lapping and sucking until they pulse and ache— all for him to make your pussy throb and your thighs clench together in desperate hope for sunday to touch you there as well.

it's just so good when he did it, right?— despite him being so impossibly big and almost uncomfortable. yet the fullness, fuck, the heat, and sunday didn't really have the time to go all the way in yet, but you're definitely getting all of him soon.

the sneaky changes from teasing and slicking up into your pussy each next push was so fucking subtle that you couldn't pin point how he was able to be so good at this— you immediately succumbed to the pressure, how it kept getting better and better when there was a sudden moment when sunday slips in entirely, without warning, pressing his unbearably large shaft against your velvet walls as he gets past your ring of resistance, fucking you with ease.

©2024 anantaru do not repost, copy, translate, modify

[honeywyrdie]

There's Always a Cat at a House Party

Lee Minho x Reader

summary: You've got a goal tonight - find a stranger to make out with to get over this stupid little crush you have on your roommate. You'll fail. Hard. /// word count: 6k /// genre: smut, fluff, roommates to lovers /// warnings: sloppy makeouts, cunnilingus, spanking /// a/n: grad school has been kicking my ass so I've been a lot more MIA than I've wanted to be. enjoy this little (6k) smut I wrote to experience a single drop of dopamine in all the chaos. I don't normally write Minho, so I hope I did him justice! Maybe I'll even make a part 2 to this.

(⁄ ⁄•⁄ω⁄•⁄ ⁄)⁄

I have only posted this here and on AO3 - user: spookwyrdie

18+ content beyond the cut MDNI!

You

“Minho, have you seen my black platform heels? The velvet ones with the little ankle strap?” you shout from the bathroom.

“No,” your roommate replies. “Aren’t they in your closet?”

“Could you check for me?”

The hairdryer you’re using is on full blast as you set your curls, so you don’t hear his lazy groan as he gets up from where he’s sitting. You’re getting ready to go out to a house party with Minho, and you’re on a mission this evening.

Step One: Look as alluring as possible, so you want your hair to be perfect.

Minho’s head peeks around the door frame, holding your favorite pair of fuck-me-heels in his hand.

“Are these the ones you’re looking for?” he asks.

He looks like he’s already ready to go - he’s wearing a casual but clean-cut outfit, all black with some silver jewelry. His skin always looks dewy and perfect, and tonight is no exception. Your eyes linger just a second longer than you’d like to admit to yourself.

Quickly turning back to your task at hand, you shake yourself out the small moment of awe he seems to slap you in the face with all the time. You can’t look at your friend like that, it wouldn’t be fair to him. In fact, that’s the exact reason you’re going out tonight.

Step Two: Don’t get distracted by your hot roommate you've had an unrequited crush on for a few months.

Minho and you have been living together for over a year now. It’s been wonderful, you both seem to work so well together. Ever since you’ve met, it’s been so easy to exist around each other. You both have the same social battery, he loves to annoy you and you love to annoy him right back. It’s pretty equal between the two of you since you both enjoy taking care of one another.

That’s why you feel so guilty about this little attraction that gnaws on your heart. You’re supposed to be friends - platonic, cohabitating friends. Nothing more. If you said anything or made the wrong move, it could fuck up your entire living situation, and one of the best friendships you’ve developed in your adult life.

Step Three: Get over this stupid little crush and move on.

You shut off the hairdryer, taking one last look in the mirror to make sure your curls are set before you get the rest of your outfit together.

“Yep, those are the ones!” you say, taking them from his hand. His hand connects with yours for a brief moment, sending a little flash of heat through your body. You’ve really got to get over this crush, especially if a silly little brush of his hand is driving you mad. You mentally smack yourself, and pull yourself together.

“Come hang out with me while I finish up.”

“We’ll never make it in time,” Minho says, rolling his eyes. But there’s a smirk on his face. “What will the boys say?”

“It’s a Han House Party, who cares when we show up!” you say, grabbing his wrist and dragging him towards your bedroom.

Rummaging through your closet, you pick out a few pieces that you think will work. Everything you choose is revealing but not outside of your comfort zone. You hold up a leather mini skirt and a pair of shorts that leave little to the imagination. Turning to Minho, you hold them up.

“Which one?”

His eyebrows shoot up, a look of surprise quickly morphing into one of concentration. He stares at you from where he’s laying on your bed.

“So we’re just really putting it out there this evening, huh?”

“Oh, don’t be so judgy,” you say. “I have a goal tonight and dressing like a nun won’t help.”

“I don’t know, I bet dressing like a nun will definitely get you some attention,” he chuckles.

“Be serious! Which one?”

He looks back and forth between the skirt and the shorts.

“The leather one. I like it better.”

You look down at it and nod, envisioning the outfit you’re putting together. It’ll be the perfect amount of slutty for the evening. Minho interrupts your train of thought as you start grabbing fishnets, a lace top, and a strappy chest harness.

“Why are you pulling out the big guns for tonight?”

“Minho… it’s been AGES since I’ve gotten any action,” you whine, pouting in his direction. “My dating life has been drier than the Sahara for almost a year now.”

“So, what? Your plan is to go to some party with other random strangers and use the ‘do you want to come see my cat’ pick up line?”

“The what?” you giggle.

”It’s a pick up line they’re using these days. Like ‘come back to my place, I’ve got a cat’ to get someone into bed. You know, how a year ago they were saying eating ramen was a way to ask someone to fuck.” He says with a yawn as he stretches out on your bed.

“As if,” you scoff. “I would never use Soonie, Doongie, and Dori like that! Besides, it’s not necessarily a hookup I’m looking for tonight.”

“What are you looking for?” his tone shifts, as if he’s putting an intense spotlight on you. You sigh, turning away from him towards the mirror to hold up the clothes you picked out.

“It’s been so long since I’ve kissed anyone. Like really kissed someone. Slow, passionate, a little messy. The kind where you can lose hours in that moment with another person. I miss it. The last few flings I had seemed like they weren’t as interested in that, always trying to rush into sex before I’m warmed up,” you murmur, your gaze dropping to your feet, feeling your face heat up. “It makes me feel like no one wants to spend time making out anymore.”

The room is silent for a moment and it makes you feel so exposed. You’re about to try to laugh it off when your eyes meet Minho’s in the mirror. The look he gives you is heavy, as if his eyes are holding you in place. You watch as his jaw clenches, the muscle twitching slightly with the strain. And just as quickly as you notice it, his features relax, going back to that lazy expression.

“I’m sure there are many people who would jump at the opportunity to kiss you like that,” he says slowly, eyes glued to his phone now.

You scoff, rolling your eyes. “Name a single person who wants that.”

The room is filled with that same heavy silence again.

“Exactly. So, that’s what I’m on the hunt for tonight,” you say, pulling out your makeup bag. “Just a random makeout with some stranger who I never have to see again.”

~~~

Minho

He had almost fucked up, blown his cover, let the cat out of the bag - whatever you want to call it, he had almost ruined everything in that moment. You are driving him insane. This was the closest he’s gotten to telling you how he feels. The way you’re talking about kissing someone else, finding some stranger to share a moment like that with, filled him with the sick, possessive feeling he’s had about you since you met.

Minho knows you don’t feel that way about him. The two of you have lived together for over a year, sharing a living space, bedroom walls separated by only the bathroom. He hates the part of himself that feels entitled to you, it’s not right. But he can’t stop. Minho would do anything to make sure he could hear you humming in the mornings while you shower, even if that means keeping his attraction to you a secret that burns him up inside.

He’s got a good poker face, he knows it. You haven’t noticed that for the past year he seems to stare daggers at any person that comes within 20 feet of you with that look on their face, silently making them run off. But he felt it slip for a moment tonight while he thought of you in that leather skirt with someone else's hands on your thigh.

By the time you’re ready to go, he has his mask of indifference fully in place again. He says goodbye to the cats and you both head over to Jisung’s place.

Minho has to keep his eyes on the road. He has to avoid looking at you since you walked out of your room in the outfit you meticulously put together. He’s never seen you dress like this before. In fact, he’d probably drive the car off the road if he gets distracted by your fishnets again. You’re wearing some kind of bralette that puts your breasts on display under a sheer black lace top, your legs in fishnets and the tight skirt that he picked out barely covering your ass, and those heels. Those fucking heels. All he could think about is grabbing onto them as he fucked you into his mattress.

After hearing you talk about the way you wanted to be kissed, the images barraged him like cannonfire. He wants to make you whimper into his mouth. He wants to grab onto your ass while you rut against him until you are panting his name.He wants to taste you. He wants to be the one to make a mess of you. He wants to claim you and never hear you talk about another person ever again.

But he can’t. He knows he’s too intense.

It would be unfair to you. You’ve never given him any indication that you return his feelings, so he keeps them simmering away but hidden from you.

So he couldn’t look at you on the drive. He could barely look at you when he opened the door for you when you arrived. He could tell his nonchalant act was coming off a little strong by the way you detached from his side the minute you entered the house. Winding his way through the crowd of bodies, he made his way to the cooler to grab himself a drink.

He watched as you found Felix, one of your mutual friends. He was safe from Minho’s glare since he knew Felix was not available. But Minho kept his eyes on you from afar, watching the people you would chat with, seeing the ones you’d get a little too flirty with. It made his blood boil.

“Careful now,” a voice came from his left suddenly. “She’ll think you’re mad at her.”

Jisung appeared next to him, distracting him from the raw hunger that was bubbling away in his chest.

“I don’t know what you mean,” Minho sniffed, trying to avoid the topic.

“Please,” Jisung gave him an exasperated look. “Don’t act like I wouldn’t know that face.”

“What face?”

“That face you make when you’re about to rip the throat out of whoever gets within 10 ft of Y/n.”

“I don’t make a face.”

“Liar!” Jisung laughed. “Have you told her?”

“Told her what?” He narrows his eyes at his friend. Jisung knows him better than anyone in the world, so it’s especially annoying to be dissected like this while sitting on a couch nursing a shitty beer.

“Have you told her that you’re desperately in love with her?”

Minho chokes on his drink, coughing hard.

“See?” Jisung says, sticking his chin out as he chides Minho. “If you weren’t into Y/n, why’d you spit out half your drink onto my carpet?”

Minho stands up suddenly.

“Where’s the cat?”

“What?” Jisung asks, a confused frown on his face.

“The cat, there’s always a cat at parties like this,” Minho says. “In some room, hiding under some bed, there’s always a cat.”

“Weird that you know that, but yeah, my roommate has a cat,” Jisung says cautiously. “She’s in the guest bedroom.”

“Great. See you,” Minho says as he turns and walks down the hallway to find the guest bedroom.

“Minho, where are you going?” Jisung calls after him.

“To hang out with the cat in the quiet!”

~~~

You

Has everyone always been this boring?

Your mission this evening was starting to fall apart before your eyes. Every single time you tried to find someone you thought you could spend a few hours with, there was always something that turned you off.

One guy in the kitchen was fun to flirt with at first, telling you about his job at some school, working in one of the biology labs. But he started drinking way too heavily, like he was racing head first into a blackout.

Yuck.

One girl you were chatting with on the couch was going back and forth with you about a tv show you had recently finished. There was genuine banter for a while, until you noticed that every time you made a clever joke, she’d say “wow, that’s actually funny!” in a very condescending tone.

Next!

There was one person you thought you were really starting to connect with, swapping stories about your views on the local music scene. But then they started talking about aliens, as if the aliens were hiding amongst the crowd around you.

Nope.

You sigh, tossing the rest of the drink you had barely touched into the sink. It’s been a couple of hours since you got here and you’re nowhere closer to your goal than you were when you arrived. If you couldn’t have a fun time chatting with someone, you know you’d have an even worse time kissing them. Deep down, you know you were just trying to find a band aid solution while you waited for this stupid crush on Minho to go away. He’s the only one you actually wanted to tangle yourself up with until the sun rose.

While your mind drifts to thoughts of your roommate, you realize you haven’t seen him all night. Where is he? You scan the living room, catching Jisung’s eye.

“He’s with the cat!” he shouts across the room.

“What?”

“He’s hanging with the cat. Guest bedroom! Down the hall all the way and to the left!”

You give him a thumbs up and decide to go find your favorite little introvert. When you get to the door, it’s closed with a sticky note that says “Keep the door closed! Cat inside!” Not wanting to spook either the cat or Minho, you knock softly.

You hear someone quietly curse, followed by, “Come in.”

You gently open the door. Minho is sitting on the floor in front of a couch. The cat is nowhere to be seen.

“Close the door behind you!” He whisper-shouts at you. “I don’t know if she’ll bolt or not.”

You shut the door behind you gently, locking it for good measure. “Where is the little fur baby?”

“When you knocked on the door, she ran behind the TV again. You can see her if you lean down.”

You bend over, seeing a pair of glowing eyes in the back right corner of the shelf that the TV sits on. The breeze you feel on the backs of your thighs makes you aware of how short your leather skirt is and you hastily stand back up. You smooth your skirt down before you sit on the couch next to Minho.

“Why are you hiding in here with the cat?”

Minho looks down at his hands. “I don’t know, it was just a little too much out there for me.”

“Poor baby kitty, so overstimulated you have to find the only other cat at the party,” you say, patting him on the head. He huffs out a laugh, swatting your hand away. He stands and slumps into the couch next to you, his knee lightly brushing your thigh.

“So,” he starts, leaning back against the cushions. “How’s it going out there? Anyone want to go home to see your cat?”

You playfully shove his shoulder with a laugh. But you sit there, letting silence fall again.

“No,” you murmur, looking down at your hands. “I’ve discovered that everyone kinda sucks.”

“I could’ve told you that,” he says, looking over at you, a small smile playing at the side of his mouth. “No one has caught your eye?”

“Well… no. I guess not.”

Minho frowns. The tone of your voice is tinged with sadness and he shifts closer to you.

“What’s wrong?”

“It’s just…” you start, wringing your hands together slightly. “I never expected to be this picky. Like if I can’t have a conversation with someone, I definitely can’t get physical with them. I need to know I vibe with a person so I can trust them with something more.”

You can’t look directly at him, he’s too observant. Minho can read you in an instant. He seems to know what you need before you do. When you come home from a rough day at work, he can tell by the sound of your footsteps, and often greets you with a snack. You’re afraid that if you looked at him now with his dark eyes, he’d know about the feelings for him you’re trying to bury deep down inside yourself.

“I understand that,” he says. “You want someone who knows how to make you feel safe.”

“Right, and it seems that everyone I talked to tonight had something wrong with them,” you say. You feel Minho shift even closer to you, you can feel the warmth of his body next to you. “It shouldn’t be this hard to find someone to kiss.”

There’s that strange heavy silence again sitting between the two of you. Minho opens his mouth like he’s about to say something, but then snaps it shut. He takes a deep breath. He gently grabs your fingers, fiddling with them in his hands.

“I’ll kiss you,” he nearly whispers. “I mean, if you want…”

You look over at him with a frown.

“Don’t make fun of me right now.”

“I’m not! I’ll kiss you.”

“I don’t want a pity kiss!”

“It’s not that! I... I think it would be nice. To… y’know… kiss you.”

You search his eyes for any hint of a joke. All you find is a dark pair of eyes looking back at you deeply, glittering in the low light. There’s a little edge of anxiety on his face. When did this couch get so small? You can feel your heart hammering in your throat.

“Won’t it make things weird?”

“It’ll only be weird if we make it weird,” he says, moving closer to you, eyes flicking down to your lips mere inches away. “So let’s promise it won’t get weird.”

“Okay,” you breathe. “I promise.”

“Me too,” he says, his eyes staring at your mouth as he delicately wets his bottom lip with his tongue.

He leans into you slowly, like he’s giving you every chance to change your mind.

Then his lips meet yours.

It’s so soft you could cry. The kiss is gentle and sweet with a small hint of apprehension, like you’re waiting for him to reveal the grand prank he’s pulling on you. But instead, his lips glide against yours tenderly. He presses small, slow kisses on your mouth, like he’s testing the waters by taking small sips, even if he’s dying of thirst. Your hand reaches up to cup his cheek, running your hand across his sharp cheekbone. His head tilts, leaning into your touch, as he pulls back slightly with a sigh.

“Is this okay?” he whispers against your lips.

Biting your lip, you nod with your eyes still closed. You’re worried that if you say something, the little bubble of magic in this moment will pop, and he’ll come to his senses and reject you, realizing his mistake. The worry starts to churn in your belly. His hand finds your chin, coaxing you slowly to lift your eyes and meet his gaze.

“Do you want to keep going?” he asks, searching your eyes. There is only warmth in the way he looks at you. It almost makes you feel silly being so anxious. Even if he doesn’t return your feelings, you know for certain that you’re safe with him. All of your anxiety melts away, leaving only the ache of desire in your chest.

“Yes,” you breathe against him, and pull him towards you again. “Please.”

This time, when your lips meet, you feel that spark of heat between the two of you. Your fingers find the collar of his shirt, pulling him in closer. This time, there’s more push and pull, flowing back and forth gently between you. One of his hands rests on the side of your neck, his thumb brushing over the spot just below your ear.

Your lips part as you whimper. Minho’s tongue softly runs along your bottom lip, silently asking permission to deepen the kiss. He wants to move at your pace, letting you control the speed. You surge forward, leaning over as his fingers curl in your hair. He tastes sweet on your tongue as you tangle up in one another.

Heat envelops you, the sound of your breath filling the air. You feel electrified, like there’s a live wire in your chest strong enough to power an entire city. The way your tongues move against one another, exploring each other's mouths, discovering the way the other person likes being touched.

“I need-” you start, pulling away to catch your breath. Minho’s dark eyes find yours.

“What do you need?” he murmurs as his thumb caresses your jawline.

“I need to be closer,” you say, kneeling on the couch, kicking a leg over his lap to straddle him.

“Fuck,” he whispers, gritting his teeth. “I want to touch you. Can I touch you?”

His words wash over you, a warm affection swirling together with the heady lust that’s consuming you.

“Yes,” you breathe. “Touch me. Everywhere.”

