#god get me out of writers block

[jethrowest]

let me see you stripped down to the bone…

- stripped by depeche mode

congratulations! you’ve been hired as homelander’s entire glam squad! what an opportunity! now let’s try real hard not to let the fumes get to you, okay?

pairing : homelander/afab reader

word count : 5.6k

warnings : homelander in and of himself, toxic workplace environment, something akin to stockholm syndrome, fingering, smut. 18+, mdni

special thanks to @blindmagdalena @sehtoast @homeb0ys and @clockworkzeppelin for letting me scream at you about this!

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Homelander is an asshole.

That doesn’t bother you much. You’ve dealt with plenty in this field, which means you’ve learned how to make life easier for all parties. That particular learning curve includes when to stand out and blend in, at times concurrently depending on what variety of asshole they happen to be.

As a whole, the makeup artists and hairstylists at Vought take care of The Seven and go where they’re needed. And as a cosmetologist, you were hired to provide both services for Homelander and Homelander only, which you consider to be one of the most prestigious stamps one could add to their professional passport.

Before you became official, you were colorfully threatened by a Ms. Ashley Barrett, who, after the fact, had no qualms throwing you into the lion’s den to figure your own shit out.

In no uncertain terms were you told that if you fucked any part of this up, your sparkling resume would look best as something to sit her smooth, bare ass on while getting fucked on top of her desk. No lube or protection. It would then be tossed exactly like her salad.

Not an image you could have ever predicted crossing your mind. Honestly, you should have stopped her right there and walked your happy little ass out of her office toward pastures that might have not been greener (you were being handsomely compensated), but certainly not as toxic. While the red flags were a color you couldn’t quite ignore, you were also curious about why they stood out so much more than they did regarding previous employers.

None of this is to say you live under a rock. Anyone who has access to the internet is ambushed daily by these Supes’ personal lives. Homelander’s track record as far as choice in partners went hadn’t been ideal, so you understand that made him less popular at the time. That of course has nothing to do with you or your capabilities.

You opt to wear gray-colored glasses, seeing everything with a neutral blend of black and white. As much as possible anyway.

Nevertheless, curiosity killed the cat. But hopefully not your career.

The first day was awkward to say the least. Immediately, you knew you weren’t going to like your coworkers.

Glints of sympathy changed how they perceived you. A target, whether they intended for this to happen or not, was nailed to your forehead, and it made them buzz around you like avid, greedy wasps keen on seeing how rapidly the honeybee will be brutalized. You didn’t much care for going cross-eyed while staring at that target whenever you crossed paths. They didn’t know you, yet because of who you were working under, deemed you helpless. They didn’t give you a chance to establish yourself before branding you a victim.

Why should you respect them?

Small talk wasn’t entertained either, as their judgment tarnished any future encounters. They ostracized you once you showed no interest in engaging with them. That didn’t disappoint you. You weren’t here to make friends.

You do wonder how those before you fared: if they were jaded when they arrived or if they couldn’t help but succumb to the pressures of being at the top rung of a very unstable albeit sought after ladder.

Ms. Barrett quickly introduced you to Homelander, her parting gift before leaving the two of you alone.

You weren’t completely nervous in his presence. He wasn’t any different to you than the other celebrities you’d worked on, except he could rip you in half like a piece of paper if he was so inclined. But he’s the hero of this country’s story, so really, you should have nothing to worry about.

His demeanor, you noted, suggested arrogance, annoyance, and boredom. All things you’re used to. So you offered your hand to shake, which he eyed with a slightly upturned nose before grabbing, told him it was a pleasure to meet him and got straight to business.

Looking back, he was clearly expecting more out of you. Maybe not a display as excessive as getting on your knees and professing your undying love, but close enough. Somewhere in the middle, perhaps.

Part of you believes he might have also counted on fear. To you, he’s not anything or anyone unknown. Another big name in a fancy suit with impossible demands.

You were given a routine to follow and products to use. You did as you were instructed and found the process to be simple and, as Homelander’s expression revealed, uninspiring.

While you were utilizing a face brush to apply powder, he must have decided he was done enduring your lack of enthusiasm, because he suddenly asked, “What are you wearing?”

You stopped for a split second, no longer than, and continued. “The name of my clothing designer, you mean?”

He scoffed, waving his gloved hand at you, almost knocking the applicator you held to the ground. “No, your perfume. What are the top notes?”

You laughed and that seemed to confuse him. “Why, you want a bottle?”

“I don’t like it.” He sniffed sharply and cleared his throat. “Smells like you should be on the corner selling your used body parts.”

Ding ding ding. Alarm bells and red flags galore. You enjoy a challenge, however, and are a bit of a masochist, so you persevere.

“Well, what doesn’t smell like a cheap hooker to you? I’ll start wearing that instead.”

He cocked a brow, studying you. Trying to figure out if you were being serious or mocking him.

“It’s your first day.” A warning. “Are you on your best behavior, or can you do better?” He leaned forward in his chair, forcing you backward. “You should be working harder to prove yourself. Prove your worth.” He sat back again and shrugged. “Or maybe you really are worth as much as that dumpster juice you doused yourself in.”

At this point, he more than likely envisioned your happy little ass getting offended and storming out of the room. Breaking down, sobbing. Questioning why he was being so rude. One of those or, better yet, a nifty combination.

You’ve heard worse, unfortunately for him. Not always directed at you, but that doesn’t matter. You can handle it.

“You’re absolutely right,” you stated calmly, folding your arms across your chest. He looked at you with pretentious, petulant intrigue. “It is my first day, and I want to make a good impression. Which is why I’m asking you what you would like me to wear so I can continue to keep that good impression intact and, as our professional relationship develops, stay on top of it.”

Homelander’s mouth twitched. He sighed deeply and slouched in his seat, staring at the wall to the left of him. Then he deigned to cast his gaze back at you, resting his cheek on his index and middle finger. He tapped the arm rest with his other hand.

“Ugh, fine. Whatever.” A pause followed that lasted longer than necessary. Were you meant to guess? “Just wear something, I dunno, less. If you would have done your homework like a good little peon, you’d know I have super senses. Highly developed. Can you even imagine what that entails?”

Finally, he freed the canvas you were nearly finished with, and you flicked the soft bristles across the bridge of his nose. You smiled, more to yourself than him.

Felt rather on the nose, as the saying goes.

He didn’t comment on your grin. You didn’t give him time to. But he did huff like you were being obtuse on purpose.

“I can try. And my imagination is giving me some less-than-ideal scenarios,” you replied. Another pause. At least he was letting you do your job again.

You don’t know what compelled you to keep going, but something about his lack of a real answer made you carry on. “Do you have a favorite flower or baked good? Maybe a spice?”

Homelander almost glared up at you. You say almost because, for whatever reason, it didn’t seem like he was directing that harshness at you, though former words and actions proved otherwise. Something inside, perhaps. Or outside of this enclosed space.

“I already told you what to wear. Don’t make me repeat myself.”

You took the hint and remained quiet the rest of your session. Soon, you were done.

