#hell yeah hell yeah i found the pins

[tonycries]

Something Stupid - G.S.

Synopsis. Five times the strongest would rather díe than tell you he loves you, and the one time he almost does. Almost.

Pairing. Gojo Satoru x Reader

Content. MDNI, fem! reader, friends-to-lóvers, canon fix-it, PINING, dry-húmping, face-sítting (fem receiving), creampíe, overstím, PÚSSYDRUNK GOJO, ríding him until he whínes, no smút until they’re adults obvs, slight ángst, manga spoilers, found family, THE HAPPY ENDING WE DESERVE, pet names, swearing.

Word count. 9.6k

A/N. Tumby lemme post this pwease? What canon? This is the only canon I know.

“Catch me if you-”

Sixteen-year-old Gojo Satoru doesn’t have the privilege of finishing his sentence - hell, he doesn’t even have the privilege of standing, apparently.

Because in the blink of an eye, his back is hitting the soft grass of Jujutsu Tech, followed very shortly by a bewildered you. Foreheads knocking together, your hands grabbing at his broad shoulders, his own wrapping around your waist for some sense of stability.

Years later, Gojo tells everyone that would listen - and anyone that won’t - that life became just a bit brighter ever since you crashed into his life that day - literally. 

But right now, he’s opening his mouth to spit an irritated, “Watch it!”

It’s the first words you ever say to him, a shrill - almost hysterical - “Huh? No, you watch it-”

“Nuh uh, you-” Head spinning, shades skewed, it takes Gojo a few seconds to screw his bleary eyes open to the sudden newcomer straddled on top of him. And a few more to register that no, he wasn’t in heaven and hey, that uniform looks familiar. And, unfortunately, not even a split-second longer to breathe out something stupid, “I…I think I love y-”

“You stupid, moronic- wait what?”

The next few words out of his mouth are just as bad as the last ones, if not worse. Because yes he knows - for once in his life - that maybe he should just stop talking. He knows that even a moment longer with you is gonna turn his mind into more of a melty, honeyed mess than Six Eyes ever could. 

Which is exactly what he blames when jumbling out a garbled, “Dinner tomorrow?” Wincing, Gojo swallows them back almost as quickly as he wished he was swallowed up by Geto’s rainbow dragon instead. 

To your credit, you look a lot less bumbling than the strongest currently pinned underneath you. That look of annoyance on your pretty features melts into something of concern. And before he can dig a deeper hole for himself, you’re raising the back of your hand to splay out across his forehead.

“I didn’t think you hit the ground that hard but-” you raise a brow, head tilting to the side. “-I think you’ve got a concussion.”

Oh, yeah he’s definitely in heaven - that or actually concussed. Maybe both.

A low whistle sounds from his right - and soon enough he’s staring at the shoes of the other first-year he’d met just today. Low bangs hanging over his face, jostling with light cackles, “Haven’t they told you not to confess your undying love until at least the second date, Gojo?”

Nevermind, he was in hell.

“Ieri!” Geto turns towards the other girl, who was busy typing away on her phone. But Gojo could’ve sworn he heard the shutter of a camera coming from her way. “He was flown out of bounds, that’s gotta count as one point for me, right? And another for the pretty girl. You keepin’ score?”

She only sighs, “No.”

What’s a first day at high school without a duel between two of the proudly self-proclaimed strongest? And, of course, you - the fourth addition to their little group, hastily scrambling off of Gojo’s lap at the jeering laughter from above. 

Dammit. 

Later, he might apologize for running headfirst into you - might. Ignoring the pointed giggles, and the burning rouge at the very tip of his ears, to find out your name. And to make up some stilted excuse about how that was completely the concussion talking and he totally wasn’t serious about having dinner so please, please, please don’t snitch to Yaga about the impromptu matches taking place on school grounds…unless? 

But for now, Gojo’s only lazily turning to look up at Geto, bringing a hand up to squint against the harsh sun beating down. Or, at least, that’s what it was meant to look like - “Technique amplification: Blue!”

He only hopes the property damage isn’t as high as what his poor heart had just gone through. Detention with Yaga be damned - and if by some grace of the universe he actually does end up escaping before he’s caught then, well, he’ll actually ask you out to dinner tomorrow. 

---

Gojo Satoru is almost eighteen when he thinks that not even the Gojo family’s most expensive insurance will cover whatever curse you’ve casted on his poor heart.

You’re both well into the second year, and by now he’d been to twelve different doctors, five shamans, and Principal Yaga himself before Geto smacked him upside the head. 

“Satoru, you complete imbecile-”

“Hey!” He fights out of his best friend’s grasp around the scruff of his uniform, crossing his arms over his chest with a whine, “I’ll have you know that I got the highest exam score last week, and I cheated only a little bit-”

Geto cuts him off with a sigh, wearily pinching the bridge of his nose, “No- you idiot. What do you mean you went to Yaga to girl-talk with him about your crush.” And when Gojo’s mouth falls slack, he’s smirking, “Oh- my bad, I meant your love-”

It’s said that Gojo’s gasp echoed all throughout the wooden corridors of the school - maybe even the entire grounds. Hotly, he’s sputtering out broken little excuses, “I don’t- what do you-” Before turning away to cool the burning of his sweetly rosy cheeks, “You’re the imbecile for spewing out such nonsense, Suguru.”

“Are you sure?” Geto turns to get a better look at the way those pretentiously expensive glasses fail to cover even the half of it. He’s never been able to, when it comes to you. “Because that’s quite literally the first thing you said to her-”

“I had a concussion!”

“After she touched you?” 

And for perhaps the first time in the years he’s been wreaking havoc on Earth, Gojo is speechless. A welcome change for Geto, who mulls over in the silence while they loiter - very much missing whatever mission was assigned right now. 

“I…” he starts, voice small. Pathetic, even. “...was concussed.” And before Geto can let out the same frustrated, dragged-out groan he often does whenever he’s around the two of you, Gojo’s plowing on, “But if I did lo- like her - hypothetically speaking - how would I even tell her?”

Usually, the other’s first reaction would be to tease his best friend. But at this moment he sounded so…young, painfully sincere in a way that was so disgustingly un-Gojo-like that he can’t help but cringe.

“Well, Satoru.” he muses, throwing a hand around his shoulder. “You just gotta…tell her my man. Preferably before that big mission coming up because I am not dragging your moping self around.”

He rolls his eyes, scoffing, “Gee, thanks. I’ll totally get on that tomorrow.”

“You’re welcome.”

BANG!

Yaga’s voice bellows, “Can you two stop doing this outside my office!”

And as much as Gojo hates to admit it, Geto was right - he usually was. 

Well - perhaps not about the love part, but subconsciously, he found himself seeking out every tiny moment with you. Every second by your side - ignoring the other two bothers - was a new opportunity to just tell you. To break that thick solitude inside your little bubble with those little words. Ones that would go and spoil it all. 

Not to be dramatic, but Gojo almost made a game out of it. Mouthing out the words whenever your back was turned - it started from “Dinner tomorrow?” to “I like you.” to something stupid that only gave Shoko aneurysms. 

And, expectedly, “tomorrow” doesn’t happen to be tomorrow. 

Tomorrow isn’t in your next class, or whatever mission Gojo tags along with you for “moral support.” Tomorrow isn’t the cozy little detention the two of you attend after catching Yaga’s interpretive dance routine - “that’s the scariest thing I’ve ever seen- even more than any curse.” you whisper fearfully to him, and he thinks he might just blurt it out right then and there.

Tomorrow isn’t when he’s just about to leave on some confidential mission with Geto, bidding you goodbye with a roll of his eyes and a hug he pretends he doesn’t like as much as he actually does. Tomorrow isn’t even when he’s baking in Okinawan sun, or strewn out bloodied and left for dead on the very grounds he met you on. 

But oh how he wishes it was.

In that moment, incapacitated by Toji Fushiguro, and wondering where it went wrong, he thinks of you. Gojo thinks he’ll always remember you in every moment, and especially when they’re his last.

The Star Plasma Vessel mission and its aftermath takes up most of his mind afterward, even when he didn’t want it to. And all he can remember about tomorrow comes only a few months later, when an ashen-faced Gojo Satoru slams open the rickety door to your dorm.

“G-Gojo?” you sputter, sitting up in your bed. But before you can even think of reaching him, he’s crossed your floor in a few long strides. “Are you ok- mmpf!”

In an instant, he’s splaying out on your mattress, legs dangling off the end, strong arms wrapped tightly around your waist. 

Your first instinct is to snap something snarky - but every tease at the very tip of your tongue vanishes when he buries his head into your lap. And you feel something wet, something drench though your skirt heatedly. 

“Is…” you’re gulping thickly. “Is everything okay, Satoru?”

Ah, his name sounds too perfect on your tongue. 

“Suguru…” Is all he shudders out wetly, jittery hands looping even more vice-like around your figure. “He-”

It’s just about the only thing he can get out, and it’s just about everything you need to hear before bringing his shivering body closer. Quiet. Steady. Rocking the strongest gently, while you hum a wordless melody. “S’alright. S’gonna be okay.”

Now, he thinks. Now now now now - tell her. Tell her. But when a tear of your own stains his shirt, he knows. Hauling you in even deeper to his chest, he prays you don’t hear his thundering heart. Perhaps tomorrow. 

---

Gojo is twenty-one by the time he’s dragging you hand-in-loveable-hand through the winding hallways of an apartment in the heart of Tokyo. Mumbling excited little mutters, and almost tripping over his own feet with how fast he was navigating the corridors. 

“Sato- S-Sato-” you’re squealing out, grimacing at the tugging burn of your hands in his. “Toru! Where are you- taking me?” 

Sheepishly, he looks at you over his shoulder, “Whoops, did I forget to tell you- I have kids!”

He doesn’t know what’s louder - your shocked shout of “What? When?...By who?” or the screeching of his own two shoes skidding to a halt in front of that familiar door. 

“Well, they’re not mine.” Gojo sighs ultimately, with a hand at the door. And that makes you quieten down just enough to hear his barely-audible little whisper. Determined. Reverent, almost. “But they’re mine.”

And when he finally opens the door, just one look at the tiny, black-haired little boy and his sharp scowl is all you need to understand. You’re whirling your eyes back to his beaming gaze, oh, Satoru.

Only mere moments later the two of you - accompanied by a very begrudging Megumi, and his sister - sit by the booth of one of your favorite cafés. Embarrassingly, he finds himself sighing while watching you crack jokes with the little girl. Turning to the server to order for her - it almost felt like a little family. Oh you’d make such a perfect mother. A completely objective observation, of course. Completely. Unless- 

“You’ll never do it.” a tug on his sleeve has him facing Megumi’s leveled stare. How the hell does a kid manage to look like he’s seen the monstrosities of the world already? Gojo blames the father.

Baring his teeth, “The hell’s that supposed to mean?”

Little did he know that all it took was watching him seethe whenever the waiter by your side was just a bit too talkative, a bit too lingering with his gaze. In his little reverie, Gojo had accidentally croaked out a low, “I-” before you’d turned those pretty eyes his way, only to choke back embarrassingly on every syllable. Gesturing at you to ignore his little mishap. 

“Tell her, I mean.” Megumi hums. Taking a wizened sip of his milkshake, “She’ll date that waiter before you if you don’t tell her.”

“That’s so…so stupid.” Gojo whispers back hotly. “I will tell her.”

“Will not.”

“Will too.”

“Will not.”

“Will-” 

“Boys!” Your scolding tone makes them both jump - mainly Gojo, however, caught off-guard. Who scratches behind his neck when you wag a finger admonishingly, “Stop arguing, we’re in public. Now, as for payment-” Before turning back politely to the waiter.

“See?” Megumi counters, back to appraising the last of his cupcake. “You’re such a loser.”

Gojo’s gaze, however, stray back your way, as he found them often doing these days. Only to find them already on him, scrunched into crescents with a smile and twinkling so bright that he could almost catch his idiotic gawking in them. 

Very pointedly he ignores the knowing roll of Megumi’s eyes, the exact type he’s seen too much with Shoko, and Nanami, and Utahime, and Yaga - and every single being to come into contact with his almost-tangibly hopeless feelings for you.

Instead, slamming that shiny new black card of his down in front of him - with enough fervor that the tabletop jostles, and you jolt out of your conversation with the waiter. 

“I’ll be the one paying for myself, and my two kids and-” His burning eyes drink in every shred of surprise on your features. “-my wife.”

Somewhere in the distance, Gojo can hear Tsumiki giggle, and Megumi smack a hand onto his forehead. But right now he’s too busy remembering the exact degree to which your lips curl up, the way you hold back a laugh at the waiter’s jaw dropping. Nevermind the fact that the two of you were way too young to have two kids of this age. 

“He was getting a bit pushy.” you’d conspire afterwards, now completely full and fatigued after a long day. “Thanks for that, Toru.”

Gojo sighs, flashing you a megawatt grin. If there were ever a time he thanks his Six Eyes for being able to memorize every little detail - every little feature in this picture - then it would be right now. He’s reveling in the bittersweet perfection. Yeah, he thinks, holding up a sleepy Megumi in his arms, maybe tomorrow.

---

There’s actually been about sixty different times over the years that Gojo knows you’d wanted to punch him straight in his face - and he’s sure, at the age of twenty-seven, that this is the very latest one. 

“How did you get hit, don’t you have limitless?”

He shoots a wink your way, “Maybe I wanted you to patch me up?”

You scoff, “You stupid, moronic-”

“-no-brained, glasses-wearing dumbass.” he finishes for you, flashing you a cocky smirk that wouldn’t have been endearing for anyone but him. Gojo makes himself more comfortable on the hard infirmary bed, “You know, you’ve really got to update your list of insults, sweetheart. I don’t even wear the shades that much anymore.”

It was new - as soon as you’d cackled at the idea of him being a teacher with perpetual sunglasses, he’d wrapped that blindfold around his head. It was a slight shame, frankly, he was always honest with his eyes - but what was more important was that change.

Sweetheart.

Sometime after you’d intertwined seamlessly into Gojo’s mishmashed little family, he’d taken to calling you syrupy sweet nicknames. It’d started out as a joke, you think - with “sugarplum” and “honeybuckets” and whatever grocery item he could think of, before turning into something very, very real. 

Though, they still made poor Megumi grimace in disgust just the same.

“Zoning out on me, babygirl?” 

Yeah, sometimes they made you grimace in disgust, too. 

“No-” you’re rolling your eyes, putting a little bit more force than necessary when you dab the warm napkin at those tiny specks of blood on his lip. “Just hoping you’d shut up.”

Gojo hisses, eyes crinkling at the edges - and you can’t help but think of how much older he looked than the disgruntled sixteen-year-old that swore at you on your first day. 

“What?” his snowy brows raise, catching the hints of your laughter. 

You take a moment longer to bask in the memories, before sighing. “Nothing. Just thinking about when we first met, s’been ten years already, hasn’t it?”

Of course, it has - it’s not like something the great Gojo Satoru could ever even think about forgetting. He remembers it in every cheesy selfie from high school you show him, he remembers in each and every one of your laughs at his overused jokes - the same ones he’d cracked way back then. 

“It has.” he’s settling on after a few rare beats of silence. The thick white sheets on the bed rustle as he grasps your hand in his, “And I think I remember that today more than any other.”

It was impossible not to, when you’d just met your best friend after ten years. When you’d just killed your best friend with your own two hands.

Your pretty eyes shine with all the tears you’d been hiding, “Yeah? Guess so, huh?” Without warning, you bend down to meet your forehead with his, gulping back heavily. You knew he didn’t just want to be patched up, you knew better. And you knew that even the strongest gets lonely. Especially the strongest. Your voice is strained, quiet. “Do you think he’s happier now, Toru?”

Truthfully, Gojo doesn’t know. 

But he whispers anyway, “I think so.”

To soothe you - and himself - if anything.

His eyes burn, and he’s scrunching them shut. A lump forming in his throat, Gojo can feel his entire being just rattle with the sudden wonder whether you’d feel it just the same when - if - he dies. Would you ask if he’s happy, too? Thinking he did and had everything he wanted in this life - not knowing he’s searching for you in every one? This life, and the next, and each one after.

“Sweetheart.” Gojo mumbles, eyes widening when you’re raising your head to look back at him, as if he didn’t even expect the words to fall from his lips. His jaw clenches, eyes flitting between your eyes and your lips like the rest of it was just threatening to wrench from his throat. “He- Suguru. Back in high school - before he…left- he told me-” 

“Gojo sensei, where is the- Oh!”

The two of you jump apart as if it burned, and for Gojo, the angry split on his lower lip hurts infinitely less than losing your touch. Holding back a silent whine, he turns towards the dark-haired boy fretting by the doorway, “Yuta? Something wrong?”

“Oh, you’ve done it, newbie.” Panda’s deep voice sounds from behind the doorway, and he peaks his large head in. “Gojo’s got his serious voice on, should’ve just spied silently like me. I told you not to interrupt him and his wife.”

“You’re married?!”

“We’re not married!”

“Tuna.”

The room erupts in far too many voices, and before long you’re clapping your hands in that strict teacherly manner that Gojo teases you always learned from Yaga himself. 

“Okay, that’s enough.” you call out, before turning to the newest first year. “Okkotsu, do you need help with anything? I’ll be right with you.” 

“I…I really didn’t mean to interrupt.” he’s bowing with apologies, ones that you only wave away with a chuckled-out, “It’s okay, Panda’s joking. We’re not married or anything anyway.”

And Gojo doesn’t know whether the look Yuta gives him is more akin to pity or understanding - he prefers it be neither, which is why he’s covering his head with the blanket. Groaning dramatically until you’re turning your attention back to him. 

You ruffle the amount of his hair peaking, and he has to screw his glassy eyes shut. “Toru, what is it that you wanted to say?”

“Don’t worry about it, it’s stupid.” His tone is unreadable, “I’ll tell you, hope- hopefully tomorrow.”

---

“Stay.”

“Sweetheart-”

“Stay.”

“Sweetheart.” 

You’re barely holding up the clingy mess that is a twenty-nine-year-old Gojo Satoru. Huffing and puffing in a way that makes his heart and his arms around you just squeeze, “It’s not an option. You know I have to do this.”

How he wished he didn’t.

How he wished he could grab your hand and run away from the fight with Sukuna, hide in the countryside of his hometown and build a new life with you.

It’s already been a hellish few weeks trying to get Gojo unsealed, and you can feel the last few months pounding at your temples. You let out a sigh, one that has him holding back a strangely giddy laugh. But before you can open your mouth to yell at him to not go - or more accurately, beg him until he doesn’t - there’s a tentative voice speaking up from behind you. 

“Um…sensei?” Yuji’s wide eyes sweep over his two teachers, being at Jujutsu Tech for a few months, he’s seen everything there is to see about the two of you. He saw the way you smacked the strongest when he got too mouthy, the way he let down limitless just so you could smack him. He saw the laughs, the looks, the way you’d flown into a frenzy when Gojo was sealed. 

Everyone saw.

It was like you were crazed, and right now, only a month after his return - you were gripping onto Gojo like he was the only thing keeping you anything but. 

So, it shouldn’t be new at this point. But he still can’t hold back the wonder in his voice, “I uh- wanted to ask about your robes for tomorrow- but maybe I can come back another time?”

“Yes yes, come back another time-”

“What robes?” 

You narrow your eyes at the man, and that sheepish little curl of his lips does everything but soothe your worries. He knew you saw right through him, you always did. 