The last word tumbles from your lips with a moan as his hands splay on your lower back, dragging your body close to his as you descend onto him again.

~~~

Minho

Minho can’t believe how soft and pliant you are. In all his fantasies, he had never imagined the breathy little noises you’d make as he held your face, or how easily you’d respond to the silent suggestion from his hands on your hips. He would push and you’d move, he’d pull and you’d follow, like he was leading you in a ballroom dance.

He certainly didn’t expect how his heart would clench as you moan into his mouth when his fingers dig into the flesh of your hips. The tremor that shakes through you makes all the blood rush from his head straight to his cock. Sure, he has touched you platonically before, you’d fallen asleep on his shoulder once or twice during a movie night. He denied himself anything further, holding all of his feelings for you behind a brick wall in his chest. But tonight, you broke through all of those barriers. Minho is learning a new side of you as he runs his hands over the outline of your body, trying to memorize it.

Time seems to stop as he gets lost in you, pouring all his unspoken feelings and arousal into you slowly. If this is his only chance to have his hands on you, then he will savor every second of it. The room around the two of you fades into nothingness as he pulls you closer, wanting no space between your bodies.

Minho would never rush you, regardless of how turned on he is. You said you just wanted a night of kissing and he could give that to you. He just has to ignore the pulsing of his cock in his jeans.

He does indulge a little though. When you straddled his lap, your leather skirt bunched up around your hips. He runs his hands over your fishnet covered thighs, sliding his fingers under the hem of your skirt to push it a little higher.

His hands snake around to grab onto your ass, trying hard not to dig into the soft skin. Your head drops forward onto his shoulder with a moan as you arch your back, pressing yourself further into his grasp. He’s always loved your ass, admiring it from afar for so long. Sure, he’s never had his hands on you like this, but his eyes? His eyes have been devouring you since he first saw you.

Your hips begin to rock against Minho and he feels his mind go blank. A breath is caught in his throat as he feels the heat of you through a few layers of fabric. Fingers gripping his jaw, you wrench his head to the side, attacking his neck with your tongue. Through the haze of your lips and tongue against the column of his neck, he can feel the way your mouth curves into a sly smile.

“We shouldn’t be doing this,” he whispers when you come up for air briefly.

“Do you want to stop?” you say, pulling back slightly.

“Never,” he replies, tugging you back into him.

He can’t help it any more, his fingers grip into your ass, kneading into your plush flesh. He starts to push you down with every rock of your hips, dragging your clothed cunt across the bulge in his pants until you’re whining against his throat. The way your nails scrape against the skin of the back of his neck has his mind spinning. You wrench your head away from his neck, crashing down on him again, your plump lips landing on his.

When you bite down on his lip, he groans into your mouth. Your hands roam his body, pulling up the hem of his shirt, smoothing your palm across his stomach. Minho’s holding onto his sanity by a thread.

He’s delirious over the heat between your thighs as you grind down on him, your hips wiggling from the friction. Fingers roaming over your lace top, his fingers find the edge of the chest harness you’re wearing. It’s made from some kind of elastic material, so it stretches easily as he pulls it away from your body. He snaps it back against your chest and you squeak into his mouth. You pull away again, looking down at him with swollen lips.

“Minho!”

“What? Why else would you wear this?” he smirks at you.

You splutter for a moment, so he does it again. Pulling the elastic back further this time, holding it taut for a moment. He searches your eyes as you look back and forth between his eyes and his hand. After a heartbeat of thinking, you nod your head.

The snap on your skin makes you whine, trying to hold it back by biting your lip. Minho grabs the strap once more, but this time he uses it to maneuver your body, pulling you suddenly back down onto him. You lean down to kiss him again, but his hand firmly holds you an inch away.

“Don’t you dare hold back any noises,” he says, leaning in like he’s going to capture your lips. Just as you start to surge forward, he pulls away once more. “They’re mine.”

You whine in frustration, one hand grasping the hair at the nape of his neck and drag his head back. He moans, loving this side of you, something he had only ever dreamed of before. Your lips messily clash once again, the air in the room feels like it heats up between the two of you. He frantically finds the little clasp of your harness and quickly unhooks it, bunching up the fabric of your shirt in the process.

You lean back, wrenching the lace over your head, pulling away your bralette at the same time. Your breasts spill out and Minho looks at you in awe. Before he realizes it, his mouth wraps around one of your nipples while his hands go to knead into the soft skin of your breasts. His eyes never leave your face as he watches you press your chest further into him, throwing your head back with a gasp. His tongue traces a path back up to your neck, grazing his teeth over the sensitive spot below your ear. He can feel your pulse as he lays his tongue flat on your throat.

“Can I taste you?” he asks, voice muffled by his lips never leaving your neck.

“What?”

“I need to taste you. Here.” he says, slipping it between your thighs. He gently places a hand on your pussy. His heart starts racing with anticipation as he feels how wet you already are between your legs. “Will you let me?”

You pull your bottom lip between your teeth and nod.

Minho pinches your nipple lightly, just enough to make you hiss.

“Words. I need the words.”

“Fuck, yes, I want your mouth on me,” you whine, rocking your hips slightly on his hand. He grins, tugging you down to kiss him again. This one is less crazed, he feels like he’s trying to communicate all his unsaid feelings with just his actions.

You start to move off of him and motion to lay down on the couch on your back.

“Wait,” his voice has a tinge of command in it.

You pause, body obeying immediately. With a smile, Minho clenches his jaw again and takes a deep breath. “On your knees.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean,” he says, grabbing your waist, “I want you on your knees. Face down, ass up.”

He flips you so you’re facing away, pushing your head down on one of the couch cushions. Your hips wiggle again, rocking back and forth in the air, seeking out any sort of touch. Minho has to collect himself before he does anything. Having you presented to him like this, with your deep red panties and fishnets, he’s about to shred your clothes with his teeth.

Minho grabs onto your ass, kneading the flesh harshly in his hands. Taking his fingers, he hooks them on your fishnets right near your panties. Jerking his hands quickly, he tears them open. The ripping sound makes you quiver.

He gets gentler now, caressing your thighs and cunt, dragging his lips and tongue along your ass cheeks. He can see the wet spot you’ve formed on your panties. Leaning forward he presses his tongue flat against it, chuckling as your whole body jolts.

“That good, huh?”

“Shut uppp,” you whine, burying your face into the cushion.

Minho pulls your panties to the side and spreads your cheeks, admiring the view. He feels his cock twitch in his pants. With you moaning into the pillow, pussy wet and on display, he fights the urge to fuck you right then and there. This is about you and he knows it’ll be a thousand times more gratifying to push himself to the limits of his own desire to get a small taste of yours.

The first touch of his tongue has your thighs shaking already. He takes you by your hips and holds you firm, pressing his face further into your cunt. You cry out when he slowly laps at your clit. Minho grunts, his lips and tongue making the lewd, wet sounds between your legs.

One of his palms finds your ass again, coming down on the flesh a little too firm. You yelp, clenching around his tongue. He’s too drunk off the taste of you, he doesn’t realize he practically spanked you. He pulls back to apologize but you cut him off.

“Harder…” you cry out.

“Harder?”

“Minho, don’t fuck with me!” You’d almost sound angry if you didn’t moan half of your sentence. He loves hearing his name spill out of your mouth like that. He’d do anything to hear it again.

“Like this?” He asks, before pulling back and landing his hand on the exact spot that was already starting to bloom with heat. You moan again, pulling your lip between your teeth to try and stifle the volume.

“Now, what did I say earlier about holding back on those noises?” Minho jeers at you. He leans back, smacking the other cheek, watching the way it rebounds against his hand. Each new hit has you whining and jerking your hips away then immediately pressing back into his hand. He lands a few more swats, feeling the heat from your skin, massaging gently as you catch your breath.

When he dives back into you tongue first, his eyes roll back from how you’re dripping with arousal. The slick sound of his mouth on you that fills the room is only interrupted by the occasional slap of his hand and your whining. As his tongue bombards your clit, he feels the tremors that roll through you as you rut back against his face.

You’re babbling, the words barely being strung together are a litany of please, fuck, and Minho. Your nails claw at the fabric of the couch as he holds you firm, rolling your hips fervently into him.

”Minho! I’m -!” You say, gasping.

Your body tenses, no sound coming from your open mouth. Your eyes squeeze shut and he feels the fluttering muscles of your orgasm as it rocks through you. He doesn’t stop, even once you start shaking, your voice rasps out of you through your moans. He only lets up once you’re writhing in his arms, laughing to get away from the stimulation.

Minho sits back, your body gently collapsing against the couch. He watches as you twitch every few seconds from the aftershocks of your climax, trying to regulate your breathing. He coos at you, massaging your limbs, caressing your skin.

“Come here,” he says, half picking you up, hauling your body towards him. He wraps his arms around you, pressing your face into his chest as he leans back on the couch. “You’re okay, I’m here.”

You start to come down off the frenzy and your breathing regulates. Minho idly presses a few kisses into your hair, pressing his cheek against your head. His cock is straining against the material of his pants, especially now with your body weight on top of him. But that doesn’t matter. Being turned on is nothing compared to the way his heart is soaring just sitting here and holding you like this in his arms.

The possessive feeling he’s had over you feels contented. You’re his. The two of you can talk about it later, but he knows you’re his.

He’s been yours since he first laid eyes on you, so it’s only fair.

“Minho that was…” your voice rasps out of you from where you’re buried in his chest. “That was exactly what I needed.”

He smiles against your hair, pressing another little kiss on your head.

“I’ve been wanting to do that for a while,” he murmurs against your scalp.

You shift to look up at him. “For how long?”

”Longer than I want to admit right now,” he says. Minho takes in your appearance- lips swollen from kissing, hair mussed up, makeup smeared from pressing into a pillow. His chest fills with pride. He did that to you. You’ve never looked more beautiful than you do right now, all fucked out and looking up at him with sparkling eyes. “We can chat about that later though.”

You nod and lay your head back against his heart. It’s nice just sitting here in the quiet. Who knows how much time passes, Minho just likes feeling you in his arms, drawing lazy little circles on your bare back. The two of you must have been quiet for long enough that the house cat pokes her head out briefly from her hiding spot.

You giggle, startling the little thing back into the safety of being behind the TV.

“Minho.”

“Hmm?”

“So there are these cats I live with…” you say, a sly little lilt to your words. Minho can hear the smile in your voice. “Do you want to come back to my place and see them?”

[pedgito]

𝐎𝐏𝐄𝐍 𝐖𝐈𝐍𝐃𝐎𝐖𝐒 | Joel Miller x reader

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summary | Joel's a pain in the ass neighbor, but fortunately he's fond of you. Alternatively, Joel's a creep and you're definitely into it.

author's note | my entry for my womb mate @chaotic-mystery's challenge WIRED 4 YOU. I got Joel Miller, Uh Oh by Tate McRae and a fucked up thought process & a special thank you to my love @gracieheartspedro for looking this over.

content warning | 18+ MDNI, dubcon, no outbreak au, age gap, joel calls you kiddo, creepy borderline pervert!joel, protective!joel, reader is in college and living with a handful of roommates, mentions of partying and hook-ups, we're very sex positive here, voyeurism level: extreme, joel being an absolute fiend, masturbation, public sex, fingering, (1) one slap to the face, subtle breeding kink, creampies, unprotected piv, corruption kink

word count — 8.3k

It’s downright insidious, freaky—the chances of your upstairs bedroom placed directly opposite of his.

Joel Miller, your neighbor. 

The old, crotchety man who’s called the cops on the house five times within the first month of moving in.

You and your small group of friends, three other girls, decided to rent the place out for the second half of your college semester. Better commute, spacier than the cheap accommodation dorm rooms.

And this was the first weekend you’ve actually been able to settle, the inevitable party streak seeming to wane as classes ramped up and work seemed endless.

Joel works weird hours, too—so you’ve noticed. 

Like, there isn’t a sturdy schedule to his job, coming and going as he pleases.

But now, you’re face to face with the gap between your houses holding the tension, spotting the man responsible for you having to charm the town sheriff every weekend. You’ve got it down, obviously. You’re touchy and sweet and laying it on thick before he’s forgetting what the call was even for. 

It never worked, but he still did it.

You’re halfway through pulling your shirt over your head, cloth tight against your chest with your arms through their designated hole when he turns his head, thinking it was a trick of the light—no, it was just him.

You flip him off boldly and refuse to wait for a reaction, swiping the curtain closed before you’re tugging the shirt over your head the rest of the way.

It seemed your luck that you would end up sharing a window with him—praying that the sight of him would be few and far between.

—

As your luck would have it, you saw him again.

And again, until your animosity had melted to a simple acknowledgement, still full of disdain—he’s always freshly showered when you see him, spotting the wet mop of hair even from a distance. 

You try to ignore how his eyes start to linger.

He knows you can’t be that naive, but you don’t offer any signs, curtains often parted as you changed in the comfort and privacy of your own room.

Joel knows it's wrong, but he’s growing curious.

You weren’t like the other girls; not accompanying them on their rowdy nights out or stumbling up to the front door after a late homecoming and not passing out on his front lawn either. 

Though, you are kind enough to wake your friend up the following morning with a disgruntled expression and a slowly cooling cup of coffee in your grip. Patience wearing thin as you attempt to lead them back in the house.

You liked to party and you liked to have fun, but you had a limit—a hard one that you didn’t break, refusing to let distractions steer you in the wrong direction.

But, the reality was that Joel couldn’t stand any of you.

Maybe it was the gap in age, growing up in different times, spending your twenties in a much different manner than he would have. 

Regardless, he could eat shit.

You’re so hopeful of avoiding him for the handful of months you had left on your lease that you swear you’re dreaming when you hear his voice carry up the house from your front door, raised and rather crass for such an early morning after a long night of dealing with rowdy twenty-something year olds with less sense than you.

The birds weren’t even fucking chirping yet.

“Why the hell are we arguing this early in the morning?” You crease, rubbing at tired eyes as you blindly step down the stairs, turning the corner to see your roommate nearly nose to nose, always combative and never one to stop and think.

You loved her, but fuck.

“One of you little shits fucked up my truck,” He griped, thumb jutting angrily over his back, “I need the information for my insurance and this one’s decided violence is easier than cooperatin’—better yet, I’ll just call the damn cops.”

“Woah—wait,” You interject, yawning as you gently pull your friend away from Joel before giving her a look of pathetic plea, hoping she’d scamper off.

Fortunately, she does.

“God—what is it with you and cops, dude?”

Dude? Joel hadn’t heard that one yet.

“Who’s car is it?” He presses, arms crossing over his chest in an authoritative manner that shouldnt intimidate you, but it does, “It’s the one at the end of the drive with the dent on the bumper,”

You peer over his shoulder with a sudden disbelief, eventually reaching out to shove him aside because there is no way…

“Those bitches,” You hiss, “they took my car?”

He knows you’re not asking for an answer, your thoughts becoming audible at the sheer disbelief.

They seemed to take the mantra of sharing everything to a literal sense, forgoing even asking if you were alright with it after you had turned in earlier than the rest of them.

You knew what would come, pitiful excuses masked with fake apologies—it never failed.

We didn’t want to wake you.

It was an accident, swear.

I’ll cover the cost, don’t worry.

“Trouble in paradise?” Joel tries to tease at your expense of misery, running your fingers through sleep-tousled hair before you mirror his position, arms crossed over your chest as you scowl, doing the mental math over the cost.

“Fuck you,” You bite, “I’ll bring the shit you need over later, but for now, I’m going back to sleep.”

“Hey, that ain’t how this works, I need it n—“

“I’m good for it,” You cut him off, not allowing him a word in edgewise before you’re gone, door slamming in his face.

It’s only minutes after you’re gone and Joel is reluctantly turning back toward his house that he realizes you had bested him, forcing him to walk away empty-handed.

And frankly, Joel didn’t like that.

–

He liked it even less when you showed up five hours later looking like hell, the beginnings of spring prickling the air with the sun beating down in the cul-de-sac but the cool breeze satiating the heat. He looked you over, silent judgment in his gaze that made you want to slap him.

He’d probably press charges.

“Slept good, huh?” he drawled.

“Haha. Very funny. Here.” You shoved the folded piece of paper, all information required for his stupid insurance claim, glaring begrudgingly,. “This wasn’t my fault.”

“Was your friend's fault, though—maybe you should keep a better eye on ‘em,” Joel reprimands, “A house full of ya and you aren’t keeping tabs on who’s comin’ and goin’ in your car?”

“I was asleep—and you—mmm, you know what, no—” You laugh to yourself, holding your hand up defensively before you shake your head, “I gave you the info, file your little claim and fuck off. Also, calling the cops isn’t working. So, maybe…I don’t know? Give it a rest?”

There’s a pause where Joel sizes you up, a smirk twitching at the corner of his mouth, as if he’s savoring the way he can needle you.

“We’re one call away from me offering to fuck officer friendly and accuse you of harassment,” you snap at him, hating how smug he looks, “Is it the noise or are you just so old and miserable you can’t allow anyone else to enjoy anything? No one else is calling the cops.”

To be fair, you kept things at a respectable volume inside–however, the capacity in the house occasionally overflowed and you could only contain so much, the responsibility and leadership always defaulting to you.

“Yes, because I’m a miserable old man,” Joel says flatly, “That’s why.”

He crosses his arms and leans against the sturdy frame of his front door, not at all moved by your outburst, letting the silence stretch until you’re squirming beneath his gaze.

“Jesus, you’re such a prick,” you mutter.

You roll your eyes and start stomping towards your house, and even with your back turned, you can feel the weight of his stare burning into you. You flip him off for good measure, aware of Mrs. Madison across the street curious as she waters her petunias, a look of distaste at your sudden outburst.

That’s when you see the new detail: the side mirror on his truck is held together with duct tape. 

You almost feel bad—you didn’t see that much damage after the mess of last night; whoever was responsible did a number backing into it. But, as quickly as the guilt consumes you, it dissipates. 

Joel could stay in his disdain as long as he wished even as the sway of your hips burned themselves into his memory, tongue filling his cheek before he slipped back into his house.

Both of your reprieves come as school busies your days and work occupies his own, in and out of the house without much of a word or glance, the rowdiness now few and far between, but not the visits—occasionally it was the same boy, a few times before another one inserts himself into the mix, and a few girls. 

At first he assumes you may have downgraded your house parties to smaller get-togethers in hopes that Joel wouldn’t call the cops anymore—which truthfully, he does stop. Only as his workload has increased, his mind occupied and less time spent at home—he finally catches sight of you after two weeks of near silence, it’s through the window of his bedroom into yours.

Joel’s breath catches when he realizes you’re not alone. There's a guy, unrecognizable, only his arms visible as you’re nearly naked and strewn out on your sheets, your bra clad against your breasts but your legs bare and parted, hands curled around your thighs and a head working furiously under the guide of your hand.

He watches you throw your head back and laugh, a pure elation. 

He rubs his eyes, certain the late hours must be playing tricks on him.

You’re in his goddamn head, he thinks.

But, what really grabs his attention is your slightly opened window, the sound from your room filtering into his own, through the screen, the shadow of the curtains and his dark room keeping him hidden but he can hear you. See you.

An itch tangles deep in his chest, something raw and consuming trying to claw its way out.

The moans and giggles tangle in his mind like vines, wrapping tighter with every glance. The days pass in this strange voyeuristic rhythm; more nights than not, Joel finds himself watching, captive to your parade of lovers, growing jealous of the returning faces.

He tries to tell himself there isn’t anything wrong with what he’s doing—it was you leaving the window open, you keeping the lights on for him, curtains parted for him, but the build-up eventually makes him cave and the stress from work leads him to palming his cock on a night when you’re climbing on top of your chosen suitor, breasts on full display and bouncing with a delicious rhythm, and Joel’s hardly hidden now, resting back in his desk chair with his jeans pushed down just enough to tuck his briefs underneath his balls, drawn tight as he fisted his cock.

His hand is rough and calloused, opposite to the way he imagines yours might be if you’d ever stoop to touching him this way. The thought is absurd. Dirty. 

He needs your soft hands on him.

It only makes him buck harder into his palm, sweat pouring down his chest and every muscle strung tight with need. Your moans slip through the open window, finding him in the dark of night like a searchlight.

He pretends you know he’s there—wants him to hear, wants him to see—imagines your eyes on his cock as he grinds his palm over the head, his thumb slipping over the slit and suddenly he’s spilling over his hand with a pathetic grunt, breathing out shakily.

It really has become his routine.

When he gets home late at night, it’s the first thing he checks for: the light in your window.

Sometimes it’s on and you’re alone, studying on your bed with a face of focus, brow drawn in tight as you tapped away on your laptop, but the release you crave is never far away. If Joel watches long enough, eventually you succumb to your own insatiable need, pulling out the small, handheld toy from your dresser and locking your door, afraid your friends might interrupt the precious time but not giving half a shit about your open window or the man watching carefully from across the way.

Then it’s just you and the feeble little toy, and Joel can’t look away.

He can’t do anything other than wish he could give you what it does—what it never seems to: the satisfaction his big, experienced hands would. He watches you edge yourself repeatedly, almost to the point of pain, whining and gasping as you work yourself up, on the brink of the release that only a real cock could give. His.

You drive him mad this way.

He fucks his palm until he sees stars some nights, every part of him feeling feral and raw with need, but it’s never quite enough.

You have to know—with him easing up on calls and complaints, rarely heard or seen, giving you the peace you craved as you settled back into your schedule with school and focused on the necessary parts of your life.

It’s his secret, he’d die with it. With as much sin as he’s committed in his lifetime, there wasn’t guilt so much as shame, but you were just so goddamn tempting.

-

The next conversation you have with him is tense, a culmination of events rising to a nasty head of anger and frustration, all the while unfoundedly attracted to the way he asserts himself. 

It’s pathetic, really.

But, you couldn’t help it—it was kinda hot.

Joel likes to smoke on his porch at night occasionally, with summer in full swing and his yard giving him the perfect view of the nightly neighborhood entertainment, he seems to examine the scene critically, that permanent scowl on his face.

Truthfully, you’re thankful the partying has died down and often found the house emptier than normal as your roommate had started to find fun outside of the comfort of home, often leaving you alone—that is, relatively speaking.

Joel’s come to memorize a few names, the one that stands out most is Dean.

He’s a confident little shit, all suave and little empathy, he’s seen him treat you roughly in a few ways but more importantly, he’s an asshole. He’s the same kid he’s caught kissing another one of your roommates behind your back—a classic dick move, but breaking your heart?

Well, Joel wasn’t going to stand for that.

He had to protect his girl—even if you had no idea what that meant to him and his nightly meet-ups with his bedroom window. Joel waits until Dean is alone and your front door is slammed shut after a tense exchange of words and the inevitable fuck you—that you’ve mastered throwing at Joel plenty of times—slips out.

Joel emerges from the shadow of the porch with an air of defiance, cigarette dangling from his lips, eyes full of skepticism and Dean is on the defense almost instantly. He’s seen Joel before, always perturbed by his presence.

Dean spins around as he approaches his own car parked at the end of your driveway, face already sour. “You got a problem, old man?”

“I don’t wanna catch you back over here,” Joel explains, approaching with a slow reverence, the hand not occupying the cigarette stuffed into the front pocket of his jeans, “that clear?”

“You think you’re some big protector, huh? She doesn’t need you to fight her battles. She’s fine.” Dean retorts, a forced bravado floats from his chest to his mouth, dismissive of how poorly he had treated you about five minutes prior—how easily the words selfish bitch had flowed from his mouth.

“You leave and don’t come back—I see you around here again and I’ll snap your ass like a twig, got it?” Joel threatens, tapping out the ash over the cement, his face unnaturally relaxed.

“Whatever,” he scoffs, shaking his head, “she isn’t worth this shit, anyways.”

With Dean, you weren’t all that upset.

He ghosted you completely, but he was already on his way out.

Then, there’s a small illness that spreads on campus, leading to a week off strictly online classes that comes as a welcomed break, spending extra time outside as you lounge in gaudy furniture your landlord had left behind, a thick chair that reclines and swivels, curled up in the seat as you work your way through an assignment as Joel’s truck roars up the street and into his driveway, toolbox clutched in his hand as he fished for his keys at his front door.

It wasn’t that Joel had been kind to you as of late, but rather less…frustrated?

He smiled on occasion, filtered through misdelivered mail and stuffed it into your mailbox instead of approaching your front door with annoyance, hell—he even apparently offered to clean up the front lawn last weekend while he mowed his own, knowing that none of your girls even owned a lawn mower.

There had to be a catch.

When he catches you looking, he raises a hand in a half-wave, and you feel an unexpected flutter.

What the fuck was that?

It happens a couple more times, no words, just a simple exchange.

Your roommate, Julia, catches it one morning.

“How’s your boyfriend?” she teases as she passes by, raising her eyebrows suggestively.

She’d yet to have a run-in with Joel, unbothered by his presence and rather clueless.

“Please,” you snort, “he’s like fifty.” But there’s no denying the strange gravitational pull you feel, like the man has some secret to him that you want to discover—curious to what has changed.

Days slide by, punctuated by Joel’s presence.

You’d spent the last few days waiting for it—the favor he’d ask for in return or some comment about how you’d better not let the weeds get out of control again, letting the overgrown grass put a bad mark on the neighbors' normally well-kept lawns. But there’s nothing. 

Absolutely nothing.

Friday afternoon, Joel was back on his porch, quietly watching your house while pretending to tinker with something wrapped in a blue tarp in the back of his truck. You pretended not to notice at first, keeping your head bent over your laptop like it was giving you the meaning of life instead of a LATE warning on your English assignment. 

What did this guy want?

Later that evening, you watch him sand down a piece of wood against a table on his porch, lost in his work. You and your roommates had already enjoyed dinner for the night and cleaned up, the rest of them retired to their rooms but here you were, approaching Joel.

The sun bakes the street, turning everything into a mirage of heat waves and distant hums of cicadas. An impulse catches you; before it fully registers, you’re already at his driveway with a couple cold beers clutched in hand, one already open and half-empty.

“Hey,” you called. Joel squinted up at you like he wasn’t sure who he was looking at for a second before his eyes landed on the beer, even more confused, “—it’s a peace offering.”

“Alright,” he responds slowly, unsure as he reaches for the bottle and twists the cap off with a natural strength, “what’s the catch?”

You shrug and Joel hides his instinct to let his eyes fall upon your breasts as he takes a sip and tilts his head back, wanting to reprimand you for wearing such a revealing top despite the sweltering heat, almost like you were begging him to look, sweat clinging to your chest.

“No—no catch, just…never got to thank you for the lawn,” You tell him, spotting the newly replaced mirror on his truck, “Oh, finally got it fixed?”

Joel turns back over his shoulder and nods, eyes squinting as he spotted the still very visible dent to your car, “Can’t say the same for you—some friends you got,”

“We’re college students—we’re broke,” You reply with ease, “It’s just a dent, anyways. It still drives and—”

“I can try and fix it,” Joel offers, “Next weekend, if you’re around,”

“Aren’t I always?” you tease, testing the waters, a flirtatious smile forcing its way onto your face but you catch it at the last second, reprimanding yourself over it.

What were you even doing?