As you were packing and tidying up your station, he took it upon himself to stand behind you. He lingered over your shoulder, watching the scene play out like he was director and star and you were barely an ant on the sidewalk he acknowledged before squashing.

The heat radiating off of him was impossible to dismiss, a wall of it barricading your backside. He clasped his fingers underneath his cape and inched closer. You thought he was as close to you as he could get without touching you. He was that warm.

When you glanced up, he was staring at you through the mirror. As absurd as it was, you managed to get chills. Goosebumps broke the surface of your skin.

“Fresh chocolate chip cookies. Straight out of the oven. Like mom used to make.” He flashed an unnerving smile before turning to exit.

From there on out, even after you bent to his will and found a gourmand scent that matched what he described, Homelander tested you. Your work ethic, clothing choice, eating habits, and most of all, patience.

Your parents would ask how you were liking your job, how it was working alongside the Supes- not to mention the most famous of all- and you’d lie through your teeth. You felt you had no choice, Ashley’s threat ringing in your ears.

Resume, bare ass, tossed salad...

Oh yeah, it’s going great! They’re all super flexible. I couldn’t be happier!

At least that pun made you feel a little better about hiding the shame of what you’ve allowed yourself to take on.

This was all in the first few weeks. It started to get a little easier after that, which is surprising considering more was added to your to-do list.

You should have moved on before starting. But, for whatever asinine reason, you didn’t.

Every time you go back to your apartment and assess your appearance in the bathroom mirror, you wonder who’s making who up here. He’s changing your looks more than you are his. You’re like his human doll.

You’ve put up with a lot over the years, but this takes the cake and shoves it in your face. As fucked as it is, the flavor is growing on you. Like a fungus. Growing, nonetheless.

You can’t stop thinking about him.

It’s innocent enough, you try convincing yourself. Making sure you have the right outfit laid out the night before, the right lunch (no onions or fish or anything “freaky”!), etc. He is your superior, after all. You shouldn’t be viewing him in any other light.

He’s the most frustrating aspect of your existence these days, but he’s also the one you’re around the most. His penchant for workplace gossip and how unintentionally funny he is tends to make him palatable, which has regrettably become an understatement.

Months go by. You’ve witnessed how alone he truly is. How he has nothing outside of performing his tricks on Vought’s all-encompassing stage. And when he begins asking for your input, starts doing things for you that are so blatant it’s perplexing, you find your stress and vexation melting into cumbersome fascination.

It’s embarrassing. You don’t have the courtesy of enough time to dwell on your feelings toward the situation either, from beginning to whatever end you might be met with. You suppose that could be beneficial in the long run.

It also hits you when you least expect it; when you really don’t want it to.

Your body doesn’t wait until you finally have a moment alone. It decides, while you’re helping Homelander with his skincare routine that he insisted upon because you know more than these vacuous corporate douche-bags, to heat up without warning and slither from your head to your heart until it grasps you unfairly between your legs.

You try not to step into momentary paralysis. You understand to what extent his powers reach. It’s not like he doesn’t go on and on about them. About himself.

Whatever he notices, it’s not right away. A palpable tension fills the air between the two of you eventually. But it takes a more significant amount of time than you would have anticipated to permeate the natural flow of things.

Fuck, you can’t even be safe inside here, where your thoughts, whatever they may be, are yours. You can’t even have yourself. He has every part of you, and you are willingly relinquishing that control.

Your evening, once you can have it, consists of combing over every decision you’ve made leading up to this strange, disorienting space you find yourself occupying. All it does is leave you exasperated in a much different way than before and with an unsettling observation (or hallucination):

Was that the tail end of the American flag outside your window?

You are unacceptably late.

Rushing around, you throw on the first top and bottoms you see from your closet and spritz some perfume on your neck and wrists. You don’t check your phone. You’re afraid of what will pop up on your screen. And, frankly, you don’t have the time.

Your only option for transportation is the subway, as you’re sure the special vehicle from Vought is long gone. Why would they wait for someone like you, even if you’re practically Homelander’s personal assistant? One of his only friends. You doubt he has more than Black Noir, and that isn’t as perfect as it appears to the casual viewer.

You dread what kind of explosion you’re without a doubt walking into once you show your miserable ass up. You’re going to smell like everyone on this train. He’s going to go ballistic.

The question remains: why are you continuing to put yourself through this? It’s not your circus, yet somehow, the monkeys have become your liability.

You know, deep down, what keeps you going back. It’s simply too ridiculous to admit aloud.

Making your way past security, hurriedly presenting your badge, you realize you forgot to brush your teeth, or at the very least, gargle some mouthwash. You thank your lucky stars when you open your purse to a pack of gum tucked away in one of the compartments.

It will have to do.

When you open the door to Homelander’s dressing room, you see a couple of employees standing near the counter where the bag of supplies has been opened and rifled through, looking like they might soil themselves, a frantic Ashley, and an extremely pissed off Homelander in the middle of it all.

Reflexively, you cringe. You attempt to wipe any trace from your features, but it’s too late. Ashley is glaring daggers at you and Homelander can hardly bring himself to look in your direction. The others don’t matter to you. They never did.

“I’m so sorry I’m late. I know there’s no excuse-”

“You’re goddamned right, there’s no excuse! I don’t give a shit if god and his whole fucking choir of angels came down from heaven and divinely called you to give them a makeover! What were you thinking?!”

You’re about to answer, though you comprehend her query is more or less rhetorical. She interrupts your slightly open mouth while gesturing wildly, proving your point.

“Oh, that’s right! You weren’t thinking at all, were you?! But I do believe you’ve thought long and hard about what’s at stake here. And you know damn well we at Vought don’t tolerate this kind of sloppy behavior. Not to mention the way you’re dressed! It’s adding insult to injury!” Her hand swipes at the air, the length of your outfit, and you glance down, recognizing how comically mismatched you are. Her correct observation affects you more than it would have months prior, stinging your ego- one of the many things that’s been shelved in order to accommodate the person who won’t even grace you with a glance.

A dramatic groan cuts short any further commentary from the redhead, perpetually stretched thin between her absurd duties.

“Jesus Christ, Ashley, why are your big fucking horse gums still flapping?” Homelander’s booming voice slices through your mind like a jarring, dense migraine. He pinches his brow between middle finger and thumb, eyes closed. “I want you and Tweedledee and Tweedledum t’get the fuck out. Now.”

Ashley is plainly dumbfounded, struggling to see where she went wrong (a pattern when it comes to dealing with the volatile leader of The Seven), mouth agape. She shakes her head. “But sir, are you-?”

“You don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about or doing. Clearly.”

Ms. Barrett turns a shade paler, staring at Homelander and blinking owlishly before snapping herself out of her stupor. She hurries her lackeys out of the room, shooing them along like a pair of misbehaving toddlers. She doesn’t give a final look, no further warning. She merely shuts the door behind her.

You also hear it lock.

What the hell does she think is going to happen?

You should have stopped this while you had the chance. You should have never taken this job. You should have stood up for yourself and walked out. You should have you should have you should-

“Who the fuck do you think you are?”