Gojo’s exclaiming out loud, “Well- remember Toji-?” He waves his hands around, trying for a slightly softer way to say ‘the sorcerer killer and father of our honorary kid, who just-so-happens to be on a rampage right now’, before ultimately settling on, “-the worm guy? Well, I just figured I might as well take a page out of his book and dress like him, y’know since I’m fighting…Megumi after all.”

It takes a few seconds of stunned silence for you to find your voice, “You stupid-” 

“-moronic, no-brained, blindfold-wearing-”

“-dumbass! You remember what happened to him!” 

He bats his long, long lashes at you, “Why? Would you get this heated if I died just the same way he did?”

“No!” Your voice makes even Yuji flinch, which in turn has you reaching over to pat his head, “This is not on you, darling, of course. But your teacher here-” And it was comical, almost, the way the strongest stands up ramrod straight at just a leveled glare from you, “-will be getting it when he comes back from the fight.”

Comes back.

Oh, as much as Gojo throws his head back with chortles, he can’t help the way his heart twinges at the very thought of leaving you. 

And he can’t be sure of just how long.

“Ah, you talk too much, pretty. I’ll tell Megs how much you miss him.” You’re not given a second’s warning before you’re back in his embrace - more steady, this time. His arms securely around your waist, like they’d been twelve years ago and never wanted to leave since. Lips pressed up against the thundering pulse at your neck, Gojo’s voice dips just a bit lower than you’re used to. Breathing you in, “I will, too, y’know? Very much.”

Jittery, he could feel every slight tremor in your nervous fingers when you run them through his hair, dipping into the ends of his black blindfold. 

“Wh-what do you mean? S’only for a few hours, Toru.” you hum. “You better be back or so help me.”

“I know…” he heaves out, only pressing you close up against his broad frame. “But just in case- I-” Gojo’s voice cracks pathetically at the end, and he’s instantly too aware of Yuji’s keen eyes still watching. Edging up against the corner of the room like he wished he could have Gojo’s teleportation powers right about now. “-have something stupid to tell you. So I’ll hurry home anyways.”

You’re pulling back to quirk a brow, “Why not just tell me now?”

How he wished he could.

“Because it’s stupid.” 

Later, Gojo will find himself strewn across jujutsu hall with Yuji himself - the only one, other than you, he thinks, that can stand to be around a weapon like him right now. Listening to the hum of cursed energy in the air, he gets himself ready for the fight.

“Why didn’t you tell her? Especially now?” His student pipes up, suddenly, and Gojo remembers with a sigh just how uncomfortably in tune he is with everyone around him. Fearfully, so. “That you lov-”

“Because it’s stupid.” the older one grins. Such a sad, warmly smile - and for perhaps the first time, Yuji thinks that Gojo Satoru looks his age. “And I don’t think she’d want to hear it if I don’t make it to tomorrow.”

---

“Stupid.” you mutter, biting angrily at your nails. Hot tears burn behind your closed lids, and you can’t help but tighten your hand even more around his cold, cold ones. Limp. Like death. “You’re so, so stupid.”

There’s no response. No sing-song voice finishing off your insults, no large and ruffling your hair until you have to bat him away. 

Gojo Satoru was deathly still. 

Laid out on the cold mattress of his room, you’d bugged Shoko enough to let you move him here, knowing how much he hated the infirmary. 

“Being so reckless- having Yuta use your body-” in your fit of anger, you’re whirling your head up. Only for the pang of regret and grief to hit you tenfold all over again - because like this, he was too statuesque. A pretty mask of pale, what you’d give to have those eyes wink at you once more. “-if- when you wake up, I’m gonna kill you all over again.”

They told you he was dead - there was no point in waiting. In fact, you were sure there was a grave dug already, it was just a matter of how soon they could get to you. 

It was a strange thing, to be loved just enough to get a burial. In the end, it was lonely.

And so stupid. 

And at times, you felt that way, too. But all it took was one visit to where Geto’s grave was, a few long hours sat by his side, and you knew you couldn’t let Gojo escape you that easily. Not after everything, not after what he hasn’t told you, yet.

“Just wake up.” you sigh, the defeat bleeding into your every word. You run your thumb over the pronounced knuckles on his hand, calloused and scarred from his fight. “There’s so much to hear about. Higuruma’s alive, Nobara’s alive, pulling off that eyepatch. Like father, like daughter, huh? And Megumi- I saw Megumi laugh today. Yuji, too.”

Silence. Only stone-cold silence. He didn’t even move - not even the barest twitch of a finger.

“I just need you to wake up.” Your words are tumbling out a mile a minute, distantly, you wonder whether this was how Gojo felt when he first met you. How he couldn’t stop talking. Couldn’t stop wanting. “Shoko’s mad at you, y’know? But I know she misses you, no matter how much she pretends not to. I know that Jujutsu Tech can’t go any longer without Yaga, we- I need you. Didn’t even get to tell you-” 

It’s all croaked out into a deafening silence, at least if you were in the hospital room then maybe the pinging of the heart monitor might’ve accompanied you. But they’d pulled him off that, too. 

Unmistakable. 

“And I know that I…” You bury your face into the now-damp blankets, “I love you.”

“And I love you.”

There’s only the split-second you take to snap your head up before lips are crashing onto yours - plump, slightly-chapped but something so sweetly Satoru. Before you can even think about kissing back, however, he’s pulling away. 

Only to press hasty, chaste pecks again. And again. And again and again and-

Gojo kisses your wet eyelids, “I love you.” Your forehead, your cheeks, the corners of your lips. “I love you I love you I love you- and you beat me to it.” Those strained little words strike your very core - because it’s unmistakably Gojo. Sounding anything but, they’re broken and wrenching painfully out of his wracking chest. “So I just- I just had to-” Big, strong arms wrap around your middle - when did they even get there? It pangs somewhere in your hazy mind that you’re basically hoisted up on Gojo’s bed now, “-to do exactly what I’ve been wanting to since we were like this, thirteen years ago. Everything I’ve ever hoped for.”

“Everything?” you whisper.

“Everything. Even the strongest has dreams, y’know?” And he flashes you that smile you’ve missed so much, one you don’t think you’ve quite seen in years. “Even something stupid like ‘I love you.’”

That makes you cautiously glide over your palms onto the planes of his muscled chest, lightly pushing away to take in all of him. 

It was him. Alive. 

Really alive.

“Gojo…” you whimper, tears welling up behind your eyelids all over again.

“Ouch. Really?”

“Satoru.”

“Hmmm…”

“Toru.”

“That’s more like it.” The circled warmth around your waist crashes you even closer onto every ridge and divot of his hard chest, into the sweetest embrace - the kind you really couldn’t be mad about after your best friend had almost left you forever. “Told ya I’d come back, sweetheart.”

You could practically hear the sunshiney smile in his words, and his entire hulking body shook with emotion. 

“You’re back.” you breathe, dancing your arms upwards to wrap around his neck. “You’re here.” It takes only a second longer of being in his burning proximity, to catch that pearly white smile - tired, and infinitely harder than before - to have some semblance of rationality dipping into your mind. “-and- and we have to tell everyone!” you’re yelping. Moving to scramble off of his lap, “Oh- fuck, and they thought I was crazy. We have to- have to have Shoko give you a check-up and have Kusakabe finally ditch those funeral plans and-” 

You’re being shut up by Gojo’s lips on yours again, slow and sensual. It’s deeper this time, and he’s taking the time to part those candied lips of yours, sucking gently on the very tip of your hot tongue. 

“My funeral is the last thing I wanna think about right now.” he chuckles against your lips.

“But-”

“Tomorrow.” Gojo soothes, craning his weary neck to kiss your forehead. “We can do all that tomorrow. But right now, I just want to spend time with the love of my life.” His cerulean eyes just gleam with unshed tears and even more unspoken words, “Doesn’t have to be forever. Just right now.”

As promised, he’s petting up and down your body lazily. Kissing you until even smiling felt bruised and raw. But it’s only when the air grows thick, when the slight jostle of your body on top of his becomes hot, his own skin burning soon after that Gojo lets out a sullen hiss. 

“Toru-” you pull away panickedly, delicate strings of saliva snapping in the nonexistent air between you two. “We should really-”

“No- no no no no. Please wait-” Hastily, he’s bringing down a jittery hand to his hip, the buzz of reversed curse technique flowing through his thrumming veins. Meeting your uncertain gaze, “I’ve waited so long. Wontcha just let me worship you right now?”

As if to prove his point, he’s bucking upwards ever-so-slightly. The momentum teetering you precariously on his lap, dragging the heated core between your legs down in such a sloppy drag.

You’re gasping when the very outer edges of your panties rub up against something so hard, and rotund. Feeling the wet squelch of his angry tip gush out in a dripping wet wave at the friction. “A-are you sure?” you’re stammering, trying to hold back the way your greedy thighs were trying to rub together. Only achieving heavy, languid gyrations on top of the rock-hard outline of Gojo’s cock. “How about tomorrow? When you’re feeling better?”

It’s a slow, steady rhythm. There’s a ringing schwf! schwf! schwf! of sopping wet fabric, and it was driving him crazy. 

“Right now please- haaa-” Gojo’s tongue lolls out so sluttily to graze against your own, dazed blue irises rolling to the back of his head. His spine curves upwards, abs rippling with a harsh drag of your clothed pussy down his weepy shaft. “Whenever you’d have me.”

Almost tentatively, your hips roll forward. That flimsy excuse of your panties bunching up with each grazing rub, it’s all you can do to not just keen at the utterly delicious curve of his thick girth. Throbbing and twitchy under each of your motions. 

He’s hissing when your underwear snags on the very divot at his thick head, sitting up on two elbows, “S-sweetheart.”

“No, Toru.” your palms are back on his pecs, easily pinning the strongest down with a gentle push of your own. “Jus’ let me do all the work, m’kay?”

Gojo wasn’t all too happy - and the sullen pout jutting on his spit-glossed lips told you more than enough. But he wasn’t going down without a fight - that was for sure. 

“F-fine.” he grunts at a particularly harsh grind of your hips. Fuck, he felt like some animal, humping up into you like he was out of control. He could practically feel your puffed-up pussy lips through his pants, he could almost taste it. Two rough hands come to rest on your hips, grabbing and kneading a handful of your ass. “But then you’re not just hah- sitting there, pretty.” 

And, shit, even like this, you should’ve known better than to underestimate Gojo Satoru himself. Because whatever he wanted, he got. The one thing he didn’t was you - and now, since he had you, too, fuck- he might just be going insane. 

Not a moment’s wasted before you’re being so easily hauled up, up, up the entire expanse of Gojo’s body. Jittery body being balanced easily as if you were some type of toy, up from the slender curve of his toned hips, up around where his broad deltoids were spread, all the way until your cunt was hovering over his needy mouth. “Can’t believe I hngh- almost died without havin’ a taste of this pretty pussy.”

“Toru.”

“Sweetheart.” he mocks.

You shiver with each feverish puff of hot breath blown right onto your clothed cunt. And even more so when you’re feeling such a long, slender finger slide in through the translucent fabric. 

Fuck, Gojo swallows thickly, bunching up your skirt. You were so sopping wet he could almost see the outline of his index through your panties. He slides the back of it slowly up and down. Heavy balls squeezing painfully at the volume of your saturated slick collecting on his digit, just trailing glossily down to his deft wrist. 

Mesmerized, your jaw falls slack at the sight down below of Gojo - cloudy hair mussed, cheeks all pink and burning a blushing rouge, tongue darting out to catch each stray drop of your sweet sweet juices. Drip! Drip! Drip! 

“Oh- sh-shiiit-” he rasps, lowly, mulling over your honeyed taste. Sounding so awed, breath hitching when Gojo tugs your panties just enough to the side to catch a mere glimpse of your messy cunt. Glistening and winking down lewdly at him. “S’jus’ you n’ me right now, huh?”

You don’t know who exactly he’s talking to - and you don’t get to find out, because that’s all it takes for Gojo’s kiss-bitten lips to clash messily against your cunt - panties and all. 

A soft swipe of his tongue glides the fabric to the side, so depraved, so needy that for that split-second he’s tasting you, he can’t even think of removing it. One taste of your sweetened pussy and he can’t even bear the thought of breaking apart, licking up in long, languid stripes that wet the very front of your swollen folds. 

Just the taste of you had him palming desperately at the tent in his pants, rubbing up and down at a pace that matched his rummaging tongue.

The very edge of your tastebuds rub so deliciously in teasing circles around the corners of your dripping silt, your inner thighs. 

“S-s’toru-” you’re letting out such throaty, dragged-out groans that send every drop of blood in Gojo’s body thumping to his achy cock. “Don’t be such a- a tease.”

You’re locking your glassy eyes with him and he feels like he could pass out. Groaning and smacking into your cunt, “Tell me- fuck fuck fuck- tell me what you want, sweetheart. Anything.” Your entire body arches into his hot mouth like such a slut, when he bullies between your folds. Barely flicking against the sensitive nub of your clit. “Everything. Anything for you.”  

When you’re weaving your fingers deliriously through his silky soft strands, he babbles, “Oh fuck- yeah, pull on my hair.” One of his hands come down to grip onto your panties, pulling the fabric so that you revel in the filthy friction. “Use me while you ride m’face, okay?”

With that, his mouth is sagging open even further letting your thighs straddle the entirety of his face so easily. So close. So messy how he was carding his tongue from the very base of your pussy, up into your quivering entrance.

“Fuck–” you’re whining, grinding into his touch when he wraps his soft lips around your clit. Barely even easing you with syrupy, wet circles of his heated tongue before sucking. Harsh. Depraved. But so, so him. “Don’- don’ stop, feels too good–!”

You didn’t know if he heard you, fuck you didn’t even know if Gojo was even breathing. 

Even if he wanted to stop - he didn’t think he could. Because he was so ravenous between your legs, forcing your pliant body into such smooth gyrations on his tongue. Silken, soft, such sultry licks of his tongue on your clit. 

Electricity sparks behind your eyes when with a wet slurp! he smacks away from your pretty pussy, “You think- you think I can stop?” And he sounds so genuinely in disbelief, as if the very thought of it was appalling. Through heavy, lingering kisses and sucks onto your clit, Gojo’s managing to get out, “I can’t have enough. Fuck- please.” The very rounded pads of his fingers dig so bruisingly into the flesh of your ass, jiggling and kneading with every drag of your hips. He’s begging at this point, “Fuck yourself on my face. Rougher, faster, c’mon now. You can do it, my sweetheart.” 

He was so fucking desperate, big fat tears almost welling in his eyes while he whined underneath you. Groping so obscenely at his sweltering hot erection. How could you not listen?

“If you say so.”

Using the vice-like grip on his locks, you’re managing to leverage your motions even deeper. Rougher, like he’d wanted. Every protesting creak of the bedpost was accompanied by a synchronized whimpering of ah! ah! ah! coming from both your mouths. 

“S’it good?” he gasps, and all you could see was the flushed upper half of his features. And the lower half - fuck, though the peaks and cracks you could make out just how glisteningly wet it was with all of your messy cunt. His lips were just drenched, slick-soaked mouth making out harshly with your pussy through your panties. Trailing all the way down in a glossy sheen over the lower half of his face, dripping off his chin, fuck- up to his cheekbones- 

As if that wasn’t enough, the massive palm resting at your thigh comes dancing down to tease around your sopping wet entrance. 

If you were in the right state of mind, you could’ve sworn that you heard a sharp rip! coming from that poor tattered fabric of your underwear right then and there. 

“Tell me- fuck fuck fuck- use that pretty voice of yours please.” Still suckling lewdly on your clit, his cheeks hollow out . Entire body just jolting upwards, forcing you to press down harder with your motions. “Use me. Use me.”

“S-so–” you mewl when his slender fingers bully easily past that first ring of muscle. So many cold inches of his digits, feeling around determinedly inside your heated, gummy walls for those sweet spots that will make you whine. “So loud, Toru-” you’re spitting, meshing his mouth even harder with yours down below. And you can practically feel him smirk against your cunt. “For someone that wants this s-so hngh! bad you sure are-”

There.

Right there.

Gojo Satoru had just crashed into the spongy cavern of your g-spot - easily, at that. And there was such a crazed, sloppy sting to each of his movements. Smashing in over and over-

“Heh…tha’s how I l-like it.” he’s spying up at your trembly thighs, the way his overworked lips were being coated with a fresh wave of our honeyed slick with each passing second. “Good girl- gooood fuckin’ girl–” 

Hazily, you’re wondering whether it doesn’t hurt. Whether his weepy cock ached just as badly as it looked, how his tongue isn’t fucking cramping up by now. 

But he goes on - like he couldn’t stop, like he was out of control. A greedy little push and pull, dragging his tongue all over until you saw flashes of white. Until you could only scream out his name like a mantra. Until you were cumming. 

“Fuck- fuck fuck fuck- Toru!” your slurring out a mile a minute. Both of your hands now steadfast on his head, riding out your high all over Gojo’s pretty, pretty face. And he let you - fuck, he let you. “M’cumming- shit, feel so good. M’cumming-”

So good, so filthy that it made your toes curl, your hips stutter sloppily. Arching like such a slut, you could barely even see properly. Your breath was coming out in such labored heaves at this point, and Gojo wasn’t any better. 

It was like he couldn’t stop, happily drinking up every single, sticky drop your cunt had to offer. Pussydrunken eyes drooping shut, unable to let out anything but satisfied grunts. The muscle of his tongue is just frenzied in eager slips and slides along your cunt - absolutely no rhythm or method right now. Sucking, licking, biting anywhere he could possibly reach. 

“F-fuck–” you’re crying out tearily once the very peak of your orgasm fades, and all that’s left are a few overstimulated tingles being wrenched out by a greedy Gojo. “Toru, m’done.” You tug desperately on his hair - but even that doesn’t bate him the slightest bit. “S’getting too much- fuck-”

“Awww, too much for my girl?” he’s cooing, the words jumbling together in his drunken state. There’s a glossy mess of spit and slick drooling down the corners of his smirk. “Does this cute cunt of yours need a break?”

At your barely-lucid nod, it only grows wider. Smugger. “Too bad-” And Gojo’s just taunting you with a final, long lick up the very core of your pussy, “Because if I almost hah- died without her once, then you best believe m’gonna c-crawl back from death for ya each and every single time.”

It takes his strong arms - even bruised and battered through battle - only two whole seconds to plop you back down prettily onto his lap. Right over where his angry cock was just weeping for attention. And suddenly, it hurts without you. “So you’re not getting a break anytime soon. Maybe tomorrow.”

“Ha ha.” You’re rolling your eyes, “Very funny.”

“Mhm.” Gojo looks up at you through his white lashes, and you can only watch when he brings up his syrupy-sweet, glossy fingers up to his mouth. One by one. Sucking. Slowly, looking right into your eyes. It makes your mouth just salivate. “Got that right.”

The sheets billow behind you when you’re fumbling deftly with his shirt, all but ripping - tearing that stupid thing off of his form. Your skirt and top are soon to follow - his jaw clenches with the slight strain, leaving it in poor tatters on the floor.

“Shit- shit you’ve been-” his mouth just waters when your tits are released from your bra. Jiggling tantalizingly in his face in a way that makes him bury into it. “-been holding out on me.”