“Seems that way,” Joel decides, taking another long swig of the beer and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand—he’d know.

Well, it was decided.

 And it seemed after a month of tense interaction, things were finally settling. Joel was less tense, you were less combative. It was great.

Curiosity wins, though. It always does.

Joel doesn’t mean to interfere. Really, he doesn’t. 

But when he’s heading out to his truck Saturday morning, grabbing the tools to approach your front door and start working on your car, a familiar guy slips out your front door, tall and lanky—hair mussed, shirt wrinkled, looking a little too smug for Joel’s liking—he can’t resist.

It’s the same spiel that Dean got, though slightly more effective, filling the younger boy with fear.

It’s only when he glances back toward the house and at the living room window—he sees your narrowed eyes watching him through the glass—that he realizes you saw the whole thing, filling you with a rage you’ve never felt before.

And even moreso, there’s no smile this time—just a quiet challenge in his gaze that makes your pulse skip. Joel knew exactly what he was doing.

“Asshole,” you mutter, slipping on your shoes before bursting out the front door. Joel’s at the curb, hands stuffed in his pockets, like he’s waiting for you to come storming over, the remnants of your friendship dissipating as the car speeds away.

“What was that?” you demand, crossing your arms tight.

He shrugs, a maddening little smirk pulling at his lips. “Who was that?”

You nearly choke on your response. He doesn’t deserve an explanation. 

Instead, you jab a finger in his direction, eyes narrowing as you move into his space, his head turning to squint off into the distance before you let the urge take over and unfurl your hand to smack his across the jaw, the sickening crack catching Joel off-guard.

 “How long have you been doing that? Fucking with my friends?”

Joel looks amused. “The fuck are you talkin’ about?”

Friends—alright, sure, he thinks.

Joel catches sight of your wrist as it winds back again, his fingers wrapping around it with ease and tight, a silent warning, you ask through clenched teeth “Do you do this with everyone? Is it some kind of hobby? Being a shitty neighbor? Or are you obsessed with me?”

“Obsessed? Oh, kiddo,” Joel laughs, a low rumble that you feel in your bones. “You think pretty highly of yourself.”

Your stomach flips, and not in the way that you want it to. “Says the guy who can’t keep his nose out of my business. I don’t need your help.”

“You should stay outta trouble,” Joel suggests

"He’s not trouble," you shoot back. "And I don’t need you to play watchdog for me."

“Are you sure about that?” Joel flicks an eyebrow, the challenge in his voice making your skin prickle.

“Is that a threat?” you ask tensely, attempting to wretch your hand away and failing.

"Wasn’t a threat," Joel says, voice dropping lower. "Just know you like to push buttons. Seem real fond of keepin’ your curtains wide open at night." His head tilts slightly, "Almost like you want someone watchin'."

The connection clicks in your mind after a moment, turning to catch the open panels of your bedroom window in the space between your houses before your eyes lock on him, the realization hitting you like a ton of bricks.

“You’ve been watching me?”

Joel chuckles, his grip easing enough to let you pull free. “Not like you’re makin’ it hard.”

“You’re sick,” you spit at him, heat rising in your cheeks.

“Maybe you’re the one who needs help,” Joel counters, taking a step back. “Or, maybe it’s attention.”

The words sting, and it takes everything not to lunge for him again. “You’re disgusting.”

“I’m just being honest.” He shrugs, and it infuriates you how little he seems to care.

Your mouth works around a reply that won’t come out right; all that escapes is an angry huff. 

Joel can see it simmering underneath, the realization that he might be right.

“Lemme show you somethin’,” Joel suggests, nodding toward his house.

“You’re out of your fucking mind,” you say, but there’s hesitation in it, a crack that Joel doesn’t miss.

“And you’re curious,” He’s already heading toward his door, leaving you to decide if you’ll follow.

You know you shouldn’t. 

You know this is the worst idea.

But you can already feel the pull—of him—and it’s stronger than anything else.

You trail after him, every step a little betrayal of your better judgment.

Quietly, you follow him into his dark living room and up the stairs, met with a half-open bedroom door that he spears wide with his fingers, footsteps following quietly behind as he leads you to the inevitable window in his room that peers right into your own.

“There’s something wrong with you.” It comes out weaker than you intend, unable to meet his eyes as your fingers wrap over the edge of the windowsill, his presence lingering behind.

Joel just steps aside, gesturing toward the view. “Then I guess there’s somethin’ wrong with both of us.”

You stare through the window into yours and your breath catches. An unmistakable pang hits you when you see it—how clear the sight is in your own room, how well he must have seen everything. Heard everything. You couldn’t remember the last time you actually closed it, annoyed with the constant stuffiness.

“Seems like you want me watchin’,” Joel says, there’s a taunting edge to his voice, but it’s laced with something else you can’t decipher

“Or maybe you’re just lonely,” you suggest, turning to him.

“Maybe,” Joel responds cooly.

“So just like that? You spy on me?” you accuse, but there’s less bite in it than before.

Joel’s grin is slow, infuriatingly confident. “Just lookin’,” he says. “Didn’t think you’d mind much—’round here when we want privacy, we’re intentional about, we don’t leave our windows open while we’re naked and moaning for half the neighborhood to hear,”

The embarrassment hits you quick, palms sweating at the mention as you look away and back out the window, feeling Joel move closer.

“I didn’t think—”

“Yeah, you didn’t think.” he cuts in, but he’s not angry. 

There’s a hint of laughter in it, and it makes you tense, but not in a fight or flight type of way, rather, anticipating his next move, expecting it.

“So, what?” you challenge, “What happens now?”

“Depends on you,” Joel says, his voice low now. Dangerous, almost. “You gonna close it?”

“What if I don’t?”

There it was.

Joel’s eyes darken with interest. 

“Then, I guess you’ll know I’m watchin’ you,” he admits, the words sending a shiver down your spine, his hand soothing the shock as it spreads over the small of your back and down, curving over your jeans as he squeezed your ass between the heel of his palm and fingers, “that alright with you?”

Your heart hammers in your chest as you turn to hold his gaze, feeling the heat of him so close. 

It’s a game—a risky one—and he’s playing it well. You’re hooked, unable to challenge him.

Now that he’s presented you with his reasoning, his motives, you’re entranced. 

He’s always had a rugged way about him, devastatingly attractive despite his age—not that had any affect anyways, but you found yourself intimidated because of it, admiring from a distance before he showed how much of an asshole he could be.

Still, you weren’t blind. 

If he was lonely, it was by choice. Not by lack of interest.

You’re aware of his wandering hands as they slide around your hips to unbutton your shorts, the zipper following quietly before the warmth of his hand is pressing against your mound as his fingers slide into the front of your underwear, simmering with the same heat as his middle finger slides through your obvious slick, a laugh catching in his throat as he crowds you against the open window, his chin hooking over your shoulder as your lips part in a gasp.

“Guess I got my answer,” he teases, voice thick with satisfaction.

You feel exposed and alive, heat pooling low and your fingers clutch at his arm, needing an anchor as your knees threaten to give way.

“You’re a real asshole, you know that?” you breathe, but the tremor in your voice betrays you.

“Yeah?” His middle finger slides up, circles slow and deliberate, “feels good, don’t it?”

His words are like a spark; you tilt your hips into him, a silent plea for more.

Joel obliges with a low chuckle, teasing you with expert precision. 

“How are they?” Joel asks curiously, unsurprisingly calm as he quietly shifts your shorts down until they fall, pooling at your ankles while he unoccupied hand squeezes at the inside of your thigh, “Do they touch you this good?”

“Good enough, they can make me come,” You admit, eyes falling shut at his practiced movements, the hand squeezing at your thigh sliding up to press inside of you, two thick fingers spreading you open while his other works over your swollen clit, rubbing in furious rhythm with his fingers

“Are you good enough, Joel?” You ask tauntingly, a small waver in your voice, “Or is that why you live alone?”

“I am, kiddo,” Joel reassures, “And I do because s’better for me that way.”

“Or you can’t make a girl come, can’t keep them around so you watch me through your window,” you explain to him, momentarily pausing as his finger rubs over your clit harshly, no circles or practiced motion, just pressure—delicious fucking pressure, “Do the neighbors know you like to be a creep?”

“I think you don’t know shit about me,” he bites, his hand moves with a kind of confident hunger, your breath hitches as you feel it building, raw and electric.

“You’re so full of yourself,” you manage, voice shaking.

“Am I?” Joel’s lips skim the side of your neck, a hot whisper against your skin as his finger presses rough and insistent. “Seems like you wanted me to see just how needy you were. Somethin’ about those boys ain’t satisfying or you wouldn’t fuckin’ be here lettin’ me touch you like this,”

He’s good—fuck, he’s good.

You can’t find the words to deny it, not when he’s curling inside you in perfect tandem with the dizzying friction on your clit. The heat is coiling tight in your belly, pulling you closer to the edge.

“Admit it,” he pushes, “let me hear what those pretty little cries sound like up close as you come around my fingers,”

You’re panting now, thighs trembling under his relentless pace.

“I—fuck—” The admission is lost in a choked moan, grabbing blindly for his wrist as your orgasm crashes into you, eyes squeezed shut as you gasp, hips moving insistently into the motion of his hands as he guides you through intensity of it, almost like he’s rocking you in place, soothing you.

“Good enough?” Joel murmurs, the cockiness in his voice matches the satisfaction flooding through you.

His fingers slide out slowly, leaving you empty but tingling with sharp aftershocks. 

He shifts beside you, smirking like the self-assured asshole he is.

“Admit it,” Joel encourages, “only time I’ve ever seen you come like that is when you’re playin’ with that cheap little toy, alone in your room.”

“Just stop meddling, alright?” you plead with him, quietly adjusting your shorts back over your hips with a small modicum of shame, but the look on Joel’s face reads as insatiable.

“I’ll keep scarin’ ‘em off,” Joel admits, “‘til you realise you don’t deserve to be treated the way they’re treatin’ you—yellin’ and sneaking around behind your back. I see everything, kiddo.”

“Well, stop,” you reply without much bite, “just—go back to being insufferable—”

Joel smirks at the small revelation on your behalf, “I thought you were aimin’ for a peace offering the other day, I’m keepin’ the peace. For you and for me,”

The back and forth was pointless, you begin to realize.

Joel was a natural protector, whether you needed it or not.

–

He does keep his word, though.

It takes a week for you to face him again, but eventually you’re wandering back to his front door and accepting defeat, hushed on the fact your bedroom window has stayed closed since the day in his bedroom and not a single person for Joel to run off.

He answers the door shirtless, thin shorts hung low on his waist and the scowl you return to his own is too natural, trying desperately to stuff down your ego. He must have been sleeping, hair mused and his eyes blinking rapidly as he rubbed at his thick facial hair, scratching at his cheek.

“Whaddya need, kiddo?”

You roll your eyes and turn your head impishly over your shoulder.

Joel chuckles lightly, though tired.

You don’t even have to ask.

“Let me eat dinner and I’ll be over,” he tells you, “no plans tonight?”

“We’re all studying for some big tests coming up so no, I just—I don’t wanna look at it anymore.”

“Gotcha,” he replies easily, “go on—I’ll come knockin’ later.”

He throws the orders around with such ease, ones that you follow without argument.

Joel shows up later that night, hand rapping at the door at the same time you pull it open.

You follow him outside, listen to him explain, and then you’re turning on your heels and half a second from escaping the torture of having to be around him any longer before he speaks up and the inevitable comes out.

“Oh, you’re helpin’,” Joel explains, “get your ass back here—teach you a thing or two this way.”

“Uh huh,” you reply tersely and while it is excruciating to sit through, Joel gets the dent out and fixes your dimming taillight free of charge, that is, for the moment. He’s well-versed with cars and his hands work quickly, and frankly, the way he moves is distracting.

Annoyingly.

You can’t help staring at the expanse of his back and the taut muscle underneath, only able to imagine it and clearing your throat awkwardly as he has to repeat himself a couple times before you realize he’s talking to you again.

“Pop your trunk,” he repeats, following the order quietly before he’s stuffing a few tools in the back that has you eyeing him skeptically, “just a few things, in case you end up with a flat or something, you won’t be completely helpless,”

“O-kay,” you reply with hesitance, watching his fingers curl around the trunk as he shoves it closed, “is that all?”

“A thank you’d be nice,” Joel admits, lowering his tone as he murmurs, “fuckin’ kids these days,”

Your tongue pokes at the inside of your cheek as you approach him again, hand mirroring his as it curls around your trunk and you invade his space, nearly chest to chest as you retort, “Oh, boo-hoo,” there’s a faux frown forming, “do I need to remind you of your behavior? I think this is payment for being a total dick to me for the past couple months.”

You catch the glimpse of his hand flexing as you stand your ground, mouth opening in another sharp sting of words before his hand is squeezing at your cheeks, the curve between his thumb and pointer finger curling around your chin as he forces it up.

“I’ll scream,” you threaten, fingers twisting into his shirt as you attempt to shove him back but he’s completely unmoving, “let—me—go,”

“Do it,” he challenges, “or—I deal with that little problem you got goin’ on,”

He knows it—how unsatisfied you felt, even without having to voice it.

Your silence is the answer, slumping slightly in defeat as you wait him out.

“Let me see your hand,” he asks, surprisingly softer, his palm extending in wait.

As you offer your hand, his fingers curl around it, guiding it to the front of his cotton shorts and you can feel the heat of his cock underneath, hard against the fabric and tucked up to avoid showing the obvious arousal he was dealing with—you weren’t sure how long he’s been sporting it, but the rigidness of it has your breath catch, intimidatingly large even by the feel as your eyes flicker down slightly,

“It’s a shame,” Joel says, “how disrespectful you’re being—seems like you need to learn manners, kiddo.”

“Stop. Calling me that—” you struggle to say, the words half-daring and half-pleading. He slides his thumb down, brushing your bottom lip as his eyes flash with something dark and dangerous.

“What?” he teases, watching you squirm as he keeps your hand pinned to his shorts, “you don’t like that?”

“I’m not a kid,” you insist, trying for defiance but it comes out breathless.

He grins, and you’re startled by how it transforms his face—softening all those hard edges you’ve come to know. For a moment, there’s a flicker of sweetness before he leans in close enough for you to feel the heat of his breath, whispering low.

“Then quit actin’ like one.”

His mouth is over yours before you can find more words, catching on the gasp that slips out as instinct takes over. His kiss is rough but not forceful; it’s got a bruising sort of gentleness that makes your knees weak and you wobble slightly, his hand removing from your face as they wrap under your elbows, keeping you upright.

You’re not surprised by how quickly you melt into him. Your hand never leaves the front of his shorts despite his own hands now elsewhere, one creeping around your waist, pulling you tighter and tighter until there’s nowhere left to go.

His body is a wall, hot and solid, against yours.

Your fingers twitch where they’re trapped against him, squeezing at his shaft as your finger grazes the clothed head, weeping under the fabric, and he makes a noise in his throat that surprises you—a low, gravelly sound that sends a shiver down your spine. 

You feel that dark edge of satisfaction from him, knowing how affected you are.

 How predictable.

“Ain’t got much to say now,” he murmurs against your mouth,

His grip changes, dragging your hand up under his shirt until it’s pressed against the bare skin of his stomach. You can feel him breathing, deep and steady.

It’s not fair how calm he is while you're barely hanging on.

Suddenly, his tongue traces your lower lip and a whimper escapes you, muffled against his mouth. Joel groans, pulling back just enough to let you breathe, “Lift your dress up,” he directs, quietly guiding your chest flush with the trunk as he shuffles with the fabric of his shorts under the darkened sky, thankful the streetlights in the cul-de-sac needed a fresh set, barely buzzing.

“You’re makin’ a mess,” Joel mutters, voice low and rough. It sends you reeling, your face hot as he slides the fabric aside, parting you with his fingers, testing your resistance as you welcome the gentle press as the digits slip inside, your hand squeezing desperately at his cock, a silent plea, “we’re gonna rectify that, alright?” 

You nod dumbly, filled with an undeniable lust for him, even if you couldn’t admit it out loud.

“Ain’t got protection, do ya?” He asks, suspects, “Damn shame you’re lettin’ them fuck you like that, sweetheart,”

“It’s none—none of your business, just because I don’t doesn’t mean—”

“You lettin’ them fuck you raw?” he asks curiously, noting the way your thighs spread to accommodate another finger, you shake your head weakly.

“S’good,” he decides, “but you’re gonna let me aren’t you?”

Your nod is too quick, proudly pathetic.

“That’s right—no need worryin’ about me, right? “Cause, I’ll take care of ya,”

“I just—don’t—dunno if it will fit, Joel,” you admit and Joel chuckles, a subtle noise of agreement before he soothes your worries.

“It’s fine,” he assures, eyes locked on yours as you turn to look at him, voice both commanding and reassuring, trading his fingers for the head of his cock as he pushes you forward and forces your ass on display, pushing the thickness of himself through your folds, coating it with your slick, “You can—fuck—you can handle it.”

There’s something reckless in the way he moves—only Joel could get this from you. Only him.

He eases into you slowly, each inch coaxed through the tight resistance until he’s seated, until you’re stuffed full and squirming. His breath hitches, a low groan vibrating through his chest as he holds there for a moment, letting you adjust to the heavy stretch.

“Look at that,” he murmurs, almost to himself, a hint of pride in the words as he draws back slightly, hand bunched in your dress to enjoy the view as he rocks forward again, “Takin’ it so damn well—it’s like you were made for me.”

He builds a rhythm with each of his ragged exhales, using the weight of his body to keep you pinned beneath him, to bury himself deeper than you’ve ever felt. 

“You like this,” he decides, “no fuckin’ denyin’ it—your friends could look at those windows, open that door, and they’d catch you like this, cryin’ over gettin’ fucked just like you deserve—”

“Joel, please,” you’re not sure what you’re even begging about, but you are, gasping with each rapid thrust he makes, his fingers working in tandem over your clit like he’s done this a million times over, knowing your body better than you do,

“Could be watchin’ right now, but I know you,” he taunts, “You like being watched, don’tcha?”

You nod again, absentminded as he moves against you. There’s nothing gentle about the way he fucks you toward oblivion; it’s intense and raw, overwhelming in a way you’ve never experienced before. He’s got you teetering the line, your orgasm begging for release.

“There it is,” he says in a low rasp, feeling you clench tightly around him, “she’s beggin’ for it, you need me to fill ‘er up, sweetheart? She need to be stuffed full ‘f me?”

“Y—huh, yesyes, please,” you ramble, your eyes falling shut as your climax washes over, his finger insistent on your clit as he pumps his hips lazily, his warm seed spreading inside of you.

“I’ll take that as thank you,” Joel decides with a lazy tone, pulling out of you without warning and adjusting your panties and dress back over your body, “though—still would be nice to hear it.”

“Thank you,” you reply breathlessly, unable to meet his eye, “thank you—for…yeah, thank you.”

“You know where to find me,” Joel tells you with an amused smirk.

And unfortunately, that was often.

–

It's a bad habit—coming to Joel when you need things.

But, he just fixes the problem so easily.

Sprinklers broken, Joel’s got a tool to replace it.

Squeaky hinges? Joel’s got just the fix to quiet the insistent noise.

A hole in your bathroom wall after a fight that wasn’t your fault at all, but ultimately ended up being your responsibility to fix—well, that was a bigger ask.

And your roommates' jaws can’t even begin to remain shut as he walks through the front door on a free weekend, all of them lounging on the couch with admiration in their eyes.

There was a similar sentiment of disdain for Joel, but they could all agree he was attractive.

You tried your best to ignore the strew of late assignments that have become more and more apparent as Joel invaded your life—moments when you would try to slip away and Joel would beg for a little bit more, coerce you into staying over for the night when your mind was battling with the idea.

He was good like that, convincing you of making the bad choices you normally wouldn’t.

“Ignore them,” you tell him over your shoulder as he offers a kind wave, guiding him toward the bathroom and showing him the sizable hole in the drywall.

He whistles low, rubbing the back of his neck, "Hell of a punch."

You shrug, "You can fix it, right?"

Of course, your roommates weren’t oblivious to your growing absence over the following weeks into now, eager to ask questions but knowing you weren’t the type of person to share. It didn’t take a genius to figure it out and ultimately, they couldn’t even blame you.

It was your education and social life that had taken the hit, but for Joel, you couldn’t complain.

Given the opportunity, they would have jumped his bones just as quick, though, you’re not sure if Joel had eyes for anyone but you, always watchful even from a distance.

He still met you at his window on occasion, but you’re more purposeful with your performance.

As is he, watching as he fists his cock to your fingers spreading down the seam of your cunt, pressing the brightly colored toy inside of you wish it was him filling you out.

You always moan a little louder than necessary, letting him know just what he does to you even from afar. He’s perfect in his window—broad shoulders and strong arms flexing as he strokes himself, pumping in time with the rhythm you set. His free hand grips the frame, knuckles white like he needs the support.

The anticipation builds slowly and sweetly. You drag it out for him, teasing your clit with languid circles, hips lifting off the bed. He swears again, and you can almost taste the frustration rolling off him.

“More,” you mouth, knowing it’ll drive him wild.

He doesn’t disappoint you. 

His pace quickens, and you can see every detail—the veins in his forearm tensing, thumb swiping over the head of his cock. Your cunt clenches around the toy at the sight of his impatience.

It always ends the same way, though. Not nearly as satisfying as the real thing.

When you girlfriends catch you sneaking in late on occasion, it’s matched with a smirk that you brush off with a fond insult, an endearment you’ve all come to use out of love.

“Bitch, I swear,” you warn, “not a fucking word. I’m serious.”

“No judgement,” She shrugs, “The dick must be good if you’re leaving the house for it.”

You snort, “Fuck you.”

He’s nearly got the whole patched when you peek your head through the closed bathroom door, house empty for the evening and a curious look on your face as he peers over his shoulder, shirt stripped from his body as he wipes the sweat from his face.

You’ve got that look, one he’s come to read well.

“Can’t even wait until I’m finished?” Joel asks.

“You’re almost done,” you shrug, “finish up after.”

“Bet they’d die if they knew you were sneakin’ around for old man dick,” he taunts, settling you back on the counter as you push your spandex shorts down, spreading your legs out as he moves between them and kneels, already mouthing at the inside of your thigh, “Payin’ for my labor with this,” his fingers spread through your folds, exposing yourself to the cool air as he licks at you teasingly, “delectable little thing.”

“Bet you’d die if I stopped,” you shoot back, breathless but defiant, “fuckin’ heart attack, aneurysm, take your pick—fuck!”

His teeth nip at your clit in warning, eyes flickering up to you as they crinkled around the edges in amusement, “Quiet, unless I speak to you,”

You nod shakily, giving over to his dominance fully like you have plenty of times now.

He’s relentless, holding you right there as you twist and writhe against his mouth, hands gripping his hair to try and guide him, but he pins your hips with a low growl that almost undoes you on the spot.

“Tight little pussy,” Joel pants, thumb circling your clit while he watches intently for the next crack in your composure. It doesn’t take long before you’re clutching at his shoulders, incoherent curses spilling from mouth.

“Of course,,” Joel drawls, “can’t keep that damn mouth shut for nothin’.”

You pull him towards you, needy, as he rises to his feet, fingers hooked into his waistband as you fumble with the button of his jeans, eagerly pulling his cock from the confines, his mouth opening with another witty retort that never comes.

“Shut up,” you mutter, “just—”

He presses inside of you in one harsh thrust, your gasp cutting off the rest of your response and echoing through the house. He grins down at you, smug and rough and exactly what you wanted, your hand slamming against the mirror as you wince, his hand immediately coming up to soothe the ache.

“Shit, babygirl,” He groans, for a few reasons, “you okay?”

“Better, if you’d shut up and fuck me,” you retort, “take a lesson out of your own damn book,”

“Got it,” he agrees tauntingly, before his pace changes on a dime, relentlessly pounding into you, “not a fuckin’ word.”

And it continues like that, his gaze intense on your face and quiet aside from his occasional strained grunt, his eyes staring you down like he’s trying to challenge you, determined to win a battle you weren’t trying to fight—either way, he always seemed to win.

Because, as much as you tried to fight the urge to stay away from him.

You always ended up like this.

And bad, impulsive choices like Joel have become your new normal.

[moongirlcleo]

Fault Lines

❤︎  tags and content: One Bed Trope, Friends to WTF?, Accidental Arousal, Xavier Has Been Holding Back and It Shows, Reader Said “Tease” and Xavier Heard “Destroy”, Xavier Fucks Like He’s Got Something to Prove ❤︎  author note: check out all my fics by searching #moongirlcleo or on AO3

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

Stuck in a hotel during a snowstorm, you and Xavier are forced to share a bed. No big deal—until an innocent brush of your leg reveals that Xavier is very much not unaffected by your presence. One accidental touch turns into something else entirely, and soon enough, the bed isn’t the only thing breaking.

(Or: You tease Xavier. Xavier loses control. The hotel bed does not survive.)

The train rumbled beneath you, a steady hum that barely cut through the howling wind outside. Snow streaked past the windows in thick, blinding waves, the storm swallowing the landscape beyond. The interior of the train was warm, but a subtle chill still lingered in the air, seeping through the metal frame.

Across from you, Xavier sat with his arms crossed, gaze flickering between the datapad in his hands and the storm outside. He was composed, as always—sharp lines, cool demeanor, a presence that never quite relaxed, even in transit.

You pulled your coat tighter around you, exhaling softly. “I don’t know why they thought sending us out now was a good idea,” you muttered, watching the whiteout conditions blur past the window.

Xavier didn’t look up. “Weather patterns are unpredictable. It was clear when we left.”

“Still. I bet half the city is shutting down by now.”

At that, he finally lifted his gaze to you. “Then we’ll adjust.”

That was such a Xavier answer that you huffed a quiet laugh, shaking your head. “Of course. Adapt and overcome.”

His lips twitched—just barely—but he didn’t argue.

For a while, the two of you sat in relative silence, the train’s steady motion and the occasional muffled announcement the only things filling the space between words. It wasn’t uncomfortable, though. Xavier wasn’t the type to fill silences unnecessarily, and you’d long since learned to read the conversations in his quiet glances, his subtle shifts in expression.

Eventually, you stretched out your legs slightly, nudging his boot with yours beneath the table. “So. What’s on your schedule after this?”

Xavier glanced at you, considering. “Routine surveillance. Lower district.”

“Exciting.”

He arched a brow. “Necessary.”

You hummed, tilting your head. “Yeah, but necessary doesn’t always mean interesting.”

“I don’t need it to be interesting.”

“Of course you don’t.” Your lips quirked. “You probably prefer it when things are uneventful.”

“Efficiency is preferable to unnecessary complications,” he replied smoothly.

You smirked, leaning back. “Boring.”

He didn’t argue, but there was something almost amused in the glance he gave you before he returned his focus to the datapad.

Outside, the storm thickened. The train slowed slightly, adjusting for the weather.

You sighed, shifting in your seat. “Hopefully this place has good heating. I don’t think I’ve been this cold in a while.”

Xavier made a quiet sound of agreement, his gaze lingering on the frost-lined window. “It’ll pass.”

You nodded, watching the snow continue to fall. Something about it felt heavy, like the kind of storm that could shift plans, change trajectories. But for now, the train carried you forward, the destination still ahead.

The train groaned as it pulled into the station, its momentum slowing until it finally lurched to a stop. Outside, the city was buried beneath layers of freshly fallen snow, the streets dusted white beneath flickering streetlights. The blizzard hadn’t let up—the wind still howled through the towering buildings, sending spirals of ice and powder sweeping across the platforms.

You pulled your coat tighter around you as you stepped onto the platform, boots crunching against the frozen ground. The cold was instant, seeping through the layers of fabric like it had been waiting for you to step outside.

Xavier descended beside you, his expression unreadable as always, though you caught the subtle way he adjusted his gloves, flexing his fingers against the cold. Even he wasn’t immune to it, then.

A sharp gust of wind cut through the station, and you swore under your breath. “Damn. I think it got worse.”

Xavier exhaled, watching his breath fog in the icy air. “It’ll pass.”

“You said that an hour ago,” you muttered.

He didn’t respond, but you could’ve sworn the look he gave you held a flicker of amusement.

A moment later, he shifted slightly, turning to face you fully. “Your route takes you through the research district?”

“Yeah. Shouldn’t take long,” you said, adjusting the strap of your bag. “And you’re headed toward the lower sector?”

He nodded. “Expected to check in before sundown.”

You huffed, blowing warm air into your gloved hands. “Alright. I’ll meet you at the hotel once I’m done.”