His caustic tone sends shivers down your spine. It’s unlike anything you’ve heard come out of him. And you’ve heard enough.

Again, you open your mouth. It fills with blood, thick and metallic and more potent than the mint from your gum. You’re silenced by it.

He stalks toward you and grabs you hastily by the shoulders, swiveling you around so you’re face-to-face with the choices you’ve made. Your mirrored image is reflected back at you, exhausted and searching for any last shred of who you might be beneath his heavy palms.

“Look at yourself! Do you even recognize who’s staring back at you?” No.

“What kind of game are you playing, hmmm? Is this… humiliating spectacle you’re putting on for the money? Your pathetic career? Like it’s goddamned rocket science to pick up a can of hairspray and use it. Monkeys have hands.” He makes a noise that’s akin to a snorting horse, exhaling forcefully past his nostrils. “I mean, did you really think you could pull a fast one on me?” He clutches your jaw, squeezing it between middle and thumb. Every muscle in your body tenses, your heart picking up rhythm.

“Spit that fucking gum out. Don’t think I can’t hear you grinding it between your molars like a dumb animal. You aren’t a mama bird, are you? Y’don’t have cute little baby birds t’force-feed your regurgitated leftovers, do you? Eugh, gross.”

You take a deep breath and exhale through your nose. It presents you with a false sense of security. You do as you’re told, and it lands on the floor in front of your shoe, saliva dangling on a thread as withered as your sanity.

Suddenly fresh breath seems like the most insignificant issue, when Homelander himself once made it out to be something earth-shattering.

You’re such a fool.

He leans in and sniffs your throat. Your fingers lengthen and bend.

You’re so many things at once. Confused, angry, nervous, scared. And, to your dismay, warm. God you’re so fucking warm. He’s heating you up from the inside out. You clench your jaw, still held in place by a firm bind.

“Get rid of those ugly clothes. I don’t care what you have to do. I can’t stand the sight or smell of them.”

You shut your eyes. When you open them, all you see is red. The other emotions are smothered in favor of that brand of heat. What happens next is a blur. You temporarily leave yourself.

“Fine. Have it your way, Homelander. You always do.”

Breaking free of his fluctuating hold, you start tearing at what you’re wearing, tossing everything- including your bra and underwear- to the ground. Your shirt winds up with the gum sticking to its loose fabric. You even take your shoes and socks off, not paying any heed to where your belongings go. Just that they’re gone.

You don’t process the glaring fact that you made yourself naked in front of your boss. In front of the most powerful man this country, and possibly world, has known. You don’t care that things have escalated this far. That they shouldn’t have. They shouldn’t have. But guess what? They did. And these are the consequences you both have to deal with.

“You wanna know what game I’m playing?” You turn around, forcing him backward. “It’s funny, I thought you’d be able to answer that for me, considering all the hoops I’ve had to jump through to not only save my ass, but make sure you had someone to talk to at the end of the day! Who on your team can you say goes above and beyond like that for you?!” He blinks at you now, eyes wide. Features fall to the floor where your clothes reside. You have his full and undivided attention.

An impressively dangerous thing to have.

“What more do you want from me, Homelander? I practically live with you without any of the benefits that usually includes! You’re really going to stand here and berate me like I haven’t given you fucking everything you’ve ever asked me for? Because I made one mistake? I gave up my entire world, which I know doesn’t mean shit to you. But it does to me.”

You fold your arms over your chest. Nothing covers it. You have to know before you lose all dignity. So you ask once more, hoping it won’t get lost in this bizarre mess.

“What do you want from me?”

Nothing. He can’t stop staring at you. You aren’t aware enough to be ashamed, but you are aware enough to be upset.

His infuriating silence compels you to bend down and gather what was a barrier between the two of you. You are no longer needed if he can’t do what he does best, which is spout off, leaking bottled words everywhere like a broken faucet. It’s a pretty simple question, you think.

That’s when the glass behind you shatters.

You flinch, pause what you’re doing and slowly stand. Cautious in whatever your next approach will be.

Surveying the aftermath, you’re relieved to find that you’re far enough away from the mirror so no injuries were inflicted.

When you finally lock eyes with the source, you see red. The atmosphere surrounding you heaves like the distended belly of a rotting corpse; hisses like an overflowing tea kettle; pierces you like lightning.

Homelander’s expression is rigid. His jaw quivers. Irises are a bright, shining scarlet. If you try anything rash, you might be next. But, having been around him for so long, you’re more inclined to believe he’s having trouble processing his own emotions. And that might have been one of the only ways to release them.

You drop the top and pants you managed to reclaim. Your brain hasn’t fully recovered from the constant devastating hit it’s taken, so you don’t want to put a name to what’s pushing you forward. You don’t stop until you’re directly in his line of vision.

Swallowing, you carefully extend your hand. The ruby color begins to crumble and give way to the vast ocean you might have drowned in one too many times. You lost track, blocking what you could out. Too real and intimate to accept for a realm that thrives off of inauthenticity and misfortune.

Homelander inhales harshly and you retreat, pupils hooking themselves to his. Searching for any sign you shouldn’t be right where you are.

Of course there are several; unfortunately, you are currently blind to them. Blind to everything but him.

That’s how it’s been for awhile, hasn’t it?

He has a habit of not granting you the luxury of time.

Quickly, he snatches your wrist and brings your palm flat against his cheek. He exhales, eyelids fluttering, nuzzling into you.

It’s so simple, yet it disarms you in ways you aren’t accustomed to.

Homelander basks in this chaste display of affection, and so do you, in awe of how enraptured he appears. Soaking you inside of his pores.

In turn, your cognizance reappears. You nearly topple over, realization infiltrating every part of you.

You’re not wearing a stitch.

A knock at the door startles you both. You glance over in that general direction and hear from the other side, “You’re on in fifteen, Homelander, sir!”

Gazing back up at him, you witness that same fire expand at a rapid rate. You use your other hand to bring him back down to reality, to ground him. It rests against his chest, delving into and cracking his ribs, flaying him open.

What strikes you is how vigorously his heart is beating. How you can feel it through his uniform.

This is how much you affect him. (Can you fathom that you’re only privy to a fraction?) Having evidence of the tiniest reciprocation drains you of any unwanted discomfort.

His fury subsides. You breathe out. He does, too.

“Go sit in your chair. I came here to do my job, after all.” The tenderness with which you speak seems to ease him further, his shoulders deflating with each word.

That aside, you’re playing with a lit match. You’re unsure who’s going to set who ablaze, but you’re willing to go down with this entire building to find out.

He does as he’s told, watching you the whole way like a mutilated mixture of a snarling cornered animal and a man fervently in love. He almost trips into his seat, not an ounce of grace in his gait.

Sacrificing his entire image just to get a glimpse of you.

Whipping his cape to the side, he sinks into the cushion. You get things ready as you typically do, your movements a bit jittery from the adrenaline sending haphazard jolts to your limbs. Despite this, you’re focused. You are more focused than you remember ever being.

You work efficiently, keeping in mind the limit that’s been put on your time.