“Oh-” you let out, traitorously, at the first sight of each curve and divot along his milky sculpted body. Gojo Satoru was serious about dressing up like Toji, and no matter how much his t-shirt looked so sinfully painted on - actually seeing it was something else. “You’re so pretty, Toru.” You smooth your palms down his large shoulders, the faint scars between his pecs, his abs - that scar. Stark and large, Shoko had done her best work, but it still looked so painful. It must feel so, too, being sewn back together like some ragdoll. He catches the way your expression dampers - of course, he does. “Toru…”

Gojo winces when your fingers glide over that jagged scar. But if that was pain, then it was absolutely nothing compared to the pure, unadulterated fear when you abruptly pull your hands away. 

“S-sorry- I didn’t mean to-”

“No!” he cuts you off, wrapping his long fingers around your wrist. All but dragging it - right along with you - to his still-healing body. “Touch me. Hurts more when you don’t.”

You’re batting your lashes up at him in a way that makes his heart stutter, and his poor, angry cock twitch. “Hurts me when you lie.”

“M’not lying, see?” With a low nod of his head, he’s gesturing you to look down - where it was unmissable. 

Because straddled right in-between your pussy lips was Gojo’s erect cock - proud and so prominent, even through his pants. With the sheer girth bulging upwards you could feel your greedy pussy dampen over the cloth in anticipation. 

“Well…” He’s throwing his head back when you knead your palm over the very end of his print, “I can’t quite see-”

Gojo takes the hint - and you have to bite your lip from teasing that it was quite possibly the only hint you’d thrown his way that he’d actually understood. But it was so hard to - not when he was this eager. 

And, on those long, lonely nights, you’d imagined that your best friend would be suave, infinitely collected with things like this. 

But, no, he was fumbling and jittery with his movements. So needy to please you that it takes you to help him pull down his tight, sticky boxers over the curving muscle of his thighs. 

“O-oh fuck–” you breathe out, when he finally springs out. Sweeping up and down each and every long, thick inch of him - Gojo was as hard as if he was carved out of fucking diamond. Such a furious, rosy red at his leaky tip, glistening down, down, down into the most mouth-watering shade of creamy pink at his thick hilt. He was so big. Your thighs squeeze together in sultry need - with a slight tinge of fear. So unfairly pretty - even like this. “You’re- you’re so much bigger than I’d imagined, Toru.” 

No sooner are the words out of your mouth that you’re being flashed with his dark smirk once more, “You imagined this?” There’s a slight reverence to his voice, scared. 

It almost makes you shy - and Gojo can practically sense the waves of embarrassment rolling off of you. 

“Awww, come back to me, please, pretty- Please-” he purrs, cupping your cheeks. “I came hah- back, didn’t I?” You’re being jostled to and fro when he rests himself more comfortably on the bed, leaning back to admire you further. “And now-” Your breath hitches in your throat when he situates himself right in-between your thighs, the fat curve of his head so swelteringly kissing your folds. Drenching it in his thick precum, “-now m’never gonna let ya go.” 

Fuck, you know you should heave in a few gasps of hair, you know you should relax, maybe even stretch your legs wide open.

Because Gojo was so fucking big, it felt like he was splitting you from the inside out. Just the slight push of his tip bullying between your folds has you moaning - crying.  

“You- you’re so big-” Your nails dig into the plush of his pecs for stability, leaving neat crescent patterns that stand out redly. “S’like you’re reaching into my hngh- l-lungs-”

Just those words have him expanding even deeper, ruddying even more furiously. Gojo gets so much bigger that you just can’t help but sink yourself down his shaft, feeling your elastic walls contort so easily around his length. 

“H-heh– ohhh-” he breathes out - baritone voice lilting a few pitches higher than usual. The hands around your waist grab you even harsher, feeding you each inch by fucking inch of his fat, pulsing cock. “You got me- so–” His hips thrust upwards in mindless little jabs, “-fucked up, right now, sweetheart.”

And while all you can do is whine and moan around his unforgiving cock, Gojo babbles on, “B-better get ready ngh- because I’m gonna be riiiight-” His thick index draws and invisible line up, up, up to somewhere midway up your stomach. Before pressing down. Brandingly. “-here.”

The pressure is enough to have your hips just slamming down with a wet smack! all the way to his hilt. The slap of skin-on-skin rings through the heady air and into both your drunken brains, making him just throw his head back into the plush pillows. 

“Yes-” you’re keening, your fingers wrapping subconsciously around Gojo’s pretty throat to have him facing you once more. He was so gorgeous this way - blue eyes falling shut with pleasure, mouth bitten raw and parted into a soft oh! pale muscles twitching with each breath. So fucked-out already that it almost made you think the sight alone could have you cumming. “Look at me, Toru- hah- gonna make up for lost time, right? Gonna fuck me good?”

His answering nods are more than enough, but Gojo doesn’t just stop there - no, he’s putting in every bit of last strength he has to just hammer into you upwards. Meeting every one of your relentless bounces down on him, he just clashes into your ravaged g-spot.

“Oh yeah, my girl.” he spits, a twinkling trail of drool dripping down the side of his lips. Crushing you so tight to his hardened front, “Ride me- ride me jus’ like that. Fuck- thought I saw heaven on the battlefield but it might jus’ be this pussy-” Over and over.

The back of your hand ends up on his forehead, “I think you’ve got a concussion.” It was in every little touch - that “something stupid.”  

At your surprised giggles, he’s rummaging your insides even more ferociously. Smushing the very end of his thick head against your spongy cervix. It was so soft, so swelteringly hot having him inside you. Clashing in long, wet glides against every inch of your pussy. 

The stretch was dizzying - and if it hadn’t been for Gojo’s lips attacking yours, then you’d have let your head loll backwards. It’s like he was marking you from the inside out, bruising the plushy insides of your cunt to every ridge and thumping vein down his possessive cock. 

“Spit on me.” 

His sudden plea puffs out of his plump lips, startling you out of your cockdrunk little reverie. “Spit on me, please, pretty. Mmpf-”

Gojo whimpers - whimpers - when the thick wad of your saliva hits his pink tongue, and the action has him delving into you impossibly deeper. Planting two feet onto the mattress, he angles his hips into your tight channel even harsher. Grimacing at the slight twinge of pain, “Shit-”

“Toru–”

“Wait wait- please- let me-” Expectedly, he’s cutting you off frantically. Begging, pleading with everything he had before activating reversed curse technique more. “Wanna fuck this gorgeous cunt so bad- fuck fuck fuck-”

But you’re only grinding your hips down faster - all the way from the pretty pink tip of his cock, until your ass massages against his tight, cum-filled balls. Thwacking! against your skin deliciously, pushing you up to scratch your clit against his snowy pubes. 

A few more unapologetic kisses up against your sweet spots have you blinking back stars, “Toru–” Your swiveling motions have him so hypnotized, following every move where his massive cock was disappearing in and out of your snug hole. “Kiss me-”

Oh, you didn’t even have to ask.

It’s such a sloppy kiss - all teeth and lips and Gojo grunting gutturally into your mouth. Letting you just use him like your favorite toy, fucking him until the bed creaked with effort and Gojo’s balls just smacked! angrily.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he whispers. Drinking in your saccharine sweet gasps when he dips down one of his hands to your puffy clit, rolling the soft edge of his thumb in slow, methodical circles. “You’re gonna be the ah- d-death of me.”

Your hand around his throat tightens, making his eyes just roll back in ecstacy. “Better not die on me just y-yet, Toru. Not now, not tomorrow.”

For this, you’re being gifted with such a tight squeeze of his two fingers around your sensitive nub. Wracking your body forwards - exactly where he wanted you, exactly where he needed you to smash his sobbing tip into your g-spot. 

The stimulation is too much, and each of your pressurized slams down onto the sharp bones on Gojo’s v-line have him moaning. Bucking up helplessly whenever your heavenly walls drag sloppily up his shaft, like it hurt to not have each and every one of his heated inches buried inside. 

“Well- then-” You’re riding him now just as much as he was fucking up into you, leaving a damp puddle of slick and dredges of precum on the sheets below. Gojo’s punctuating each word with a harsh battering ram, “Better- cum f’me soon, huh? Because m’not gonna- fuck-” His nagging tip jolts into your sweet spots as if being zapped with white-hot electricity, in such a sloppy staccato with his feverish fingers. “-fuck I don’t think m’gonna last long.”

You’re nodding your head, clinging onto him like a second skin. “Mhm- m’so close, Toru.” Biting down wetly on his lower lip, “-gonna cum soon.”

Just the thought of it has him keening, stuttering up so messily. His precum coats your insides even more slippery slick, so heated in a way he thinks he might just explode. 

“I know, I know, sweetheart–” he’s simpering down in your tone, though his hips were anything but. Letting out some of the lewdest slurps that made your ears ring. “I got you. I got you, cum all over my cock, yeah?”

It only takes a few more mess strokes from both of your sweat-sheened bodies before you finally reach your high. Electricity thrums down your veins, your body arches so deeply into his. Bending into the perfect bow that has him spying down at your quivering folds, the way your gushing cunt expands and contracts through each and every one of your waves of pleasure. 

And he’s fucking you through it so filthy, fingers toying so erratically on your clit. Still reeling, still smashing the very divot of his cock into your bruised g-spot. Again and again.

“Ohh- fuuuck—” Gojo whines, eyes scrunching shut. Strained. Depraved. “Fuck fuck fuck me- please, please m’gonna-”

He doesn’t even get to finish his sentence before he’s stuffing your snug pussy full with ribbon after ribbon of thick, velvety cum. Potent seed coating your gummy walls in such a milky sweet gloss, the squelches from below are so loud. So soppingly wet. 

The hand at your waist moves down to where your poor cunt was just bulging with all inches of his spazzing cock. Gojo’s thumbing apart the corners of your slit just enough that his swelteringly hot cum oozes out of you in a slow trail. Sinful. 

“Oh my god-” he breathes, eyes unwavering. Hips thrusting upwards to push his cum up into you even deeper. It glistens opaquely down his length, forming a creamy ring at his thick base. “Oh my god love you- fuck!”

“Toru- m’so full-” you whine. A hand of yours coming up to press exactly where he had before, except now you could feel the nudging pace of his ruthless cock, the sloshing of Gojo’s seed all up inside you. “-really can feel you right here.”

“Tha’s the point, girl - my girl, should I say.” he’s pressing such a chaste kiss to your lips. And it would be swee - almost - if it wasn’t for the way Gojo’s greedy fingers soak themselves in the obscene mess from your cunt down below. Bringing them all the way up, up, up to his mouth. Suckling gently, “But…but you wanna hear something stupid?”

Your eyes widen, “Wh-what?”

And he only grins,  “I hope you know I love you, sweetheart. Because you sure as hell aren’t walking tomorrow.”

A/N. Can y’all tell I’ve been widowed not too long ago? Anyways, last post before kínktober! I tried posting this on Sunday but it refused to work so pray for me this time y’all *SOBS* <3

Plagiarism not authorized.

[eliasoir]

֗ ꫂ PHONE CALLS , VOICEMAILS ⠀── NCT DREAM !

✸ ︎⠀⠀ .bf!dreamies x f!reader ! ⏜💬 𝓉he dreamies when someone calls during your time alone . . . smut ( MDNI 18+ ) 𓂃 pinv sex, no mentioned protection ( wrap it up guys ), teasing, oral (m. & f. rec), cursing, handjob. wc 1.2k

୭౿ REBLOG FOR A HUG !

mark.

he had you pinned beneath him, hips rolling slow and curling just right between your thighs. his pace lazy but oh, so deep. your legs are thrown over his shoulders, and his forehead is pressed against yours, plump lips brushing yours with every breath.

his phone starts ringing on the nightstand. the buzz vibrating through the quiet room, persistently. he lifts his head, eyes glancing to it. “shit,” he mutters, pausing the movements of his hips just slightly.

“don’t,” you breathe, fingers clinging to his damp and flushed skin. “don’t stop, mark, please—” he lets out a breathy laugh and dips his head to kiss your jaw. “you want me to keep going, baby?”

you nod, desperate. “yes—just ignore it.”

“thought so.” he picks up his pace again, hips snapping forward harder. “they can wait. you can’t.” you swear he’s thrusting deeper now. rougher and unforgiving, the sound of the slick between your thighs filling the room as the phone keeps ringing.

“let’s let ‘em wonder, hm?” he groans. “let ‘em fucking wonder what’s got me so busy i can’t answer.”

renjun.

renjun was laid out under you, one hand stroking your thigh and other in your waist as you ride him slowly, letting him watch the way you take every inch of him. his lips are parted, eyes half-lidded, breath warm against your bare chest. then your phone starts buzzing, lighting up right next to you.

his eyes flick to it. “your phone.” your hips falter slightly, biting your lip. “should i get it?”

his hand slides up your waist, grabbing it firmly. “no.” renjun swore that everyone was trying to keep you from him all day. he would damned if this phone call was the reason your attention was somewhere else.

he keeps his eyes locked on you as he simply reaches over and declines the call. doesn’t even look to see who it was, and it ends with a quiet beep. “problem solved.”

his voice drops as he ruts his hips up into you suddenly. “you’re not going anywhere.”

you gasp, hands immediately clinging to his chest. “jun—”

“you think i’ll let someone interrupt this?” he huffs, fucking up into you harder now. almost impatient. “finish what you started.”

jeno.

you were bent over the ( just cleaned ) kitchen counter, cheek pressed to the cool surface as jeno drove into you from behind, harsh but deeply. he’s got one hand wrapped around to your lower stomach and the other on your lower back, keeping you still as he thrusts into you. and now, into that spot that makes your knees buckle in the best way.

his phone rings on the table just a bit behind you two. “hold still,” he husks, pulling out just enough to reach it, and to make you whimper, then plunges back in.

“hello?” you hear him speak into the phone.

your eyes widen. “jeno—what the hell—?”

he presses a hand over your mouth. “mm-hm. yeah. well, i’m kinda…busy right now.” you moan against his palm as he keeps thrusting, painfully slower now, almost taunting you.

“nah, i’ll call you back,” he says calmly, letting his eyes roam hungrily over you. “don’t wait up.”

he ends the call and tosses the phone aside, grabbing and pulling your hips back against him. “now where were we?”

haechan.

from a night that was supposed to be nothing but cuddling and movie marathons, haechan always found a way to get what he wanted. which was him on his stomach between your legs, tongue and lips working you open like he hadn’t eaten all day.

then, interrupting your blissful state, your phone starts ringing somewhere on the bed near your head.

haechan pauses, lips slick, nose and chin glistening. he blinks up at you. “uh-oh. someone’s calling.” you reach out for it blindly. “don’t—don’t answer it—”

he just grins and snatches the phone before you can grab it. “ooh, should we say hi?”

“hyuck, please—don’t—”

he presses speaker, sets the phone beside your head, and goes right back in, tongue flicking your clit while he listens for the voice on the other end.

“hello?” your back arches, one hand flying to cover your mouth as you try not to let a single sound slip out. “can’t talk right now,” he says innocently, lifting his head just enough to speak. “she’s a little…preoccupied.”

you whimper, and he leans up to lay open-mouthed kissws to your neck, keeping the phone between you. “say hi, baby.” his voice dripping sweetness, despite the sheer dirtiness of it all.

jaemin.

jaemin was holding you close from behind, buried deep inside you, his hips rolling in loving, torturous thrusts. your body’s pressed tight to his, one hand around your waist, the other snaked down between your thighs, drawing slow, small circles over your clit.

then, of course just to remind you of reality, his phone starts ringing somewhere behind him.

you both go still.

he lets out a low sigh and nuzzles further into your neck. “ignore it.”

“what if it’s important?” you asked, voice small.

he thrusts in again, deeper this time. “this is important.” your breath catches, and he grins against your skin.

“stay right here. let them call. let them leave a voicemail. i’m not worried about that right now.”

and just like that, you both fell back into your bubble of bliss.

chenle.

chenle was already late for work, but he just couldn’t leave without having you once. he’s standing between your legs, hands under your thighs as he fucks into you with messy, uneven thrusts. your ass is on the bathroom counter, head tipped back, with his teeth marking your neck.

your phone lights up in the sink next to you. “ugh,” you groan, but it comes out as more of a moan. “my phone—”

he looks over, sees the name, and laughs. “you’re not answering that.”

“but—” before you can finish, he picks it up and tosses it out into the hallway, where it hits the carpet with a soft thud.

“don’t have time,” he grins. “no distractions.”

“chenle!”

he smirks and pulls your hips to the edge of the counter, slamming into you even harder. “what? you want me to go get it?”

“fuck, no—don’t stop.”

“yeah, that’s what i thought.”

jisung.

his head was tipped back resting against the couch, legs spread wide, lips parted in a dazed little ‘oh’ as your hand worked his dick slow and steady. your tongue swipes teasingly along the tip, just enough to make his legs twitch.

he’s whining already, voice high. “b-baby—please—”

then your phone starts ringing on the coffee table, but you don’t even flinch. instead, you reach for it with a small smirk and hold it up to his ear with your clean hand. “answer it.”

his eyes go wide, tilting his head down to look at you. “w-what?”

you swirl your tongue over the head of his dick, then squeeze the base of him. “i said answer it.”

he fumbles to hit accept, failing hold back a broken moan. he answered after trying to clear his throat, breath shaky. “h-hello?”

you stroke him faster now, thumb sliding over him, and he nearly chokes on air trying to stay quiet.

“mm,” you hum, licking him slow, eyes on his face. “you’re doing so good, ji. talk to them for me.”

[shyoko]

✧You and another member play fighting, and you end up on top of him ✦༺⊹

This writing is my own; no copies, adaptations, or translations are allowed. I hope you like it. 𓂃 

✦ 3.6K words * Masterlist˚ Taglist₊‧ ✦𓂃 

You can send me all the requests you want before Sunday. I’ll be writing them throughout June and July. After that day, requests will be closed!

enhypen x fem!reader ⚠️ CW: jealousy, angst, emotional tension, possessive behavior, rough intimacy, heated confrontations, wall pinning, intense kissing, dirty talk, slight humiliation, neck kissing, marking (hickeys), affirmations of ownership, insecure behavior, friends-to-lovers tension, make-up, and emotional aftercare.

✧ Heeseung ----------

“Please, Sunoo, lend it to me,” you demanded, sitting next to him and stretching your arm to reach the snack he had bought you—after you had told him over and over again how much you loved it.

You leaned over his body to retrieve it, and he, laughing, held you by the waist to keep you from falling while pulling the package even farther from you. Both of your laughter filled the room, creating a light and fun moment…

Until a dry cough abruptly broke the mood.

Heeseung stood at the door, arms crossed, brow furrowed, and with an expression of anger so intense that it seemed to erase all the joy in an instant. His murderous gaze locked onto the two of you—especially Sunoo.

“What the hell is going on here?” he snapped, his voice cold and razor-sharp.

Sunoo immediately dropped the package and pulled his hand from your waist like it had burned him. The sudden movement made you lose balance, falling onto him. Heeseung barely moved, but his eyes burned with jealousy.

“Are you comfortable, Sunoo?” he asked with a forced, venom-laced smile.

“It’s not what it looks like…” Sunoo tried to explain nervously, raising his hands.

“Oh, really? Because from here it looks like your hands are where they shouldn’t be,” Heeseung interrupted, taking another step toward you. “You think this is funny, or what?”

The tension thickened. Sunoo opened his mouth to say something, but Heeseung had already grabbed your arm—firm but not painful—and hoisted you over his shoulder with determination. His gaze never left Sunoo.

“Don’t ever touch her like that again. Not even as a joke.”

Sunoo nodded silently, swallowing hard, while you, dangling from Heeseung’s shoulder, kicked and protested.