Xavier didn’t respond right away, glancing toward the snow-covered city stretching out before you both. The station was bustling despite the weather—figures in heavy coats moving through the haze of frost and lamplight, their footsteps muffled by the snow.

Then, finally, he spoke. “Be careful.”

It was quiet, just two simple words, but something about the way he said it made warmth flicker in your chest despite the freezing air.

You smirked. “You too.”

Xavier gave a small nod, then turned, adjusting the high collar of his coat as he stepped off toward his destination. You lingered for a second, watching him disappear into the crowd, before exhaling and setting off in the opposite direction.

The storm roared overhead.

<hr>

The research district was eerily quiet, muffled by the heavy snowfall. The usual hum of city life was subdued beneath layers of ice and cold, leaving only the distant hum of power grids and the occasional flickering streetlight to break the silence.

You tightened your grip on your coat, stepping briskly through the narrow streets. The cold bit at your face, but you ignored it, focused on the task at hand. This was supposed to be routine—just a check-in with the local researchers, exchanging updated intel, and making sure all sensitive data remained secure.

Inside the main lab building, the warmth was an immediate contrast. The overhead lights buzzed, casting a sterile glow over the pristine floors. A handful of researchers milled about, all looking more exhausted than usual, their coats hastily thrown over chairs. The storm must’ve been keeping them here longer than intended.

Dr. Lian, the head researcher, barely looked up from her screen when you entered. “You’re late.”

You pulled off your gloves, rubbing warmth back into your fingers. “Blame the train. You have the reports?”

She slid a tablet across the counter. “Encrypted, as requested. But there’s been… unusual movement near the old storage facilities. Someone’s been poking around.”

You frowned. “Any breaches?”

“None yet.” She hesitated. “But I have a feeling it’s only a matter of time.”

You nodded, tucking the tablet into your coat. “I’ll flag it for review. Keep everything locked down until then.”

Lian sighed, rubbing her temples. “I’ll add it to the list of things keeping me up at night.”

You smirked. “Welcome to the club.”

With that, you left the lab, stepping back into the freezing cold. The snow was falling heavier now, thick flakes sticking to your hair as you pulled your coat tighter. You had what you came for—now, it was time to meet up with Xavier.

<hr>

Xavier moved through the lower sector with practiced ease, slipping between narrow alleyways and quiet streets, his breath fogging in the cold air.

The lower district was always unpredictable. Even in this weather, figures loitered in the shadows, half-hidden beneath hoods and coats. It wasn’t just the cold that made people keep their heads down here.

He stepped into a dimly lit outpost, the faint hum of security monitors filling the air. The contact he was meeting—a wiry man with sharp eyes and a nervous twitch—didn’t bother with greetings.

“There’s been movement,” the man muttered, pulling up a grainy feed on one of the monitors. “Near the restricted zones.”

Xavier studied the footage. Silhouettes moving where they shouldn’t be. Patterns that suggested more than just random strays.

“They’re testing the perimeter,” Xavier observed.

The contact nodded grimly. “I don’t know what they’re planning, but it’s not small.”

Xavier exhaled, rolling his shoulders. “I’ll report it.”

The man hesitated. “You think command will take it seriously?”

Xavier’s gaze was sharp. “They will.”

That seemed to settle things. The contact leaned back, rubbing his hands together for warmth. “Storm’s getting worse. You should get moving before the trains start shutting down.”

Xavier was already turning toward the door. “I have somewhere to be.”

<hr>

By the time you reached the hotel, the city was practically buried in snow. The storm had thickened into an unrelenting whiteout, the streets coated in ice, the distant hum of emergency broadcasts echoing through the streets.

The lobby was a welcome relief—warm, modern, with soft golden lighting and a quiet hum of activity as stranded travelers checked in. You sighed, shaking the snow from your coat as you stepped inside.

You didn’t have to look long to find Xavier. He was already there, standing near the front desk, his coat dusted with snow, his sharp gaze scanning the room. He looked up as you approached, his expression as unreadable as ever, though you caught the flicker of assessment in his gaze—checking for injuries, exhaustion, anything out of place.

“I take it your mission went smoothly?” he asked.

You exhaled, pulling off your gloves. “Define smoothly.”

A ghost of amusement passed through his eyes, but he didn’t press. “We should check in before the storm worsens.”

You nodded, glancing around. The hotel was filling up fast—travelers seeking shelter, some looking frustrated as they spoke to staff. You didn’t think much of it. Not yet.

As Xavier turned toward the front desk, you followed, unaware that in just a few minutes, everything was about to go very, very wrong.

The warmth of the hotel lobby did little to thaw the exhaustion settling in your bones. The storm outside had only worsened, snow piling against the glass doors as wind howled through the streets. More travelers had filtered in, their coats damp, their faces pinched with frustration as they spoke with staff.

Still, you weren’t concerned. Not yet.

Xavier stepped up to the front desk, cool and composed as always, while you busied yourself rubbing warmth back into your fingers. The receptionist—a tired-looking woman with dark circles under her eyes—offered a polite, if strained, smile.

“Welcome,” she said, fingers already moving across her console. “Name on the reservation?”

“Xavier.” His voice was clipped, efficient. “There should be two rooms.”

The receptionist’s expression faltered. That was the first sign something was wrong.

She frowned at the screen, then hesitated. “Ah. About that.”

Xavier’s brows barely lifted, but you caught the subtle way his posture shifted.

You sighed. “What about that?”

The receptionist winced. “It seems there was a… logistical issue. Due to the storm, we had several unexpected bookings. We did our best to accommodate, but unfortunately—”

A pause. A weary glance between the two of you.

“There’s only one room available.”

Silence.

You stared at her. “One room?”

She nodded apologetically. “We’re completely booked. Every available space has already been filled.”

You exhaled, slow and measured. “Okay. Fine. Not ideal, but fine. It’s at least a double room, right?”

Another hesitation.

Your stomach dropped.

“It’s a single,” she admitted. “With one bed.”

Another beat of silence. This time, heavier.

You weren’t looking at Xavier, but you felt the shift in the air beside you. Like he’d gone perfectly, painfully still.

For a moment, neither of you spoke.

Then, finally, you turned toward him. “Well,” you said, voice drier than the tundra outside. “That’s unfortunate.”

Xavier’s jaw tightened just slightly. “...Yes.”

The receptionist, clearly desperate to smooth things over, jumped in. “I truly apologize for the inconvenience. We’d offer a cot, but we’re out of those as well.”

Of course.

You dragged a hand down your face. “Right. So. One room. One bed.”

Xavier exhaled through his nose, the sharp edge of frustration barely visible beneath the usual composure. “It’s late,” he said, voice even. “We’ll take it.”

You blinked. “We will?”

“It’s a bed,” he said, tone just a little too pragmatic. “Given the alternatives, it’s acceptable.”

You squinted at him, but he was already reaching for the room key.

Fine. Fine. You could handle this.

Probably.

Without another word, you grabbed your bag and followed him toward the elevator, the tension trailing behind you both like a second storm.

The moment the door clicked open, you immediately assessed the situation.

It was a nice room—modern, warm, with soft lighting and a window overlooking the snow-covered streets. The heater hummed quietly in the corner, doing its best to chase away the outside chill.

But none of that mattered. Because the centerpiece of the room—the only piece of furniture that really mattered—was the large, singular bed pressed against the far wall.

You and Xavier stood in the doorway, silent.

Neither of you moved.

Finally, you sighed, stepping inside and tossing your bag onto the chair in the corner. “Alright. We’re both adults. This is just sleeping. No big deal.”

Xavier made a noise that sounded suspiciously like agreement, though he was still standing stiffly by the door, like he wasn’t quite ready to commit to entering.

You shot him a look. “Don’t tell me you’re the one making this weird.”

He exhaled sharply, stepping further inside, his movements precise and controlled. “I’m not making it anything.”

“Good,” you said, kicking off your boots. “Because I really don’t have the energy to sleep in the bathtub.”

He gave you a glance—flat, unimpressed. “That’s unnecessary.”

“Well, yeah, but so is sharing a bed with you.”

He didn’t argue.

Another beat of silence stretched between you before he finally moved toward his side of the room, undoing the buttons on his coat with careful precision. His gloves landed neatly on the table, his every movement deliberate, measured.

You, meanwhile, were already face-down on the bed, groaning into the pillow. “This is going to be so awkward.”

Xavier paused, then muttered, “Agreed.”

The heater hummed. The storm raged on outside. And the two of you stood at opposite sides of the room, acutely aware that sooner or later, you’d have to turn off the lights—and deal with the fact that there was, in fact, only one bed.

You exhaled slowly, rubbing your hands over your face as you sat up. The warmth of the room was helping, but the cold from outside still clung to you, a deep chill settled in your bones.

“I’m taking the shower first,” you announced, standing before Xavier could argue. “I need to thaw out before I turn into an icicle.”

He barely glanced up from where he was unzipping his bag. “Go ahead.”

You hesitated. You weren’t sure what you expected—maybe some kind of snark, or another pointedly flat agreed, but no. He was just… casually rolling up his sleeves, focused on methodically unpacking.

Right. Fine. Normal behavior.

You grabbed some clothes from your bag and stepped into the bathroom, locking the door behind you.

The moment you were alone, you let out a long breath.

Okay. This wasn’t that bad. It was temporary. Just a minor inconvenience. You could handle one bed. It wasn’t like you and Xavier were going to be cuddling or anything. You’d both just stay on your own sides and get through the night like professionals.

Totally fine.

You turned on the water, stripping off your cold-dampened clothes while the steam began to curl against the mirror. The shower was heaven—hot water rolling over your skin, the kind of warmth that made your muscles finally start to relax. You stayed there longer than necessary, letting the heat chase away the tension in your shoulders, the chill in your fingers.

By the time you stepped out, wrapped in a towel, the mirror was fully fogged over.

And yet, despite the warmth, a prickle of anticipation settled in your stomach. Because you were about to step back into that room. And Xavier would still be there.

You shook off the thought, quickly pulling on fresh clothes before running a towel through your hair. This was fine. Completely fine.

While you were in the shower, Xavier busied himself with the simple, methodical process of unpacking. Clothes folded. Gear stowed away. Weapons secured. It was a routine he could do on autopilot, a way to ground himself in the familiarity of order.

But then his communicator buzzed.

His gaze flicked to the screen, reading the message quickly.

UPDATE: Due to severe weather conditions, all travel has been suspended. No departures until further notice.

Xavier’s jaw tensed.

More than one night, then.

He glanced toward the bathroom, where the faint sound of running water still filled the room. You didn’t know yet.

He should tell you. It would be the practical thing to do. But instead, he sat down at the edge of the bed, pressing the heel of his hand against his forehead, willing away the very real fact that he was about to spend multiple nights sharing a space with you.

With you.

Xavier had trained himself well—his focus was sharp, his control ironclad. But that control had never been tested quite like this.

He was used to watching you. Observing from a distance, cataloging your habits, the way you moved, the way you felt—a presence that had long since embedded itself in his mind. It was something he could usually ignore, tuck away in the part of his brain that kept things need-to-know, classified, untouchable.

But now there would be no distance.

His gaze flicked toward the bed—the single, far too small bed.

His fingers twitched at his side.

This wasn’t ideal. But it was just sleeping. A basic, biological necessity. If he could manage high-risk operations, enemy encounters, and missions that required complete emotional detachment, then he could certainly manage this.

Except…

His mind betrayed him for a second, slipping past the carefully constructed walls. A flicker of something unbidden—the thought of you in this room, shifting under the covers, breathing soft in the dark.

He exhaled sharply. It’s fine.

The bathroom door opened, and a wave of steam curled into the room as you stepped out, dressed in warm, comfortable clothes, hair still damp.

His gaze barely flickered over you before he forced himself to turn back to his bag, fastening the last strap with precise efficiency.

You arched a brow. “You unpacked?”

“We’ll be here longer than expected.” His voice was as even as ever, though he left out the part about how much longer.

You groaned. “I was afraid of that.”

He nodded. “You should get comfortable.”

You snorted, running a hand through your damp hair. “Right. Super easy when I have to share a bed with you.”

A pause. His grip tightened slightly on the strap of his bag.

That feeling surged up again—quick, sharp, gone before he could examine it.

“...I’ll shower,” he said simply, stepping past you toward the bathroom.

And just like that, he put space between you again, slipping back into the safety of cold water and careful control.

<hr>

Xavier emerged from the bathroom, steam rolling out behind him, his damp hair slightly tousled from where he’d run a towel through it. He had changed into a black shirt and sleep pants, the kind of simple, no-nonsense outfit you should not have thoughts about—but here you were, thinking them anyway.

You quickly shoved those thoughts aside and buried yourself deeper under the covers, pulling the blanket higher like it could somehow shield you from reality. This is fine.

He crossed the room with his usual quiet efficiency, placing his folded clothes exactly where he wanted them, movements sharp, precise, completely unfazed—meanwhile, you were lying there, internally screaming.

Then came the moment you’d been bracing for.

Xavier lifted the blanket and slid into the bed.

You stared at the ceiling. He stared at the ceiling.

The bed felt smaller than it had five minutes ago.

A whole galaxy of space existed elsewhere in the room, but here, under this blanket, it felt like you were occupying the same inch of breathable air. His warmth seeped into the space between you, his presence too much despite the fact that he hadn’t even touched you.

You shifted slightly, trying to find a comfortable position.

Unfortunately, that meant accidentally brushing your foot against his leg.

It was meant to be nothing. A brief, fleeting touch. But the second your freezing toes made contact with his skin—

Oh.

You barely had time to register the fact that he’d tensed before you realized something much, much worse.

That was not his leg.

Your entire body locked up, a slow, creeping horror spreading through your system as realization slammed into you like a freight train.

Xavier was hard.

Like—no-question-about-it, very visibly affected, no way to ignore it—hard.

You stopped breathing.

He stopped breathing.

A thick, suffocating silence filled the room as the two of you lay there, perfectly still, your foot still traitorously pressed against the very real, very undeniable evidence of whatever the hell this was.

Your brain short-circuited.

Oh no. Oh no.

Your entire being screamed at you to move, to fix this, to rewind time and pretend this never happened—but it was like your body had forgotten how to function.

And Xavier?

Xavier was still not moving.

Which was somehow worse, because that meant he was actively trying not to react. And Xavier never hesitated, never faltered, never got thrown off his game.

Until now.

Very, very slowly, you retracted your foot, heat rushing to your face so fast it was a miracle you didn’t spontaneously combust.

“…So,” you whispered, voice strangled. “That’s a thing that’s happening.”

Xavier inhaled sharply through his nose, his jaw clenched so tightly you were afraid he might break a tooth.

You were about to make a joke—something, anything to cut the tension—when his voice finally came, low and dangerously controlled:

“Go to sleep.”

A pause.

Then, unable to help yourself—because you were you and your survival instincts were terrible—you murmured, “Not sure I can now.”

His fingers twitched against the blanket.

You bit your lip, glancing sideways at him. “I mean, should we—”

“Don’t.”

His voice was strained, his breathing controlled, but when you turned your head slightly, you caught it—that look in his eyes. The kind of restraint that meant he was holding back something dangerous.

Something he wanted.

And now, neither of you were pretending anymore.

You could feel the tension thick in the air, pressing down on both of you. You weren’t even sure who was going to break first.

But someone was going to.

The silence stretched between you like a drawn wire, tense and vibrating with something neither of you could ignore anymore. The heat from his body was palpable now, pressing into your side despite the fact that you weren’t even touching.

Not yet.

Your breath came shallow. You could feel the weight of his restraint, the tight coil of it in his muscles, the way his fingers flexed once, twice against the blanket like he was debating something.

You had no idea what would happen if one of you pushed just a little harder.

So, naturally, you did.

Slowly—carefully—you turned onto your side, facing him in the dim light. The sheets shifted, a whisper of fabric, and Xavier’s breath hitched.

And that’s when you knew.

Knew that he was right there, standing on the very edge of whatever this was, waiting for a single excuse to fall.

“…Xavier.” Your voice was softer than you intended, edged with something you couldn’t name.

He didn’t answer.

But then—he moved.

One second, he was rigid beside you, a locked system of restraint. The next, he was rolling onto his side, facing you fully, the heat of his body washing over you like a second blanket.

Then—his hand.

Slow, deliberate, sliding beneath the covers. His fingers brushed over your hip first, barely a touch, before skimming lower, wrapping around your thigh.

You squeaked.

That was all it took.

Xavier exhaled sharply, and then he dragged you closer, his grip firm, pressing your leg over his. The blanket shifted, tangled between you, but you barely noticed because—

Oh. Oh, he was right there.

The sharp scent of clean skin and faint soap. The warmth of his breath, slow but heavy, controlled but barely. His hand on your thigh, fingers pressing in like he wanted to memorize the shape of you.

His voice, when it finally came, was deep, wrecked.

“You keep moving closer,” he murmured, low and deliberate. “What is it you want?”

Your stomach flipped.

“You,” you blurted before you could stop yourself.

A mistake. A massive mistake.

Because Xavier laughed.

Not his usual dry, nearly silent exhale. No—this was low, amused, but dark at the edges, like he’d just been given permission to be exactly what he was.

His hand flexed against your thigh.

And then, so easily, so naturally, he rolled on top of you.

The weight of him pressed you into the mattress, slow and intentional, his knee sliding between your legs like it belonged there.

A breath. His lips ghosted over your cheek, not quite kissing you, but close enough to make your heart stutter.

Then, finally—

“I know,” he murmured against your skin.

And then he kissed you.

Xavier kissed you like he had been waiting—starving for this, for you. There was no hesitation, no testing the waters—just the sheer weight of his mouth pressing against yours, his body crowding into your space until there was nowhere left to run.

You gasped against him, and he took full advantage, slipping his tongue between your lips, deepening the kiss with a precision that made your head spin.

His knee pressed higher between your legs, parting them further, and the friction—God, the friction—made a pathetic little sound slip from your throat.

That sound?

It broke him.

Xavier growled, low and rough, and then his hands were on you—gripping your waist, your thighs, fingertips digging into your skin like he was holding himself back from something even worse.

He wasn’t just kissing you—he was devouring you.

“This what you wanted?” he murmured against your lips, voice thick, wrecked. His teeth scraped your bottom lip, teasing, before he soothed the sting with his tongue. “This why you kept shifting closer?”

Your brain barely functioned enough to register the question, let alone form a response.

You nodded—probably too eagerly—and he chuckled, dark and knowing.

“Thought so,” he muttered, dragging his mouth down your jaw, your throat, tongue flicking over the rapid pulse there.

Then, without warning—his hand slid under your shirt.

You gasped, body arching instinctively as his fingers dragged up your stomach, slow and teasing. He didn’t rush—he took his time, like he was mapping you out, learning every inch of you by touch alone.

You squirmed, half-desperate, half-mortified by how easily he had you falling apart beneath him. “Xavier—”

“Mm.” His lips brushed the shell of your ear. “Still cold?”

The bastard.

You barely had time to scowl before his fingers hooked into the waistband of your shorts, tugging just enough to make your breath hitch.

“You should’ve said something sooner,” he murmured, his voice silk and sin. “I’d have warmed you up already.”

Then his fingers dipped lower.

Your body jerked—a strangled sound leaving your throat—and Xavier just smirked against your skin, all sharp teeth and wicked satisfaction.

Xavier’s fingers traced the edge of your waistband, deliberate, teasing, a slow drag of knuckles against your hip that made your breath stutter. His body was still pressed against you, the heat of him seeping into your skin, his knee still nestled between your thighs, keeping them parted just enough to be maddening.

His lips brushed against your jaw, trailing lower, slow, like he was savoring every second of this.

“You’re already shaking,” he murmured, voice thick with amusement, with something darker. His teeth scraped lightly over your pulse point. “Barely even touched you yet.”

You wanted to snap back, say something, but the second his fingers slid beneath your shorts, all coherent thought vanished.

You gasped—your hips jerking instinctively—and Xavier made a quiet, satisfied noise, his breath hot against your throat.

“There it is,” he murmured, almost like he’d been waiting for that reaction. His fingers skimmed lower, brushing just barely where you needed them, teasing, testing, not nearly enough.

You squirmed, fingers fisting the fabric of his shirt, trying to get more, trying to—

“Ah.” His voice was soft but firm, a warning wrapped in silk. His free hand caught your wrist, pinning it against the mattress. “Stay still.”

You whimpered, half-frustrated, half-desperate, and that did something to him—you felt it in the way his body tensed, in the sharp exhale through his nose, in the way his grip on your thigh tightened.

Then, very slowly, he dragged his lips back up to your ear, his fingers finally slipping between your thighs, barely parting you.

“Good girl,” he whispered.

You whined.

Xavier chuckled—low, dark, pleased—before he sank his fingers into you.

Your back arched hard, a strangled moan ripping from your throat, and he groaned at the feeling of you around him, hot and wet and clenching around his fingers.

“Fuck,” he muttered, his control cracking at the edges. “You’re soaking.”

You couldn’t even respond, couldn’t think, not when he curled his fingers just right—pressing against that spot that made your entire body tremble.

“Sensitive, too,” he mused, voice rough, wrecked. His mouth was back on your throat, biting, soothing, ruining you. “Poor thing.”

His pace was slow at first, deliberate, making sure you felt every movement, every deep press of his fingers, every subtle shift of his wrist.

Then he picked up the pace.

And you—you came apart.

Your breath hitched, your nails digging into his arm, your body tightening around him as the pleasure spiked—a helpless, broken moan escaping your lips.

Xavier cursed softly, his hand tightening on your hip, keeping you right there, right on the edge.

“Come on,” he murmured, a dangerous promise in his voice. “Let me feel it.”

That was all it took.

The pleasure hit—white-hot, all-consuming, tearing through you like a live wire. Your body arched, thighs trembling, breath shattered as you tumbled over the edge.

Xavier groaned, feeling you clench around his fingers, riding it out, his lips pressed against your jaw, his breath ragged.

For a long moment, the only sound in the room was your heavy breathing, the faint hum of the heater, the storm still raging outside.

Then, finally, Xavier slowly withdrew his fingers.

You barely had time to catch your breath before he lifted them to his lips—watching you, watching your reaction—as he slipped them into his mouth.

Your stomach flipped.

He groaned softly, eyes dark, heat pooling behind them. “Sweet,” he murmured, almost to himself.

Your brain short-circuited.

He smirked, then leaned down, his mouth brushing against your ear as he whispered—

“You’re still cold, aren’t you?”

A pause.

Then—

“I should fix that.”

Your body was still trembling, heat coiling low in your stomach, your breath uneven from the aftermath of what Xavier had just done to you. But as he hovered over you, smirking like he’d won, you decided—

No.

If he thought he was the only one who could play this game, he was wrong.

Your fingers, still unsteady but determined, trailed down his chest, skimming over the hard lines of muscle beneath his shirt. Xavier’s smirk faltered just slightly, his sharp eyes flicking to yours, curiosity flashing behind them.

“Oh?” he murmured, voice all velvety amusement. “Feeling bold?”

You didn’t answer. You just pushed.

A sharp shove against his chest, enough to catch him off guard, enough to tip the balance—he let you roll him onto his back, his broad frame sinking into the mattress beneath you.

Xavier blinked up at you, surprise flickering across his face for half a second before it was replaced by something hungrier.

He let you do this.

He wanted you to do this.

And now that you were here? Oh, you were going to make him pay.

You straddled his hips, palms splaying over his chest, feeling the steady, controlled rise and fall of his breathing. His pupils were blown wide, his lips slightly parted—but his hands? His hands stayed right where they were, resting at his sides, like he was waiting to see what you’d do.

You smirked.

“Oh,” you murmured, dragging your nails lightly down his stomach, “I’m just returning the favor.”

His breath hitched. Barely. But you felt it.

Your fingers slipped lower, tracing the waistband of his sleep pants, feeling the sharp inhale he took as you brushed against the very obvious problem he was dealing with.

Xavier’s jaw tightened, but he still didn’t move.

So you did.

Slow, deliberate—you reached inside, wrapping your fingers around him, feeling just how thick and hot he was, how he twitched under your touch.

That was the first time you heard it—

A ragged breath.

Not controlled. Not calculated.

Just raw need.

“Fuck.” His voice was low, strained, his head tipping back against the pillow as his fingers finally clenched in the sheets.

You grinned, feeling intoxicatingly powerful.

“You are warm,” you mused, stroking him, watching the way his muscles tensed beneath you.

Xavier groaned, hips jerking slightly, his grip on the sheets tightening like he was actively fighting the urge to take control back.

“I can’t tell if you’re teasing me,” he muttered, voice wrecked, “or if you actually don’t know what you’re doing.”

Your fingers squeezed just a little harder.

His breath stuttered.

“I know exactly what I’m doing,” you whispered.

Then, before he could form a response, you leaned down, dragging your lips over his throat, biting, your hand still working him in slow, torturous strokes.

And that?

That broke him.

Xavier snapped.

His hands moved—gripping your hips, grinding you down against him, making you feel how hard he was, how much he needed this.

His lips ghosted over your ear, his voice low, wrecked, but dangerous.

“You want to play this game?” he rasped. “Fine.”

Then he flipped you again, pinning you hard against the mattress.

“Let’s see if you can handle what happens next.”

Xavier’s grip on your hips was tight, bordering on bruising as he pinned you beneath him, his body pressing into yours, heavy and hot. His breath was ragged, his pupils dark and hungry, and you could feel the exact moment his restraint snapped.

“You wanted to tease?” he muttered, his voice thick, dangerous, pressing his knee between your thighs. “You wanted to test me?”

You swallowed hard, but before you could even think of an answer, Xavier shoved your shorts down, ripping them off like they were nothing, like he had zero patience left.

“Xavier—” You gasped, your breath hitching as the cold air kissed your now-exposed skin—

But then—

Then he slammed into you.

Your back arched off the mattress, a strangled, broken moan escaping your lips as he buried himself deep, stretching you open, filling you.

“Oh, fuck—”

Xavier groaned, his head tipping back for half a second, like he was reveling in the way you clenched around him, your body squeezing him so tight he could barely move.

Then his gaze snapped back to yours, sharp and wrecked.

“You can take it,” he muttered, voice low, wrecked, a promise more than a reassurance. His hands slid under your thighs, lifting you slightly, angling you just right before—

He thrust.

Hard.

The bed slammed against the wall with a crack.

You screamed, nails digging into his back as the force of it sent you rocking into the mattress, your brain going completely blank from the sheer intensity.

Xavier didn’t let up.

He set a brutal pace—deep, relentless, every snap of his hips sending the headboard smashing into the wall, rattling the entire bed frame like it was barely holding together.

“You’re so fucking tight,” he growled against your ear, his breath hot, his voice raw. “Look at you—” Another hard thrust. Another wrecked, helpless moan from you. “—taking me so well.”

You couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think.

He had you pinned, your legs wrapped around his waist, your fingers tangled in his hair, your body shaking beneath him as he fucked you like he owned you.

The headboard cracked again, the frame creaking under the force, but Xavier didn’t care—he just kept pounding into you, chasing something deeper, something desperate.

“You feel fucking perfect,” he groaned, pressing his forehead against yours, his teeth gritted as he slammed into you again, harder, faster.

The bed frame snapped.

One of the legs gave out with a violent crack, the entire mattress tilting, sending you both crashing deeper into the ruined frame—

But Xavier didn’t stop.

If anything, it made him worse.

A feral sound tore from his throat, his grip on your hips tightening, his pace turning almost brutal as he wrecked you, fucked you into the now-broken bed like nothing else in the world existed except the feeling of you wrapped around him.

“You wanted this,” he rasped, biting at your jaw, your throat, dragging his teeth over your skin. “Didn’t you?”

You sobbed out something that was probably supposed to be a yes, but it came out as nothing but a guttural moan.

Xavier chuckled darkly, dragging his fingers between your bodies, finding your clit—

And that broke you.

Your entire body locked up, your breath catching, the pleasure slamming into you like a fucking tidal wave—