Homelander bores holes through you. He doesn’t need lasers for that. You’re exposed and vulnerable and he pries what he fostered apart until it’s distinguishable by no one else but him.

You relearn his perfectly manufactured features. Different lights shape shadows you either haven’t seen before or feigned ignorance of. You commit to memory how he looks, smells, feels, the side of your hand grazing his cheek and hanging on.

He’s invigorating, your excitement building to a crescendo you can’t neglect. The heat in your core disperses, most of it congregating low in your belly and behind your expanding rib cage. His pupils drink you in, urgently and violently.

Your arousal is heady. He licks his lips. A hint of a whine caresses your ears and it makes you dizzy.

How could you have ever denied yourself?

You decide to take further control, testing the waters to a greater extent.

It’s your turn to watch him the whole way down. You straddle him, easing yourself atop his taut thighs.

After a few moments of humoring yourself, of pretending to concentrate on your work, dusting his nose with powder, you straighten. Eye contact has not been severed.

You motion toward his hands, balled into tense, repressed fists at his sides.

“Take off your gloves.”

Initially, it feels like maybe you said the wrong thing, or said it the wrong way. He doesn’t budge. You’re patient, however, so you wait like you’ve always done, the warmth from your cunt mingling with the hardness beneath you. Your mouth waters.

At last, Homelander nods and removes his gloves, tugging on the index of each. He places them on the armrests and transfixes himself to you once more.

“Do you want to touch me?” you ask, voice and body staying impossibly still in spite of your nerves.

Immediately, he shakes his head, “Yes,” the first time he’s spoken since your outburst, and without hesitation, reaches for your chest. You close your eyes, falling into his snooping lifts and tugs and squeezes, giving yourself permission to become possessed by the inhibited imaginations of how selfish, how rapacious his touches might be. How smooth his bare hands are, how ardent each digit is.

Leaning into you, he sucks one nipple into his mouth and palms the other, moaning and vibrating against your flesh. He digs his fingers into the pliant softness of your hip, steadying you with disciplined pressure. You squirm, attuned to every minuscule shift.

The lit match is tilted toward you now, swift and stunning. Your fingers release the brush you’ve been holding. It aligns with the slit of the cushion, forgotten and purposeless.

You wrap your digits around the hand on your curves and guide him toward your throbbing center. He doesn’t fight you. Doesn’t stop your movements. Doesn’t scold or challenge you. Instead, he curls his fingers in a way that makes you unabashedly moan, cupping your folds and pinning his thumb to your clit, adapting to your anatomy.

Your wants.

It seems like breaking away from you is a daunting task, but he does for a moment, brow furrowed, more engrossed and invested than you’ve ever witnessed.

“Fuck.” The curse sounds downright edible, your new favorite flavor. Your name tumbles from his lips like he’s been practicing, a sweet, rich icing on top. You gasp, his tongue adhering to you again, swirling around your peak before lightly biting it.

Rocking your hips back and forth, side-to-side, you grind hard into his palm. He strokes you like he’s studied what pace you prefer, how much friction you crave. You’re so wet, even you’re thrown off by it.

Once he’s finished with your chest, he’s back against the seat, unable to peel his gaze from you. Your full, swollen, glistening breasts.

His mouth hangs open, obscene, desperate whimpers slipping from it. Pupils are like whirlpools that drive you under. Drive you mad.

Homelander adeptly slips two, three digits inside your sopping cunt, unrelenting in his intentions to make up for lost time. The voracity of his actions propels you forward, balancing against his chest. He grasps and pulls at your other hip, groaning loudly in your ear, confirming his approval of how close you are to him.

It’s still not enough.

Pulling you even tighter to his blinding sun of a body, he encloses his free arm around you and desperately bucks his waist. “I want… I want… I want…” he chants. Your nails drag up his neck and along his scalp, overwhelmed by his warmth, his scent, him. Your lips ghost the sliver of skin above his collar, making him growl.

You anticipate and dread and yearn for what’s been building for so long. You clench and release, clench and release, clench and release, body chanting with him.

You’re intuitively thankful for the chair’s sturdiness; however, if it would have collapsed, you’re honestly not sure you would have noticed. Or cared.

You hear him come first. Feel the temperature rise temporarily. It’s so sudden and all-consuming that you naturally follow, his name an instinct you can’t help but divulge. You haven’t come down from the turbulent emotions rushing through you earlier, and that combination catapults you over the edge.

Your orgasm draws more deliberate, vehement grunts and sighs of satisfaction from him, as if your pleasure is inexplicably the same or worth more than his.

You can’t crumple into a boneless heap like you want to. You just can’t. You have to look at him. Look at his bliss; the glazed, barren-yet-so-full-of-you expression, of what these months of working in close quarters have done to him.

What you uncover is not what you were picturing. There’s a mixture of that haze with something almost apologetic below the teeming surface. Clouds of red to skies of blue. Destructive in and of themselves.

Sliding his fingers from your wetness, he wraps his lips around each one that was inside of you and spreads them apart. Your slick sticks to his glossy skin and stretches between digits, a generous amount. You whimper at the loss- the emptying, hollow feeling- and watch, mesmerized and delirious as he savors you.

Swallowing you whole, Homelander sweeps his knuckles across the apple of your cheek and presses his lips hard against yours. He wastes no time inhaling your gasps and moans, licking your mouth and the faint taste of mint, stealing it from you. You ingest what you can of him as well, exploring what was open to you longer than you realized.

He then seizes your wrists. It’s a rough gesture that evaporates into gentle circles along your pulse points. Still, you know you’re going to bruise where he turned the key and locked you into place: wherever he is.

A visible sheen coats his lips.

“I want you to tell me I’m good. Great. The best.”

His breathing is labored. So is yours.

He kisses the inside of the wrist smeared with perfume, your fluids, his saliva; ends with your hand and rests his cheek against the slope of it.

“I want you to be mine. All mine. Mine alone.”

You’re shaking. He moves forward and pets your hair, twirls it; grabs your nape and holds his thumb to the front of your throat. Securing you. Keeping you there.

“You have to stay. Be mine and stay.”

You thrum with an ache he forced upon you. He’ll claim you were starving and he was the only one who could satiate.

You nod. You were never going to leave to begin with.

Homelander made you his. And you thanked him for it.

[hotwings0203]

“Daddy?”

You moan and weakly toss your head to your left as you hear the cellar door open

Tw: noncon, blood, kidnapping, abuse, whipping, the usual shindig

His chuckle reverberates throughout the dark room, and you can’t help but flinch at every footstep coming down the rickety steps. Your head is pounding, your heart seems to be caught in your throat and the dingy light in the cellar keeps swaying amidst the draft.

His figure descending towards you makes you nauseous, but you're not dumb enough to fall for his good-natured demeanor as he descends and approaches towards you.

Full eye-contact, a smile as best as you can manage it, and body turned toward him.

As if the chains wrapping around your body like some fucked-up gift wrapping allowed you any mobility anyways .

"Hi there, princess," he coos at you before squatting in front of your weak and bound form, lifting your chin up at him gently with his thumb and forefinger.