Heeseung walked straight to the bedroom, slamming the door behind him. He dropped you face down on the mattress and quickly climbed on top of you, pressing his body against yours.

“You’re mine, damn it. How many times do I have to say it? I don’t like those little games of yours—and even less when they’re with him,” he spat, his lips brushing your ear.

His warm breath hit your skin, but his tone wasn’t sweet this time. He was angry, jealous, consumed by a mix of frustration and intensity.

“Whose are you?”

You squirmed under his body, your heart pounding. But before you could answer, his voice came again, firmer:

“I asked: whose the hell are you? Answer me!”

His lips came down to your neck and bit hard, without care. Then he licked the area, a silent apology for the roughness.

“Yours… I’m yours, Heeseung,” you gasped, breathless.

“That’s right, baby. Only mine,” he whispered, his expression calmer now, though his eyes still blazed.

He placed a soft kiss on your cheek, then wrapped you in his arms and lay down with you, holding you close—as if afraid someone else might ever touch you again.

✧ Jay ----------

The neon lights of the trampoline park danced in colorful flashes, mixing with the loud music and the laughter of the boys. They jumped, fell, screamed. As always, Jay stayed by your side, his hand tightly holding yours—as if claiming you silently.

But the chaos of the place ended up separating you for a few moments. Jake found you first, bursting with energy and flashing that mischievous grin.

“Wanna wrestle? I bet you won’t last a minute,” he said, winking.

“Oh yeah? Want to try me?” you replied through laughter, accepting the challenge without much thought.

It started with playful pushes, clumsy dodges, and stifled shrieks between giggles. Jake circled your waist playfully, catching you to keep you from falling, and you responded by flailing at the air, laughing. But with one bad jump, you lost your balance and fell straight onto him.

Jake laughed, his arms instinctively wrapping around you.

“Hey, are you okay?” he asked, his voice warm while you stayed on his chest, still laughing uncontrollably.

But then you felt it. That silent pressure that stops time. You looked up—and there was Jay.

His jaw was tight, eyes locked on the scene, breath held in as if one more spark could make him explode. He walked toward you both with firm steps, his expression cold, too cold... too controlled.

“Get up,” he said to Jake, without needing to raise his voice.

Jake, now clearly uncomfortable, helped you stand. Jay approached you. He wasn’t rough, but the way his hand gripped your arm was final—like he was saying come with me without needing to speak.

“Did anything hurt?” he asked gently, scanning you quickly with his eyes, though the anger burning inside him was far from hidden.

“I’m fine, Jay… it was just an accident,” you began, but he didn’t let you finish.

He turned to Jake with a tight, forced smile.

“Didn’t know we were playing ‘roll around with someone else’s girlfriend’ now.”

Jake raised his hands, awkwardly.

“It wasn’t like that, I swear—we were just messing around…”

Jay just stared at him a moment longer. He didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. His silence was worse.

Then he looked back at you, took your face in his hands, and leaned in with determination. He kissed you—deep, hard, without restraint. A kiss full of everything he wasn’t saying aloud. Jealousy. Rage. Need. Possession.

When he pulled away, his eyes still held that dark fire.

“Let’s go.”

He took your hand and you followed him, saying nothing more. You got in the car in silence. He played music low as he started the engine. His left hand on the wheel, his right still holding yours—tight.

“Jay… I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for it to happen. We were just playing,” you murmured, staring at his fingers that wouldn’t let you go.

He didn’t answer right away. He just breathed deeply, lips pressed together, and finally pulled over on a quiet street, turning to face you.

“I don’t care if it was just a joke. I didn’t like it. I don’t like seeing you like that with anyone else. I don’t ever want to feel that again,” he said softly, but the intensity in his voice hurt more than if he had yelled.

“It won’t happen again, I promise,” you said, touching his cheek.

Jay closed his eyes for a moment, then leaned in and rested his forehead against yours.

“I love you. But I’m jealous, and I’m terrible at hiding it.”

You hugged him, and this time he kissed you softly, like the world made sense again—just because he was in your arms.

✧ Jake ----------

The music boomed through the speakers while colorful lights bounced off the walls. You were in front of the TV with Ni-Ki, playing Just Dance. Fast movements, nonstop laughter, and him determined to get in your way just to mess with you.

"Come on, focus! You’re losing because of me!" he yelled between laughs, standing right in front of you to block the screen.

"Ni-Ki, move!" you shouted through your giggles, giving him a light push as you tried to follow the beat of the song.

The game went on, but at one point, Ni-Ki moved awkwardly and stumbled. He accidentally pushed you, and in the blink of an eye, you both fell to the ground, rolling over each other. A small groan escaped his lips.

"Ouch… that hurt," he joked, laughing as you stayed on top of him, laughing so hard you couldn’t get up.

But then, the atmosphere shifted. You felt a gaze on you, sharp as a blade. You turned—and there was Jake.

Your boyfriend.

His brow furrowed, lips pressed tightly, and a mix of jealousy and discomfort written all over his face.

"What the hell is this?" he snapped, voice laced with tension.

You stood up immediately, your heart pounding like a drum.

"Jake, it’s not what it looks like…" you began, reaching out to touch him.

But he pulled his hand away��not violently, but coldly. His eyes, usually so warm, now refused to meet yours. He turned around, ready to leave.

"Jake, wait…"

Ni-Ki stood up and approached him, serious now, the jokes gone.

"It was my fault. I pushed her by accident, she fell on top of me. I’m really sorry," he said sincerely, knowing he had crossed a line—even if unintentionally.

Jake didn’t respond. He just nodded slightly, accepting the apology but not hiding his anger. Ni-Ki left quietly, leaving you two alone.

You walked up to Jake before he could leave again. You held his face in your hands and kissed him. Once, twice, three times. Short, sweet kisses—like little patches for every cracked piece of his heart.

He didn’t react right away. His brows were still furrowed, lips in that cute little pout. But his eyes were slowly softening.

"I’m still mad," he mumbled, not looking away from you.

You smiled faintly, saying nothing, and gently pushed him toward the couch. He sat without resistance, and you climbed onto his lap, straddling him and holding his face.

"Then let me pamper you until it goes away," you whispered against his lips, kissing him more slowly now, letting your hands roam across his neck, his hair, his back.

Jake sighed, arms gradually wrapping around you, giving in. His pout faded under your soft touches and slow kisses.

"You’re impossible…" he finally murmured against your neck, now with a defeated smile.

"And you’re too cute to be jealous over a game."

He chuckled softly and hugged you tighter.

"Only because you’re mine. And I’m yours. You know that, right?"

"I know. And I’m never letting you go."

✧ Sunghoon ----------

The ice shimmered beneath your skates as the boys’ laughter echoed around the rink. Everyone was skating, weaving around each other playfully, and you had gotten into a little game with Heeseung: every time you crossed paths, one of you gave the other a soft push. Nothing serious—just good fun.

"Your turn!" Heeseung shouted as he gave you a light shove while passing by.

You laughed and returned the favor on your next lap. Sunghoon noticed. He noticed everything—from how you smiled at Heeseung to those pushes disguised as a game. He didn’t say anything, just pressed his lips together and kept skating with the others, his brow slightly furrowed.

And then it happened.

Heeseung pushed you again, this time a bit harder, and you spun on your skates and gave him a stronger shove than intended. He wasn’t expecting it and stumbled, grabbing your arm on instinct so he wouldn’t fall alone. His body hit the ice—and you landed right on top of him.

One of his skates caught your leg, and a sharp pain shot through your calf.

"Ouch!" you cried, curling in on yourself without meaning to.

Heeseung sat up with effort, worried, his hands going to your injured leg.

"Did I hurt you? Let me see..." he muttered, frowning, while you were still on top of him.

But before he could touch you again, a voice cut through the moment like a knife.

"Don’t touch her."

Sunghoon arrived like a storm. His eyes sparked with restrained anger as he looked at Heeseung.

"Be more careful. Can’t you see you hurt her? And don’t touch her again."

His tone was serious, dry, leaving no room for argument. He took you gently, almost afraid of causing more pain, and helped you up. He didn’t look at you. Didn’t say anything else. Just wrapped his arm around you and led you off the ice, searching for an empty bench.

He knelt in front of you without a word, his brows furrowed, breath heavy. He opened his backpack and pulled out the small first-aid kit he always carried just in case. He lifted your leg onto his thigh with great care, though tension still lined every movement.

You watched him in silence, knowing he was angry—but also seeing how his fingers trembled slightly as he touched you. He couldn’t stand seeing you hurt, even if his pride was hurting too.

You raised a hand and gently ran your fingers through his dark hair.

"Hoon..."

He didn’t respond, just continued disinfecting the wound.

You leaned in until your face was close to his, and left a soft kiss on his forehead. Then one on his cheek. And one more—on his lips.

"I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have played around with Heeseung like that. I didn’t think it’d end like this… I love you, Sunghoon."

He paused. Slowly lowered his head without looking at you, resting it on your thighs as he knelt there. He stayed like that for a few moments, breathing against your skin, then lifted his face slightly and kissed your injured leg gently.

"Does it hurt a lot…?" he whispered, his voice finally coming out, a little broken.

You shook your head with a soft smile, still running your fingers through his hair as he remained there, holding you, not caring who saw.

"It only hurts when you’re mad at me."

Sunghoon looked up at you, and though a hint of frustration lingered in his eyes, his expression softened. He kissed your bandaged knee and rested his forehead on your leg again with a calm sigh.

"I can’t stay mad at you when you’re like this…"

✧ Sunoo ----------

The atmosphere in the living room was warm and relaxed. Dim lights, several blankets scattered over the couch, everyone chatting, laughing, lounging however they pleased. You were among them, leaning against the armrest of the sofa, with Sunoo beside you, his fingers absentmindedly caressing your hand under the blanket.

But the peace was interrupted when the first cushions started flying.

"Who did that?" you asked, looking around while everyone pretended to be innocent.

Jungwon shrugged, trying to stifle his laughter.

A few minutes passed… another cushion hit you. This time, straight on the head. You turned quickly, and once again, he acted like nothing happened.

"I saw you, Jungwon!" you laughed, grabbing one of the cushions to throw it back.

He stood up, running through the living room, and you chased him, laughing. You ran between the scattered blankets until you finally caught up with him. You gave him a light tap on the back as he dramatically pretended to fall… and just as you took one more step, you tripped over a blanket and fell… right on top of him.

You both laughed. Jungwon burst out laughing with you on top of him.

But amid the laughter, you didn’t notice Sunoo standing up from the sofa. His smile vanished without anyone noticing. He left the room in silence, without saying a word, disappearing from your view.

It wasn’t until the mood calmed down and you looked to your side that you noticed he was gone.

"Where’s Sunoo…?"

Worried, you stood up, left the room, and found him in the kitchen, his back to the door, hands braced on the counter, brows furrowed, lips tight. His entire posture radiated quiet anger.

"Sunoo…" you whispered, cautiously approaching.

You tried to hug him from behind, but he stepped away.

"No," he said sharply, without looking at you. "Go hug Jungwon, since you get along so well with him."

His voice was low, tense. It hurt you, because you knew it wasn’t just jealousy—it was insecurity masked as annoyance.

You didn’t say anything. You simply hugged him from behind, tightly, leaving no space for him to escape. You rested your cheek against his back.

"I love you, Sunoo… Only you. I’m sorry if I made you feel bad. It was nothing, we were just playing. But you’re the most important thing to me."

You felt him take a deep breath. His shoulders relaxed just a little… then he slowly turned around. His eyes were slightly glassy, his jaw tight, and his mouth… his mouth trembled with words he didn’t want to say.

He looked at you. His silence burned.

And without saying anything, he gently pinned you against the counter, placing his hands on either side of your body. His face came close, until his breath brushed your lips.

"Don’t do it again," he whispered before kissing you with soft rage, desperate to reclaim what he felt he’d lost, even if it had only been minutes.

He kissed your lips again and again, then moved down to your neck, leaving a trail of heat that made your skin shiver. He moved up to your cheeks, kissing them more tenderly this time, before wrapping his arms around your waist and pulling you close.

"You’re mine. Don’t make me feel like I could lose you."

"Never. I’m yours, Sunoo. Only yours."

✧ Jungwon ----------

"I already told you, I’m not jealous," Jungwon repeated for what felt like the hundredth time, reclining with apparent calm on the sofa, while the rest of the group raised an eyebrow and exchanged knowing smiles.

Jay, who was sitting on your other side, wasn’t even trying to hide the fact that he wanted to tease. You weren’t helping either, laughing with him as you played with tickles and silly comments that made Jungwon pretend to ignore the situation… until he couldn’t anymore.

A clumsy push, a laugh too loud… and suddenly you were on top of Jay, laughing, unaware of the fire you’d just lit.

"You okay?" Jay asked, amused, his hand on your arm.

Then silence. The kind that hurts in your chest. You turned—and saw him. Jungwon, standing, looking at you like he’d just seen something that hurt more than he could admit.

"You’re going to get off him. Now." His voice was cold. So controlled, it was scary.

"Wonie, wait, it’s not what—"

He didn’t let you finish. He grabbed your arm firmly—not violently, but with enough intensity to make you follow him. Without another word, he walked you to his room. He closed the door, leaned his back against it, and looked at you with eyes burning.

"Did you enjoy it?"

"Don’t be ridiculous…" you murmured, though your heart was racing.

"No, I want to hear it. Did you like him holding you? Touching you?"

You stepped closer to him.

"We were just playing. You were right there. You know it was nothing."

But he was already close to you, holding your waist. He gently pushed you against the wall, pressing his body to yours.

"I don’t care if it was a game. I don’t want it to happen again. Not with him. Not with anyone."

Slowly, his hands moved up your sides, and he unbuttoned the top buttons of your shirt with a calm but firm motion, his eyes never leaving yours. He leaned down, leaving a deep kiss on your neck… then another, warmer, lower.

"You’re mine. Mine," he whispered against your skin. "And you’re not covering this. I want everyone to see. To know who you belong to."

"I am… I always have been," you whispered, almost breathless.

"Then remember that. Because if I see that again… I can’t promise what I’ll do."

He hugged you tightly, burying his face in the crook of your neck, breathing deeply, trying to calm the storm inside him. You caressed him gently, resting your head on his chest.

"I’m sorry, Jungwon. I don’t want to hurt you. I love you."

"And I love you," he replied against your skin. "Too much."

✧ Ni-ki ----------

The living room was full of laughter and chatter, but for you, everything revolved around Sunghoon. He, who was usually cold and reserved, was different today: playful, close, smiling in a way that made your heart beat faster. Between jokes and soft pushes, you felt more alive than ever, savoring every brush of his hands, every glance shared.

But then, from a corner, Ni-ki was watching you with intense eyes and an expression you’d never seen on him before—pure, burning jealousy. The playful interaction between you and Sunghoon was hitting a nerve he didn’t want to acknowledge.

In the middle of your friendly wrestling, you lost your balance and fell on top of Sunghoon, who caught you without hesitation. Laughter escaped your lips as he held you, looking at you with a mix of tenderness and something deeper that surprised everyone.

Ni-ki couldn’t take it anymore. He walked over, voice laced with anger.

"What’s going on here? Do you really like my girlfriend that much?"

He shoved Sunghoon hard and turned to leave, but you followed him immediately.

"Ni-ki, wait… it’s not what you think."

He didn’t even look at you, jaw clenched, brows furrowed, already halfway to the door.

But you weren’t going to let distance grow between you. With determination, you grabbed his shirt as he crossed the threshold, pulling him back to you.

Your lips crashed into his in a fiery kiss, full of love and anger and desperation.

Ni-ki froze for a second, surprised, but melted into the kiss. His arms wrapped around you tightly, lifting you in an embrace that set your skin ablaze.

You felt every heartbeat against your chest, every sigh on his lips.

His hands slid down your back, pressing you against him as if to make sure you wouldn’t slip away.

His eyes opened slightly as he pulled away for a moment, resting his forehead on your skin.

"You’re mine, and no one else is going to touch you." he whispered, voice rough with love and jealousy.

You took his hand and laced your fingers with his, guiding him firmly toward the hallway.

In the dim light, where no one could see, he kissed you again—slow, deep, like it was the first and last time.

The world faded around you, leaving only the heat of his lips and the electricity sparking through your body.

When you finally pulled away, his eyes met yours, full of promises and fierce desire.

Without a word, you took his hand and walked with him into the bedroom, leaving behind the noise and jealousy to melt into that private, intimate silence.

✦N/a: If I were Ni-Ki, I wouldn’t have forgiven her 😔😔 (I think I got a little too affectionate with Y/N and Sunghoon LOL) I hope you liked it, love you so much 🩷

✦Taglist: @lezleeferguson-120 @nuki-riki @ijustwannareadstuff20 @vvenusoncasual @miellette @enhacolor @xxkatsusjinsux @somieverse @ourshin @han-to-my-minho @douqhnxtss @nuggets4lifers @mitmit01 @highway-143

[toranesu]

meant to reply directly through this ask but accidentally posted the draft.. had to screenshot and paste, but oh well. sorry for getting back to you so late, nonnie. ᝰ.ᐟ [P.S] Forgive me if I'm rusty. It's been a while.

⌗ sub bottom. sukuna x dom top m. reader

cw. established relationship, degradation, use of the word "whore," reader has a penis, reader is down bad and under for sukuna, one singular spank.

it was supposed to be punishing — rough and unforgiving. sukuna had fucked up; flaunting about the homicide he's committed, discarding his own butlers and companions, leaving only one: uraume. and for what, why? he always refused to elaborate.

"what the hell are you mad about this time?" he pulled a face; half a scowl and half a smirk, an ugly expression only the king of curses could pull. you grimaced, the question only ticking you off further. "fuck off," you grunted, hands pinning his wrists above his head.

sukuna had already been sprawled on the bed to begin with, as if he were riling you up on purpose. "fuck me," he licked his upper lip, flashing his fangs at you. "or are you too much of a wimp for that?"

you've known sukuna for enough time at this point. and yet, there are so many things — too many things he kept from you. it was fine during the earlier years of your time together. but now, after so many years and so much effort you've put into relation with this man, this curse, you call your one. it was starting to get infuriating.

"what's the point of us being together if you're not going to be honest and real with me?" you cursed under your breath, hips jerking against sukuna's own. he's lost count of how long you've been buried deep inside him. not because of how long it's been, no. but simply because facing you without that kind, forgiving exterior he fell in love with felt like an agonizing eternity.

sukuna was used to pain. he was used to being treated roughly — with no pardon, no remission, and no purgation. he is the almighty king of curses, after all. guilty at charge of the murderings of thousands. antagonism was his nature. repugnance was the pulse he lived on.

that's what he had always thought until he met you.

you were an unfortunate soul sukuna found in the midst of his wanderings. faced with him, you had never once quivered in fear. you were willing; kind, funny, mindful, solicitous, benevolent — a truly good-natured being opposite to him in ways he couldn't seem to put into words or even thought. you were nothing like him.

"wait," sukuna rasped in between thrusts. his nails dug further into the skin of your shoulders, enhancing the previously imprinted crescent marks on your skin. "i– i don't like this," he called out your name, attempting to reach out and land a kiss on your lips.

woefully, to no avail. "i don't like you killing your butlers and keeping things from me, either," you hissed through frivolous breaths, eluding from his attempts for affection and proceeding to pound with no target in mind.