You came hard, a choked cry escaping your lips as you clenched around him, body trembling, legs tightening around his waist.

Xavier groaned, his rhythm faltering, his fingers digging into your skin as he buried himself deep one final time, his body shuddering as he came with a low, wrecked growl against your throat.

For a long moment, the only sound in the room was your ragged breathing, the faint hum of the heater, the creak of the ruined bed beneath you both.

Then—

“Fuck.” Xavier exhaled sharply, forehead pressing against your shoulder as his body relaxed, chest rising and falling with the aftershocks.

You stared at the ceiling, completely spent, still buzzing from the intensity of it all.

After a long pause—

“You broke the bed,” you muttered breathlessly.

Xavier let out a short, breathless laugh against your skin, his body still heavy on top of you. “Technically,” he murmured, voice still low, satisfied, “we broke it together.”

You snorted, too exhausted to argue.

“Yeah, yeah,” you murmured, still trying to catch your breath. “So, uh… what do we tell the front desk?”

Xavier smirked against your shoulder.

“That we need another bed.”

A pause.

Then, a wicked, dangerous glint in his eye—

“But I’ll just break that one too.”

<hr>

The room was wrecked.

The bed? Ruined. One of the legs had completely given out, the frame split, the mattress slumped at a questionable angle.

You were boneless, sprawled beneath Xavier, your body still thrumming from the absolute destruction he had just delivered. Your legs refused to function. Your lungs still hadn’t caught up.

But your brain?

Your brain had questions.

Like, for example, what the fuck just happened.

Xavier was still on you, his body warm, heavy in a way that wasn’t suffocating—just grounding. His breath was steady now, though his fingers were still absently tracing patterns into your skin, like he needed the tactile reminder that you were there.

And honestly? You liked it.

You let the silence linger for a moment, basking in the quiet hum of the heater, the faint flicker of snowfall outside the window. Then, finally, you swallowed, your voice hoarse, exhausted.

“So,” you murmured, shifting slightly beneath him, “where the hell did that come from?”

Xavier huffed a quiet laugh against your skin, but he didn’t move, his face still half-buried in the crook of your neck.

“You really don’t know?” His voice was lower now, quieter. Softer.

You blinked, tilting your head slightly to try and get a look at him. “I mean—no?”

Another beat of silence. Then, with an almost reluctant exhale, he lifted his head just enough to look at you, his sharp gaze now hazy, warm, fond.

“Because it’s you,” he said simply, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

Your breath caught.

Xavier didn’t look away.

“I’ve wanted this,” he admitted, voice quieter now, more vulnerable. His fingers traced slow, lazy circles over your ribs, his body still partially pressed against yours. “For longer than I should.”

Your heart stumbled over itself.

“Xavier—”

“You think I don’t notice?” He exhaled sharply, his thumb brushing over the curve of your hip. “The way you look at me? The way I look at you?” His voice dipped lower, his lips ghosting just barely over yours. “You think I don’t feel it every time we get too close?”

You swallowed hard. You knew what he meant. The tension had always been there, unspoken, buried beneath layers of professionalism, logic, denial.

You just hadn’t expected him to be the one to admit it first.

Xavier gave you a look, like he could see the gears turning in your head, and sighed, shaking his head. “You’re ridiculous.”

You let out a breathless laugh, overwhelmed, dizzy. “I’m ridiculous? You’re the one who broke a bed over this.”

His lips twitched—not quite a smile, but close.

“I did warn you.”

“You did not warn me.”

“Mm.” His fingers trailed up your side, light and soothing now, as if trying to calm the lingering tremors in your muscles. “Maybe not verbally.”

You groaned, letting your head fall back against the ruined mattress. “Unbelievable.”

Xavier smirked, then, without a word, rolled off of you, pulling you effortlessly with him so that you were half-sprawled over his chest instead of lying in the wreckage of the broken bed frame.

The shift was jarring—one minute, your body was still thrumming from being absolutely wrecked, and the next, you were being held.

And gently, at that.

It sent a different kind of warmth through your chest, slower, softer.

“…You okay?” he murmured, the rough edge of his voice smoothing into something almost tender.

You blinked, caught off guard by the question—by the quiet concern in it.

“Yeah,” you admitted, your voice softer now. “Just… processing.”

His arm tightened around you slightly, fingers dragging over the bare skin of your back in slow, absent motions. “Mm.”

Silence settled between you again, but this time, it was comfortable. Warm.

You shifted slightly, turning your head toward the window, where the snow was still falling outside, thick and slow under the golden glow of the streetlights.

Xavier followed your gaze, exhaling softly.

“…Storm’s still going,” he murmured.

You sighed. “Guess that means we’re still stuck here.”

A pause.

Then, very dryly—

“We should probably request another bed.”

You snorted, pressing your face into his chest to smother your laughter. “Yeah,” you muttered, muffled. “Probably.”

Xavier was quiet for a moment, his fingers still absently tracing over your spine. Then, his voice dipped lower—

“But I’m not sleeping in it.”

You froze.

Slowly, you lifted your head to look at him, your stomach flipping. “Oh?”

Xavier’s gaze was dark again, but not with hunger this time—something else, something warmer, something dangerous in an entirely different way.

“Mm.” His fingers tightened on your waist, pulling you just a fraction closer. “Now that I have you here?” His lips brushed against your forehead, light, teasing. “You’re not sleeping anywhere else.”

Your breath caught.

“…Bossy,” you muttered, feeling your face heat up.

He hummed, his smirk pressing against your temple. “You like it.”

You rolled your eyes, but didn’t argue.

Instead, you settled against him, feeling the steady rise and fall of his chest, the quiet hum of warmth between you.

Outside, the snow continued to fall.

And for the first time in a long time, you felt completely, perfectly warm.

[spencerreidenjoyer]

addicted to you | spencer reid x reader

Spencer isn’t inclined to be affectionate with you. He’s a socially awkward germaphobe, and you’re perfectly fine with it. However, being three months into your relationship, you can’t help but want more. Once Spencer gets a taste, he wants more too. A lot more.

part 1 | part 2 - insatiable

wc: 6.1k, rating: explicit/18+

tags/warnings: established relationship, first times, virgin!spencer, early seasons spencer, vaginal sex, vaginal fingering praise kink, morning wood, morning sex, sex in unconventional places (like, not in public but not the bed lol), cunnilingus, creampie, implied multiple orgasms

a/n: no excuse for this insane fic but i was strangely inspired by a post i saw on twitter that i wanted to put a lighthearted (and horny) spin on. i definitely felt crazy writing this and i feel crazy posting this now so i sure hope you enjoy this insanity! (p.s you can also find this fic on ao3!)

You don’t mind that Spencer isn’t touchy. You understand, with Spencer being a germaphobe and a little socially awkward, that he isn’t inclined to kisses on the cheek or holding your hand. You’ve only been dating for three months, and he’s already getting better at doing these things, which makes your heart sing. 

Spencer is sweet, willing to do whatever it takes to make you happy. He used to shy away from your touch, but he’s gotten more comfortable with you. He lets you hold his hand when you’re out on a date, or he’ll kiss you chastely out in public. He lets you drape yourself over him when you’re sitting on the couch together watching a show, his arm around your waist to pull you in close. 

While you can understand Spencer’s hesitance towards public displays of affection, due to his awkwardness and anxieties about germs, you’re surprised he hasn’t initiated anything more in the privacy of his apartment (or yours). You’re starting to itch for it, something more, your attraction to Spencer Reid simply too overwhelming for it to simply be sweet and innocent anymore. Your body craves him desperately, because he’s so lovely and so fucking handsome. You’ve caught yourself staring at his hands more than once.

Tonight, you decide you’ll get what you want. You’re going to fuck Spencer Reid.

With your head buried in his shoulder during movie night, your hand runs down his body, getting dangerously close to his crotch – he jumps up off the couch, almost comedic, and stares at you like your touch had burned him. He looks positively freaked out. 

“Spencer,” you say, very confused that he’s not into this. What kind of man doesn’t like his girlfriend initiating sex? Hell, what kind of man doesn’t like sex? 

“I just–” Spencer pauses, like he’s struggling to find the words. “I can’t. Not right now, I–”

“Hey, it’s okay.” You assure him. “We don’t have to. Ever, if that’s what you want.”

His eyes widen again. “No! I want to, just– It’s difficult, right now.”

You cock your head slightly. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Spencer frowns slightly, seeming to know that talking about it is the most rational thing to do, but it’s not like that makes him want to do it. “Well, I– I’ve never done it before.”

Your mouth falls open, just a little, and you look up at him. While you don’t mean to judge, it certainly isn’t surprising. Spencer was fourteen when he was starting university, and his general awkward demeanour and extreme nerdiness would likely rule out any sexual encounters for him during his time in college. Spencer’s line of work would clearly make it difficult for him to maintain a relationship – you definitely lucked out with getting to date him – and he’s too much of a softie for one night stands. So, Spencer Reid being a virgin at twenty-seven definitely checks out.

“That’s okay,” you say softly. “It’s totally normal.”

Spencer’s lips press into a thin line. “Well, you know it took me a while to get used to being affectionate with you, so I think–”

“Being intimate with someone else is going to be a hurdle you’ll need time to cross, too?” 

Spencer looks up at you, eyes wet, looking at you like you’ve read him like an open book. He whispers, “Yeah.”

“That’s okay,” you repeat, even though you’re trying to come to terms with the fact that you’re not going to fuck Spencer Reid tonight. “I’ll– We’ll take it slow, if you want to try.”

“Yes, please.” He has a small smile on his lips as he looks up at you. “I– We could try doing something tonight, too. I just– I wasn’t expecting it earlier. I’m sorry for pushing you off like that.”

You shake your head, reassuring him that you aren’t offended by it by any means. Then, you ask, “You’re sure you want to try? Tonight?”

Spencer nods, as he reaches for your hand. He holds it gently, resting it on his thigh. “Yeah. I haven’t– It’s been a long time since I’ve been with someone, but I want to, with you.”

You lean in to kiss his cheek gently. “I’m glad you trust me.”

His eyes are soft and syrupy when he meets your gaze. “Of course I trust you.”

You squeeze Spencer’s thigh before pressing your lips to his, the familiarity of kissing Spencer making you both ease up a little more. Your kiss is gentle, sweet, just like every other kiss you've shared, but you let your hand slide up his thigh as you kiss him, and you can feel Spencer tensing up under your touch. You squeeze his thigh to reassure him, and you feel Spencer wriggle underneath where you're leaning your body weight on him to loosen up. 

Your hand skirts over his crotch, a hardness under your palm that makes you feel somewhat proud of yourself. Spencer’s breathing is heavy as he keeps kissing you, and keeps letting you touch him. You think he’s so cute. You just want to make him feel good. 

You push the waistband of his sweats down, tugging him out of his pants. His cock is the same shade of red as his cheeks, his shyness turning you on extremely. 

He doesn’t look down at himself, where you’re holding him – instead, his eyes are intently focused on your face. You don’t push him about it, instead leaning forward to kiss him as you start to stroke his cock. 

This time, it feels desperate. Spencer kisses you with more fervour, like a fire’s been lit within him, the pleasure running through his veins almost like liquid courage as he kisses you deeply. You’re more than happy to be doing this, letting Spencer lick into your mouth while you jerk him off. You appreciate the weight of him in your hand, imagining him inside of you – but perhaps you’re getting ahead of yourself. 

“You can touch me, Spence,” you say, in between Spencer kissing you fervently. His hands have been cupping your face, but otherwise he seems awkward with them. You pull back slightly, and while it’s adorable that he’s still holding your face sweetly, you drag his hands down to your chest, in the oversized t-shirt you’d stolen from Spencer’s drawer. “Like this.”

Spencer’s large hands cup your breasts through the shirt perfectly. He squeezes tentatively. You bite your lip as his palms brush over your nipples, as he manhandles you just a little. It’s more force than you’re used to from Spencer, kneading and squeezing and feeling you, and that makes your head spin. 

Daringly, Spencer’s hands slip under your shirt, as he leans back in to kiss you. You feel his calloused hands on your skin as he feels you up, making you shudder. His touch isn’t demanding nor pushy, simply exploratory as he feels your soft skin under his fingertips. 

Your arousal is pumping through your system, Spencer’s gentle submissiveness like a drug you can’t kick. The more you touch him, the more he reacts; touching you more, whimpering and gasping against your lips, into your neck.

“Come on, baby,” you coo in his ear, your hand speeding up on Spencer’s hardness. He’s leaking pathetically, wet in your palm, and he squirms underneath you. 

“I’m– It’s too–” Spencer cuts himself off with a helpless whine, like he can’t control himself. His hands grip your waist tight. “Please–”

“Mm,” you hum sympathetically, while you thoroughly enjoy seeing Spencer like this. “Wanna cum like this, baby?”

Spencer’s breathing hard. He can’t get the words out, but he shakes his head. You slow your strokes, to an excruciating pressure on his length. “No? Then tell me, Spence.”

“Inside you,” He gasps, eyes squeezed shut. 

You absolutely should not let Spencer fuck you for the first time on his couch, but he’s desperate and your resolve is steadily crumbling. “You– You’re sure?”

“Please,” Spencer gasps, his eyes pleading with you helplessly.

So, you pull your hand back and push your shorts off instead. Your panties come off in one fell swoop, and you sit back onto the couch with your legs spread. Spencer’s eyes are wide and his lips are parted as he looks at you, takes the sight of you in. 

Then he’s like a baby deer, standing up and fumbling to get his sweatpants off. You can’t help but giggle at his awkward movements, in his excitement and eagerness to get to touch you, to get to fuck you. He’s quick to get between your legs, his hardness nudging at your entrance already. 

“Mm, not yet, Spence,” you hum. You reach for his hand, taking his wrist as you guide his fingers to your clit. “You know what to do, right?”

He turns his wrist so his fingers – God, his fingers – are poised almost elegantly above your clit. He presses down and starts to circle his fingers against you. You gasp.

“Thought you didn’t– oh– Didn’t have much experience,” you gasp. You hold onto Spencer’s forearm tight, throwing your head back as Spencer pleasures you.

Spencer huffs out a laugh. “I might not be experienced, but I’m not a prude– I remember the… stuff I’ve seen. Eidetic memory and all.”

“Stuff,” you laugh. “I’m sure the porn you’ve watched must’ve helped, darling.”

He slips his fingers into your wetness with an unsurprising ease, considering how turned on you are by him. He hits spots inside you you’ve never thought were possible to reach, but they make electricity zip up your spine. You moan as he crooks his fingers into you, rocking them in and out with a wet squelch.

Spencer grins at you. “You were saying?”

“You’re a cocky bastard, you know that?” you huff, your tone teetering between awfully turned on and mildly annoyed. 

“You like it,” Spencer says, assured of himself, and you smile, because you really do.

“My love,” you moan, as Spencer presses his fingers into you, back out. “You should try fucking me now.”

Spencer’s fingers are still inside of you, and his eyes are wide as he looks up at you. “You think so?”

You smile at him. “If you think you’re up for it.”

You mourn the loss of Spencer’s fingers, but as he’s mumbling to himself and lining his cock up with your entrance, you can only coo at how adorable you find all of this. And how turned on you are, but that’s more than obvious to the both of you by now. 

He looks to you, like he’s looking for reassurance. You nod. Even in the silence, he’s gotten the confidence to push his cock into you, the thickness of his tip breaching your hole. You gasp as you stretch around him, your cunt making space for him as he slides in, excruciatingly slow. “Spencer–”

Spencer lets out a whine as your tight heat engulfs him, his length swallowed up by you as he sinks deeper into you. “Oh, my God–”

“Just like that, baby,” you moan, your leg hooking around Spencer’s leg to coax him forward, closer to you. “Fuck.”

“Do I– When should I–” Spencer gasps, unable to form a coherent sentence with the pleasure swimming through his bloodstream. 

“You can start moving when you don’t feel like you’re going to blow your load if you breathe the wrong way,” you joke, but Spencer does seriously look like he’s going to finish any second. “Hey. Deep breaths, baby.”

Spencer’s brows are furrowed and his eyes are squeezed shut as he breathes in hard, in through his nose and out through his mouth. He’d told you to do that when he’d helped you through a panic attack one time, and while you feel bad that he feels so nervous about all this, it’s extremely amusing to you right now. 

“Look at me,” you say, trying your best not to laugh. “You’re doing great, love.”

Spencer pulls his lower lip between his teeth, his eyes looking to you for validation. 

“So good for me, darling,” you coo, your hand on his hip, while your thumb draws little circles into his skin. “Are you feeling okay?”

“Yeah,” Spencer shudders, voice high-pitched and a little breathy. “I– You feel really good.”

“Yeah? It’ll feel even better when you start moving, sweetheart,” you hum. “You think you can do that for me? Slow, out then back in.”

Spencer whimpers, nodding, and he takes another deep breath in. His hands on your waist, he pulls out halfway before pressing back into you, and he moans so loudly your ears ring. “So– So tight, you–”

“That’s good, yeah? Feels good?” you coo. “Come on, baby. More.”

Spencer rests one of his arms on the back of the couch, holding himself steady and getting him that much closer to you. He starts to thrust in and out, starting off slow as he finds a rhythm. 

His thrusts are erratic, but you’re so wildly turned on and it still feels amazing, because it’s Spencer. 

Spencer is frantic, desperate, bracing himself against the couch as he fucks into you. Maybe pounding into you is a better phrase to use, because he’s fucking you like a madman, till the couch is squeaking under both your weight. You cry out, feeling Spencer drilling into you – and it feels so good.

“Oh, God,” Spencer whines. “You– It’s so good, oh–”

“Yeah, baby?” You rock your hips along with him, burying Spencer deeper into you. You clench so each thrust is a little tighter, and each time Spencer fucks into you, he moans a little louder. 

Amidst Spencer’s whines and pretty noises, you watch his face morph with pleasure, feeling assured that he’s enjoying this as much as you are. In fact, he’s probably enjoying this more. As you’re lost in your train of thought, admiring Spencer’s gorgeous face, you’re startled when you feel Spencer’s load inside of you, hot and slick. His hips flush against your ass, Spencer shudders as he rides out his orgasm, body trembling from the force of his pleasure.

“Oh, Spence,” you giggle, a little dizzy from how turned on you are, from watching Spencer lose himself just like that. You reach up to cup his face, your thumb gentle on his cheek. “Was that good?”

“Oh,” Spencer mumbles, seemingly brought back to reality. He pulls back, taking the sight of you in. “I’m– I’m good, I’m sorry–”

“Don’t be,” you say. “You’re so cute. It’s so hot.”

“I mean, you are too, but– But you haven’t–”

“You wanna make it up to me, then?” You smile, gentle and warm and Spencer nods like he’s eager to please you. 

You kiss him while he pulls out, replacing the thickness of his cock with two fingers, which fit into you easily. Like before, Spencer presses his fingers into you, slick and wet and squelchy. Spencer curls them and fingerfucks you like a pro, like he’s done this a hundred times. With his face pressed into your shoulder and your arms slung around his neck, Spencer fucks you on his fingers until your toes are curling and you’re screaming his name. You cry out as you orgasm, shaking as Spencer fucks you through it. 

You’re almost embarrassed when you finally come back to your senses, no longer reeling from the intensity of your orgasm. Spencer is kissing your jawline sweetly, his clean hand stroking your hair.

“Hey,” Spencer says softly, somehow knowing you needed to hear him. He parrots you from earlier, “Was– Was that good?”

“So good, my love,” you murmur into his shoulder. Then, after a quiet moment, “I thought you needed some time to get comfortable with being intimate.” 

Spencer pauses for a moment, like he’s pondering it, before he says, “I know. But for you, I think I’d do anything.”

That’s all Spencer manages to get out before you kiss him again. It’s tender and sweet, the intensity behind your kiss no longer lustful but full of adoration and love. You feel like you could sob right now, but you manage to hold it back.

Spencer gets into the shower with you, which you’re surprised by, but his hands are soft on your body as he cleans you up. You shampoo his hair for him, even though he has to lean forward a little so you can reach. 

You end up falling asleep in Spencer’s bed, curled up in his arms. 

You don’t dream at night, but when you wake up with a hardness poking against your thigh and Spencer’s gentle snoring in your ear, you think you might be. 

In your dreariness, you reach behind you, the angular sharpness of Spencer’s hip bone under your palm. He’s warm, cuddled up against you, and the tickling of his breath on your neck tells you that this isn’t a dream. 

“Spence,” you whisper, shaking him slightly. You watch as he blinks himself awake, drowsy as he comes to focus on your face. “Hey.”

“Good morning,” Spencer says, his voice rough with disuse. “What’s up?”

“You are,” you smile, a little too pleased, as your hand snakes down toward his crotch. 

He squeaks at the contact, your soft hand on his hardness, “Um, sorry about that.”

“Don’t be,” you laugh. “Had a good dream?”

He pulls his lower lip between his teeth. “About you, yeah.”

“Wanna tell me about it?” you goad, wiggling your eyebrows. 

Spencer’s cheeks somehow get even redder than they already were, but he shakes his head. “I want– I want to have sex, though.”

Your eyes widen. “Now?”

“Do you have the time for it?” He asks, sheepish. “I– I want to fuck you again.”

Your cheeks flush at Spencer’s sudden crudeness. You think about what Spencer could’ve possibly dreamt up, wonder how Spencer could possibly be confident enough to tell you straight up that he wants to fuck you. That phrase probably hadn’t been in Spencer’s lexicon until about twelve hours ago – while Spencer was smart – a literal genius – his innocence was completely understandable. 

“We have time,” you exhale, looking back into his eyes after looking at the clock. “I only have to be at the office in a couple of hours.”

“Good,” Spencer says, leaning in to kiss down your neck. His hands are frisky already, slipping underneath your shirt. Spencer splays his hands over your stomach, before reaching up to cup your breasts in his hands. 

“You like touching me like this, don’t you, baby?” you chuckle breathlessly, already feeling weak in the knees from the way Spencer holds you. “Mm, I’m surprised.”

“Why is that?” His words are slightly muffled against your skin, too busy kissing you to make himself sound coherent. His hands are rough against the softness of your skin, and you moan from the way he’s handling you.

“Yesterday you couldn’t even tell me you wanted to fuck,” you croon, thoroughly pleased. “And now you’re touching me like you know what you’re doing. It’s so hot.”

“I– I just can’t get enough of you,” Spencer admits, his earnest words turning you on extremely.

“Now you’re just horny,” you laugh, feeling Spencer’s hand slide over your underwear.

“Mm, you’re so wet right now too,” Spencer murmurs in your ear, his warm breath and raspy voice sending a shiver down your spine. Where’d he learn to talk like that? You squeeze your thighs together, but that doesn’t stop Spencer from feeling the wetness between your legs, soaking through your panties. 

“All for you, baby,” you gasp, as Spencer’s fingers slip past the band of your underwear, deftly stroking your clit. “Spencer–”

“Can I fuck you? Please?” He pleads, breathy, his hips already rutting forward against your ass. 

His eagerness makes your head spin, his sudden confidence in the realm of sex surprising – maybe it’s cockiness, but you still find that stupidly attractive – but it is certainly welcomed. 

“Yes, Spence, please,” you shudder, the word yes leaving your lips enough for Spencer to pull your underwear down, over the swell of your ass. He fumbles with his own boxers for a moment, but soon you feel his hard, leaking tip pressed to your butt. He rocks his hips back and forth, desperately seeking whatever friction he can get. 

Lost in his own pleasure, Spencer is quick to slide his cock between your legs, the wetness from your cunt making it easy for him to rut into the tight, slick space. Like this, his length rubs up against you, the head of his cock nudging at your clit with every thrust of his hips. It feels primal, Spencer so far gone that he isn’t even fucking you proper, content with the slick, tight space between your thighs and your pussy. You wonder if you need to tell him, but Spencer’s groan in your ear is shaky as his tip catches on your hole.

His arms wrapped around you, both of you moan as Spencer finally sinks his cock into you. He slides in too easily, so easily you almost think he’d hadn’t meant to do it. Maybe he hadn’t, but you’d gotten there in the end, where you both need to be; Spencer buried inside of you.

It’s so different from yesterday, the angle when he presses into you from behind so exhilarating, so good. He’s just as desperate as last night, but there’s a sort of reckless confidence in his movements. His hands slide under your shirt to grab at your tits again, rocking his hips while he practically gropes you. It’s so hot your head spins. You feel like you’re going to explode.

“Spencer!” You cry out, your voice ripping its way out of your throat. Pleasure surges through you like electricity, Spencer’s thick cock hitting all the right spots from this angle. His eager desperation turns you on to no end, as you let him take you from behind. While you weren’t expecting lazy, morning sex at all, the intensity and desperation he fucks you with right now makes you think you could get used to this.

Spencer’s whine has your head spinning. His hips don’t slow, more rhythmic than yesterday but still as needy. “Fuck, you feel so good.”

“Yeah?” You coo breathlessly. You’re so fucking turned on, and every time Spencer drives his hips into you you can hear how wet you really are. “You’re doing so good for me, Spence, fucking me so good.”

“You like it? Is it good?” Spencer gasps, always so eager to please you.

“So good,” you moan. You’re still sore from last night, but the pleasure Spencer is giving you right now overrides all of that. You would love for him to wake you up like this every day. “I’m close, baby.”

“Oh,” Spencer says, like he’s surprised you’re already getting off on this, on him– “What do you need me to do?”

“Just keep going, Spence,” you gasp. “Keep fucking me just like this.”

Spencer’s hum is breathy, high-pitched. Somehow, his grip on you gets tighter, holding you like he’s afraid you’ll disappear. The force he fucks you with is so wildly arousing. You’re so enamoured, and so turned on.

Your orgasm creeps up on you, slow and steady as it bubbles up inside of you. You squeeze your eyes shut, focusing on the dirty, rough way Spencer fucks you, and then you feel his soft lips on your neck again. He isn’t properly kissing you – more like slobbering all over your neck, but you cry out as he does so, thighs pressing together as you reach your orgasm. You’re shaking through it, clenching around Spencer as you come, and Spencer’s gasping as your tight pussy pushes Spencer over the edge too. You feel his come inside of you, cock twitching as his load spurts hot and heavy into your cunt. You sob, feeling Spencer slow his thrusts as he rides out his orgasm.

“Holy shit,” you say, your voice coming out ragged and hoarse. You feel like a different woman, being fucked ruthlessly by your boyfriend in his bed for the first time. You can’t get enough. 

“I love you,” Spencer says quietly, earnest. It makes you shudder. 

“You’re crazy,” you laugh, taken aback at how Spencer’s returned to his gentle, soft self. “I love you too, you madman.”

“I can’t resist you,” he murmurs in your ear, the vibrations of his raspy morning voice almost soothing.

You turn around to face him, Spencer still holding you in his arms. He smiles warmly at you, and you lean in to kiss him. “You’re so cute.”

“Wanna go again?” he asks, somewhat timid. 

Your eyes widen. You try to hide your grin, but it doesn’t work. “Someone’s desperate, huh?”

Spencer flushes a gorgeous red. “Maybe a little?”

“I have to get ready for work,” you sigh, actually a little bummed that you can't spend all day fucking Spencer. “Maybe tonight?”

“Okay,” Spencer smiles. “Want me to drive you back to yours?”

You grin. “You’re the best!”

Work is relatively uneventful, numbers and Excel spreadsheets; and all you can think about is Spencer’s rapid change in demeanour over the last twelve hours, his innocence torn away by you, leaving behind a horny, insatiable man. You’re kind of proud of yourself for that. 

So, you can’t blame yourself for being excited to get back to Spencer’s. Lately, you’ve been staying over more, your apartment simply a place to house your wardrobe. Maybe you’ll talk to Spencer about living together.

“Hey, Spence,” you say, pleased when Spencer kisses you as he greets you at the door. 

Even with all the probable germs on you from being out all day, Spencer’s surprisingly clingy, hands on your waist as he stumbles in behind you, as you set the takeout you’d brought over on his dining table. Spencer leans in behind you, kissing your cheek then down your neck.

“Hey, what’s with you, baby?” you chuckle, very much enjoying the way Spencer’s hands slide down your waist to your hips, grabbing the meat of your thighs through your dress pants.

“Missed you,” Spencer answers simply, but even you can tell there’s something in his voice that implies he’s looking for something more. 

“I’m sorry I had to leave you alone the whole day, my love. I’m sure you must’ve found something to busy yourself with, though?” You hum, teasing. You have a good idea of where this is going.

Spencer’s quiet for a moment, so you turn to look at him. His lips are pressed into a thin line, looking almost nervous, and his cheeks are flushed red. Spencer finally presses his body close to yours, and you feel it–

“Spence,” you grin, “Someone’s happy to see me.”

“Thought about it– Thought about you all day,” Spencer mumbles. “You promised.”

“What did I promise, baby?” you egg him on, eager to hear him say it, even though you definitely know what he’s going to ask. 

“That we would do it again tonight,” he answers, but you shoot him a look. “You said we would have sex again tonight.”

“Twice in one day? I don’t know, baby,” you pretend to sound disinterested.

Spencer looks at you with wide eyes. Respectful as ever, he clears his throat. “Please? If you’re tired we don’t have to, but I really want to. Only if you want to, though. This involves both of us, I don’t want to impose–”