You hum quietly and try to swallow the cotton that seems to invade your mouth at the dark humor in his eyes.

"You miss me?"

Nodding as vigorously as you can, you scrunch your eyebrows together and pout your lips the way you know hope melts him. The healing cuts across your forehead and cheeks sting as the scabs are pulled taut with the way you're manipulating your facial expression, but if that's the price to pay to satiate put off his sick desires, then so be it.

"I-"

You cough and desperately try to wet your lips with your tongue to get rid of the raspy warble, and instead attempt to don a soft, higher pitched voice.

He doesn't like it when you give him the impression he's neglectful.

"I m-missed you daddy. Wanted to have your arms around me and feel you, and, and.."

You trail off hopelessly as you scramble for what else he'd want to hear, but in the time your hesitation settles uneasily in the air, his hand has already reached around behind his back to produce a strange black silk bandana.

"Yeah?" He simpers at your panicked expression seeing the new toy. "Guess you can't have missed me that much if you stopped screaming for me."

Your face falls.

That sick fuck

He slaps your face, hard, and violently rips your thighs apart. You yelp and flinch as he cups underneath your knees and brings them up next to your head.

Your legs shake at the strain of being folded in half after being immobile for so long, and you feel the threat of a severe cramp creeping in your calves. He merely grips your legs tighter and shoves you harder against the wall, practically slamming his hips against your own at the easy access.

He grinds slow and deliberate, almost painfully as your lower half buzzes from the attention. You sob as you strain your head to the side to avoid his leering grin right in your face, hair falling over your eyes as a temporary shield to his sadism.

"Aww, look at you. You that shy? I thought I fucked it out of you the first couple times, but I guess the lack of attention really did wonders for you."

"Daddy, please," What you're begging for, you have no idea, but you know your silence will enrage him further.

As he's done so kindly to remind you about.

His raspy growls continue right in your ear, words hot and fierce as you wince in terror. "What, I leave you down here for two days and you only need me for bathroom breaks? For food? What if I just cut that all off, huh? Would you need me then, you ungrateful fucking brat?"

He seethes and suddenly gnaws your ear.

"No! Nonononono daddy, m-my throat hurt after calling out the first couple of hours, I promise!" You wail as he continues to painfully rut and grind against your sore mound.

"Nah, don't start begging now. Your punishment hasn't even started. This is just warming you up, my pretty girl," he breathes into your open and wet tear-stained mouth as he deftly undoes your wrist shackles. His mouth never leaves yours as he lifts you up tightly against him and carries you to the other side of the red room.

The second he places your unsteady feet on the floor he grabs the ropes swinging lightly overhead and immediately starts tying your chaffed wrists again. Even though you're standing now, you feel as though your position bound now in the middle of the room is even more vulnerable that when you were sitting against the wall.

"I'm sorryyyy," your sobs wrack your body as he lets go of your now-bound wrists. Your balance is lost as you let go of your weight and let the ropes hold you up. And yet, you're still not even sure what you did to piss him off.

"Yeah, just like that, keep screaming for me pretty girl," he mutters under his breath as he stalks around the room looking for something.

"I thought the waterboarding and knives were enough to get it through your thick head, but I'll spell it out for you...on your body"

His rummaging around the room stops as he positions himself behind you, much to your terror. At least when he's in front of you you can protect whatever part of your body he's targeting.

All you hear is the pathetic sound of your own sniffles and his heavy breathing.

You make one last attempt before submitting to your own fate.

"Daddy...I thought you couldn't hear me. That's why I stopped calling for you. I-if I had known you could hear me I wouldn't have stopped!" The rest comes out in a rush as if he'll silence your excuses, and your dry throat feels as though it's ripping in half.

There's a very pregnant pause before you hear a shuffling behind you, and he starts to peel your flimsy, dirty nightie off of you.

Your lip wobbles as the silence continues, and he begins to shove his hands up your body, first trailing up and over your hips, past up your sides, and then cupping your bruised tits. You hiss slightly as his thumbs press into your sore nipples as his palms massage the globes in circles.

His breathing picks up again as you do nothing but whimper at his violations, his hips having a mind of their own and rubbing up against your bare backside. You have no idea when he took his pants off, but you definitely feel his unsheathed member dragging hot and heavy over your asscheeks, teasingly releasing precum over the skin.

"Oh, I'm not mad at you baby. I'm gonna let you continue your silence. In fact-"

His rutting and ministrations stop as he seems to have worked himself up to a climax, and you gasp lightly as you feel a cool silk fall over your eyes. You feel him secure it snugly behind your head, and moments later you hear the sound of duct tape being ripped from its coil. Sure enough, your mouth is covered, and you're rendered mute, immobile, and blind within a matter of minutes.

He voices your terror. "Like a lamb waiting for slaughter," he croons as he places his palms flat against the hollow planes against your torso your breasts, pressing you closer into his uncovered erection and chest. It seems as though he can never get close enough to you, even within his grasp.

"Spread your legs." And now his voice is monotone, devoid of the lilt mere seconds earlier.

You're too terrified to do anything but obey, hoping if you react well enough this punishment will also end in minutes tops.

You smell rather than hear the leather first, with its pungent factory scent drifting up to your blood-caked nose, making your nostrils wrinkle in disgust.

And then, you feel it.

He places the bottom of the handle of the whip firmly against your poor widdle clit, and starts grinding in circles, imitating the way he was earlier when you were in his arms.

You squeal against the moist tape and thrash, your wrists aching something fierce as the ropes holding all your weight above prove to be unyielding, merciless.

He laughs cruelly at your distressed state, and continues to rub your bud faster. He rambles on like a madman, and you feel like your ears will bleed with the filth he spews.

"Yeah, yeah, you like that? You want it that badly, slut? I'll make sure you never stop begging me, begging me to love you, to hold you, to fuck you like you need me right now," all the while he rubs his member over your asscrack and cover you threateningly.

His other hand yanks your hair to the side, and he lowers his grinning mouth to the unblemished nape of your neck, fighting for balance against your skin as you try your utter best to thwart his evading teeth.

He bites and sucks at your skin like you're nothing more than a chew-toy, all the while moaning lewdly and growling like a fucking dog.

All the sensations inflicted on your poor, abused body cause your hips to rock in their own rhythm against the handle of the whip, which hasn't stopped its incessant stimulation.

There's a tense moment of re-adjustment as he shifts the handle to his other wrist to prevent his own hand cramps, and he stops his rutting as well as his assault on your neck.

While he straightens up to continue the torture, you however, have not stopped bucking your hips amidst the handle stilling on your clit.

You let out a wail of frustration- at him, and being violated like this, and needing to cum because of it.

When he realizes your hips are actively still bucking and chasing the revoked high, he barks out an incredulous laugh.

"Seriously? And here I thought this was punishment. You sick little freak, you're not supposed to be enjoying this."

And sure enough, you feel the handle shift from stilling against your clit to pushing inside your quivering hole. You moan loudly at the feeling of the lightly ribbed tool rubbing agianst your puckering walls, albeit a bit painfully.