"but here we are, yeah, 'kuna?" you gritted your teeth. sukuna let out a noise alike to a whimper, his walls clenching around you in protest. "you piss me off," he bit his lower lip, legs twitching as you manhandled his body into doggy-style.

you've done this sort of play before. casual bantering was common between the two of you. rough sex; bdsm, spanking, choking, degradation, and all those things. but this time, it felt different. the tone of your voice felt distant and ruthless. the affection he's always longed for since the moment he received it left no trace in the way you spoke, and it felt like shit.

"go on, tell me why the fuck you beheaded john?" you snapped your cock inside him, fingertips digging into the mounds of his flesh. john was one of the servants he had murdered earlier that afternoon — a topic he snickered about with uraume said evening. "you know i told you to be done with worthless homicide," you lifted your hand, striking your palm onto his ass in an abhorrent manner.

his hips jerked in response. "shut— shut the fuck up," sukuna managed to gasp between moans, hips stuttering against your own as he tried to deny the overwhelming feelings he had circling in his system. "it's nun' of your business," he bites back just before your tip hit straight onto his prostate.

sukuna's head fell back, mouth agape without sound as his cock spurted worthless heeps of cum. "but uraume deserves to know?" you rolled your hips directly against his prostate, uncaring of the stimulation he's going through. he hiccuped, and your palm went straight to cup his mouth. "fuckin' whore," you grated out.

he doesn't know if he should cum again from how sexy your voice is or if he should get angry for what you said about uraume. right now, he's just trying to get off his high.

sukuna heaved out, attempting to control his breathing whilst his ass rolled against your cock once more. "i wish i was theirs," he retorted through a forced smirk. that's right, if you were gonna play at this game, then he might as well join in on the fun.

big mistake.

you wasted no time to slide your palm to the back of his head, tangling your fingers against the strands of his hair just to shove his face down onto the pillow before him.

"whore," you cursed, hips thrusting mercilessly against his sore ones. sukuna's hand reached out to grab ahold of yours on his hip, muffled groans resembling words aiming for rebuttal.

you hadn't even realized when the night of passion you had planned turned much more personal on your end.

sukuna grasped for air as soon as you let go of his hair, arms scrambling to support his body as your thrusts resumed torturously. he reached one hand to find yours, head looking back to meet your gaze. normally, even in doggy-style, you'd still be all over him — fingers lacing with his own on the mattress, kisses laid upon his back and shoulders.

now, it's all sex.

he's not sure if he likes it. but the tears in his eyes betray any sort of ground you had in the first place. "ryomen," you gasped out his name as soon as you caught a glimpse of the fat glands of tears rolling down his cheek.

"why are you the one crying?" you questioned through a slight scoff, easing your thrusts as you slowly handled him to lay on his back. they say a man's true weakness is the tears of his loved one. and man, is you.

the staggering of your hips came to a halt, palms reaching up to wipe his tears away with your thumbs. "was it something i said?" your voice faltered, the facade of your anger slowly losing its filter. "too rough? too much?"

sukuna shook his head, hand reaching to clasp the one on his cheek. "no," he breathed out. fuck, a curse rang through his head. this was the version of you he was used to. "just wanted you to kiss me," he almost clawed himself for sounding so pathetic.

your gaze of worry soon wavered. "fuck this shit," you exhaled, averting your sight before glancing back at him. "i really thought i lost control," your voice came out almost barely a whisper. despite his exterior, sukuna lets out a few tears often during intimacy. this time, it caught you off-guard, though.

"fuck you," sukuna uttered hoarsely, leaning against your palm. "you didn't kiss me. not even once," he rocked his hips against yours suggestively, steadying his breath whilst his fingers laced with your own.

your face fell flat, expression dull before you rolled your eyes. "will you stop killing your servants?" you asked.

his expression hardened, gaze flickering before returning back to you. "will you stop getting all touchy and flirty with them?" sukuna clenched his jaw.

oh. that was it the whole time?

you opened your mouth to deny that accusation — but seeing that look on his face; teary eyed with his lips pursed. fuck, he was acting way out of character right now. "i'm not even gonna argue with you," you sighed, leaning down to place a your lips on his forehead.

his hole spasmed with joy simultaneously with his sneer.

"'kay, now fuck me again," sukuna tightened his legs around your waist along as his arms draped around your shoulders — an order which you could only oblige.

[moonlight-joy]

The BAU’s Secret Weapon

MASTERLIST

Fandom: Criminal Minds

Summary: No one at the BAU knew you were an expert in hand-to-hand combat—until you save Spencer from an unsub in the field.

Pairing: Reader/Spencer Reid

The BAU was a well-oiled machine, a team built on trust, intelligence, and skill. Everyone had their strengths—Morgan had his strength and tactical expertise, Emily had her experience in undercover work, JJ had her natural empathy, Garcia had her tech skills, Rossi had his wisdom, and Hotch… well, he was Hotch.

And then there was you.

You weren’t the fastest, the strongest, or the most experienced. You weren’t a profiler like Spencer or a former cop like Morgan. If anything, most of the team saw you as the quiet one, always diligent, always dependable, but never the one kicking down doors.

And that was fine with you.

You had spent years training in silence, perfecting skills you never really had the opportunity—or desire—to showcase. There was no reason to. Your job didn’t require it. Until, of course, everything went to hell.

The team had been tracking a particularly brutal unsub, one who had already left three victims in his wake. Young women, all taken in broad daylight, all showing signs of restraint and violent struggle before they were ultimately left to die.

The BAU had narrowed the suspect list down to one man: Kyle Turner. Mid-40s, former military, dishonorably discharged, and exceptionally dangerous.

That was how you found yourself in an abandoned warehouse on the outskirts of town, the air thick with dust and the scent of rusting metal.

Spencer had gone in first. It was supposed to be a simple reconnaissance mission, but the second he stepped inside, his comms cut out.

And then, all hell broke loose.

“Where the hell is Reid?” Morgan growled, scanning the area with his gun raised.

Static buzzed in everyone’s earpieces before Garcia’s panicked voice came through. “Guys! Reid’s comm just went dead! I lost his location!”

Your stomach dropped.

“I’m going in,” you said immediately, already moving.

Morgan grabbed your arm. “No way. We don’t know what’s in there—”

“I don’t care,” you snapped, shaking him off. “Spencer’s in trouble.”

You barely heard Hotch giving orders as you darted forward, your gun steady as you entered the warehouse. The dim lighting and eerie silence made your skin crawl.

Then you heard it—a struggle.

A grunt of pain. Spencer.

You ran.

The sight made rage burn through you like wildfire.

Spencer was pinned against the wall, his gun knocked to the ground as Kyle Turner—a man twice his size—wrapped a thick arm around his throat. Spencer clawed at the man’s grip, struggling for air, his face already red.

Turner was going to kill him.

Your gun was still raised, but you knew you couldn’t risk taking the shot—not with Spencer in the line of fire.

So, you did the only thing you could.

You attacked.

In three swift strides, you closed the distance, grabbing Turner’s wrist and twisting it hard. He barely had time to react before you drove your elbow into his ribs and swept his legs out from under him in one fluid motion.

Turner hit the ground hard, releasing Spencer as he gasped for breath.

But you weren’t done.

The unsub lunged for his knife, but you were faster. You pivoted, blocking his arm before delivering a sharp, brutal strike to his throat. He choked, eyes wide with shock, just before you drove your knee into his stomach and knocked him completely unconscious.

Silence.

Heavy breathing.

Then—

“What the actual hell?”

You turned to see Spencer, still leaning against the wall, staring at you like he had never seen you before in his life.

“…Are you okay?” you asked, breathless.

Spencer blinked. “I—yeah—I mean, yes. But what was that?!”

Before you could answer, the rest of the team burst into the warehouse.

Morgan had his gun raised, eyes scanning for threats, while Hotch, JJ, and Emily moved in behind him.

And then they all saw you.

Standing over an unconscious suspect.

And Spencer—who looked like he had just watched a Marvel fight scene in real life.

“What the hell happened?” Hotch demanded, taking in the scene.

Morgan looked at Turner, out cold on the floor. “Did you do this?”

You hesitated. “Um… yes?”

Silence.

Then—

“Since when can you do that?!” Emily exclaimed, stepping forward.

You shifted uncomfortably. “It’s… not a big deal.”

“Not a big deal?!” Morgan repeated, pointing at the very unconscious unsub. “Pretty sure this dude would say otherwise.”

Spencer, still looking dazed, gestured toward you. “She just—she—she literally took him down in seconds. I was about to black out, and then she came in like some kind of—ninja.”

You winced. “I’m not a ninja.”

“You might as well be!”

Hotch, ever the professional, folded his arms. “How long have you been trained in hand-to-hand combat?”

You exhaled. “…A while.”

Morgan narrowed his eyes. “How long, exactly?”

You shrugged. “Since I was… fifteen?”

Everyone blinked.

“FIFTEEN?” Garcia’s voice shrieked through the comms.

You winced again. “I, uh… kind of grew up around people who taught me. I kept training over the years. It’s just… never come up.”

Morgan ran a hand down his face. “Oh my God, we’ve been bringing you on cases this whole time and didn’t know you were a secret weapon?”

Spencer was still staring at you, completely in awe.

You felt self-conscious under all their gazes. “I—I don’t like showing off. I just wanted to help.”

Hotch studied you for a long moment before nodding. “You did good,” he said simply.

That alone made the tension leave your shoulders.

But Morgan? Morgan was never letting this go.

“Oh, trust me, sweetheart,” he said, shaking his head with a smirk. “You are never living this down.”

You groaned.

And Spencer?

He just smiled at you, something soft and completely enamored in his expression.

Yeah, this case definitely changed things.

Back at the BAU, you were the talk of the team.

Morgan had officially nicknamed you "BAU’s Secret Weapon." Emily kept reenacting your takedown move in the bullpen. Rossi, to your horror, started placing bets on how fast you could take someone down in training.

Spencer, on the other hand, was still looking at you like you had personally rewritten the laws of physics.

“You okay?” you asked him later, nudging his arm.

Spencer blinked. “I think I’m in love with you.”

You choked on your coffee. “I—what?”

Spencer immediately went red. “I—I mean—not that I wasn’t before! But now I’m just—wow.”

You bit your lip to hide a grin. “So… me knowing how to fight is attractive?”

Spencer pushed his hair back, still flustered. “I mean… yes? Statistically speaking, a partner who is both intelligent and physically capable is—”

You cut him off with a kiss on the cheek. “Good to know.”

Spencer blinked, stunned into silence.

Morgan whistled from across the bullpen. “Damn, Reid, you’re having a great day, huh?”

Spencer just smiled, his hand slipping into yours under the desk.

Yeah.

It was a very good day.

Please support my work with like and comment

[deansbeer]

prized possession ・ DEAN WINCHESTER. ៸៸៸ 𝐍𝐀𝐕𝐈𝐆𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍 ! ♡ pinned library

SYNOPSIS. demon!dean decides to keep your soaked lace panties, because it drives his heightened senses wild for you. and the guy is not one bit shameful about it.

♡ WARNING(S) filthy smut | oral sex (f!receiving) | possessive!dean | overstimulation | power dynamics | dom!dean | praise kink | lace panties kink (?) | explicit language | little bit of manhandling.

♡ KARI NOTES. god, hes such a freak && i love it SOOO bad. i thought of this idea w @titsout4nicholas @a1ecmcdowell @jasvtsc earlier in the day because i fear demon!dean's corrupted my mind entirely.

sex with dean has always been intense, but now that he's a demon, it's on a whole other level—like everything about him, his hunger for you has amplified tenfold. every time he touches you, it's like he's trying to ruin you, to mark you in a way that'll never fully fade. and when it's over, he's always got that cocky, unbothered smirk that drives you insane. tonight's no different.

you're sprawled out on the bed, still catching your breath, your body a trembling mess from what he just put you through. he's leaning against the wall now, shirtless, his jeans hanging low on his hips. his hair is a mess, his lips still swollen from kissing every inch of you, and yet he looks like the devil himself—because, well, technically he is.

you roll onto your side, groaning softly as you reach out for your panties, the pretty black lace pair you'd been wearing before he tore them off of you like they'd offended him.

except… they're not there.

"dean," you say, your voice sharp despite how wrecked you feel. "where the hell are my panties?"

he raises an eyebrow, looking at you like butter wouldn't melt in his mouth. "what panties?"

"don't play dumb, winchester," you huff, sitting up on the bed and glaring at him. "the black lace ones. the ones you just ripped off me."

a slow, wicked grin spreads across his face, and your stomach sinks. "oh, those," he says, pushing off the wall and heading for the door. "yeah, those are mine now."

your jaw drops. "what the fuck do you mean 'yours'?"

he shrugs, completely unfazed. "i mean i'm keepin' 'em. they're soaked, sweetheart. absolutely drenched. you think i'm just gonna let you throw those in the laundry like they're not a fuckin' work of art?"

you grab a pillow and chuck it at him, but he dodges it easily, laughing as he disappears out the door. "un-fucking-believable," you mutter, shaking your head. luckily, you're home—so you grab another clean pair of panties from your dresser and slip them on, grumbling to yourself about how ridiculous he is.

you think that's the end of it. you really do. but then, over the next few days, you start to notice something… weird. for one, the black lace panties are nowhere to be found in your dirty laundry, even though you were sure he'd just been messing with you. and two, dean's been acting a little… off. not in a bad way! but in a way that makes your face flush whenever he looks at you. like he knows something you don't.

it's not until one night that you catch him red-handed. you're heading down the hallway, on your way to grab some water, when you spot him leaning against the wall, his back to you. at first, you don't think much of it—until you see what he's holding in his hand.

your fucking panties.

you stop dead in your tracks, your mouth falling open as you watch him lift them to his nose and take a deep, slow inhale, his eyes fluttering shut like he's savoring the scent.

"are you kidding me?" you blurt out before you can stop yourself.

he doesn't even flinch. instead, he turns to you, completely unabashedly, holding the panties up like a trophy. "nah," he says, smirking. "not kidding."

"dean," you groan, your voice low but stern as you stalk toward him. "you've kept those this whole time? what is wrong with you?"

"what's wrong with me?" he repeats, his grin widening as he tucks the panties into his back pocket like they belong there. "what’s wrong with you? you're the one who smells like that."

you gape at him, heat flushing down the back of your neck. "i don't even—what does that even mean?"

he steps closer, crowding into your space, and you can feel the heat rolling off him, thick and heavy. "it means, sweetheart," he murmurs, his voice low and rough, "that every time i get a whiff of these"—he pats his pocket—"i wanna fuck you all over again. so, yeah, i kept 'em. you got a problem with that?"

you're speechless, torn between being upset and… turned on. because of course you're turned on. he's DEAN WINCHESTER, and he's looking at you like he's seconds away from devouring you.

"you're insane," you manage, shaking your head.

"yeah?" he drawls, his hand curling around your waist. "well, you're about to be."

before you can respond, he's grabbing you and throwing you over his shoulder like you weigh nothing. you yelp, your palms against his back to steady yourself, but he doesn't even slow down, carrying you straight to the bedroom.

"dean! put me down!" you protest, but he just chuckles, slapping your ass hard enough to make you gasp.

"not a chance, baby," he says, tossing you onto the bed like a rag doll.

you barely have time to sit up before he's on you, yanking at your jeans with a single-minded determination that has your heart racing. "dean—"

"shut up," he growls, his voice dark and commanding as he strips you down, practically ripping your panties off in the process. "you've been walkin' around all day with this fuckin' scent, drivin' me insane. you think i'm just gonna let that slide?"

before you can answer, his mouth is on you, his tongue dragging through your folds like he's starved. he grips your thighs, holding you open as he devours you, his light stubble scratching against your sensitive skin.

"fuck," he groans, pulling back just enough to look at you, his lips glistening. "you taste good, babydoll. could do this for hours."

your head falls back against the bed, a moan slipping from your lips as he plunges back in, licking and sucking like he's on a mission. his grip tightens when you try to squirm away, his fingers digging into your thighs as he holds you in place.

"dean—mmm, fuck, shit—" you whimper, your hands tugging at his hair.

"you can do it," he growls against you, the vibrations making you shudder. "and you fuckin' will."

he doesn't stop, doesn't let up, and soon you're trembling beneath him, the pressure building low in your belly until it snaps, your orgasm crashing over you like a tidal wave.

he doesn't pull away, even as you try to push at his shoulders, too sensitive to handle the way his tongue keeps teasing your clit. "oh, fuck! dean—s'too much—"

"nah," he mutters, his voice muffled against you. "not done yet."

and he means it. by the time he's finished with you, you're a wreck—sweaty, breathless, and completely at his mercy. he finally pulls back, his lips curled into a satisfied smirk as he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.

"told you," he says, leaning down to kiss you, slow and filthy. "you're fuckin' addictive, sweetheart."

you're too exhausted to respond, but the look in his eyes tells you this isn't the last time he't pulling a stunt like this. and honestly? you don't really mind.

[cayleeuhithinknott]

❛ NEW MAGIC WAND ❜

𝒊𝒏 𝒘𝒉𝒊𝒄𝒉…angel has been giving attitude all night. so, mean!chris decides he’s gonna make her as exasperated as she’s been making him all evening.

pairings: mean!chris & sensitive!brat!reader (angel)

cw: SMUT, use of a vibrator☺️, edging☺️, teasing, use of pet names, orgasm denial, i..think that’s it

as chris pulled you into the nearest bathroom of the house hosting the party you were at, your heart was pounding. you knew you were in trouble. all night, you’d been mouthing off to chris and rolling your eyes, which has definitely taken a toll on his mood.

he shut the door, pinning you up against it. chris grabs your jaw, forcing you to look up at him. you can practically see flames set alight in his eyes, and this made you…aroused? yeah, chris was mean sometimes, but it turned you the hell on. and he knew that.

“you’ve had a big mouth all night, ma…where’s it gone?” he teases lowly. you’re still speechless, avoiding eye contact at all costs. “hey—yeah, look at me when i’m talkin’ to you.” he demands, his raspy voice compelling you to obey and look up at him. something about his expression looked different. he’s got something planned for you, and you know it’s not gonna be good.

you can see those mischievous gears turning in his head as he starts to speak again, “you’ve been keepin’ me on edge all night with that attitude of yours, haven’t you, angel?” chris teases. you weren’t aware he was expecting a vocal answer until he gives your cheeks a painful squeeze, still holding your face in his hand.

“y-yeah..” you squeak, making a confident grin creep across his face. oh no. “yeahh, that’s right. so y’know what i think? i think it’s my turn to keep you on edge, ma. you pickin’ up what i’m throwin’ down?” he rasps.

your eyes widen. you’ve never been edged before, let alone by chris. you were nervous to say the least. you knew he’d show you no mercy…but as you thought about it, you began to notice the familiar heat pooling between your legs as you nod in response to his question.

“good. y’know…i found y’little vibratin’ wand thing…think that’ll do it for ya, angel?” he asks, tracing his thumb on your bottom lip. you look up into his eyes. they may be the lightest, brightest blue you’ve ever seen, but that dark glint always finds it’s way into his eyes. “let’s get outta here, then. cmon.”

chris leads you out of the house and you can just imagine how exhausting your night is gonna be.

chris ushers you into your home with a slap on the ass. you both get inside and chris immediately starts talking. “alright, go on upstairs, ma. y’know how i want you.”

you respond with a nod and scurry up the stairs to your shared bedroom. you strip, tossing your clothes off to who knows where. you sit on the bed, awaiting chris’ arrival. chris comes in, holding something familiar in his hand. your stupid vibrator wand from the bathroom cabinet. your heart drops.