You giggle, reaching to hold his hands. “God, you’re perfect.”

“What–?” Spencer barely gets the word out before you’re kissing him. He’s happy to do so, holding your face gently, matching your energy perfectly. You feel his cock pressing against you. 

“I turned you into a sex fiend,” you laugh, between kissing him, “And you’re still thinking about making sure I’m into it too.”

“Of course, why wouldn’t I be?” Spencer’s brows furrow slightly, like he can’t comprehend how he could be into it if you weren’t too. “And I- I’m not a sex fiend, I just–”

Smiling, you whisper sultrily, “I think you should take me right here, baby.”

“Oh–” You cut Spencer off with another kiss, and he squeaks as you reach for his half-hard cock through his sweatpants. You’re positively delighted that Spencer’s like this, for you.

Spencer kisses you deeply, leaning forward until the small of your back hits the edge of the table. His hands coming up to your ass, he lifts you up, getting you to lay back on the table. You gasp, as Spencer kisses down the column of your neck, his hands making quick work of the buttons of your dress shirt. His lips are soft against your skin, at the swell of your breasts. Your shirt gets pushed off your shoulders. You feel him unhook your bra with a surprising ease, tossed aside, and then his hands are grabbing your tits like they were made for him. His thumbs brush over your nipples, a little forceful as he kneads at you, and your head is spinning. 

“Spencer,” you moan, as he kisses down your stomach, unbuttoning your pants to reveal your soaked-through underwear. He smiles up at you, his messy mop of hair a lovely sight. 

“Can I…?” Spencer’s big brown eyes dart down to where you’re soaked, then back up at you.

Your eyes widen. “Yes. If you want to.”

Spencer grins. “Of course I want to.”

His fingers are gentle on your hips as he pulls your panties off, wasting no time in spreading your legs so he can get between them. Your eyes are wide as you watch him, feeling kind of self-conscious over how eager he is to be doing this. Knelt between your thighs, he lifts one of your legs and swings them over his shoulder. You can feel his stubble on the soft skin of your inner thigh, his nose nudging against your clit. His tongue comes up, wet and hot, as he tastes you for the first time. “Spencer–”

He presses his face impossibly closer, more urgent in eating you out. You watch as his eyes flutter shut, his jaw flexing as his tongue works on you, and you’re trembling already. Spencer’s extremely good with his mouth, and you’re surprised at how good he’s making you feel, considering he likely hasn’t done this before. The sounds of his mouth are wet and squelchy and so obscene, and you would feel almost embarrassed, were it not for how into this Spencer seems to be too, 

With your hands in his hair, you cry out when Spencer’s tongue circles your swollen clit, jolts of pleasure sent through your body. You can’t think straight when Spencer’s face is buried between your legs, eating you out like he was made for this. All you can think about is how gifted Spencer is with his tongue, and how you wish you could do this all night. 

“Please, love,” you moan, “Need you to fuck me.”

Spencer hums in approval, the vibrations between your legs making you jump. He makes a little wet slurping noise before he comes back up, and you feel your cunt throb when he looks up at you with his lovely, wide brown eyes, and his chin wet and messy with your slick. Spencer wipes his face with the back of his hand, and you’re so turned on you might just explode.

“I love you,” you tell him earnestly. “I think this is the craziest thing I’ve ever done. I love you.”

“What is? Having sex on my dinner table?” Spencer quips, as he sets your legs down and stands back up. He has a cocky grin plastered on his face. 

You roll your eyes playfully. “First time for everything, right?”

Spencer nods, smiling, before he leans forward to kiss you sweetly. You watch as he pulls his sweatpants down, his cock bobbing up, red and angry and rock hard. You feel yourself salivating at the sight, but decide that he needs to fuck you right now.

“Spencer,” you mewl, feeling breathless as you watch him wrap a hand around himself, stroking his length. Concentration is written all over his face and it makes you want to kiss him. 

“I’ve been wanting to do this all day,” Spencer says, pressing his cock forward until he’s lined up with your entrance. It’s so tantalising, the way the blunt head of his cock threatens to slip into you. You’re so wet and so loose for him, and you need him inside of you now.

You gasp when he finally pushes in, his thick cock splitting you in half as he slides into you. The pressure is so perfect, the slow draw of his hips as he takes care not to rush, wanting to take care of you. Even with all this still being new for Spencer, he still focuses on you, puts you first. You’re not sure if you’re swooning over him, or the way his cock fits inside you perfectly.

You don’t need to encourage him to start moving. He rocks his hips slowly, somehow already familiar with your body, and makes you feel like you could explode with pleasure. 

He leans forward, pressing his body to yours as he kisses you. Like this, Spencer presses into you deeper, fucks you slow and deep and loving. The edge of the table is absolutely digging into your back, but you don’t care when every sense of yours is filled with Spencer, getting to taste and touch and hear him. You taste yourself on his tongue, hear the sloppy way he thrusts into you, your skin burning wherever he’s pressed up against you. 

Burying his face in your neck, Spencer pants in your ear, hot and heavy as he fucks you, giving you everything you need. Your head is swimming with arousal, as Spencer presses you against the table and fucks you like his life depends on it. “You feel so good, fuck, so good–”

“I’m so close, baby,” you cry out, the pace absolutely ruthless as Spencer fucks you. You didn’t think his stamina would be this good, considering your boyfriend’s lanky stature and abhorrence towards exercise. You certainly wouldn’t mind doing this kind of cardio with him more often. “Please, Spence–”

“Let go, I– I’m here for you,” Spencer stumbles over his words, but he’s so sweet that you’re losing yourself, your orgasm crashing into you like a tidal wave. You scream as you reach your peak, your toes curling while Spencer fucks you through it, shaking as pleasure and arousal zips through your body. Spencer’s hips stutter as the tightness of your pussy has him reeling, too close too quickly. 

While his hips keep a steady pace, you’re feeling loopy as Spencer continues to fuck you. You hold his head close to you, kissing his forehead as you murmur, “You’re so hot, Spence. Made me come so quickly, and you held out for me? So good for me, baby. Are you close?”

Spencer whines, a pitiful noise in the back of his throat. “Please, I’m so close, need you–”

“I’m right here, baby,” you coo, stroking his sweat-matted hair sweetly. You’re so enamoured with him. “Gonna cum inside me, Spence? Fill me up with your–”

You don’t even get to finish your dirty talk before Spencer is moaning, coming inside of you. It feels like he’s released so much inside of you, hot and messy as he fucks you through his own high. His chest heaves as he pants, trembling as he reels from the intensity of his orgasm. Spencer’s hips slow to a stop, and he mouths at your neck mindlessly until he seems to get his bearings back. You imagine you must look a mess, sweat and spit all over you, your makeup from a long day of work likely running by now. 

Spencer gets up off of you, so both of you have space to catch your breaths. You feel Spencer slip out of you with a slick ‘pop’, and feel his release trickle out of you just moments after. You stifle a quiet moan, but when you look up at Spencer, his eyes couldn’t possibly leave the sight between your legs. His lips are parted slightly, pupils blown wide, as he watches you drip with his release. You feel Spencer’s cock, resting against your inner thigh, twitch slightly. 

“Woah there, cowboy,” you chuckle, out of breath. “Give me a minute to recover.”

His eyes practically twinkle when they dart up to look at you. He’s like an excited puppy as he asks, “Again?”

You shake your head, laughing, and sit up to kiss Spencer again. “Maybe we could try something new?”

Spencer grins, nodding eagerly. It definitely seems like he’s down for whatever, as long as it’s with you. 

[gloomwitchwrites]

may I request a what-if with the 141 where reader pranks the members by buying a fake military knife that isn’t dangerous and hands it to their baby? Like this: https://youtube.com/shorts/aQGZTdYRX6c?si=pX7ja8U4VGL2dATi

(I’m bad at explaining things so I hope you don’t mind the video link for an example)

The video link is totally fine! I appreciate you sending that in for a reference! And you didn't do a terrible job explaining, anon. I immediately knew what you were talking about! Now, this is all in good fun, but I don't recommend you doing it in real life. Can you guess who has the calmest reaction of the four?

For the masterlist and how to submit your own request, click HERE

Task Force 141 x Female Reader

Content & Warnings (per the warnings MDNI): swearing, married life, dad!141, girl dad! 141, pranks & shenanigans

Word Count: 1k

ao3 // main masterlist // imagines & what if series

John Price

John is in his office. It’s the perfect opportunity.

With as much stealth as you can muster, you creep into the living room. In the center of the room is an enclosed space were your daughter crawls around on their stomach. When you approach, she babbles, and you grin down at her.

“Here,” you whisper, placing a prop knife next to her.

The thing is made of rubber and plastic. It won’t cause any actual harm. She immediately reaches for it, tiny fingers unable to completely wrap around the handle.

Backing up slowly, you call out to your husband. “John! Can you check on the baby?”

A pause. “Course, love,” he replies.

You hurry back into the kitchen just as you hear the squeak of his chair. John emerges, rubbing at the back of his neck. His head is down, gaze lowered, and when he notices his daughter, John grins.

“Hello, sweet girl,” he coos. “What do you have—” John’s gentle tone because one of sharp concern. “The fuck.”

John lunges, disappearing beyond your line of sight. He reappears seconds later with his daughter tucked in one arm and the pretend knife clutched in his opposite hand. With the pointy end pointed away from the precious cargo he carries, John slowly walks over to the wall and presses the blade to it.

The rubber surrenders, bending in on itself.

John sighs heavily, and then slowly turns his head in your direction.

You give him your best shit-eating grin as your daughter giggles manically.

Simon "Ghost" Riley

“What are you doing? What’s in your hand?”

Simon sounds…calm. Why does he sound so calm? He should be stressed right now. Panicking.

“Is that a knife? That’s dangerous. Want to give it to me?”

Sure, the knife is fake. Made of flexible rubber and plastic, it won’t harm anyone. But at a glance it appears real enough. Did Simon see you hand it to your daughter? Is he aware of the joke and just playing along?

You creep closer, not wanting to give away your hiding spot.

“Very good. Hand that to daddy.”

Your daughter coos, and then Simon appears from thin air.

“Oh fuck,” you gasp. “You scared me.”

“Really?” he deadpans, holding up the prop knife.

Your daughter comes waddling out after him wrapping her chubby arms around his leg while she happily mumbles “daddy.”

“I thought it was hilarious,” you mutter as he tosses it at you.

Simon bends at the knees and scoops up his daughter. As he passes, he leans down, lips almost pressing against your ear. “I knew the moment I laid eyes on it. Didn’t fool me.”

“I don’t believe you.”

He grins, and winks. “Comes with the territory of the job, love. I’d spot a fake anywhere.”

Kyle "Gaz" Garrick

Your daughter sits in her high chair, chewing on the end of the fake knife you’ve handed her. It’s just a prop, made to not cause any actual arm. She chews on the pointy end, drool dripping on to her tiny fingers.

Slowly, you back away, poised to dart down the hall to hide.

“Can you watch her?” you call out.

Kyle answers a few seconds later. “What?”

“Can you watch her?” You move out of the kitchen and into the hall.

“Where is she?”

“In the kitchen,” you shout back. “She’s eating.”

You hear Kyle’s voice soften. “What are you eating, love? What—oh. What the fuck!”

With the rise of surprise in his tone, you return to the kitchen. “Something wrong?”

Your daughter giggles and coos, arms outstretched as she reaches for her father. Kyle holds the knife in two hands, an unamused expression on his face.

“Did I get you?” you ask with a grin.

The annoyed expression melts, becoming a soft smile. “You did.”

He bends forward and places a quick kiss to the top of his daughter’s head. As he draws away from her, he reaches for you, grabbing your waist to pull you in. “And you’re a bloody menace.”

John "Soap" MacTavish

You bend at the knees, holding out the prop knife to your little one. It’s made of rubber and plastic, but it looks real, and that’s the point. With a gleeful giggle, she takes the fake knife, completely unaware of the part she’s about to play in pranking her father.

“Go find daddy,” you coax, pointing in the direction of the living room.

She coos softly, pivots, and begins to walk forward. Each step is stilted as she wobbles toward the sofa. Johnny is on the game with the boys. His entire attention is on the television.

As your daughter approaches him, she lifts her little arm above her head, holding the fake knife high in the air like she’s a tiny Jason Voorhees. From her mouth comes nonsense, just a long breath of babbling, sounds, and the occasional word.

Johnny might be on the game, but he senses her nearness, leaning in her direction. As she rounds the sofa, her tiny body disappears. The only thing you can see is the occasional glimpse of the knife point. She screeches with glee and Johnny’s attention shifts. It’s a brief look, one intended to simply make sure she’s okay, but then he’s doing a double-take.

“What the fuck!”

Johnny launches himself off the couch, the game controller flying. Your daughter points the knife at him and Johnny immediately raises his hands in surrender.

“Where’d you get that? Find it on the ground somewhere?”

You nearly snort. He’s trying to sound calm but you hear the bite of panic.

Your daughter’s reply is to charge him. Johnny sidesteps her pathetic swing before plucking the knife right of her hand.

“How—” He stops. Frowns. And then places his entire hand around the blade. He releases it. Repeats the gesture.

Johnny glances up and chuckles, locking eyes with you. “You’re bloody well having a laugh at me, aren’t you?”

taglist:

@glitterypirateduck @km-ffluv @tiredmetalenthusiast @miaraei @cherryofdeath

@fern-reads @tulipsun-flower @miss-mistinguett @ninman82 @eternallyvenus

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@itsberrydreemurstuff @z-wantstowrite @keiva1000 @littlemisscriesherselftosleep @blackhawkfanatic

@sammysinger04 @kylies-love-letter @dakotakazansky @suhmie

@keiva1000 @jackrabbitem @arrozyfrijoles23 @lovely-ateez @waves-against-a-cliff

@ash-tarte @marispunk @gingergirl06 @certainlygay @greeniegreengreen

[lightseoul]

CASUAL CASUALTIES (10.6k)

pairing. k. bakugou x reader

synopsis. what was meant to be an innocent trip down to the bridge becomes a national sensation when you get outed as #15 pro-hero dynamight's soulmate on live tv. inconvenient, yes, very much so—but it's not like you have to do something about it. but then the bakugou katsuki himself seeks you out, and you find yourself getting into a whole lot of trouble. inspired by @/andypantsx3's fingerprints. (read on ao3)

c.w. minors dni. fem!reader, pro-hero!katsuki, aged-up, post-timeskip/ch 431, soulmate!au, lots of cursing, reader is ill, depictions of mental illness (mentions of depressive themes and suicidality), mentions of death, nsfw/mature themes, minor manga spoilers

a/n. here it is, y'all! while i know the word count and tags are quite daunting, i really hope you give this fic a chance because i'm extremely proud of this one, which i haven't felt about my writing in a while. if you do end up reading it, thank you and i sincerely hope you enjoy it <3

to be fair, you were just…weighing your options.

taking a short trip down to shizuoka’s famous ayumi bridge wasn’t part of your itinerary for the day, not that you’ve been having exceptionally busy itineraries for who knows how long. it was a spur-of-the-moment decision that you periodically second-guessed on the way there, the vivid picture of your unmade but comfortable bed weighing heavily in your mind.

still, and despite yourself, you couldn’t deny the need for fresh air, nor the relief that filled your renewed albeit fatigued lungs as you finally arrived at your destination.

from where you are now standing with your arms folded on top of the relatively short railings, you look past the barricade and down onto the cloudy river below you.

it was an innocent gesture—one borne out of curiosity minus most of the morbidity—but it apparently wasn’t innocent enough, because one moment you were studying the ripples in the distant water, and the next, you’re violently yanked from behind.

you let out an unintentional ‘oof’ as you stumble backward, your body helplessly tugged alongside the blouse that you vaguely register as the thing that’s being pulled back. you probably stagger a few feet away from the edge of the bridge, before unceremoniously falling on your butt.

and as if out of nowhere, pro-hero dynamight emerges right in front of you.

“are you crazy?” he spits out, frenzied. “do you have a fucking death wish?”

you blink. “i—”

he throws his arms up in what you think is defeat, cutting you off, although he’s looking more pissed than resigned. “fucking menaces,” he mumbles loudly under his breath.

a surge of indignation instantly shoots through you, and you open your mouth to spit something back at him, but you don’t get the chance to, because he holds out his hand.

robbed of all words, and quite frankly, barely registering what’s happening, the best you can do is blink at him. again.

his eyebrows furrow, irritation surely bubbling in his veins. his hand stays put, though. “what are you waiting for? get up.”

you hesitate, eyes drifting from his face and down to his hand. unlike his gloved left, his right is bare, and riddled with a plethora of scars. you didn’t know about that, at least from his pictures on tv and social media, unlike the one on his face that is constantly broadcasted for everyone else to see.

you don’t dwell on it further, though, deciding then and there that you want to go home right the fuck now.

you quickly take his hand and help him by pulling yourself up. once you’re upright, you’re just as quick to let go, opting to brush off the dirt stuck to your clothes.

“thanks,” you start, forcing yourself to meet his piercing gaze that’s indubitably boring holes into your face. “…i guess.”

“you guess?” he spews, incredulous, before shaking his head. “never fucking mind.”

“dynamight!”

startled, you whip to look at the source of the voice, and your eyes comically widen when they land on a group of people who look suspiciously like the media. and right behind them are a few police cars dotted with several police officers.

you turn to face bakugou, about to clarify with him if he knows what they’re doing here, but he’s already staring at you, an inexplicable expression etched on his face.

“what?” you can’t help but ask.

he sighs, cocking his head toward the closely approaching herd. “get ready.”

“dynamight!” the woman decked out in a blazer and pencil skirt exclaims, completely oblivious to the concept of personal space as she thrusts her microphone into bakugou’s face. you feel yourself shrink from where you stand slightly to his right, unsure as to whether or not you’re being filmed right now.

you hope you aren’t.

“two negotiations in a row,” she breathes out, disbelieving. “how did you do it?”

negotiations?

“what kind of stupid question is that?” he barks out. “i simply was in the right place at the right time with the first one.”

“oh, you’re too humble!” she quips, signaling the cameraman to steady his shot of the pro-hero’s face. “we came as soon as we could when we heard about what was going down here.”

“yeah, and you could’ve caused the situation to escalate even further than it already did,” he retorts without missing a beat. the reporter’s face falls. bakugou takes that as a sign to go on.

“you’re lucky i arrived and intervened when i did. and how did none of you dipshits think to call the fucking police?”

“i—”

“you’re all too preoccupied with getting your next scoop that you lost your fucking grip on reality and failed to help,” the pro-hero chastises.

he pauses for a second, and you’re about to think he’s finally done with his spiel for the woman’s sake when he glances at you, looking like he’s got something more to say.

and as you find out in the next, excruciating seconds, he definitely has.

the man shoots his arm up, his thumb sticking out, pointing conveniently at you.

“case in point,” he states. “we could’ve had a casualty.”

you gawk at him.

a what?

“i’m sorry,” you start, turning to face the ash-blonde, acutely aware of the inquisitive eyes peering at you, “i think you’re misunderstanding. i wasn’t going to jum—”

“oh my god.”

miffed, you turn again to look at the woman, but now her countenance has gone all pale, looking like she just saw a poltergeist. seemingly speechless, she doesn’t try to get a word out, but what she does is point at bakugou’s wrist.

the man beside you shifts on his feet, uncomfortable. “the fuck are you—”

whatever bite the pro-hero was about to unleash on the reporter gets stuck in his throat when he flips his hand and freezes.

and when you see the familiar-looking timer written on his wrist that reads 00:02:57, you stiffen.

it can’t be.

still, you’ve got to make sure.

and so with bated breath, you slowly lift your right hand, turning it with the palm facing up.

and sure enough, your timer—the one that’s been at zero your entire life—reads just a few seconds after bakugou’s.

he thinks he’s fucking spiderman.

you mentally roll your eyes as you replay the clip of bakugou that went viral a few days ago.

you were able to put two and two together on the way home from the bridge, your conjecture proven correct when you got home and checked your social media accounts, which were crawling with articles and posts about the jumper who the #15th pro-hero dynamight was able to talk down.

he was a middle-aged man who apparently lost custody of his only son in light of his divorce, and couldn’t find a way out of the agony apart from death.

you couldn’t get a good view of his face, since the shots were all focused on bakugou taking his glove off to reach out to the guy, but you figure that’s a good thing. the man’s already fucking suicidal—the last thing he needs is for his privacy to be breached.

you can only laugh at the irony as you parse through your notifications, because lo and behold—they’ve already found you out.

because of course! what story sells better than a notorious hero’s successful negotiation with a jumper?

a notorious hero’s successful negotiation with a jumper who also happens to be his fucking soulmate.

nevermind the fact that you weren’t actually planning to jump that day.

“excuse me?”

you look up from your phone to find a teenage girl peering at you timidly from across the counter.

you tuck the device in your pocket and put on your most cordial smile. “hi! how can i help you?”

she puts what seems to be a fantasy duology on top of the surface between the two of you, before shooting you a shy smile back. “just these two, please.”

you peek at the titles and immediately light up. “great choice! my friend loves these.”

she lets out a delighted sound as you ring up her purchase, and you make small talk as you take her card and pack her books in a brown paper bag.

“have fun reading!” you say as she accepts the package from you, mouthing a quick thanks.

you watch the girl exit the bookstore with a grin you didn’t know you had on your face, which you only catch wind of when you shift your attention back to the next person in line.

because one sight of them has it wiped off your mouth in an instant.

even if they’re decked out in the most unhelpful disguise of a baseball cap, hoodie, and face mask.

still, two can play at this game. and quite frankly, you’re up for roleplaying rather than having a confrontation anyway, with this ridiculous get-up he has on.

and so with the most friendly tone you can muster, you ask: “how can i help you?”

even behind his whole guise, you can see the darkening of his gaze when you put forth the question. “are you serious?”

you tilt your head to the side in fake innocence. “what do you mean, sir? you’re at the counter at a bookstore…”

apparently, that’s enough to rile up the great explosion murder god dynamight, because he angrily tugs his mask down before bobbing his head as if saying ‘seriously’?

you pretend you’re just figuring it out, going the extra mile by letting your mouth form the shape of a small ‘o’, but you can tell he’s not buying it. he glares at you, and you’re smart enough to know it’s a warning, so you cut it out despite yourself.

“the question’s still the same, by the way,” you offer when he doesn’t say anything. “how can i help you?”

his eyebrows furrow. “are you always this fucking nonchalant?”

no, you answer in your head, but he doesn’t need to know that it’s less nonchalance and more apathy. you shrug, “it's either that or panic about the whole situation.”

this time, his eyebrows shoot up. “so you’re not frazzled? like, at all?”

you stop yourself from rolling your eyes just in time. “of course, i am. kind of—at least. the last thing i need is to be scrutinized by the public.”

“that one’s on you, showing up at the same bridge as that jumper.”

you bristle. “i told you, i wasn’t going to jump!”

only belatedly do you realize that you just said that last bit quite loudly, and you hurriedly scan the room to see a few curious faces have glanced your way. you bow slightly in apology, before turning back to regard the pro-hero.

he huffs. “let’s say you weren’t. it doesn’t matter, because we still made contact and now the news is out.”

“so? i don’t see how we have to do anything about it.”

“believe me, i agree.”

you laugh. “wow, who knew the dynamight doesn’t want a soulmate, let alone meet and be tethered to one?”

“laugh all you want, dumbass,” comes bakugou’s reply. “but what i’m about to say is not a laughing matter.”

“do pray tell.”

“fucking—” he starts, before taking a deep breath in an attempt to calm himself. once he’s expelled that air, he fixes his gaze on you. you subconsciously straighten up.

“i need you to put up appearances with me.”

you squint at him. “huh?”

he presses his lips in a tight line. “i’m dropping in the rankings, and i’ll drop even further if i don’t—”

“i don’t see how any of this is my business.”

“—if i don’t do anything palatable about the situation,” he presses on. “it’s costing me and my agency, as much as i fucking hate to admit it.”

you only stare at him, letting the gears in your head turn in light of the newfound information. and when you don’t say anything, bakugou finishes.

“it’ll only be for a while.”

pft.

a while?

you hesitate. of course, you would. there’s absolutely no reason for you to get involved with the pro-hero, especially not now nor in the near, foreseeable future. in fact, you don’t even want to think about how he found out this is where you worked part-time. and you know there’s more where that came from.

you shake your head, “i’m sorry, but there’s no way i can—”

“i’ll pay you.”

you whip to look at him, shocked. “what?”

“you need the money, right?” he asks, and you hate how he’s right. “pr is offering an amount.”

you gulp, hating even more how you’re actually considering this. “how much are we talking about?”

he tells you. you barely catch your jaw from dropping to the floor.

with that amount, you’ll have the luxury of quitting this minimum wage job that you’ve barely been able to keep doing and then some. you’ll be set on your monthly expenses for a couple of months, and maybe even have enough to splurge on the few things that you’ve been wanting to get for yourself but haven’t had the means to.

and all that just by pretending for one to two months, tops?

your name and face are already common knowledge, anyway. there shouldn’t even be a debate.

you stick your right hand out, the one with the ticking timer on your wrist, for him to shake. he extends his, and the sight of the matching numbers sends an unidentifiable sensation down your spine. you try to ignore it.

and just like that, you shake on it, and the deal is on.

besides, you’ve got nothing to lose, anyway.

you push the glass door open, mindful of not adding any more handprints on the already marked surface. the wind chimes you didn’t know were hanging above it from the inside resonate as you enter, and you find yourself suddenly grateful that you at least managed to put on a bit of makeup for today. a few people seated near the entrance glance to look at you, which is probably a good thing for once.

right before bakugou left the bookstore a few days ago, he suggested you exchange numbers, which you agreed to gingerly. you expected radio silence for at least a week and hoped for forever, but a text eventually came later that night, asking for your availability so he could schedule a meet-up in public.

you told him you couldn’t meet until today, probably giving off the impression that you were busy with something, when in reality you were just tired and needed the time to process what was about to happen.

which brings you to now, standing at the doorway of a hip café in the heart of musutafu, scanning the faces for vermillion daggers he has for eyes.

it takes you a second, what with the afternoon crowd slowly encroaching on the establishment and filling up the tables, but you eventually locate him, with the help of the scarred hand he raises to get your attention.

“hey,” you greet when you reach his spot near the back, and he nods at you in acknowledgment. taking a seat across from him, you make it a point to study your position. “are you sure you want to sit here?”

he raises an eyebrow, which you can now see clearly without the shadow of the cap from before. “what, this table not up to your standard?”

exasperation shoots through you, as it always does, but you shake it off. instead, you toss him a tight-lipped smile. “no, it’s just that people might not see us back here. which, you know, kind of defeats the purpose?”

he doesn’t say anything for a beat, gaze fixated on you, before he breaks eye contact and shakes his head. “don’t worry,” he offers. “calculated move. we’re still gonna be spotted, trust me.”

you nod…slowly. you guess that makes sense. if you seat yourselves smack dab at the center, it may come off as the both of you seeking attention, consequently undermining the authenticity of your whole charade. a real high-profile couple would want to keep it low-key.

you snort at what you just called the two of you.

“what?” bakugou asks, defensiveness bleeding into his tone. you look up at him, and you take a second to study his appearance. he ditched the cap and hoodie, only sporting a black shirt and what you think are loose joggers and sneakers.

and with his infamously unruly hair trimmed?

well. you hate to admit it, but he actually looks…nice.

you smile at him, genuinely this time. “nothing.”

he narrows his eyes at you, like he thinks you’re lying out of your ass, but he lets it go. luckily enough, and as if on cue, the waiter arrives to give you the menu and complementary water, and bakugou orders iced tea while you request your go-to drink. you thank the guy before he dashes off to tend to other customers.

“so,” you start when silence falls upon the two of you. “how exactly are we going to do this?”

he picks up his glass. “do what?”

“you know, pretend?” you gesture vaguely with your hands. “do we have to do pda or something?”

you didn’t plan to cause it, but regardless, bakugou chokes on the ice-cold water he was just in the middle of drinking. you reach out to—what, rub his back?—but he holds his hand up to stop you as he coughs his lungs out. you sit back down, and you watch him as he gathers his bearings, wiping the tears that pooled at the corners of his eyes.

“sorry,” you supply, “great job, though. you just announced our presence to everybody.”