You can hear him exhale in awe as he angles the handle at a place that makes you jump and lift your hips as best as you can just to lower them against the shaft. he keeps it there, letting your buck your hips and work for it yourself, teasing you by bringing it lower and finding yourself unable to drop any further due to the short leash above your head.

But hes a kind master, and soon begins fucking it up into you himself after the sight of your drooling, empty pussy isn't enough to simply satiate himself by molesting your tits.

The squelching sounds of your wet cavern and your girlish moans, along with the sight of your ass shaking from his spanks are too much for him, and he yanks the handle out of you yet again right at the cusp of your climax.

"Not yet baby," he rasps, wiping literal drool off his mouth. "Daddy's gotta feel you cum around his big, fat cock," and with that whisper, he plunges three fingers back inside you. He shudders at your needy howl, and begins dillgently pumping inside of you.

With you distracted on creaming his digits, he grips the slippery handle of the whip and cracks it against your ass.

You whine and thrash again, your orgasm yet again ripped from you, but he merely pumps his fingers faster.

"Louder," He growls.

He lets it crack on the other cheek, marveling at how tight you squeeze around his fingers while the skin blooms a beautiful blood-red.

You scream this time, sure you can taste blood from your parched throat. It's exhausting your body at this point, the pleasure and pain mixing into one while he has his way with your battered skin.

He lets the leather taste your skin once, twice, curving it around your sides to let it lick your tits, making them jump deliciously and creating small rivulets of blood in its wake, behind your knees to make you buckle and fall painfully further on his pruning fingers, on your back to make you writhe.

And finally, when you do cum at his thumb finally, mercifully swiping across your long-forgotten bud, he makes sure he positions himself in front of you to hear you, loud and clear, like you were supposed to the first time.

[cosmicourple]

hnnnn,,,, Wetthunderthighs hot spring sex. Hnhhhh,,-

[valeffelees]

wouldn't it be so funny if i signed up for the cobb even tho the final chapter of my only posted wip has been rotting in my gdocu for a year and i have shared literally nothing else since

[catcze]

guys Chan cosplayed Wrio at a fansign im literally going insane frothing at the mouth eating the floorboards rn

[carlos-tk]

sometimes i can’t believe i was posting wips every single wednesday and sunday for literal months like who even was that person

[daisyachain]

The nature of time is that (culturally) Christian Euro/Anglo colonial consumers (hereafter white ‘people’) fetishize the idea of being ‘close to nature’ or ‘primitive’ or ‘savage’ and latch on to the idea that there are groups of people in the world who are somehow bestial or who have some kind of special powers from holding animist beliefs/beliefs that acknowledge the body as opposed to the Christian belief that the body is a kind of useless appendage to a person. We see this across decades from the 19thC to today in the racist fetishization of indigenous people across the globe, particularly residents of the Americas, Australasia, and southern/eastern Africa.

White consumers use a warped conception of other cultures to live out the fantasies that the Christian soul/body stuff engenders. You keep getting told that your emotions and physical sensations are the devil’s work? You want to get in touch with those physical sensations, but you don’t want it to interfere with your worldview? Simply project them on to a convenient group of people with slightly different conventions from you. Imagine how cool it would be to be 100% physical sensation (especially those pesky violent and/or sexual urges) and no mental burden, then unleash that in a way that causes millions of deaths worldwide via the dehumanization of entire nations of people just trying to live their lives. White consumers love a Proud Warrior Race Guy.

Flash forward to the 2010s, it’s generally considered impolite to spread the same propaganda that justified the genocide and dispossession of many different groups of people. However white culture hasn’t changed that much and normal human activities still need to be explained away to maintain the veneer of white intellectualism that has been used to justify white violence for years and years. You can’t just stomp around and clap your hands and dance badly, you’ve got to project it somewhere else.

But wait! There’s a community of people considered ‘tribal’ and ‘savage’, considered violent and bestial, who were never colonized! It’s…the Norse. Fetishizing early medieval North Sea raiders can’t be cultural appropriation, see, they’re white! It’s not offensive to replace an entire culture with white (male) ideas of what’s cool if that culture is totally unassociated with colonizer stereotypes and is in fact a culture of colonizers!

And that’s my theory on why there are so many Norse-inspired folk bands/video games/tv shows/memes/literally anything in the 2010s. VSaga not counted because that manga has been running since 2003 and is actually well-researched and comes out of a culture with a similar but distinct tradition of racism. The Euro storytelling tendencies of needing some kind of violent avatar have taken on ye anciente Norseman now that people care a little bit about the gallons of blood used to sketch other ethnic stereotypes. Done and dusted. Except the other side is that the fetishization of early medieval Norse culture is literally just white supremacist 101 and a lot of artists don’t step around that nearly as carefully as they should

[ctntduoarchive]

Chapters: 1/2 Fandom: Minecraft (Video Game), QSMP | Quackity SMP Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Alexis | Quackity/Wilbur Soot, Alexis | Quackity & Wilbur Soot & Tallulah (QSMP), Wilbur Soot & Tallulah (QSMP), Alexis | Quackity & Tallulah (QSMP) Characters: Wilbur Soot, Alexis | Quackity, Tallulah (QSMP), QSMP Ensemble Additional Tags: Wilbur Soot-centric, Denial of Feelings, Fake Marriage, Touring, Miscommunication, Idiots in Love, Hopeful Ending, Yaoi Warrior Tallulah (QSMP), can we make that a tag. for me, Resolved Romantic Tension, Love Confessions, right person wrong time but happy . trust me i can make it work, Light Angst Summary:

"So, this is for Tallulah?"

"Uh-" Quackity's voice hits an awkward high, "um, yes. Yes, this is for Tallulah and not me- us. This is for Tallulah."

It sounds like he is trying to convince himself instead of Wilbur. Then again, they both need that reminder it feels like.

"Yeah, we're getting married, for her sake," he poses sarcastically.

A million miscommunications and desires thinly-veiled as an agreement, Quackity and Wilbur find themselves in a position they might like more than they let on.

[oh-meow-swirls]

was looking through old posts and i'm surprised to see that i seemingly didn't have any commentary on anything in 3 in chapter 7, 8 or 9, the posts related to 3's story go from "my first reaction when i saw yopple-bot was 'i love you. but also you are definitely the boss for this chapter-'" to "i have been in hell all day. hell being bada-bing tower." funny to me cuz those chapters are like, the best ones sdfkljsdfjfsdkjlfsdjkl-

[lunar-years]

I've been living in such a nice bubble of the internet (Ted Lasso fandom) where pretty much everyone at least likes the characters I love that I forgot what it's like out here as a Stranger Things Jonathan Byers fan ✌️ all i can say I'm glad we're not getting s5 until 2026 (probably) I'm no longer emotionally strong enough for this.

[strawberryjamikins]

i love when i have good ideas for a fic and my writers block hits before i even finish the first draft. i especially love it when i have a deadline to post it (specifically cause i said i wanted it out this month). it’s my favorite thing !