“hey, ma. lookin’ nervous over there,” chris chuckles. he drops a pair of fuzzy handcuffs on the nightstand and your eyes go wide. “i-i’m not,” you falsely protest, your voice coming out shakier than you wanted it to. “sure you aren’t, angel.” chris chuckles again.

he sits down next to you on the bed, trailing his hands all over your body. “you’re so fucking gorgeous, baby.” your face flushes and you look away. he grabs your face and turns it back to him with a grin. he leans down, going to town on your neck. whimpers leave your mouth as he trails dark bruises all down your neck and down to your collar bones. he moves down to your bare breasts, circling each of your nipples with his tongue, leaving a trail of fire in it’s wake.

chris sits back up, admiring how you’re now marked up for him. he hums in approval as he reaches a finger down to your sopping pussy. “soaked, angel.” chris teases, running his finger up and down through your slit agonizingly slow. you squeeze your eyes shut just before he pulls his hand away and the tense silence is replaced with a soft buzzing. you knew what it was.

you feel him trace the vibrating wand along your inner thighs, not reaching your core just yet. your clit throbbed with need, and you knew you needed to say something. “please, chris…”

he pauses, a smirk evident on his face, “please what, ma?” he knew exactly what you wanted. he just wanted to make you say it. you whine, not wanting to speak it out loud. chris cocks a brow at you, dragging the wand further away from your pussy, closer to your knee.

“n-need it…on my cl-clit…please…” you mutter in embarrassment, your face flushing red. there’s no way he’s making you do this. chris chuckles at that, hovering the wand in the air just above your clit. “like this, baby?” he teases. you whine, shaking your head. chris then presses it down onto your clit, allowing the vibrations to finally flow through you. instinctively, your legs try to close, but chris is quick to fix that, pinning your thighs open. “no, ma. you don’t need restraints, do you?” your eyes widen as you vigorously shake your head.

chris rubs slow circles around your clit with tip of the wand. you whimper and whine, squirming with each vibration. chris uses his other hand to hold you still.

“you need to stay quiet for me, angel.” he mumbles, turning the vibrator up a notch and increasing the pressure. his little circles become faster, causing moans to spill from your lips. “i…i c-can’t!” you whine. chris fakes a pout, faux sympathy dripping from his voice. “oh, you can’t? i think you c-can, baby.” he mocks you. chris knows you have a very hard time staying quiet, so watching you struggle like this was pure nirvana for him.

“ch-chris, i really can’t—“

he looks down at you with a smug expression. “oh, i’m sure you can manage it, angel. if you can’t control your voice, i’ll just have to stop. and we don’t want that, do we?” he teases. you whine at that. as much as this was pure torture, you didn’t want it to stop. at least—not yet.

chris turns the vibrator up the the 3rd level, and this really gets you going, you’ve got one hand over your mouth, struggling to keep quiet, and the other hand gripping chris’ bicep for all the support you can get.

chris chuckles darkly at your struggles, watching you convulse and try to hold back your whimpers. your legs start to tremble a little more prominently as you feel your orgasm approaching. chris seems to notice this too, increasing his efforts. “getting close, ma?” you vigorously nod, the pleasure becoming more and more intense.

“‘m gonna c-cum, chris!” you moan out, but just as soon as your orgasm was approaching, it was taken away by chris switching off the wand. you whine.

“mmm, no you’re not, angel. only good girls get to cum, remember? it’s gonna be a while before you’re gettin’ what y’want, baby.” chris taunts, that devilish grin still plastered across his face.

with a disappointed whimper, you come to your next realization.

this is gonna be a long, exhausting night.

a/n: hi hi! short lil chris smut cause i got this idea last night and had to write it before i forgot about it! mean!chris and sensitive!brat!reader are definitely going to be a new au on my blog, so send in stuff about them!

taglist

dividers by: @bernardsbendystraws

[oneofstarkskids]

professional

clark kent x fem!reader

genre: hella fluff, slow burn!!!

summary: what starts out as a quick visit ends up with you staying the night at your coworkers apartment.

warnings: sexual desire??

note: i saw superman (2025) today and got straight to writing. !!no spoilers!!

2k-ish words

it was another late night at the daily planet. you had stayed after hours, organizing the stack of piles on your desk and making sure tomorrow's articles were ready to go out.

the yellow glow of a desk lamp was the only thing illuminating the room, besides the metropolis light pollution just outside of the large office windows.

as you set aside the last of the prints, you noticed a briefcase leaning against the legs of the desk across from yours.

you didn't need to see the KENT plaque just above the clasp to know it was clark's.

he'd been working on something new this morning too and all of his research was probably still laying between the dividers of that brown case.

so you did the polite thing and tucked it under your arm before locking up the building.

as soon as you stepped outside it began pouring rain. just your luck. you tried calling him, but it kept going straight to voicemail.

you went back through your text messages to the day clark had sent you his address for a gift you had mailed him. nothing special.

just a new pencil sharpener. every article at the bugle was typed up and then printed, but clark preferred to do things the old fashioned way.

he'd write out all of his thoughts, scratch things out, crumble up the really poorly written papers, and then type up the fully revised version.

the only problem was, all he had was this tiny handheld sharpener that had seen hell and back. so, you bought him a new one. as a 'thank you' for supporting you and sticking up to perry when you were first starting out.

you scrolled until you found the location pin. was it rude and probably inappropriate to show up to your co-workers house in the middle of the night, unannounced? maybe.

but hopefully clark would see your intentions for what they were. to return a belonging to a friend.

it was a bit of a walk, but you seemed to be distracted the entire time. were you really just helping out? being a good coworker?

or not-so deep down, was there another reason you were making your way to his place this late?

it didn't matter.

before you knew it, you were standing at his door soaked from head to toe.

he nearly opened the door before you had a chance to knock, saying your name with surprise.

"what are you doing here?" he asked, adjusting his glasses.

you shifted from foot to foot a bit as you held the briefcase out to him, "you left this at the planet. thought you might need it."

he looked over it for a moment before taking it from you. his fingers brushed yours as he reached for it, sending a shiver through your entire body.

clark seemed to notice, then took note of how drenched you were, "did you walk here in the rain?" he asked almost rhetorically.

"yeah, but it's not that far," you said with a smile, contradicting the rosy color of your nose.

clark's dark brows pinched together, trying to understand why you would've done such a thing.

he stepped aside, letting the door swing open, "i have towels and you really should change into something...warmer."

he swallowed, noticing that your pencil skirt and blouse were now clinging to your skin from the rain.

"that's really sweet, but i should probably get home," you said with a soft smile, but his arctic blue eyes could've convinced you otherwise on their own.

"you could get hypothermia. i wouldn't be able to forgive myself," clark said.

you let yourself laugh, it always seemed easier around him, "alright then."

you walked into the apartment, following after him as he went on a hunt for towels.

by the time you'd made it to the bedroom, he'd already set one out along with a pair of his clothes.

"i don't know how well they'll fit, but i figure it's better than wet clothes," he says with his signature grin.

you brush your hair out of your face before whispering a thank you, and that's when you notice how close he is. towering over you and only a few inches away.

your heart seems to beat a little faster.

clark looks down at your chest and blushes suddenly before clearing his throat. "i should probably...sorry. the room's all yours," he mumbles awkwardly before stepping out.

as you get changed, you can't help playing the interaction in your head over and over.

clark is the sweetest man you've ever met. he's insanely talented, really intelligent, and genuinely funny. and yet, there's always something in the way.

something you can't quite see, but feel. on paper, he's perfect. but something tells you there's more to clark kent than he lets on.

now draped in his oversized t-shirt and sweatpants that you had to triple fold over, you leave the room.

he's only a few steps away, in the kitchen, pouring hot water over a blue mug.

"i wanted to make sure you had something warm before you go," he said without looking up.

you involuntarily blushed at his considerate nature, "thanks."

he handed you the mug, "careful. it's hot."

"coffee?" you asked hopefully before peeking into the ceramic cup.

he gave you an apologetic look, "tea."

you snickered at his expression before blowing on the beverage to cool it down.

clark leaned against the counter with one arm.

you tried your best to focus on the drink. to not notice the way the muscles in his biceps rippled from holding his weight. to not let your eyes linger on the veins in his forearm too long. or the way his palm was spread out over the marble-

a loud buzz interrupted, yanking you out of your thoughts.

clark raised his eyebrows, reaching for the phone in his pocket. "looks like a flash flood watch," he said quietly.

your fingers curl aroud the mug nervously.

he noticed this, looking down at you sympathetically. "hey, it's going to be okay."

"but...you should probably stay here for the night. if you're comfortable with that, of course," he stutters.

you think it over for a moment.

clark is a gentleman, so it's not like he would try anything. and besides, the rain was coming down hard. flash flood warnings don't get sent out for no reason.

sure, you worked together and this could probably affect your professional relationship if any lines were to be crossed.

so...you would just have to make sure they weren't.

which was easier said than done when he was always looking at you that way.

"you're right," you nod in agreement.

he analyzed you for a moment, as if he was making sure you weren't uncomfortable in any way.

"okay. you can have the bedroom. i'll sleep on the couch," he said politely. you finished what was left in your mug.

"thank you, clark," you said for what felt like the hundredth time tonight and made a mental note to return the favor some time.

you began handing the mug back to clark but the handle slipped through your fingers and it went plummeting towards the tile.

before it could shatter, clark was on his knees, cradling it with one hand.

your breath hitched at the sight of him down there looking back up at you.

maybe you should've apologized. or even laughed it off.

but he stood up so slowly, barely an inch from your face, and you forgot how to think at all.

"careful," he whispered, eyes flickering down to your lips.

ignoring the magnetic force between the two of you, you went your separate ways.

as you crawled into his sheets and rested your head on his pillow, you were sure that was the last you'd see of the raven haired man for the night.

until, a crack of thunder woke you from your sleep. you jolted forward, hand on your chest as your lungs heaved.

clark was already by your side, hand on your shoulder, "it's okay. just breathe. deep breaths in and then out slowly."

you tried to focus on his voice, do what he said. it wasn't easy, but after a few minutes your breathing had slowed.

he'd held onto you the whole time. "are you okay?" clark asked, sincerity in his eyes.

you nodded, "how did you-"

he blinked, trying to understand what you were asking. then it clicked, "oh. i heard you shout. you were crying."

you felt embarrassment wash over you. this didn't happen often, but when it did you'd be plagued with a dreadful feeling all day long.

how fucking perfect for it to happen the one night you choose to spend at someone else's house.

"i'm so sorry," you let your head fall against your bent knees. on the bright side, you'd forgotten what the dream was even about in the first place.

clark's gentle touch fell from your shoulder to squeeze your hand, "don't say that. it's not your fault."

"it's not your fault." his words echoed in your head.

you let your fingers brush against his, "i woke you."

he shook his head, a single curl falling against his forehead, "i wasn't asleep."

clark wasn't going to tell you it was because he'd been worried about you, listening for the slightest sniffle in case you'd caught something out in the rain.

he just gave you a once-over, double checking that you were okay, before straightening his posture, "you should get some sleep."

your heart dropped as he let go of your hand. as he began to leave, you looked out at the window behind him.

the clouds crackled with fury.

"clark," your voice came out weak.

he turned back to you without hesitation.

"do you wanna stay? maybe talk?" you asked.

clark's eyes went slightly wider and he seemed at a loss for words.

you fidgeted, "it's just, i don't think i'll be able to go back to sleep. and it's kind of awful being alone in here."

"i don't know how you do it," you laughed.

the smile he gave you reached his eyes and he sat beside you without a word.

you moved over, making sure he had enough space before leaning back against the headboard, "tell me about your latest piece."

clark began rambling on and on about news in metropolis. how big corporations were affecting small businesses and something about climate change.

you weren't really sure. at some point you began falling asleep, your head slowly sinking down onto his shoulder.

he stopped talking as he felt you curl up against him, taking a moment to admire your peaceful state.

after making sure you were fully asleep, he gently laid you down against the pillows, pulling the covers up over you.

"goodnight," he whispered before making a move to slip out of bed. but before he could, your arm was flung over his lap.

he let out a short, breathy laugh before trying again.

this time, your fingers curled around his shirt and tugged him closer.

so clark had no choice but to stay there by your side all night long, even dozed off sitting up a few times.

by morning, you'd completely forgotten where you were.

that was until you saw his face. his jaw slack, glasses slipping down the bridge of his nose as he snored quietly.

the morning glow hit his features just right and he suddenly didn't look like shy, quiet clark kent.

he looked like something carved by greeks. he looked like a god.

almost as if he could feel you staring, he blinked, slowly waking up. clark gave you a curious look, "were you watching me sleep?"

your eyebrows shot up, "what!? no, of course not. that would be weird."

he nodded slowly, "it would be weird. but, i don't mind weird."

you chewed your bottom lip nervously as your thoughts ran wild. it had only just seemed to dawn on you that you were currently at clark kent's apartment, laying in clark kent's bed, wearing clark kent's clothes.

"you talk in your sleep, ya' know?" he smirked.

you frowned, "um. no, i did not know that."

he looked at you like he knew something you didn't.

"what?? what did i say," you asked, bracing yourself for impact.

clark shook his head reassuringly, "nothing."

you let out a breath you didn't know you were holding in as he pulled off the covers and walked over to his dresser, taking a sip from a glass that you hadn't noticed before.

"and i'll make sure that you dreaming of my strong arms is off the record," he said smugly and casually.

you gasped in horror, "CLARK!" you threw a pillow at him, missing terribly and being subjected to the sound of his chaotic laughter.

[lily-bisque]

ᯓ✦ WITHIN AN INCH OF MY LIFE

synopsis: this pretty boy has got a thing for you threatening his life.

contents: explicit smut, canon universe (curses), piv, doggystyle, cowgirl, death threats, knife play, semi-public sex, spitting, degradation, stuffing panties in mouth, cum play, nicknames (ex. baby, darling, pretty), and really pathetic gojo.

wc: 1.4k

“Satoru, you are out of your fucking mind. She had a blade against your throat.”

“Well, she also saved my life. So I say it cancels out.”

“It does not, you imp.”

Gojo rolled his eyes lazily, fiddling with the bandage wrapped around his head with a single digit, legs sprawled onto a staff desk as Geto gave him hell. He was drowning him out, though—running his tongue over his lower lip as he recalled the events of the last twenty four hours, and the three hours he didn’t include in the report he’d given to the wiry and ancient higher-ups and only now relayed to his counterpart.

You were a sorcerer gone AWOL, thus the Japanese Jujutsu Sorcerers Association finding out you’ve been turned into a curse user, placing a bounty over your head, dead or alive for all they cared.

No one dared to go out of their way to battle you, an individual with a finicky technique but nothing short of powerful. And Gojo liked to keep an eye on you from time to time, checking in on your worldly domination progression. 

It was happening. Incredibly slowly and laughably as Gojo stated, but still happening.

So when he’d seen you attempt to practice sparring with some first grade curse and lose miserably, he decided to step in.

You’d caught wind of his oppressive cursed energy, unsheathing your dagger and pressing it against the wavering infinity around his jugular.

He chuckled, as easy as the day, before brushing you off with a smug comment of how he’s “here to save the day.”

Though, he was wholly unprepared for when the curse had sprayed something akin to bear spray in his six eyes while he was admiring you.

The curse wrapped a tendril around his ankle, dragging his lanky form across the floor, before you scowled and stepped in to quickly exorcise the distracted curse.

“That was a close one, huh?” He chuckled weakly in some gas station rest stop as you helped him flush his eyes out.

“You almost got yourself killed.”

He shut the faucet off, peering over at you with red-rimmed eyes, massive hand brushing against your waist, donning his signature shit-eating grin. “Baby, you know I can’t die.”

And as much as you didn’t want to admit it, Gojo had an effect on you that you had no abilities to repel.

He’d pushed you up against the door, flipping the lock from VACANT to OCCUPIED in a flash, lips crashing against yours with no remorse. 

You jumped, legs encircling his muscly waist and groaning. Your fingers found themselves threading into his milky tresses, applying just the slightest bit of pressure and tugging backwards, earning a whine from him.

You broke the kiss with a wet pop!, sending Gojo a flushed but confused expression. “Are you like… a masochist?” You breathed out with a chuckle, chest caving with your heavy gasps for air.

His sapphire eyes flashed with something akin to hunger that you hadn’t expected, the shitty restroom lights flickering before returning to their steady glow, only sending more confusion wiring through your muddled brain. “Yeah. Turns me on when you wanna kill me.”

Your jaw fell slack at the sound of his sudden admission, but he gave you no time to think it through when his lips reclaimed yours with a feverous need, mouths moving in tandem as you swapped saliva and bumped teeth.

Someone yelled something about taking too long just past the door you were currently pinned to, but Gojo just snapped his fingers and the sound went silent. There’s no way he killed that dude right…? Definitely. He just lowered a veil. Yup.

“God, you drive me crazy,” he whined as he bowed into you, pressing the hardened tent in his uniform slacks against your clothed and damp core.

You nuzzled your face against his neck, drinking in his scent, rocking your hips slowly as your sexual frustration only grew. “J-just shut up and fuck me.”

You had no idea how long he’d been waiting to get his hands on you, so he wasted no time now that he had you in his grasp.

He moved quicker than the blink of an eye—one second you were straddling him mid-air, the next your face was pressed against the door with your panties between your teeth. Gojo leaned over, and you could feel the ridges of his shaft rub against your drooling folds. “Stay quiet for me, darling, hm?”

That was certainly not an easy feat. Not when Gojo was pushing into you like he was on his death bed and you were the last lick of divination he could get a taste of.

He hadn’t gotten you prepped, but you were already slick and dripping as his cock impaled you to the hilt. He bottomed out with a groan as you squirmed, fingers twitching and grasping at nothing as you futilely attempted to ground yourself in reality.

“Thats it. Bigggg stretch f’me,” he huffed, eyebrows drawn in as he peered down the bridge of his nose, watching where he disappeared into you as he moved in a slow cadence, allowing you to adjust.

Your teeth grinded against the lacy fabric itching the inside of your cheeks, drool dribbling from the seams of your lips as your eyes glossed over in lust.

Gojo was not moving fast enough for your liking.

But you had an idea that would get him moving. 

Spitting your panties out, you bent over to slip a dagger from your boots, placing the hilt between your teeth, before throwing your arms around Gojo’s head to skim your fingers through as he rutted slowly and sloppily into you.

And the strongest sorcerer of the modern world was nothing short of distracted, dizzy with the ripples of your ass with each thrust.

You grabbed the hilt with one hand and placed it against his throat, just like you had earlier, fisting his hair with your other hand, the sharp edge  of the blade lain just above his pale skin. He gasped, infinity flickering on for a moment, before he turned it off.

“Hm? What’s this, pretty?” He eyed it, and you could feel the twitch of his length inside of you, veins dragging against your syrupy walls.

“Fuck. Me. Faster,” you gritted out.

You don’t think he meant to whimper just then, nodding as he headily sighed your name, before curling his fingers around your waist and snapping his pelvis into you in a cadence that had you shivering, coaxing your orgasm from you within moments.

“F-Fuck!” You faltered, hand falling slack at your side as his swelling cockhead bruised your cervix, metal hitting the floor as you lost your grip on your weapon.

“Nuh uh,” Gojo grunted out, and in a swift movement, the dagger was in your hand again, nudging his neck so close that any more pressure may break skin. “You gonna threaten me? Do it properly,” he spat out, pupils blown wide, dilated with a fierce and primal lust.