at that, bakugou snorts, and you can’t help the chuckle that bubbles out of you. he shakes his head, “dumbass.”

“but no,” he continues, back to being serious, “well, at least for now. as far as pr is concerned, we just have to be seen together until the whole thing dies out and the volatility of my ranking dissipates.”

“okay. that clicks, i guess.”

“you’re still up for it, then?”

now it’s your turn to narrow your eyes at him. “we shook on it, didn’t we? i’m a woman of my word, bakugou.”

“well—”

“and for the last time, i wasn’t going to jump.”

that makes him bark out a laugh so loud that it startles you. grinning, he waves you off. “yeah, yeah. don’t need to get all worked up, princess.”

blazing right past that cursed nickname—you’d first go through hell and high water before you let yourself be flustered in front of this man—you shoot him an expectant look. “well?”

“well, what?”

“are we just gonna sit here and stare at each other for two, three hours? we’ll have to do something, smartass.”

if bakugou is anywhere near bothered by your nickname for him, he doesn’t let it show. instead, he takes the bait. “whaddya have in mind?”

“we can play a conversation game. the one that has prompts?” you fish out your phone from your bag, and you quickly thumb through your apps until you find the one. you click on the button that says ‘play’ and place the gadget at the center of the table.

“there,” you point. “i ask a question and you answer. then we switch and so on and so forth.”

he examines the screen. “sounds lame.”

you scoff. “lamer than sitting and waiting?”

he doesn’t answer for a few seconds, until he finally sighs and nods at you, shifting in his seat as if bracing himself for what’s to come.

“i can go first,” you volunteer, straining to look at the words on display. you cringe when you read them. “do you think i was popular in high school?”

“seriously?” he snickers, and you shrug.

he doesn’t even take a moment to think about it. “well, you work in a bookstore, so no.”

“fair enough. your turn,” you swipe on the screen and turn it 180 degrees so he can see it.

you laugh when his face contorts as he finishes scanning the question. his eyes dart up to glare at you. “who came up with this stupid ass game?”

“just read the question, bakugou.”

he splutters for a beat, ultimately relenting, seething the words through his teeth. “when it comes to relationships, do you think i’m looking for something casual?”

you’re pretty sure you know what the answer is, but you still squint at the man to mess with him.

“are you fucking with me?” he grits out, bug-eyed. “does it fucking look like i’m capable of being casual about anything at all?”

you can’t help it—you throw your head back and laugh.

“stop laughing at me, dumbass.”

you press your lips together in an attempt to quell your mirth, but you burst out laughing again when you catch a glimpse of his reddening face.

“hey—”

“sorry, sorry—it was just—your face—”

“i get it, now quit it.”

eventually, but not immediately, you do. to your relief, bakugou doesn’t forfeit like a sore loser after that round, instead choosing to press on and find an equally incriminating question for you. you bounce off of each other, mainly talking about your respective pasts, like your education, families, and upbringing, although staying considerate enough not to overstep and pry on confidential information.

there were quite a few questions directed towards the present—what you’re currently doing, any nearing plans, current events—and you were okay enough to answer them with minimal detail. the future-oriented ones, though, you barely manage to skirt around and not respond to. you noticed bakugou looking at you a little too closely during those instances, but you feigned indifference.

that’s all you could do, really.

even then, and without you noticing, the hours pass by, and by the time you actually look past the prompts and up to your phone’s clock, it’s already 5:05 pm, a good four hours past your agreed-upon meeting time.

when you glance back up at bakugou, his face reads the same—mild shock at the fact that you were too engrossed in your conversation to notice the sky getting dark and the streetlights illuminating the walkways beyond the coffee shop’s glass walls turning on one by one.

“sorry,” you say as you swiftly take your phone and lock the screen. “i didn’t mean to keep you.”

“no,” he counters, pocketing his own. “i didn’t notice, either.”

you smile at him as you put on your bag. “still think it’s lame?”

“yes,” he promptly replies, a smirk now decorating his sharp features. “but i had fun, or whatever the fuck.”

and for the nth time that afternoon, you laugh.

he texts you first that night, to your surprise.

(8:38 pm) bakugou katsuki: thanks. for coming out today.

from where you were sprawled lazily on your mattress, hair still wet from that shower you almost didn’t take, you thumb out a response.

(8:39 pm) you: no problem, boss 🫡

you press send before you can overthink things. instead, you let the warm feeling of someone else’s gratitude bloom in your chest and bask in it. that doesn’t get to happen for too long, though, because another message arrives.

(8:40 pm) bakugou katsuki: don’t call me that. by the way, did you see the news?

you feel your brows crease.

(8:40 pm) you: what news?

ping.

(8:40 pm) bakugou katsuki: bakugou katsuki sent you a link

you immediately click on the string of words, and you’re redirected to an article. it takes a while to load—the internet is sometimes spotty at your modest condominium unit—but when it does, your jaw drops.

because right at the center of which is an image of you and bakugou at the café.

“holy shit.”

before anything else, you zoom in on your face, because priorities, right? you stare at the bunch of pixels for a good few minutes, before ultimately deciding there’s nothing you can do about it anyway. besides, it’s not like this was the first glimpse the public has had of your appearance. despite yourself, you check bakugou’s, and of course, the man looks like he just came straight out of a magazine shoot.

you then read the title, which must’ve been written in haste in an attempt to get ahead of a random netizen going viral. soulmates spotted: pro-hero dynamight seen with the girl from the bridge.

well.

at least they’re not calling you a jumper.

still.

(8:44 pm) you: seriously? girl from the bridge?

another ping.

(8:44 pm) bakugou katsuki: still at the fucking headline? hurry to the end, dumbass.

you roll your eyes, mainly because you can—perks of living alone and all. skimming through the sentences, you mouth the words to yourself—a rehash about who you are, the contact from a few days ago, eyewitnesses and accounts from today—until you land on the thing you think bakugou’s been trying to highlight.

in light of recent events, bakugou katsuki, who recently dropped several spots due to unfavorable encounters with citizens, has risen in the charts to #13.

you beam.

you and bakugou hang out a couple more times over the course of the next few weeks.

your get-togethers mainly depend on his schedule—which you gawked at how hectic it was when he first described it to you—even more now that you’re officially unemployed. your contractual obligation at the bookstore ended just in time as your first paycheck from the dynamight agency arrived, and you took the impeccable timing as the universe’s way of telling you to quit so you could instead spend your time freely on hobbies that you haven’t had the energy for.

on the days that you do meet, though, you end up dedicating a huge chunk of your waking hours to the endeavor. it’s like that meme of a google calendar, with the get ready for meeting, meeting, and recover from meeting blocks taking up the entire 9 to 5.

this was definitely the case for your fourth rendezvous, which you spent at a park near the bridge where you first met. he didn’t give you any details, so you walked into it blindly with a full face of makeup, hair done, and a tote bag full of finger food and some beverages in tow. needless to say, you were surprised when you arrived to the bakugou katsuki on a plaid orange picnic blanket, with what looked like handmade sandwiches displayed for hungry onlookers to see.

“don’t start,” he preempts when he sees you eyeing the snacks as you sit down.

you blink at him innocently, a smile tugging at your lips. “i wasn’t going to.”

he frowns. “quit grinning, would you? i just thought it’d be nice to get some fresh air.”

nodding solemnly, you bring out your share of rations. “sure.”

you brace yourself for any snide remark about your pitiful food—at least, as compared to his handcrafted ones—but they don’t come. instead, what you get is a side eye, before: “why’d you look like you’re going to an event, or some shit?”

you whip to face him. “huh?”

he gestures to your face.

“oh, this? i just don’t want to look ugly in the photos, is all.”

“ugly?” he spews, as if the word in itself was as hideous as it meant.

“yeah,” you retort defensively, placing the cans of juice on the ground before shifting to look at him. “not that you have to worry about that.”

a pause.

“what’s that supposed to mea—”

“do you have anything you want to do?” you cut him off, changing the topic.

“i—uh—” bakugou stammers, caught off guard. “we can just talk, or something.”

you light up at that, and he scoffs when he sees. “same game?”

“why the hell not.”

he texts you again after the picnic, right as you step out of the train and onto the platform of your stop. you smile when you catch a glimpse of it.

(6:05 pm) bakugou katsuki: at #9 now. thanks.

as you walk up the stairs and onto the streets, you find yourself wondering why this whole ruse has been working like a charm, and the answer is quick to arrive.

humans love narratives, after all.

and what better way to forward the age-old, comforting, and redeeming tale of soulmates than through the prickly, explosive pro-hero they know so well?

you don’t hear from each other after that. you’d be lying if you said it didn’t make you nervous just the tiniest bit—he was right, after all. you needed the money, especially after having quit your job. but you tell yourself it’s only been a couple of days, to trust that he’ll text when it’s time to make another public appearance, and that he’s way above ghosting you like you’re easily dispensible, regardless of whether or not you do feel that you are.

so, in an attempt to stop obsessing over this thing you’ve got going on with bakugou, you drag your ass out of bed and head to the nearest mall to run a few errands. you realize when you get to the supermarket that you forgot to catalog the things you actually needed to buy, cursing yourself when you do. still, you try your best to get on with it, relying instead on your hazy memory of what needs replenishing.

a good thirty minutes later, and with your grocery–filled tote bags hanging from your shoulders, you trek towards the pharmacy and fall in line. as always, there’s a long queue, but you eventually reach your turn, promptly buying your necessary meds and hightailing it out of there.

you consider booking a taxi instead of commuting home when you eventually feel the strain of the weight on your shoulders, but decide against it. the temperature is pretty decent anyway, you think to yourself as you walk and relish in the cloudy yet slightly windy weather. you study the buildings that you pass by, partly to distract yourself from how your bags are getting heavier and heavier by the minute, when your eyes land on a particular complex and you stop.

it’s either you’re going crazy, or you’ve been passing by the dynamight agency a million times and you never noticed.

you stand there for what feels like an eternity, peering at the floor-to-ceiling glass windows and letting the internal tug-of-war play out inside your head, until you ultimately let the curiosity win. slowly and with caution, you take a few steps towards the entrance. you honest-to-god weren’t planning on stepping foot inside the establishment, but apparently, the equally glass doors are automatic.

you falter for a moment, eyes wide as saucers like a deer caught in the headlights as the “gates” slide open for you, before making the split-second decision to enter. it was either that or look stupid in front of everyone in the lobby who’s now staring at you, anyway.

luckily, you don’t get to stand there—awkward as shit—for a second longer because one of the receptionists hurries over to where you’re positioned.

the lady beams at you. “good afternoon—”

“hi,” you supply, “i was just—”

“y/n, right?”

crap. “uh, yes.”

her grin widens. “you’re just in time! bakugou-san just clocked out.”

“oh, i wasn’t—”

“y/n?”

the two of you whip to look at the back of the large room, and sure enough, the owner of the increasingly familiar gruff voice is looking right at you, just as shocked at you being here as you are.

you can only watch him—in all his regularly clothed, duffel bag-carrying glory—as he briskly walks towards where you are.

a waft of his heady perfume hits you just as he arrives at your side. “what are you doing here?”

what the fuck are you supposed to say? “i, uh—”

“she must’ve come to visit you, sir,” the receptionist pipes up chirpily.

at that, bakugou regards her with a look—one that says, do you mind? and you guess he must use that a lot around here, because she snaps her mouth closed in an instant, and bows before retreating to her spot behind the counter.

you keep your eyes trained on the woman as she scurries, wishing the ground would swallow you up before you’re forced to look at the pro-hero. but then he says your name again, and your head creaks to face him as if it’s got a mind of its own, its automaticity akin to that of vines winding to get the smallest peek at the sun.

“well?” he demands, brow raised in waiting.

“i was just going home and noticed your building was on the way,” you answer truthfully, a tad bit embarrassed. you shouldn’t have stopped and let your curiosity get the better of you.

he studies you for a second longer before his gaze drops to the things you’re carrying. “you were walking home? with those?”

“yeah…” you respond, voice small. “don’t worry, they’re not that heavy,” you lie.

and before he can call you out on your deceit, you throw the question back at him. “how ‘bout you?”

the second it tumbles off your lips, you knew it was fucking stupid.

“…i work here?”

there it is. in a last-ditch effort to save face, you let out a laugh, although it comes out a bit stilted. he narrows his eyes at you, but if you didn’t know any better, you’d think the man was amused.

“let me drive you home,” he offers out of the blue, you almost choke.

“what? no, i’m okay.”

“your shoulders are about to give out,” he says pointedly. “don’t be fucking stubborn.”

“seriously, i’m alright,” you insist, and he sighs. you turn it right back at him, “don’t you have somewhere to be? you’re actually leaving early for once.”

and strangely enough, he is. from the few weeks of knowing knowing him, you’ve learned that the man puts in overtime almost every single day, which has been one of the reasons why your hangouts were always scheduled on the weekends.

“‘m visiting my parents,” comes his curt reply.

you beam at him. it’s funny how picturing this hulking brute of a man as his parents’ son makes you feel warm. “that’s so nice of you.”

“‘s nothing,” he dismisses, before: “they’ve been asking about you, you know.”

“me?” you repeat lamely. “what about me?”

he shrugs. “just basic information about you, how we’re doing, and all that crap…”

and when you don’t say anything, he just goes straight for it. “they want you to visit.”

you gape at him.

“but don’t be pressured, and shit,” he backtracks. “i know that’s a tall order.”

huh.

“…i’ll think about it,” you eventually offer with a nod. and you will—later. when you’ve got your wits about you. but for now, you hastily go through your bags and pick out the thing.

“here,” you say, just as you thrust the small bouquet of orange tulips toward him. “give these to your mom. or dad. or both, really.”

his eyes dart between you and the flowers and then back at you again. great, you think to yourself. you’ve successfully rendered the man speechless.

“take it,” you assert after a moment. “they’re better off in you guys’ hands, anyway.”

he examines them for another while, before he finally takes them off your hands.

“thanks.”

you only smile at him. to your pleasant surprise, he flashes a small one back.

(9:06 pm) bakugou katsuki: i’d tell you to check the news but i know it’ll take you a century. i’m at 6th now.

the drowsiness that was just clouding your brain wards off like smoke that’s being fanned away. you sit up on your couch, rubbing your eyes with one hand while you type out a response with the other.

(9:07 pm) you: ha. and congrats!!! that’s great to hear 🥳

you barely get to adjust your butt’s position when a notification pops in.

(9:07 pm) bakugou katsuki: thanks. and my parents loved it, just so you know. the old hag especially.

you smile. another message.

(9:08 pm) bakugou katsuki: she wants you to come over for dinner this weekend.

your face falls. shit. you didn’t see this coming.

(9:09 pm) you: so soon?

your default ringtone resounds across your one-bedroom unit.

(9:09 pm) bakugou katsuki: she’s in a rush. say no if you don’t want to.

you pause, suddenly acutely aware of the guilt that’s stewing in the pit of your stomach. is deceiving his parents necessary, when all you need is to put on an act for the general public? still, bakugou did say his mother was in a rush. maybe he just got sick of her insistent nagging.

you take a sharp inhale.

(9:12 pm) you: i’m down 🫡

and just because there’s nothing more fun than pulling at his leg:

(9:12 pm) you: …granted i’ll get paid for it 😊

ping.

(9:13 pm) bakugou katsuki: you and your greedy ass. fine.

“and so that’s how i got masaru here to say yes to a date!”

you laugh as mitsuki loops an arm around the shoulder of the brunette sitting beside her, who only chuckles to himself, a faint pink sitting high on his cheeks. you chance a glance at bakugou, and sure enough, he’s rolling his eyes at his mother’s finishing line.

“what?” he quips defensively when you toss him a pointed look. “i’ve heard this story a million times.”

“and you’re gonna hear it again, tsuki,” mitsuki replies unapologetically.

bakugou only groans as you smile at the couple from across the table. “i think that was an excellent story, mitsuki-san.”

“thank you, y/n. but enough about us!” she wiggles her eyebrows suggestively, and you feel your stomach drop. “how ‘bout you two, huh? what’s the deal?”

“the deal is you’re being nosy as fuck,” comes bakugou’s snappy retort.

“come on, katsuki,” masaru implores, a playful lilt in his tone. “we’d love to hear about how things are going between the two of you.”

“is the press being all up in your ass?” mitsuki demands, “because i can tell them to fuck off if you need me to.”

“sure, if you want to fucking embarrass me.”

“you know what, i’d actually love to do that.”

“fucking hag—”

you worriedly watch the two ash blondes as they go at each other’s throats, before you look at masaru for help. he only shoots you a meek albeit unalarmed expression, which is enough to tell you this isn’t an uncommon occurrence in the bakugou household. thankfully, though, they calm down after a beat, opting to glare daggers at each other instead.

“to answer your question, mitsuki-san,” you take the gamble and interject, and everybody whips to look at you, “they’re being quite harmless. you know, minus all the circulating information about my life.”

at that, mitsuki’s joyful countenance morphs into one of sorriness. “i’m afraid that’s part of having a soulmate with a high profile, dear. it doesn’t help that you were being filmed when you both found out.”

“yeah, well, there’s not much we can do about it,” you offer with a genuine smile.

“is that why you’re just leaning into it?” asks masaru. “hanging out in public and all?”

“uh—”

“obviously,” bakugou cuts you off. you turn to look at him, stunned, before shifting back to face the couple.

“uh, yes,” you continue, “we figured there wasn’t any point in hiding anymore.”

that seems to perk mitsuki up. “hide what, tsuki?”

and when neither of you says anything: “are you trying to tell us something?”

you sneak a glance at bakugou, only to find him already looking at you. you stare at each other for what feels like a minute short of forever, before he breaks eye contact and cooly says the next thing.

says the next thing while simultaneously pulling the rug from under your feet.

“we’re dating,” he declares, and you sit there, witnessing his parents’ eyes bug out in surprise, hoping yours aren’t betraying the very same emotion you’re feeling right now.

“really?”

“oh my god! since when?”

bakugou huffs, practically exuding annoyance. “yes, and just recently. end of discussion.”

masaru laughs in delight while mitsuki pouts, although you can tell she’s fighting off a grin.

“and here we thought you were gonna die alone, tsuki,” masaru jokes.

“shitty fucking—”

“no, but seriously,” interrupts mitsuki, “i was getting nervous, katsuki. what with my diagnosis, i thought i’d never get to see you be happy with someone.”

you pause, looking at the man beside you. “diagnosis?”

“oh! he didn’t tell you?” mitsuki queries, tone laced with worry. “i don’t mean to be a party pooper, but i just got diagnosed with stage 2 breast cancer a few months ago.”

shit. “i’m so sorry, mitsuki-san—”

the woman waves you off, a beautiful smile adorning her familiar features. “don’t be, dear. the doctor says the outlook is good as long as i strictly adhere to treatment.”

despite that, you can’t help but frown. “how are you feeling these days?”

“i’m good!” she supplies cheerfully. “masaru and i have been spending more quality time together, and katsuki’s been visiting more often. and of course, you being here is an added bonus.”

you toss the woman a grateful look, which she returns generously. mitsuki talks some more about it before shifting the conversation back to less depressing territories, like what bakugou was like growing up and her and masaru’s plans for retirement. eventually, minutes turned into a few hours, and came the time to go home. you profusely thank the couple as you begin to head outside, while bakugou steps out to his porsche to get the engine started.

“i’ll be hoping for your speedy recovery, mitsuki-san,” you say as you step out onto their front porch.

“thanks, dear. and i’ll be hoping that things go well between you and katsuki, okay?”

you force a smile on your face and the words out of your mouth. “i hope so, too.”

the air is tense between you and bakugou as you step out of his car at your complex’s parking lot, then through the doors at the guarded entrance, and even during the elevator ride up to your floor.

neither of you says a word the entire time, sharing only a few nods and glances with you leading the way. you were fully expecting him to just drive off the second you got out of his pristine vehicle, but he ended up exiting with you and following your trail like a shadow.

thankfully, not many people are still around to see you in the lobby or on your floor, even if it’s still 9-ish on a saturday. you both were all for being spotted together, but maybe being seen at either of your residences will cause more trouble than help. you are about to say this to break the ice when you arrive at the end of the hallway and in front of your unit, but bakugou beats you to it.

“i’m sorry i didn’t tell you.”

you freeze, blinking at him. “didn’t tell me what?”

he sighs, and suddenly the lines that you were convinced weren’t on his face a second ago are now evident—along with the exhaustion that’s carved right into it. “that my mom has cancer.”

you frown. “there’s nothing to apologize for, bakugou. you’re not obligated to tell me.”

“still,” he insists, seemingly growing more tired by the moment. “it blindsided you, hearing it from her. i should’ve just told you earlier.”

“maybe,” you admit, “but i understand your apprehension.”

he grumbles, but doesn’t reply. you decide to just go for it.

“can i ask you something?”

he looks up from where he was staring at the off-white tiled floor, expectant. “what?”

“is she part of the reason?” you begin, treading carefully. “why you wanted to put up appearances?”

he stares at you for a beat, perhaps a beat too long because you find yourself slowly regretting bringing up the query in the first place. you are about to backtrack and apologize for asking when, to your surprise, he nods.

ever so slightly that it’s almost imperceptible, but enough of a motion for you to see it.

“i just wanted to seem like i’m putting myself out there,” he mutters, “just in case something happens.”

you nod, ignoring the way your heart is stinging at his sincerity just now.

“she’s always been on my ass about finding someone, but then things happened and you showed up, and i figured why not just hit two birds with one stone, or some shit.”

a pause.

“personally i wouldn’t want to be the stone hitting not just one but two poor birds, but i get it.”

that must’ve caught him off guard, because bakugou snorts. you grin at him when he snickers and calls you stupid under his breath, the atmosphere taking a vastly lighter turn.

now, you didn’t notice it before—much like how you didn’t notice his agency’s building being part of your regular route to the mall—but bakugou has a dimple. a tiny one. and similar to his nod from a short while ago, it’s a subtle little thing, but it’s there—especially now that he’s smiling.

and right next to his dimple are his lips.

which are looking ungodly moisturized compared to your undoubtedly chapped ones.

wait.

your eyes shoot up from his lips to his eyes, a tidal wave of equal parts shame and humiliation ready to crash over your entire, pathetic body. but just as it is about to metaphorically collide with your frame, it freezes—just as you do.

because you catch him—and no matter how much he might try to deny it, you saw it with your own two eyes.

he was staring at your lips.

but apparently denying it isn’t part of his agenda for the night, because he does the exact fucking opposite.

he dives in and presses his lips onto yours.

and you were right—they are sinfully soft, even if you haven’t seen him apply lip balm in the handful of instances you hung out.

and as far as you can remember, this is the last coherent thought that crosses your mind, because the next few minutes go by like a blur. you vaguely recall him pulling away and looking straight at you, as if waiting for a reaction, before leaning right back in when you pull him closer by his shirt. what you don’t remember is who opens the door or how you manage to use your keys without breaking the momentum, but you magically do, just as magically as how fast clothes are shed on the way to your bed.

you recall him eagerly towering over you as your back hit the soft sheets of your mattress, as well as the honest admission of his inexperience yet willingness to learn against your neck. you remember guiding him, telling him how to touch you and the right places to do so—where to rub and lick and thrust not just his fingers to drive you over the edge.

and he does—drive you over the edge. over and over and over that you lost count. and you equally returned the favor, shocked at your own desperation and unusual determination to make him feel good. you recall his being vocal—which you loved, if the incessant wetness between your thighs that lasted the entire night was any indication. you don’t remember when you finished for the last time—when you both crashed out from sheer exhaustion.

but it eventually happened—otherwise, you wouldn’t be laying here, naked under the covers, with a sleeping bakugou illuminated by the sunlight peeking through your black-out curtains.

this wasn’t part of the plan.

the whole pretending to be amicable soulmates plan, sure. but perhaps more importantly, your short-term plan that consists of…well, today and tomorrow.

the last thing you need is to actually be tethered to a person this late in the game.

still, and despite the palpable regret that sits heavy on your chest—the one that’s very bare at the moment albeit concealed under your freshly-washed blanket—you’d be lying if you said you didn’t want it. besides, you don’t have anything else to blame for your behavior last night other than your own free will.

but why do you still feel so empty?

“you okay?”

ripped out of your stupor, you whip to look to your left, and you don’t know who else you were expecting, but your eyes still widen in surprise when you see a naked bakugou, slightly propped up by his two elbows that strain under his hefty weight. unable to sustain his gaze, you keep your line of vision trained on this one vein that runs along the length of his arm as you merely nod in response.

unsurprisingly, he doesn’t take that for an answer.

“i’m not asking again,” he warns, and your eyes shoot up to meet his in disbelief.

the words are out before you can rein them in. “are you always this mouthy even in the morning?”

“i’m not a morning person,” he simply spits back, as if that’s enough of an explanation in itself.

you furrow your brows at him, having half a mind to lock in on this staredown until the fluid in your eyes dries out and you finally, finally die (or go blind, whichever comes first), but then just as quickly as it possessed you with his challenge, the fight within you dies out, leaving your body limp with numbness and fatigue. you break eye contact when it happens, shaking your head in resignation.

you settle with: “it’s nothing,” and blindly hope he leaves it at that.

“‘s not nothing if it’s clearly bothering you,” he retorts to your chagrin.

“i don’t want to be embarrassingly vulnerable if it’ll make you uncomfortable.”

at that, he scoffs. “we fucked. multiple times last night. it can’t get any more vulnerable than that.”

you flush at his brazenness. “yeah, well, that’s the thing. we…you know,” you lower your voice for the next bit, “had sex, and now the lines are getting blurry and it’s all confusing.”

and when he doesn’t say anything for a moment, you tie your spiel with a mangled bow. “i told you it was gonna be embarrassing for me.”

that seems to rub him off the wrong way, because his nose flares in irritation. “why’re you talking like i’m some cold ass fuckboy? i told you, didn’t i? there’s nothing fucking casual about me.”

“i didn’t mean it like—”

“let me talk first,” he commands, and you shut up.

he sighs when you do, letting his head droop between his shoulders. “i don’t regret it, but if you do, then i’m sorry. i shouldn’t have made a move.”

you sit up from where you were lying down, the motion causing him to look up and at you as you shake your head, “don’t apologize, bakugou. it’s just…”

you trail off, weighing on what you can and cannot say.

“it’s just what?” he prods.

you let out a long exhale. “it’s just things are a bit…complicated, to say the least.”

that makes the pro-hero frown, but he doesn’t get to push you to expound on it because a booming voice erupts throughout the room, entirely juxtaposing the earlier quiet. you startle, then ease up when you realize it’s all might’s, and that it’s merely a ringtone. bakugou scrambles out of bed to fetch his phone, and you manage to look away just in time to avoid catching a glimpse of his massive dick.

which, after last night, is really just for courtesy purposes at this point.

thankfully, you don’t have to stare at the ceiling for too long because he retrieves it in record time, before hurriedly crawling back and flinging the covers on top of his lower half.

he eyes you as he brings the device up to his ear and speaks into it. “what is it, nerd?”

you strain to listen in on the voice at the other end, but you barely manage to pick up on a few words. you resort to observing bakugou’s facial expressions instead.

“cut to the chase,” he spews, and you find yourself feeling bad for the other person. “i’m busy right now.”

you watch as bakugou listens to the “nerd’s” reply, stiffening when the pro-hero curses under his breath.

“it’s next weekend? why’d you have to book it this early, then?”

was he planning to meet this person somewhere?

“shit. fine, i’ll ask her.”

you don’t even get to wonder who her is before bakugou swiftly brings his other hand up to cover the microphone, regarding you straight-up.

“shitty deku and round cheeks want to hang out next weekend,” he explains, slightly hesitant, before: “you up for that?”

you make a quick survey of bakugou’s face. can you even say no, at this point? technically, you can, but an inkling deep inside you points at your needing a distraction, because otherwise…

otherwise…

no, now’s not the time for that.

instead, you nod, forcing a smile on your lips. “i’ll go.”