[blackhillverse]

i am happy to announce i am COOKING a proper multi-chapter blackhill fanfiction for the first time in YEARS and i cannot wait to share it with you guys!!!

[watery-melon-baller]

lads a script is being written!!!

[rossithepixie]

sometimes i think i've forgotten how to write but then i'm able to again and realize my brain was just being dramatic.

[universalsatan]

how am i supposed to collect my gay little shows when i am sleeby and work and have to rewatch the multi-seasoned shows i literally just finished

[fushitoru]

rainy days and brownies

pairing ⸺ college/modern!au: bf!gojo x reader

summary ⸺ you wake up for some soft moments with your boyfriend that involves brownies (turned freaky)

warnings ⸺ smut, tooth rotting fluff, some mild angst?, gojo unfortunately mentions skibidi toilet, I think I made gojo gen z here, boob worship, brownies and baking, established relationship, oral (f!receiving), gojo eats pussy like a champ, NOT EDITED, might be incoherent to everyone except me, product of a forceful effort to escape writer’s block, rainy mornings <3, lots of intimacy, art by 3-aem, probably in the same universe as this

general masterlist

Rainy mornings with Satoru means baking.

It’s a ritual the both of you have fallen into. On a day like this, where the air smells like rain, you blearily wake up from your nap to smell the warm distinct aroma of overly sweet brownies.

The slutty brownies were Satoru’s masterpiece. Even if he did overdo the sugar, you can’t admit that your stomach was growling as you rubbed your bleary eyes and frowned while raking a hand through your head. This bed head was going to be a bitch to untangle with the hairbrush.

“AND IIIIIIIIIIIII, WILL ALWAYS LOVE YOUUU—“

You jumped, caught off guard by Satoru randomly deciding to pay homage to Whitney Houston. Standing up, you headed towards the living room of you and Satoru’s apartment—-not before you adjusted your tank top so your tits weren’t out and the boy shorts you chose to sleep in properly covered your ass.

“WILL ALWAYS LOVE YOUUUUU—-“ You cringed at Satoru’s attempt of a high note, grumpily looking at him use his chocolate covered spatula as a makeshift mic. He was in the kitchen—-shirtless, of course—-now bending over to peek at the state of his brownies in the oven. Deciding the brownies weren’t done yet, he closed the oven door and stood up once more, reaching for his phone to undoubtedly scroll through TikTok. Continuing to hum different variations of the chorus, he swiped at his phone, ignorant to your presence behind him.

You think he’s kind of sweet like this. If it weren’t for him, the both of you would never be in this position. You would always be the cold frigid bitch he saw in freshman orientation and occasionally at parties across campus, and he would be the sweet, friendly guy that all the girls would continue to fall head over heels for.

To be honest, you don’t really see what he sees in you. You’re like a Disney villain, the witch that entraps him in her webs of insecurity and jealousy, but he remains the valiant prince, fighting to get to you. When he finally has you in his arms, he kisses you into believing that you are his princess instead.

It’s obvious in the way he fought for you—memorizing your schedule, rushing across campus just to walk you to class, pleading with you to grab dinner. And each time, you’d brush him off with sharp rejections, finding excuses to keep him at arm’s length.

But when he finally had you, finally cracked all your defenses—he was never going to let you go. You could see as much; the way he proudly walked on campus with you at his side, across the main quad so he could boast that he got you. You were his, and he was fully, undoubtedly yours. At parties, his eyes would always be on you, raking his eyes up and down your figure in your nurse outfit, conjuring up the hundred and thirty four positions he would fuck you so good in, even if there were prettier girls clinging onto his arms asking for a morsel of his attention. Pettily enough, you would just need to sigh and mumble “This party isn’t fun,” to have Satoru whipped, ushering you out of the frat house while those girls glared at the back of your Halloween costume, angry beyond measure that a nobody like you has the campus sweetheart wrapped around your finger.

Loud booms of the Vine gunshot sound effect snaps you back into the present, where Satoru is snickering at some god awful brain rot. You choose to approach him, wrapping your arms around his waist and smothering your face into his muscular back.

“Hi baby,” you mumble.

“Guess which sleepyhead is awake!” He announces to the world and turns around, and your traitorous heart jumps in its chest while looking into his eyes. It’s stupid. You’re both in your PJs on a morning where the rain thuds against the window pane, blurring both the window and all outside life, suspending you both in this moment. His eyes look affectionately down to you, and he plants a wet kiss on your forehead. “How was your nap, baby?”

“It was good.” You watch him turn around again to peek at the oven, and he hums, upper arm flexing as he grabs the heavy bag of flour, dragging it closer to him. “When’d you get up?”

“Around 7.”

You shoot him a bewildered look as you hop onto the counter, a better space to observe your boyfriend. When he realized that you had woken up, he had left his phone open to give you a kiss, reel playing noises. You peek over and almost snort at what is playing.

“Satoru, why are you watching alligators get chased away by a shovel?”

He looks up from the bowl of brownie batter he was now cleaning—-with his tongue, mind you—-and grins boyishly. “Isn't it crazy how hundreds of years of evolution get destroyed by a shovel?”

”Your feed is not normal,” you shake your head, keeping a stony face as you continue to scroll through his TikTok. In fact, it’s hilarious—-the things he got were weirder than one could dream, with toilets producing heads of men taking over whole cities. You’re not sure what that means about your boyfriend, but you accept it as you watch the nonsensical video.

“Wait,” he makes his way over to you, standing in between your legs. “Is that skibidi toilet?”

“What the hell is that.”

“Baby,” he whines. “You don’t know the lore? I don’t know if I can be with you for any longer.”

Your bite back a grin. “And subjecting me to hours of FNAF backstory wasn’t testament to how much I love you?”

Before he could whine back, you noticed he had some leftover chocolate on the side of his mouth and leaned over to lick it. Humming at the taste, you grabbed his hands and took in his brownie coated index and middle finger into your mouth.

He frowns. “Are you trying to seduce me into forgiving you and giving you more brownies?”

You laugh softly and give him a soft smooch on his shoulder. “No, silly. If I ate any more than half, I would have diabetes.”

He grabs the back of your hips and pulls you closer into him, nuzzling his nose against yours. The physical contact rubs at your nerves the right way, firing off that emotional part of you that makes you think loving him is so easy. How lucky you are that he’s chosen to give you his love.

His god-awful alarm blares—same annoying sound he keeps hitting snooze on for his 7ams—and the moment breaks as he reaches for the oven mitts to pull out the brownies. The aroma hits you instantly, making your mouth water. Satoru blows dramatically on the brownies, pouting and mock-yelling, “Hurry up and cool down! My girlfriend wants to eat you.” You can’t help but giggle. Once Satoru finally decides they’re cool enough, he grabs one and offers it to you. “Make way for the choo-choo train!” he snickers, guiding the brownie through imaginary tracks, a shit-eating grin on his face, before plopping it into your mouth.

You can’t help but let out a soft sigh as the brownie melts on your tongue, its warmth enveloping your senses. Rich, velvety tones of chocolate overwhelm your mouth, with each bite releasing a symphony of deep, indulgent flavors that linger long after the brownie is fully swallowed. “Wow, this is actually good.”