You’d expected it to just end as a quickie, Gojo going about his way to ignore you and your nefarious plans like you were an inconsequential mosquito instead of interrupting your larks of sparring curses.

But, no. After he’d finished across the canvas of your back, he’d warped the two of you to his staff apartment, you straddling him as your hips rocked a cant that left Gojo nearly crying.

You watched his stomach cave as you pressed that same blade against his throat, panting as you tossed your head back and gripped his bulky bicep for any sense of stability.

Your thighs were trembling, your joints ached, perspiration clung to you like a second skin—but seeing Gojo plead for you in such a degenerate sense had something blossoming in your core like a nightflower come undone.

The man was starved, eyeing every inch of you he could drink in, the woman who he’d allow to take anything from him including his sanity and breath.

You leaned down, eyes blown wide with a dominance he’s never seen. Your breath fanned against his lips as the razor pressed the slightest bit deeper, making him wince.

Gojo closed his eyes, expecting a saccharine kiss from your plump lips, but all he’d gotten was a swat of spit spat in his face.

“God, you’re fucking pathetic,” you crooned, licking a languid stripe across his lips before clenching your cunt around his cock tight enough to have his toes curling and eyes going saucer-wide.

And Gojo would be stupid not to be aware of the high that you got off of this power, this control—something you’d craved for ages in your own flimsy life.

He’d give it to you, on a silver platter at that. For as long as you wanted.

Even if you threatened to gut him like a fish at every turn, or fuck him within an inch of his life.

[chronicowboy]

"Lot of things wrong with the world right now, but Eddie Diaz on my doorstep isn't one of them," Hen says when she opens the door.

"Hey, Hen." The last time he'd said that neither of them could manage more than a tight-lipped nod, the weight of dress uniform and black suit alike weighing them down, now however, their smiles bloom in unison—not quite easy except for the way that it always is with Hen.

As she beams up at him, Eddie's hit by just how much he's missed her. Hadn't really had the time to think about it before. Not with parents and Christopher and Uber passengers and Buck to occupy his time. On her birthday, he'd wanted so badly to hug her tight and tell her the world got a little brighter the day she was born even if he wasn't there to see it, he just knows. And then, well, Bobby had died and there hadn't been room to miss anyone but him really.

The ache of missing Henrietta Wilson is sudden and fierce in the presence of her steady warmth.

She pulls him into a hug right there on the doorstep, and Eddie wraps her in his arms without hesitation, screwing his eyes shut when she squeezes him extra tight. Eddie lets her draw back, lets her sad eyes pin him in place.

"Want some tea?" she asks, raising her eyebrows.

"I'd love some." And he tries not to think about it. Really he does. How tea is halfway between water and juice. Hot water infused with dried fruit. A subpar substitute. A stepping stone maybe.

Hen closes the door behind him, and he follows her into the kitchen, leaning back against the countertop to watch her careful dance with the kettle. She fetches two mugs from the cabinet and pulls out the tea caddy Buck had found in an antique store two 118 Secret Santas ago. She waves it under his nose as the kettle starts to whistle.

"Pick your poison," she tells him, drifting back towards the stovetop.

He rifles through the neatly stacked packages until his eye catches on a red-orange square. He plucks it from the tin and brings it up to his nose, inhaling the sweet citrusy scent of it. Blood orange and cranberry. Just like Buck's shower gel.

The sound of a cup hitting the table brings him out of his stupor, and Eddie flushes, offering the tin to Hen. She takes one at random, ripping it open and dropping it into her water. Eddie sits down next to her and tears his own teabag open, drowning it in boiling water.

"How are you?" he asks as their teas steep.

"I'm okay." She nods, smiling at him tight-lipped. "Lung's all healed up, and I'm cleared for full duty again."

Eddie shoots her a deadpan look.

"That's not what I was asking and you know it."

Hen rolls her eyes, but they don't come back to Eddie, they stay in some faraway corner of the room, somewhere Eddie wouldn't be able to find if he tried, somewhere Eddie knows more intimately than most.

"I'm getting through, Eddie." She sighs, shrugs. "I don't really know what else there is to do."

"Yeah." Eddie nods down at his cup. "I know what you mean."

"What about you?" she asks gently, ducking to catch his eye. "Getting through?"

"Most of the time." Eddie purses his lips, shakes his head. "I keep trying to convince myself that it's not my fault." He wraps his hands around his mug then, the burn of it grounding him in the moment.

"Eddie."

"No, I know." He huffs, rolls his eyes at himself. "Rationally, I know. But I can't shake the thought that I could have—I might have been able to change things."

"That's a little insulting, Eddie," she mumbles. Eddie's eyes jump up from the ruddy orange depths of his tea, startled into confrontation by the words.

"What?"

"You don't think we were enough?" She raises an eyebrow at him. "Don't think we could have stopped it, saved him, if we'd known?" She ploughs on, ignoring the way his mouth opens and closes like a fish out of water. "Or do you just think you're more observant than the rest of us?"

"No, of course not."

"Then what the hell could you have done?" There's something about the way she says it. Something about the gentle chiding, the chastising softness, the firmness of her care, that reminds him of Bobby. Of a captain. Of Henrietta Wilson. The effect of it is dizzying, sobering.

"I don't know," he admits, shoulders hunching, defeated by harsh reality and hypotheticals alike. "I just." His voice breaks, and Eddie takes a sip of tea to wash the cracks away, barely winces at the burn of it. "Ever since Buck called me, I can't stop thinking about—"

"The what ifs?" she asks quietly. Eddie nods. "Yeah, I know a little something about that."

Eddie hates himself then. Just as fiercely as he had when Buck's ragged voice had come down the line all those weeks ago. What are his what ifs compared to those of the people who were there? Who were close enough to do something about it but still so far, too far?

He takes another sip of his tea. Remembers why he's here.

"Like what if you were captain?" he chances, raising an innocent eyebrow. The look Hen turns on him then is harrowing, flat and unimpressed and just a slight bit daring.

"How did you find out?"

"Through the grapevine." He shrugs.

"And which grape told you?" she deadpans. Eddie hides his smile in his tea.

"Well, Athena told Karen and Karen told Chimney and Chimney told Maddie and Maddie told Buck and—"

"And Buck told you," Hen says, sighs maybe, doesn't ask, like it's that obvious, like it was inevitable. Eddie ducks his head, heat creeping into his cheeks, hiding from whatever emotion has stolen into Hen's expression. He shrugs again. "I should've known." She takes a sip of her tea, digs a fingernail into the grain of the table. "How is he? Buck?" And this question. This was inevitable too. Eddie exhales a pained breath.

"I wish I knew." He shakes his head, runs a hand through his hair, thinks about the note waiting for him on the coffee table when he'd woken up that morning—gone to help Maddie and Chim with the nursery, breakfast's in the oven :). "He won't talk about it. Not in any real way." Thinks about how Buck had locked himself in his room the night of the funeral, how he hadn't come out until the next morning, how Eddie had found him bouncing between five separate prep stations in the kitchen, how he'd been out the door before Eddie could ask how he was. "All he does is run around after everyone else." Thinks about the night Eddie had fallen apart on the couch, and Buck had held him through it like it wasn't his grief to share. "I feel like I see him less now than I did when I was in El Paso."

"Yeah." Hen's eyes fall to the table, a furrow appearing between her eyebrows. "Maddie said he's been doing his therapy, engaging with it well, but I think Buck's always been better at locking things away than most of us like to think."

"It's only the easy emotions he wears on his sleeve," Eddie mumbles absentmindedly. "I normally have to work to drag the bad ones out into the open."

Silence stretches between them, heavy and taut, long enough that Eddie's eyes pick their way back to Hen's face. He almost flinches at the expression there. Something knowing and confused at the same time, something tight in her eyes and loose around her mouth, something relieved and pained all at once.

"No luck yet?" she asks eventually. It feels like more than it is. He shakes his head slowly.

"I keep trying, but he just... Tells me that he's handling it. That I don't have to worry about him, and I should focus on myself for once." He scoffs, bites at the inside of his cheek. "That's not how we work, and he knows it." Eddie doesn't look at Hen this time, keeps his gaze trained on the teabag wilting in the bottom of his cup. "God, Hen, I can't stop hearing his voice on the phone that night." His voice comes out quiet, broken. Not what Buck's had been: loud and jagged. A great choking, hiccupping sound that Eddie wasn't even sure you could call a voice. "He could barely speak. He kept apologising over and over, and I was eight-hundred miles away and I couldn't do anything."

"Well." Hen grabs his hand, squeezes once, so he glances over at her. "You're not eight-hundred miles away now, so what are you gonna do about it?"

Eddie pauses. Stills. Thinks about how the grief had fallen on him like a tonne of bricks when Buck had broken the news. How he'd thought he'd never be able to get up off the ground. How he'd thought he'd stay buried there in the middle of his fucking living room for the rest of his life. How Buck had called him every day, digging Eddie out brick by brick. How Buck had carried them all for Eddie.

And he thinks too of how many other bricks Buck must be carrying. Wants to takes them all off his back with gentle hands. Wants to dab antiseptic into his abrasions. Wants to wrap him up in a hug. Wants to divvy the bricks up between them equally, carry them together. Together. Always together.

"I'm gonna be here," he says, resolute. Lets certainty fill him for the first time since he'd walked into his parents' house to pack Christopher's bag. "I'm gonna be here to catch him when he falls."

"Yeah, I thought so." Hen smiles at him, and it's a small thing, but the pride in it is overwhelming. "Families can only survive for so long apart."

And that's it, isn't it? Buck is family. Not the one he chose. That was Hen and Chimney and Bobby. But Buck is the family he built—they built.

"Speaking of..." Hen drawls, eyes evasive, glinting with something. "The 118 is still waiting for you to come home."

"Oh, yeah?" he asks, quirking a smile.

"Yeah. They've been missing you." She nods seriously. "Got a place carved out for you and everything."

"You know, that's something only a captain could promise."

"Well, how about that." Hen grins, all mischief and mystery.

Eddie shakes his head and huffs a laugh.

"Henrietta Wilson, always three steps ahead."

[devdozes]

I was wondering if you could write modern/highschool au with phainon and flame reaver being twins, i think it'll be funny especially if the reader didn't know abt it lmao

Somehow, I fell for you twice before I even knew there were two of you.

The first time you met Flame Reaver, you didn’t know it wasn’t Phainon.

It wasn’t exactly your fault. The resemblance was uncanny—same height, same cerulean blue eyes, even the same messy hair that Phainon never seemed to brush properly. If anything, the only real difference was that Flame Reaver’s eyes burned with something sharper, something darker, and the way he carried himself was less of Phainon’s relaxed, playful charm and more… intense. But how were you supposed to know that?

You had been walking out of your club meeting when you saw him leaning against the school gate, arms crossed, staring at you with an unreadable expression. You had waved without thinking, grinning. “Didn’t think you’d actually wait for me today, Phai.”

Flame Reaver blinked once before tilting his head. “Of course.”

Weird. Phainon was never this stiff. But whatever. Maybe he was in a weird mood.

What followed was a week of absolute nonsense.

Flame Reaver, who you thought was Phainon, was suddenly spending an insane amount of time with you. Phainon was always around, sure, but he wasn’t usually this clingy. He was cheerful and thoughtful, yes, but he had an understanding of personal space. This… ‘Phainon’ didn’t.

If you walked down the hall, he was there, a step behind you. If you grabbed a drink from the vending machine, he was standing beside you, already holding out the exact drink you were about to buy. When you sat at lunch, he was directly next to you, practically in your personal space, watching you with those sharp blue eyes that didn’t quite match the Phainon you knew.

“You good?” You had asked one afternoon when he showed up outside your classroom, leaning against the wall with a casualness that didn’t quite feel right. “You’re kinda different today.”

He blinked. “Am I?”

“Yeah, you’re like… moodier or something.” You squinted at him before reaching out and poking his forehead. He didn’t react beyond a single twitch of his eye. “You usually joke around more, y’know?”

“I see.”

And then he just—

Patted your head.

Like you were some sort of pet. You froze, your brain short-circuiting as heat crept up your face. Phainon had never done that before. What was this?!

He stared at you, as if gauging your reaction, before simply smiling—just a small curve of his lips, nothing as bright as Phainon’s usual grins, but something about it sent your heart into a frenzy. What was happening?!

You thought that was the peak of your strange week, but it only got worse.

One day, you were about to head home when you felt a presence behind you. Turning, you found ‘Phainon’ standing there, hands shoved in his pockets, watching you. You sighed, waving him over. “You wanna walk home with me?”

He nodded, falling into step beside you. The silence was comfortable at first, but then you noticed something odd. He wasn’t humming under his breath like usual. He wasn’t teasing you about your weird backpack keychains. And most of all, he wasn’t calling you by that dumb nickname he gave you.

You stopped in your tracks. “Okay, what’s wrong with you?”

He stared at you, tilting his head. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, you’ve been acting weird all week, Phai! You’re like, super clingy—”

“What’s wrong with that?”

Your brain blanked. “Uh… nothing? It’s just… new.”

He stepped closer, his gaze pinning you in place. “Do you dislike it?”

You swallowed, heat rushing to your face. “I-I didn’t say that! It’s just—you’re usually more laid-back, y’know?”

For a moment, he didn’t respond. Then, in a lower voice, he murmured, “Maybe I just don’t want you to leave.”

Your heart stopped.

Before you could even begin to process that, another voice cut through the air.

“HEY! What the hell is going on here?!”

You turned and nearly had a stroke.

Standing at the end of the street, looking absolutely furious, was Phainon.

The real Phainon.

Your brain had about two seconds to process this before everything clicked into place.

Oh.

OH.

“You’re kidding,” you whispered in horror, whipping back to ‘Phainon’—no, Flame Reaver. His smirk said everything. He hadn’t been Phainon at all. He had just let you believe that for a whole week.

Phainon stormed over, grabbing his twin by the collar. “How many times do I have to tell you to stop messing with my friends?!”

Flame Reaver shrugged. “You left them unattended. What did you expect?”

“You—” Phainon turned to you, looking both betrayed and exhausted. “You seriously thought he was me?”

“How was I supposed to know you had an identical twin?!”

“Oh, I don’t know, maybe the fact that I actually have a personality?”

Flame Reaver smirked. “And yet, they seemed to enjoy my company just fine.”

Your face burned as you remembered every single moment you spent with him.

Phainon groaned. “I can’t believe this.” Then he turned back to his twin, glaring. “You better not have done anything weird.”

Flame Reaver simply smiled, stepping back. “Nothing they didn’t like.”

Your soul nearly left your body.

Phainon looked ready to murder him on the spot. “I’m gonna kill you.”

Flame Reaver hummed. “You can try.”

As Phainon lunged, you swore your life flashed before your eyes.

“Uhh Ok so… Phainon?” You cautiously pointed at the one standing to your left. He blinked at you, confused.

“Yeah?”

You then pointed at the one standing to your right, the one who had his arms casually looped around your shoulders like it was the most natural thing in the world. “And you’re also Phainon?”

The quiet one—who you had unknowingly been spending way too much time with—smirked slightly, his grip tightening just a fraction. “Something like that.”

The real Phainon (or at least, the one you thought was the real one) narrowed his eyes. “Wait, wait, wait—don’t tell me you’ve been hanging out with him this whole time?”

Your mouth opened, but nothing came out. Because yes, yes, you had. And you had genuinely thought it was him the entire time. How were you supposed to know your best friend had an identical twin brother who looked just like him but acted like an entirely different person?

“Why didn’t you tell me you had a twin?!” you finally blurted out, stepping away from the overly clingy version of Phainon, only for him to smoothly pull you right back like he had no intention of letting go.

Phainon groaned, running a hand through his messy hair. “Because I don’t! Not really! He’s—ugh, it’s complicated!”

The other Phainon, the one you had unwittingly spent way too much time with, simply chuckled, resting his chin against your shoulder. “I like her. I think I’ll keep her.”

Your face burned. “Excuse me?!”

“Hey!” The real Phainon shoved him off you, glaring. “No, you will not!”

“I already have,” the not-Phainon replied smoothly, stepping beside you again and easily tugging you back into his space. “She likes me, after all.”

“I thought you were him!” you argued, trying to pull away but failing miserably because he was way stronger than his twin.

The real Phainon groaned in absolute frustration. “This is a disaster.”

You had to agree.

Just as you thought things couldn’t get worse, the two Phainons suddenly began bickering like two territorial cats.

“She’s my friend, you know! You can’t just steal her!”

“Steal? I didn’t steal anything. She willingly spent time with me.”

“BECAUSE SHE DIDN’T KNOW YOU WERE A SEPARATE PERSON!”

You sighed, rubbing your temples as their arguing escalated into shoving. Phainon—the cheerful, chaotic one—had his hands firmly on his twin’s shoulders, trying to push him away from you. Meanwhile, the other Phainon—the quiet, overly affectionate one—was firmly gripping your wrist, refusing to let go.

“I think you should let me go,” you tried, looking at the clingy one.

“I think not,” he replied smoothly, pulling you closer.

“Oh, for the love of—let go of her!” Phainon huffed, trying to yank you away, only for his twin to tighten his grip. “Why are you so damn clingy?!”

“I just like her,” the other Phainon admitted shamelessly, brushing a strand of hair from your face and smiling at you like a puppy.

“STOP FLIRTING WITH HER!”

“Why? Jealous?”

“OF COURSE, I’M JEALOUS!” Phainon blurted out, looking absolutely horrified with himself the second the words left his mouth.

You blinked.

His twin smirked. “Oh?”

Phainon turned red. “I—I mean—that’s not—”

The other Phainon simply looked victorious, tugging you even closer and resting his forehead against yours. “Guess you better make a move, then, dear brother.”

“OH, YOU SON OF A—”

You sighed, rubbing your temples as you found yourself sandwiched between two versions of Phainon. On your left, the cheerful and excitable Phainon, his cerulean blue eyes sparkling with mischief. On your right, Flame Reaver—silent, intense, and somehow much clingier than his counterpart.

"Alright, so what do we do now?" you asked, shifting uncomfortably as both of them leaned in.

"Obviously, you should spend the day with me!" Phainon beamed, throwing an arm around your shoulders. "We can go get some snacks, maybe head to the arcade—oh! Or the amusement park! I know you love roller coasters."

Flame Reaver, who had been quietly watching, suddenly spoke. "No." He reached out, grabbing your wrist and pulling you toward him. "You're spending time with me."

"Excuse me?" Phainon narrowed his eyes at his twin, refusing to let go of you. "I saw them first."

"That doesn't matter. They're already with me." Flame Reaver tightened his grip slightly, his calm but firm voice making your heart race for a reason you couldn't quite explain.

You sighed, knowing that there was only one way to settle this. "Fine! I'll spend time with both of you. No more fighting."

The twins shared a glance, clearly displeased but unwilling to argue further. Phainon grinned, ruffling your hair. "Alright, alright. But if I win more prizes at the arcade, you owe me ice cream."

Flame Reaver, still holding your wrist, simply nodded. "Fine. But I’m not letting go."

giggles

[callsign-swan]

Dick Diaries: Bob Floyd

I can't find the 141 post that inspired this but i wanna write a 'Dick Diaries' for the Lew characters I write for. also, i found out just before posting this that this is happy 500!!

18+, smut, creampie, breeding kink, period sex, oral

Bob Floyd has a big dick. Thick and long all at once. It was easily hidden beneath sweetness, beneath keeping to himself, beneath his uniform.