bakugou stares at you for a beat, gaze borderline scrutinizing it makes you uneasy. but then he nods, and you find yourself taking a sharp breath as he goes back to his phone call.

“we’re in.”

“once again, serving time will be 15 to 20 minutes, and i’m haruhi, your server for this evening.”

you collectively thank the waitress as she beams at the four of you while serving your glasses of water, before turning around to return to the kitchen.

“this restaurant’s really hard to get into, you know,” shares midoriya when the girl is out of earshot, catching your attention. “but i heard their katsudon is really, really good, so i worked hard to get us a reservation.”

“worked hard, my ass,” sneers bakugou without missing a beat. “you pulled some strings. i recognize the owner, he’s the father of one of your top students.”

“kacchan—”

“don’t tease him, bakugou,” the brunette interjects, an adorable pout etched on her pretty face. “i was with him, he was on the phone for thirty minutes with the receptionist begging for a slot.”

“and you two are begging to be teased,” comes bakugou’s snarky quip. “quit it with the whole defending him, would ya?”

you fail to stop the smile that invades your lips as the new couple blush at bakugou’s remark, an unmistakable tinge of pink flooding both of their cheeks.

“if it’s okay to ask,” you start, tamping down the shyness that looms in when the two across you regard you pleasantly, “how long have you been dating?”

“uh, about three months, right, izuku?” uraraka replies quietly, the pink from earlier now blossoming into a more apparent red as she looks at the man.

“y-yes, three months,” confirms the greenhead.

from where he’s seated to your left, bakugou snorts. “it’s been a long time coming, if you ask me.”

“you make it sound so simple, bakugou,” counters uraraka, before shifting to face you. “it really wasn’t easy to get to this point, y/n. i’m not sure if bakugou’s told you, but we went through a lot in ua and even after that, which made entertaining anything beyond hero work impossible. plus,” she adds timidly, “there’s this whole soulmate situation on top of everything.”

curious, you ask. “what soulmate situation?”

and, as if they’ve gone through these motions countless times before, both midoriya and uraraka lift up their right wrists and thrust them forward for you to see. you lean forward to get a better view.

you look at midoriya’s first. his looks just like yours before you met bakugou a little over a month ago—opaque and conveniently set at zero. you then glance at uraraka’s, but to your surprise, hers looks different. a huge number is written on her flesh…

but it’s static and greyed out.

you look up at the woman, confused, and she’s quick to explain. “my soulmate died a few years ago.”

she shrugs, “and izuku’s…well, he’s never heard of them.”

“not that we wouldn’t be with each other if they were both around,” clarifies midoriya, who says it so quickly he almost stumbles over his words. “it’s just that because of these circumstances, our relationship is a bit…unconventional.”

“i understand,” you promptly reply with the most gracious expression you can muster. uraraka shoots you a grateful look, while midoriya bashfully scratches at his head.

you sense bakugou’s gaze on you through your periphery, but you ignore it.

you wouldn’t be able to hold it, anyway.

“it’s romantic, isn’t it?”

you round the corner, careful not to brush against bakugou when he does the same to your left. a sigh of relief threatens to wrack over the entirety of your frame when you’re met with the sight of the familiar-looking street, brightly illuminated by an array of streetlights dotting the entire length of it.

“what,” he says more than asks, effortlessly keeping up with your pace with his long strides.

you take a fleeting glance at him, before shifting your attention back to the pavement in front of you. “midoriya and uraraka, and how they chose each other.”

“i guess…” he responds, voice uncharacteristically quiet. “but i’ve always seen it from lightyears away.”

you pause, although you’re quick to step back into your rhythmic walking. “really?”

“they’ve always had each other’s backs even before ua,” he explains. “it’s creepy how similar they are to each other, too. it’d be weird if they didn’t end up together.”

he says it so seriously you can’t help but laugh. you catch him looking at you, smirking. “you’ve got an interesting way with words, bakugou.”

“sue me.”

you, in fact, don’t sue him, but you do unleash a cutting wisecrack in his direction, which he counters with his, and this goes on and on without pause that you don’t even notice you’ve already arrived at the front of your condominium unit until he points it out.

and as the weighty realization of this dawns on you, so do the memories of what happened when you were last here together. you rush to suppress them, and pick up the conversation from where you left off.

“i don’t know about you,” you quip, tossing him a grin, “but i take comfort in the fact that people can find someone beyond their designated soulmates.”

to your dismay, albeit somewhat unsurprisingly, bakugou doesn’t return it—the grin nor the sentiment, apparently—because he only stares at you weirdly, like you just said something…off.

great, you think to yourself. now you’ve ruined it.

might as well ruin it even further at this point, right?

finally, and to your brain’s relief, you let the damned grin fall off your face, let your shoulders sag from the strenuous effort to seem tall and confident for the last few hours, and you heave a heavy, heavy sigh. you sense bakugou stiffen at your palpable change in demeanor, but you pay it no mind.

“look,” you start, willing yourself to look up to meet his eyes, which you instantly regret because now they’re laced with obvious concern. still, you press on and gulp. “i didn’t want to do this, but i guess i have no choice now, do i?”

“what are you—”

“i know things are weird right now, and i just had to go ahead and start catching feelings like a lunatic, but i—”

you trail off, uncertain, before deciding fuck it. “this can’t go on, bakugou.”

the second you let the words out, you can only watch with anticipatory dread as a million emotions dance across his features. you stand there as he opens his mouth, before closing them, and then opening them again, although nothing comes out.

what seems like an eternity passes before he finally gets something out.

“…why?”

you press your lips into a thin line. “it’s because i’m sick.”

there.

but then he says something that completely throws you off balance.

“i know.”

you feel your eyes widen in surprise as he diverts his gaze. “what? how?”

“i—” he starts, reluctant, before: “i noticed.”

instantly, you flame in embarrassment. you thought you had this whole masking thing pinned the fuck down. and all this time you hadn’t?

you must’ve looked distraught at his admission, because he swiftly tries to soothe you. “don’t hide,” he says, and only then do you realize you’re shrinking in yourself like you do when you want to disappear. he frowns, “the last thing you need to be is fucking ashamed.”

at that, and despite yourself, you snort. you don’t have the heart to tell him you can’t remember the last time you felt shame over your condition from how long it’s just been there—an unwavering part of your life. still, you force a reply. “thanks.”

and before he can say anything uselessly placating that’ll only chip away at the very little you have left, you beat him to it. “i should head inside.”

“but—”

“good night, bakugou.”

and just like that, you spin on your heel, open the door with your keys, and close it shut in his face.

the conversation from earlier wouldn’t leave his head.

even as he tosses and turns on top of his king-sized mattress, and even as the clock ticks past the usual, strict bedtime he’s set for himself as early as high school, he finds himself wide awake, his steady heartbeat the only thing that’s breaking the monotonous quiet of his lonely bedroom.

so much happened in the course of the few minutes in front of your place, that while he prides himself in his acuity and general sharpness, he admits even he couldn’t have responded the way he should have despite desperately wanting to.

which fucking reminds him.

he didn’t get to say he likes you back.

he was so wrapped up in you implicitly trashing your soulmate connection, as well as you calling it quits that he barely registered your hasty confession. not when you immediately followed it up with an acknowledgment of what’s been causing you pain.

and as he stares at the dimly lit ceiling of his room, bakugou arrives at a pivotal realization—his feelings should be the least of your worries.

but that doesn’t mean you didn’t deserve to know.

so with a renewed sense of determination, the pro-hero promptly sits up and reaches for the phone that’s perched idly on his nightstand. 10:07 pm, it reads. you should still be awake by now.

he types out a message.

(10:08 pm) me: you awake? can i call you?

he presses the send button before he can back out of it.

what feels like five minutes pass without a single chime emanating from his phone, at which point he finally allows himself to let the anxiety creep up his neck. he stares at your caller id, debating whether or not you’d get mad if he just went ahead and called you.

eventually, and after five more minutes, bakugou decides he’d rather face your wrath than deal with his own regret.

so he calls you. once, no answer. second attempt, sent straight to voicemail. third, fourth, and fifth, and that’s when a ghastly chill envelopes him.

it couldn’t be.

still, with bated breath and immense dread pooling in his stomach, he slowly lifts his right wrist to check.

only to find that the timer has stopped.

˖⁺‧₊ as always, reblogs, replies, and tags are appreciated <3 feel free to drop an ask, too—i'd love to chat with you. have a nice day!

tagging. @bunnysaursushii @yawnzzzzzzzz @cholios @kashee-h @iluv-ace @lotuslovers @elarakive @sugurusmoon @napbatata @k0z3me @h0ngh0ngh0ng @honeyoru @yoongiwithglasses @hellokitty-doll @lilsebnem @tetsuukuroo @crangrapel0ver @syrhra

[blindmagdalena]

You Let Me Complicate You

18+ 4k homelander x f!reader. bickering, post-breakup sex, dubcon/coercion, angst, jealousy, emotional manipulation, implied murder, stalking, boundary smashing, breaking and entering, cunnilingus, penetrative sex. read on AO3. written as a follow-up to the breakup, but can be read as a standalone. gif credit.

Breaking up with Homelander is... complicated. After all, it is a god that loves you.

"What do I taste like?" You asked him once, drunk on pleasure and those early honeymoon days of loving him. He’d been slow to answer, thinking it over. "Love," he said at last. "Like you love me." You wonder if that holds true. If he can still taste love in you. If that’s why he’s so eager to devour you, or if the absence of it has made him even hungrier.

Homelander is an aberration.

Stronger than a hundred men, faster than a bullet and sharp as a tack all paired with a teaspoon’s depth of emotional maturity. He’s volatile, twisted, broken in ways no amount of therapy could ever hope to duct tape back together. He’s no better off than a dog that bites to kill. No matter how he got to this point, the best thing for him–for the world–would be to put him down by any means necessary.

Too bad you can’t seem to stop fucking him.

It’s late when you hear the front door open with a distinct crack. You’re sprawled out on the couch in the living room, one leg draped lazily over the armrest. What comes next is no surprise to you–a shock of primary colors filling the narrow doorway, a handsome face made ghoulish by the haunting light of the television in an otherwise dark room.

“You nailed the door shut,” Homelander says, the inflection of his voice somewhere between a question and a statement.

“Because you broke it,” you throw back, a stale Twizzler balanced between your lips. It had tasted good enough when you started eating it, but now–in his presence–the sweetness of it has turned sour.

“You changed the locks,” he says with a light shrug, cape swaying as he meanders towards you. “My key didn’t work.”

“Your key? Stealing a key to my house does not make it your key,” you say tersely, lifting your foot to press it firmly to his thigh, stopping him in his tracks. 

He glances down, a mirthless smile tugging at the corner of his mouth before he catches your ankle in his gloved hand, yanking you down the couch so suddenly you lose your Twizzler to the floor with a gasp. It’s one thing to know that Homelander has strength enough to throw cars like frisbees. It’s another to feel it. It sends a rush of adrenaline through you like a jolt, followed swiftly by something hotter low in your naval.

“Y’know, I’ve been thinking,” he begins, dropping your ankle. He lifts his knee and slots it between your legs, his opposite boot on the floor, his hand braced on the back of the couch, pinning you in place.

“Don’t hurt yourself,” you cut in dryly, moving to shift up the couch, away from him. He snatches your shoulder, halting you with ease. His thumb strokes your skin idly, goosebumps erupting beneath his touch.

“And I’ve realized that this whole… thing between you and I, this ‘will they, won’t they,’ ” he says, bobbing his head side to side. “It’s getting stale. Don’t you think it’s about time we progressed the plot?” He asks, leaning in close.

You brace your hand against his chest, holding him in place as ineffectually as you did earlier. You both know it’s all a game. It’s all pretense. There had been fondness between you once–love, even–but you’re done with that now. You have to be done with it, or Homelander will swallow you whole. He’s a black pit, a murderer, and his need knows no end. He’ll destroy you and everything you know and love if he thinks it’ll satiate that need.

You’ve lost enough. You can’t afford to lose any more of yourself to him.

“Jesus Christ, you even think in TV script,” you say, pushing on his chest. He leans back, but not by much. It sends a terrible little chill down your spine. “I’m starting to think the only thing that might actually kill you is an original thought.”

His eyes narrow and his bright white teeth flash predatorily in the darkness. “You’re lucky I haven’t broken your neck,” he says, hand slipping from your shoulder to your throat. The sharp press of his thumb into your windpipe steals your breath, makes your thighs tighten on either side of his leg snug between yours. His lips split into an unkind grin. “Or maybe not. You’d probably like that.”

“You’re disgusting,” you spit, gripping his wrist with your other hand. Your pulse is starting to throb against the leather of his glove. He moves his thumb from your windpipe to your jaw and turns your head away, leaning in with a deep, pointed inhale along your neck.

“Is that why your hormones are going haywire? Because I disgust you?” He asks, grinding his thigh between your legs in a way that makes you gasp. “Y’know, given how full of it you are, I was sure I’d smell the bullshit on you. But all I smell… is how fucking wet you are.”

He grabs your hip and the memories come to you like muscle memory. How good it feels to be gripped and fucked and loved by someone beyond your comprehension. To feel as if you’ve stopped the world turning and called the sun itself to shine on you alone.

You twist your chin out of his grip and level him with a heated stare. “I hate you,” you hiss, grasping for the knife you know will twist the deepest. 

It works for a second, his smug expression faltering, but only for an instant. His jaw sets, and his lips curl into that same unkind smile. “C’mon, babe,” he coos, the intimate familiarity woven into that pet name making your skin crawl. “We both know that I can always tell when you’re lying.”

He kisses you like he always has. Like you belong to him. In a way, you suppose you always will. There’s nothing you can do to pry your throat from Homelander’s jaws. Nowhere you can run that he won’t eventually find you. Like quicksand, the more you fight, the tighter he clamps down. Truth be told, though, that isn’t the worst of it. The worst of it is that the tighter he grips you, the less you want to fight him.

His tongue slithers into your mouth like a serpent into the garden and you bite down hard. While pliant between your teeth, the flesh doesn’t yield. It never will. He never will. Instead he moans a little chuckle that fades into a rumble against your lips.

“That how it’s gonna be?” He asks, the words rasped into your mouth. “Y’wanna bite and claw? Play hard to get?” He laughs, the sound of it reedy and light, like it’s all a silly little game of make-believe. “I can do that.”

He reeks of his own desperation for what he says to be true. More than anything, he wants to dress up his desires as yours. He wants to believe he’s giving you what you want. That way, he can trick himself into believing you need him.

He bites the middle tip of his glove and tugs it off with his teeth, tossing it aside. His bare thumb brushes your lip, smearing his spit and yours. “I saw you with that fucking loser,” he says, the airiness suddenly gone from his voice.

Your stomach drops. Two days ago you’d been with a man. You’d been so desperate to forget him that night that anyone would have done the job. You stumbled out with some nobody from the bar who’d been good enough for a sloppy makeout session in the back of his truck, but not good enough to bring home. It hadn’t ended well.

How close of an eye is Homelander keeping on you?

“I’d be angry if it hadn’t been so fuckin’ pathetic,” he says through his teeth.

“Liar,” you say tightly. You feel his fury in the tension of his body. He’s pissed that you’d seek this out anywhere else. As if he still has a claim over your body. Your pleasure.

His eyes flash up to yours. He sneers, pushing his thumb between your lips. “I watched you bite his lip until he bled. I watched him slap you,” he says, dragging the pad of his thumb along the ridges of your bottom teeth. The memories come to you as he speaks them, every moment of it made bleary by alcohol. “You wanted it rough, but he couldn’t handle you, could he? Because you’re used to something better. You’re used to a god.”

You sneer right back at him, yanking your head to the side, his thumb slipping from between your lips. “Could you be any more in love with yourself? Go fuck yours-”

“I still had to kill him, of course,” he continues nonchalantly, grinding your thoughts to a screeching halt. He laughs humorlessly. “For kissing you. And, well–for everything else, obviously. Slapping you,” he says, brushing his knuckles down your cheek. The same one the man had struck. “Humping your leg like a fucking dog.”

“Why are you doing this?” You ask, throat tight. Bile burns at the back of it. All you wanted was to get away from this. The blood, the horror of it. Yet no matter what you do to dissuade him, he brings death to your doorstep. “You have everything. You could have anyone. Why are you–”

“Because I want you,” he hisses, words so sharp his sharp teeth snap together. “Because I love you, and that’s what you do when you love someone,” he says. You can feel the accusation building in his words. “You don’t give up on them. And if that means cleaning up every dirty little mistake you make,” he says softly, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “So be it.” 

A cold shiver rolls down your spine. You stare woundedly at him, lips parted, brows pinched together, the misery of it all etched into every line of your face. He stares at you in turn, and after a beat, his own hard expression softens.

“Hey, hey,” he says, the heat of his breath a ghostly kiss on your lips. “It’s okay,” he says, brushing the tip of your nose with his. “I forgive you.”

He kisses you again, more tender now. Your eyes prickle with tears. His gentleness hurts so much more than his violence. It disarms you, carries you to a time when things were simpler between you. Sweeter and warmer. 

Homelander makes the world feel wonderful and dangerous, like standing in the middle of an electric storm. Being loved by him is the feeling of having your ribs cracked open, your heart cradled in his bare hands, possessive and bloody. What had been thrilling grew stifling, a feeling you realize now never truly went away.

He’s inescapable, literally and figuratively. Even when he isn’t inviting himself into your home or lurking in the periphery of your vision, Vought’s hero is plastered on every billboard and screen in the city. You haven't been able to breathe without inhaling the thick miasma of him.

Tears roll down to your temples as you kiss him back, both hands fisted in his soft hair, tugging. He makes a pleased little sound against your lips, teeth grazing your bottom lip. He’s always kissed like a man possessed–like every brush of your lips is a drop of salvation–but the hunger he’s developed since you tried to leave him is unparalleled. He kisses you like he means to devour you whole.

You bite back a sob, but the hiccuped noise of it catches his attention nonetheless. He breaks from you, looking down at you with a feverish mix of yearning, impatience and something that almost resembles pity, which might be the closest thing he knows to sympathy.

“Hey,” he coos, dusting your jaw with feather light kisses. “Don’t cry.”

“It’s awful,” you choke out.

“What is?”

“Your love.”

“I know,” he says after a prolonged pause. “It’s all I know.”

You look at him, the image of him bleary through your tears. There’s a morose resignation in his ocean-storm eyes, a distance that makes him seem far, far away from you, even as you taste the heat of his breath on your lips.

Focus returns to his gaze, and suddenly he’s present again. “It’s all I know,” he says again, his tone made of wood, stiff and splintering.

Swallowing the lump in your throat, you lift your palm to his cheek, hovering just shy of touching. He’s pulled to it like a magnet, nuzzling into your palm, eyes closing. His hand slides down the familiar slopes of your body, settling at your hip, where his fingertips sink in like claws, the pressure of them shy. For as vicious as things have gotten between you, he’s never hurt you. A fact he lords over you as if he should be applauded for it.

I love you more than anything. You know that, right? That I would never do anything to hurt you? He’d asked you during that first fight. When everything went wrong. 

You’d only been able to nod then, trapped with a man you didn’t recognize wearing the face of the man you loved.

That’s right. Of course you do. Because if I wanted to hurt you, I would have. It would have been easy, huh?

Despite how desperately you’ve tried to fortify yourself against him, it’s still so easy.

Homelander is an aberration, but so too is he a man, and there was a time when the man was all that you saw. When the monster at the core of him reared its head, bloody and unrepentant, that became all you could see in him. Now, the two are so irrevocably tangled in the sinew of the other, you’re never sure which you’re looking at.

“I miss you,” you confess to the man in him, voice so soft only his ears possibly could have discerned the words. As if you can hide the words from the monster lurking behind if you speak them quietly enough. 

He looks as confused as your own aching heart. “I’m here,” he says, everything in his tone willing you to believe it. He doesn’t understand that you miss who he was before you knew what he was.

A mournful noise swells in your chest, but he kisses you before it can escape. “I’m here,” he says again, the hand at your hip turning into a fist in the fabric of your clothes, tearing them at the seams. “I’ll make you feel better,” he says between presses of his lips, hungry and rushing, like he can outspeed your miserable grief. “Let me make you feel good.”

Sex has always been an avenue of redemption for Homelander. Whether he’s frustrated, anxious, wounded or a combination of them all, he’s sought to remedy it through a good orgasm. He treats you as though the notion should hold true for you: the fight doesn’t count so long as he makes you come.

Yet again, you’re left stricken by him. As you have a dozen times before, all you can do is nod. Deep in your core, you know he’s right. He can make you forget this horrible ache in yourself, the grief and the fear. He can take you away to the dream you’d lived before you met the beast in his shadow. 

Coherent thought turns to water slipping between the cracks of your mind as Homelander’s bare fingers brush your inner thigh. You suck in a sharp breath that leaves you as a shudder and you clutch at his collar, twisting the fabric, unsure if you mean to push him away or pull him closer.

Homelander makes the choice for you, closing the distance and kissing you too gently, too sweetly. You spur him with your teeth, needing it faster, harder. Needing it to hurt just enough to not feel entirely right. He ignores your prompt, focused wholly on tasting you, on sliding his fingers up into the waiting warmth between your thighs. He presses the pad of his middle finger to your clit, deft and familiar.

You sigh, closing your eyes, ready to lose yourself to the feel of something good. He slides serpentine down your body, kissing you through your shirt, nipping at your skin through the fabric for the way it makes you jump. His lips trail down until they pass the hem of your shirt, finding where he’s stripped you. His mouth is unbearably warm, breath hot huffs on your bare skin, goosebumps erupting everywhere.

He mouths at your hip, sucks the skin dark before trailing further down, leaving a constellation with his lips. The scorching wet heat of his tongue feels like a brand on your clit, replacing his hand with his mouth. 

You thread your fingers into his hair, widening the spread of your legs to allow for the way he shoulders under and between them, lifting your lower half. He nuzzles into the nectary sweetness of you, moaning unabashedly for your familiar taste.

What do I taste like? You asked him once, drunk on pleasure and those early honeymoon days of loving him. Everything about him fascinated you; did his super smell lend itself to super taste? Could he pick out each note of you, dissect your profile into sections?

He’d been slow to answer, thinking it over.

Love, he said at last. Like you love me.

You wonder if that holds true. If he can still taste love in you, if that’s why he’s so eager to devour you, or if the absence of it has made him even hungrier. If he plunges his tongue to the core of you in the hopes he might discover lingering shreds of what the two of you once had.

A moan escapes you. His fingers bite into your thighs, tongue coaxing more. Restraint dissipating, you tighten your grip on his hair and tug, grinding hard against his mouth. He knows the stepping stones of your pleasure as well as you know yourself, knowing just when to suck, when to lick. He’s more relentless than any other man could hope to be, never needing to stop for breath, never succumbing to aching muscles. He maintains a pace that sends you careening so viciously towards release, you give a choking gasp when it hits you, your head thrown back against the couch as euphoric relief rolls through you in waves.

Homelander shrugs out from under your trembling thighs, his mouth slick and shining, eyes predator wide. You’re both panting, silently gauging the other. You’re first to break the standoff, his hunger infectious. You climb onto your knees and grab his shoulders, pushing his back to the couch, straddling him. He keens when you kiss him, an addictive sound that gives you a deceptive sense of power.

He murmurs your name in fervent repetition, dragging his mouth along your skin, inhaling you like a drug. You unbuckle his belt with the ease of experience, unzip his pants and slip your hand inside. Curling your fingers around his cock, you find it already hard and dripping in anticipation.

“Anything you want,” he breathes, the words coming between the prayer-like recitation of your name. “Money, diamonds, anything, I’ll make you a queen,” he says, eyelids fluttering at your touch. He pledges these things like an act of devotion, but you recognize this Faustian bargain for what it is. It will cost you your heart and soul.

“I’ll make you a god,” he moans at a particularly deft twist of your wrist.

Making you come will have to be enough for now.

“Fuck me,” you tell him breathlessly. “The way I like it.”

Like flipping a switch, the dazed pleasure in his eyes sharpens. The corners of his mouth tug, his upper lip twitches, eager tension slipping into his touch as his hands slide up your thighs, grasping your hips. His fingers sink in tight enough to bruise, despite the gentleness of his touch. The immeasurable power lurking within his unassuming frame is a novelty that never wears off, a thrill that shocks you to your core no matter how many times you experience it.

Like a vicious storm, he’s beautiful and terrible in equal measure. Caught in the eye of his maelstrom, the only thing left for you to do is weather him.

He guides you down onto his cock in one slow, agonizing pull. Even with his spit and your orgasm easing the way, it’s too much all at once. Relishing the aching burn of being split apart by him, you make a noise that gives him pause. You don’t let him stop. You brace your hands on his shoulders and lift off of him almost entirely before sinking back down deeper than you had before, wringing a moan from him in turn.

Homelander’s fingers dig securely into your back as your bodies slot together and find an old, familiar rhythm. By now he knows exactly the angle to take to best pleasure you. You let out a shaky sigh at the warmth that spreads through you, the pressure of your climax building, his heat sinking into you like the light of the sun itself.

You’re used to a god.

You cup his face and kiss him. You bite his lip until you should taste blood. You dig your nails into his skin so hard your knuckles ache. If he notices it, he’s only pleased by it.

“I’d move heaven and hell for you,” he swears between kisses, ripping the shirt from your body. The cool air hits your damp, hot skin like a shock. 

“I don’t want them,” you say, voice catching on one of his sharp and sudden thrusts. He’s close. You can feel it in the tightness of his muscles, in the erratic, merciless way he drives into you.

“Doesn’t matter,” he says, voice reedy, tight. He kisses down your chest, scrapes his teeth over the swell of your breasts. “They’re yours. It’s all yours. I’m yours.”

Those words should hit you like a prison sentence, but they don’t.

They make you come.

Homelander holds you tightly as he, too, breaks into pieces, filling you with light and heat. He chokes more promises against your skin, kisses the salt from your skin and licks it greedily from his lips. You spin in place in his arms, dizzy on your own orgasm, riding out the aftershocks with his cock throbbing against the quiver of your cunt.

For a long while there’s nothing but the sound of your breaths and the distant din of the television. The tremors wracking your body gradually fade, and the chill of the open air begins to set in.

Homelander holds you tight as the sweat on your skin cools. He kisses a trail from your neck to your shoulder, nuzzling there before he rests his head down, face tucked into the crook of your neck. You feel wrung dry, eyelids heavy. You card your fingers absently through his hair, body boneless against his. Your eyes ache from crying, but you don’t mind it. Strung out like this, the aches left in the wake of pain and pleasure both feel equally good.

“It’s late,” he says warmly, a smile in his tone. He sounds lovesick, the way you both did once upon a time. Back then, you thought you knew every dark corner of his insatiable heart. “We should sleep.”

“Okay,” you agree, voice frayed. He lifts you gingerly from his lap, adjusting to cradle your naked body to his chest. Despite how Homelander unspools himself before you, you’re always the one left reduced. Bare and vulnerable both physically and emotionally. You slip your arms around his neck as he stands, resting your head on his shoulder.

“I could take you to the tower,” he whispers, sending a chill down your spine. “My bed’s bigger.”

“No,” you say, remembering a door you cannot reach, no matter how many times you grasp for it, and the god’s hands that sent you spinning. He’s already so capable of turning your home into a prison. You’re not sure you’d ever escape his penthouse. “I want mine.”

Perhaps the most terrible fact of all is that Homelander is neither a god nor a monster. 

He is simply a man without limitation.

“Sure,” he says, kissing your cheek. The touch lingers, dripping with his adoration. “Anything you want.”

So long as it includes him.