He pauses, brownie and hand held in mid air. “Why do you sound surprised?”

“I don’t know.” You shrug innocently but stick your tongue out to him regardless.

Popping the brownie in his mouth--but not before sending you a pout---he brushes his hands together to remove the brownie crumbs as he makes his way back in between your legs. The way he settles between them makes you all too aware of the heat of his groin encompassing you. He lazily drags his eyes up your figure, but not before settling on your outfit. His eyes then flick down to watch his hands trace the hem of your tank top, and your eyes follow his hands, a little dizzy by the action.

You’re always a bit sensitive in the mornings, and before this day, you and Satoru’s interactions have been limited to a kiss before he runs for his 7am and then doing college work until 3am, where you’re both too tired for anything particularly frisky. So, yea, you are kind of pent up---and judging by the bulge that’s starting to form in Satoru’s sweats, you assume he is too.

You put your elbows on his shoulder blades to give him head scratches from behind and lean towards his jawlines giving small kisses. You can feel him close his eyes, purring silently like a cat, and underneath your hands, his back and shoulder blades tense and relax as you rake your hands over his scalp.

“This new?” He uses his index finger to snap the strap of your tank top against your shoulder, using his mouth to given open mouthed kisses to your collarbone.

“Mhm,” you hum, a little deliriously at that---he’s begun to trail down, mouth working at the swell of your breasts.

He slowly pulls the collar of your tank down, down down down until your breast pops out. His eyes trace the swing urgently and groans. “I missed these, sweet girl.”

You gasp sharply when he puts it in his mouth, tongue swirling around the nipple. Satoru’s always been a boob guy, joking about his hands being your bra to support “those mommy milkers.” Right now, he’s doing just that; groping the hell out of them and giving them kisses, as if they were God’s greatest creation.

As much as you were enjoying your boyfriend’s boob worshipping, you need more. You were throbbing in want of contact on your pussy, and you made sure to relay just that. “Toru, I need more,” you whined.

“God forbid a man appreciate nice boobs.” He rolls his like the sassy man he is and parts with your nipple like lips after a messy and wet make out session. Your breasts are gleaming with his spit, a string connecting your nipple to his lips. He trails his face down your torso, making his way down to his knees until he was facing your crotch.

You whine and clench your thighs together to draw his face closer to the space between your thighs. He looks up at you and coos, giving your inner thigh a kiss. “I can smell you from here, cutie.”

His statement reminds you that you’re not too wet in the mornings. As soon as you wake up, some of your morning sessions with Satoru require the aid of lube to ensure no pain. Irritation flares at you at the thought that you might need to leave your position to grab some l—-

Oh.

“What the hell. I thought you wet your pants,” Satoru giggles. The finger running through your folds glides messily, as you both marvel to how wet you are. You’re also on another plane; you haven’t felt his touch for weeks, and the feeling overwhelms you as the squelches your pussy makes echo throughout the kitchen.

Satoru gives you a kiss on your neck. “Baby, can I?” You deliriously remember that he’s lightly circling his finger around your entrance and when you finally give him the okay, he pushes in.

Both of you groan at how tight you are. “Satoru,” you moan and proceed to bring him in for a kiss as he pistons in and out of your pussy, curling them just the way you like and making you see colors.

“Pretty, pretty girl,” he groans. “Left my baby so pent up.”

At that, all you can do is nod and whimper in agreement. All that leaves your mouth are gasps of his names and oh my god’s because he’s making you feel so good.

And then, you almost scream as you feel him blowing hot air onto your folds, leaning down to give teasing kitten licks around your clit, but not directly on it. His tongue drags up and down until he finally stops it right next to your clit as if feeling the sensation of your pussy throbbing, echoing your fastened heartbeat skin-to-skin while drooling.

Frustrated, you try to move your hips, but Satoru grabs them to stay in place. He’s so close to the place you want him, but he’s stationed in one place, spit flowing down as his tongue is still and his dark eyes are staring at you as if enraptured by your struggling.

“Satoru, please lick my clit,” you moan wantonly, begging for him to change his position.

But Satoru Gojo wouldn’t be Satoru Gojo without some teasing. “What was that, baby? Avoid your clit? You got it.”

“No,” you sobbed, grabbing onto his hair and directing his tongue to your clit. This time, he relents, sucking the bud into his mouth and hollowing his cheeks, making you see stars.

But soon, his quick and fast lapping turn into lazy licks, and you get frustrated, grinding against air and pussy oozing out wetness as Satoru keeps his tongue outstretched in front of you but not close enough to make contact with your skin, teasing. You hate the feeling of your pussy throbbing and the inner thighs and pussy wet with your slick, lacking the sensation you needed to finally climax. “Oh my god, Satoru, please make me cum.”

“I don’t know baby, you sound pretty commanding to me.” The motherfucker shrugs as if he has nothing to do with your dilemma and starts trailing kisses up your inner thigh. His touches were close to where you needed him most, making you ache for the sensation of his wet laps against you.

“Please, baby,” you beg. “You feel so good, you’re making me feel soo good. I love you so much. Please let me cum.” You’re full on sobbing, hips writhing to get any sensation in.

Satoru, at your display, seems to give in, because he’s coming in once more, giving you a sweet little kiss on your clit. You nearly ascend.

He’s diving in, making a rhythm of dipping his tongue into your entrance and coming back to give sloppily wet laps on your clit. It’s when he groans while his tongue is inside, hot air and vibrations needily simulating your clit, that you come up with a gasp. You roll your hips, Satoru giving you little licks to help you ride out your orgasm.

For how hard you came, you’re bucking your hips frantically, body on a mind of its own as you almost fall off the counter. Satoru has to grip your thighs to prevent that potential injury and rubs soothing circles on the outside of your thigh as you pant, wetness and sweat likely painting the counter beneath you. It’s not until your breath returns back to it’s normal pace that you notice Satoru’s head against your thighs, looking up at you with lovesick eyes.

You’re probably giving him the same look back, you realize, given he made you ascend to heaven and back. He gives an affectionate kiss to your mound, moaning corny shit like “Your pussy tastes sweeter than the brownie.”

And then he stands up, knees popping on the way back up, and despite your fucked out state, you can’t help but giggle. “You old man with the popping knee caps.”

He glares at you playfully, but you know his expression too well to know there’s no real offense in it. “Hey. Rude to say that after I just made you cum your brains out.”

”And you’re about to get the same thing,” you purr, putting a hand on his hard-on. He hisses but looks at you with lust blown eyes as he grabs the back of your thighs to carry you to your shared bedroom.

Yes, rainy days do mean baking with Satoru, but not without intimacy with your even sweeter boyfriend in bed.

general masterlist

comment or reblog to let me know your thoughts! I appreciate all of them <3

a/n lol this was a bitch to write. this might be a word soup or salad or whatever for all readers and that’s ok! I’ve written this primarily at 1am so…

eugh ok im going back to writing ch5 of bridgerton!gojo and fixing the em dashes in this post when i wake up LOL