Bob Floyd's wife is all too aware of how thick Bob's dick is. Their first time together wasn't easy.

It was back when they were dating. Not planned, a spur of the moment thing after a dinner date. She was in his lap, him pinned beneath her on the bed. Jesus fuck, the feeling of him growing in his trousers.

He was above her, her ankles on his shoulders. She had started with her hands gripping the sheets as Bob touched her, but now her fingers were laced over her stomach as they struggled. "Fuck, sweetheart," he said through a breath, his head falling forward. "'s not gonna fit."

Removing her ankles from his shoulders, she pulled him towards her. Wrapping her arms around his neck, she kissed him. A reassurance that it was okay, that she loved him and his third leg.

So Bob Floyd dropped to his knees. He would later say (to nobody but her) that, as he began eating her out, he knew she was the woman he was going to marry. The way she writhed while he had his mouth on her, her hands in his hair, he knew.

It got easier each time. On the second time they went to have sex, Bob managed to get inside of her. It was a squeeze, for sure, and he was unable to move once he was inside, giving her time to adjust.

Sharp breaths as she squeezed his wrist. But Bob wasn't going to go anywhere, not until she wanted him to move.

Bob Floyd loves all parts of fucking his wife. Undressing her slowly, squeezing the flesh of her ass in his palm, holding her hip as she wrapped her legs around him. Kissing her skin, leaving marks that were for his eyes only.

Dropping to his knees, eating her out slowly until her legs shook against his head. His fingers inside of her as he listened to every desperate noise she released as he opened her up. Bullying his thick cock inside of her, holding it still while she adjusted, rutting his hips against her.

Bob Floyd is a creampie man. (Actually, most of them are creampie men. Please check out THIS post by @lewmagoo). I think by now we all know how... virile Bob is. The man has three kids before the time he's thirty.

He loves creampie-ing his wife. Finishing inside of her, pulling out to watch it drip. Fucking hell. That sight was enough to get him going again. To push her past overstimulation, until she could babble out nothing but his name as he filled her with another load.

Did someone say breeding kink go brrr? ("Gonna make you a daddy." "Fuck." "Gonna put another baby in me?" "Fuck!")

Yeah, it's no surprise they have an army of kids.

(I've been asked to cover period sex with Bob). It can't be understated that, whatever Mrs Floyd wants, Mrs Floyd gets. Including period sex.

Its gentle, its loving and it's lowkey messy. But thats fine, but Bob is happy to put a towel down and get to work. He's happy to clean her up afterwards, to hold her up in the shower, her legs exhausted as she cleaned herself. But her period horny-ness had been sated, for now.

Bob Floyd is the KING of aftercare. It has become a ritual at this point. Sweet kisses, reassurance that she did so good for him, that she can come down. He cleans her up with a cloth first while the bath fills. Candles, bubble bath, music playing from the bathroom speaker.

Besides actually having sex with his wife, sitting in the bath with her was Bob's favourite thing. They stay in there until they're both clean, and then some. Until the water is cold and they both begin shivering.

I could go on. There is so much more I could say in the Dick Diaries of Bob Floyd. But we would be here all day

[witherby]

Mother Hen Hal skit perhaps...? Since you said you are up for writing anything, can i recommend some silly mother hen Hal? :3/nf/silly

Y'know what hell yeah. Hal is Mom, and that's canon now.

Also, it doesn't really make sense for me to use the infant gif for Flittermouse when they inevitably get older. Does this one work for you guys? Let me know. I might fiddle around until I find something suitable.

The Littlest Wayne: Mother Hen

Masterlist is Here!

"Ah-ah! Put it down."

You freeze, one hand curled around the handle of the popsicle you were trying to sneak before dinner.

"I'm not a motion sensor, kid. I can still see you if you're standing still. Put. It. Down. If you want a snack then there's a fruit bowl on the counter."

You huff and put the popsicle back in the freezer, stomping over to the bowl to snatch an orange. "Fine."

"What was that?"

You grimace. "Yes, mama."

Hal narrows his eyes at you and holds out his hand. You approach him from where he's leaning against the doorway and hand the orange over, and he starts to peel it for you.

"Kids these days, gettin' sassier and sassier. Y'know when I was young my dad would pop me on the mouth for backtalk."

"Thank goodness you're not your dad," you say, taking it back and stepping into his shadow to let it pull you into the dark. "Thanks, mama."

"Uh huh," he sighs, but his expression is fond as he watches you disappear. He shakes his head and grabs a banana for himself. "Goofy kid. They should be grateful I found 'em in the act and not Alfred."

--

"Disarm that, please."

Jason glances up at Hal from where he's sitting on his bed, currently taking inventory of his ammo and checking the condition of his guns.

"Uh, 'scuse me?"

"You know your dad's rule. No guns in the house. If you wanna keep it upstairs, you've gotta disassemble it."

"Oh," Jason says, scoffing, "what, like I'm gonna suit up and shoot up the place? I'm an asshole, but I'm not that big an asshole."

"Everyone trusts you, Jaybird," Hal says, "but even the best-maintained guns can misfire. A warped firing pin here, too much gunpowder in a bullet there, a hair trigger —"

"You think I'm running around with shitty equipment like an amateur, Jordan?" Jason sneers and picks up one of his pistols, aiming it at Hal's head. It doesn't have any bullets in it, but fear factor is half of his job. "You think this could go off willy-nilly 'cause I dunno how to take care of my toys? Huh? Just because you're fucking Bruce doesn't mean you get to call any shots in this house —"

A green hammer materializes faster than Jason can blink and smacks the gun from his hand. He hisses flexes his fingers, glaring, only lean back when he suddenly finds Hal glaring down at him less than a foot away from the edge of the bed.

"I'm not playing this game with you, Jason Todd-Wayne," he says. The boy actually feels sweat pooling on the back of his neck. "I have to go pick your brother up from school, and when I come back these guns are either going to be in the cave, or disassembled in your bedroom."

"...yes, ma," Jason mumbles. Hal nods once, gives him a gentle squeeze on the shoulder, and leaves the room.

--

Tim doesn't glance up when he hears footsteps descending the cave. He keeps scrolling through the security footage from the most recent bank heist on the batcomputer, trying and failing to figure out exactly what the hell Two-Face would want with that many uncut diamonds. Money tends to play very little factor in his scheme of the week, so why —

"Bed time."

"Crime never sleeps," Tim mumbles, rubbing his burning eyes and reaching for the can of Monster on the desk. Another hand swipes it away first, and he scowls. "I'll head up in, like, an hour." He squints when he thinks he sees a partial blueprint sticking out of Two-Face's pocket. "Like two hours."

"Nuh-uh. The one and only time I fell for that, you stayed awake for another fifty hours before we caught onto you. No more computer tonight."

"And I cracked that case fifty hours faster than I would've if I'd slept."

Hal scruffs Tim, hoisting him into the air by the back of his shirt and turning to go back up the staircase.

"Hal! Okay, I'm serious this time, twenty minutes so I can mark my place and —"

"Bed time," Hal hisses. "It is three in the morning and I have to get up at five. Do not test my patience right now."

"Yes, mom," Tim immediately says, eyes wide. He wants to scan that blueprint, but he wants to avoid getting on a sleep-deprived Hal's bad side even more. "Bed time."

Hal nods and carts him off to his room, tucking Tim in and giving him a pointed goodnight before leaving.

--

Dick knows better than to fight Hal when he puts his foot down for something. Bruce he can gradually wheedle into submission, especially if he calls him Dad and gives him big puppy eyes, but Hal is a demon and seemingly immune to all forms of sucking up.

So when he slips out of his window and into the garden, trying to sneak away to go back to Blüdhaven, he runs into Hal and immediately turns back around.

"Smart move. Get back in bed and I'll have Alfred make sure you didn't pop your stitches crawling down the wall like an idiot just now."

"Yes, mum. Sorry, mum."

--

"Damian Al-Ghul-Wayne!"

"Oh, fuck."

Nothing but ice-cold dread zips up and down that boy's spine. He darts out of his room and down the stairs, running from room to room until he finds Hal standing in the vestibule with blood at his feet and a nasty snake bite on his arm. The culprit is trapped in a constructed box several feet away.

"Is it venomous." Hal asks, tone flat.

"No, Mother," Damian says, standing at attention directly in front of him. He keeps his hands in his pockets to stop them from trembling.

"Is there more than one."

"No, Mother."

"Will you have it re-homed by tomorrow."

"Yes, Mother."

"Are you going to start asking for permission before bringing more animals home."

"..."

"Damian."

"Yes, Mother."

Hal steps forward with his good hand and gently cups Damian's cheek.

"Do you understand why I'm upset?" He asks, gentler. Damian nods. "Okay. All I'll say is that I'm glad it was me this happened to, and not any of your siblings. I think you really would've frightened Mouse if they got bit."

Damian's eyes widen briefly, not having considered such a consequence. He stiffens and avoids eye contact.

"I'm sorry," he mumbles. Hal opens his arms and Damian goes in easily for the offered hug. "I'll get rid of Piper tonight."

"Good. I'm sorry you can't keep her, pal, but it's too dangerous to let it roam the grounds like that. Plus, this bite really smarts. If you're hell-bent on a snake, maybe you can get a small one in, like, a month for your birthday. Real small. Like a hog-nose. Or a corn snake."

"Fine," Damian mumbles, but the tension bleeds out of his shoulders. "I'll fetch the first aid kit for you."

"Thanks, 'ppreciate it."

--

"Oh, dearest husband of mine."

Bruce maintains a front of stoic calm, unmoving and unaffected by the saccharine pitch of Hal's voice. He continues stitching himself up in the batcave's med room and doesn't look up when a pair of green boots enters his periphery.

"Can you answer a question for me?"

"Yeah, shoot," Bruce says, proud that his voice didn't waver.

"What's the thermal rating on the latest iteration of your suit?"

Bruce glances at the jar of burn cream he hasn't cracked open yet to treat the massive wound on his side. A bead of sweat forms on his temple.

"It's —"

"Is it high enough to withstand a condensed, point-blank blast directly from the sun?"

He doesn't respond. Bruce finishes his stitch job and ties it off, then reaches over for the jar. Hal snatches it.

"Answer the question, Wayne."

Bruce swallows thickly. "No. It's not thermally rated high enough to withstand a condensed blast as powerful as the sun, obviously."

"Obvi — oh. Okay, it was obvious. I'm glad it was obvious. That's fantastic. I just have a follow-up question, then."

The jar creaks in Hal's grip. His free hand is clenched in a tight fist.

"If you knew your suit wasn't sturdy enough to take a blast like that, WHY THE FUCK DID YOU STEP IN FRONT OF IT!?"

Bruce clears his throat. "It was going to hit you, and you weren't watching your six."

"I AM ENCASED IN A MAGIC GLOWING SUIT MADE OF WILLPOWER, BRUCE. I WOULD HAVE BEEN FINE. YOU'RE RUNNING AROUND IN LEATHER AND KEVLAR."

Bruce slides off the table, lifting his hands in a placating gesture. A pair of green arms hook him under his armpits and heave him back onto it with a not-so-gentle thud, and he winces when it aggravates his injury. "Hal, stop shouting. I already have Tinnitus and this isn't helping."

"Oh, your poor ears," Hal coos, stepping between Bruce's legs. He sets the jar down and gingerly cups Bruce's ears, pouting. "I'll speak softly so I don't cause you further pain. Y'know, like the massive fucking burn in your side from GETTING BLASTED BY A SUN RAY."

"I'm not going to apologize!"

Hal snaps his mouth shut, glaring at Bruce. "What."

"I'm not going to apologize for protecting you." Bruce's hands cover Hal's. He brings them down to his lap, interlacing their fingers and squeezing tightly. "It's very statistically probable I'm going to do it again, as a matter of fact. And I'll keep doing it as long as I think you need to be protected."

He thumbs over the golden band on Hal's left hand, and the edge of the Green Lantern ring on his right.

"Because that's what I promised you when we got married. That as long as I have a body that moves, and lungs that breathe air, and a mind that can think, I will move and breathe and think in whatever way guarantees your health and happiness."

"Collecting battle scars like bottle pops doesn't make me happy, Bruce," Hal murmurs. "One day I'm gonna check my six and find you on the ground like I did today, and one day you're not gonna get back up again."

"That's the risk we take every time we suit up," Bruce sighs. "People in our line of work seldom make it to retirement age, love."

Hal lifts his hands to cup the back of Bruce's head and draw him into a kiss. There's a subtle tremble in his body that Bruce does his best to soothe with pliant lips and a skilled tongue.

"I'm going to help you with the burn," Hal mumbles against his lips, "then we're going upstairs for movie night, and I'm picking this time. And by then, maybe I'll have decided if you get to sleep in our bed or on the couch tonight."

"Yes, mom," Bruce mutters back, grinning. He hisses when Hal flicks his wound. "Sorry."

[rafeslvbug]

OBSESSED WITH FLORIDA KILOS!READER she def goes to church after she moved in with rafe bc she lowkey thinks that her praying did save her. she probably would sneak out of his house to go to the earliest service so she can be back by the time he’s up, until one day she gets caught

(idk who you are but im in love)

your days of praying by her bedside, bloodshot eyes, slippery cheeks, hands soaked with salty tears but still clutching the gold cross you found under barry’s couch, had finally paid off.

god had sent you an angel. he’d sent you rafe.

and rafe wasn’t perfect, but he took care of you like no man ever had. he’d protected you from all the evil in your life like you prayed to God someone would. and you had done much bad in your life, and you weren’t worthy of His forgiveness, but He had granted it nonetheless.

you were not going to screw this up.

you prayed quietly in the separate bedroom you used to have before you begun sharing with rafe. but when you began to sleep with rafe, in his bedroom, it became harder.

there was a church down the road, and you’d wake up at 5am just to slip out of bed, put on the finest dress rafe had gotten you and rush down to the church, by foot because you didn’t know how to drive. the ladies there would turn and look at you when you came in, a few minutes late and flushed. but they’d smile because you had been coming here for the past few weeks and were bright eyed and the most dedicated girl they’d ever met.

you would pray to God each time that he kept rafe in your life. He could take whatever He liked, but if you had rafe, life would be okay. you prayed because you were so terrified you could lose it all.

it would last an hour each day, you’d never slip out a minute earlier, and if you could spare it, you’d make up for the lost minutes in the confession box. then you’d be running back to rafe’s house, hurriedly changing out of your clothes and back into your pyjamas, sliding under the sheets with rafe and feigning a yawn when he wakes up.

only except one day, you slip through the door, only to see rafe sitting up. in bed, hair messed, brows furrowed, shirtless and angry. but his anger only morphs to confusion at your dress. he thought you were sneaking off to barry, or scared you were clinging to bad pasts and habits, but you looked like a little saint in your lilac dress, hair pinned up all nice.

“where the hell have you been?” he demanded, as you sat on the edge of the bed, knowing you’d be caught. you recited tiny prayers in your head, scared that God was about to take rafe from you despite your pleas. maybe it was because you hadn’t done enough.

“uhm..” you clutched the gold cross at your neck, rafe’s eyes honing in on it as he raised an eyebrow. “i’ve been at church..the one down the road,” you murmur, timidly.

rafe lets out a laugh, but at your frown he turns serious. “oh you’re for real?”

you nod, knowing it was a bit out of character but not wanting to feel ashamed for it either.

“how long you been sneakin’ out?” he questions.

“past few weeks..” you mumble.

“you ever gonna tell me?”

“yeah..”

“when?”

“i dunno..” you mumble, looking at the slight frustration on his face. “don’t be mad! i really would have told you, and it’s only a four minute walk!”

he nodded and sighed, rubbing his eyes. rafe knew well enough not to doubt people’s faiths, hell he should have been going to service himself. “okay, uh..why?”

“because i believe in God..”

“since when?”

you flush red, casting your eyes downwards. “since i met you, i suppose.”

rafe smiles, slow and spreading across his face when he asks, “what are you on about, baby?”

you purse your lips together in a tight smile. “i prayed to God..that he’d help me when i was with my ex. and you showed up the next day..i didn’t wanna lose that.” you feel almost embarrassed for saying it out loud but rafe starts chuckling, running his hand down his face with a sigh.

“that’s cute, you’re cute. but i would’ve always been there for ya, baby.” he murmurs, grinning when you glare at his defiance of your belief. “lemme drive you from now on, kay? what time is it?”

“i’ve been goin’ at 5..” rafe shoots you a look as if to say he’s not waking up that damn early.

“there’s one at eight too..”

“i’ll take you then.” he glances up at you and the cross you’re fiddling with. “d’you wanna replace that cross with a new one? where’d you even find it?”

“under the couch, barry’s place. and i’m keepin’ it, it’s the one that got me you.” you say defensively, clutching it closer to your chest as you swing your legs up onto the bed.

he snorts, “yeah it’s the one that’s gonna give you some skin infection too.”

[gh0stsp1d3r]

a mini you ୭ ˚. ᵎᵎ.

reader can understand + talk to animals <3

MASTERLIST | KOFI | PART 2

When you first found the cat on the side of the road, it was a poor, tangled ball of fur. You noticed him, hearing his quiet pleas for help.

You leaned down, petting him on the head and cooing, asking what his name was. The cat seemed confused as to how you were communicating with him, but a soft smile made him trust you, nuzzling his head further into your hand. The poor thing was starving, you realized when it let out a quiet noise, telling you that he hadn’t eaten in days.

You picked the cat up, walking over to your door and back into your apartment. He was a rather quiet feline, but he seemed to like you. You ran a bath for him, much to his chagrin, and cleaned him up. You fed him whatever you could find that was fit enough for a cat.

he mostly stuck by you the whole time, it was sweet. He didn’t say much, but he seemed curious about you. He was a Siamese, usually called the most aggressive and territorial cats.

It wasn’t until Logan came home that you realized just how territorial this cat was.

He came home, draped in a large denim jacket, cigar hanging on his lips. He shrugged the jacket off, taking the cigar out his mouth and calling out your name.

You came practically running out to him, wrapping your arms around him, eliciting a chuckle from him. He wrapped his arms around you, a woody scent coming off from him. You pulled away, giving him a kiss, his hands going to slither down to your back.

“Missed me, huh?”

“Mhm.” You nodded, murmuring against his lips. He pulled away suddenly upon hearing a low growl, turning around the room, sniffing for what that noise was.

“Oh! I forgot. C’mere, peanut.” You spoke, his eyebrows furrowing when he saw the ball of brown and white fur come out from behind the couch, his ears pinned back and his fur raised up, hissing at logan.

“Peanut, what’s wrong?” You asked the cat, who let out a low growl. You furrowed your eyebrows.

“He said he just doesn’t like you.”

“Where the fuck did you get him from? The side of the road?” Logan sneered.

“Well… yeah.”

“Oh my god.” He sighed out. “He don’t got… fleas or nothing, right?”

You shook your head, “checked him.”

“Well why the fuck doesn’t he like me? I didn’t do shit to him.”

“Why don’t you like him?” You asked the cat, who let out a hiss again, backing up from Logan who scoffed at the cat.

You had to suppress a laugh when you explained. “He… marked his territory on me.” You let out a quiet laugh, covering your mouth.

“The fuck does that mean?”

“Cats… especially Siamese cats, are territorial about a lot of things. Their house, toys, food, and sometimes owners.” You explained to him with a shrug.

“I’m your boyfriend. I live with you. How the hell do I share a house with a cat that wants to murder me?” He spoke, going into the kitchen for a moment before walking back out with a bottle in his hand.

“He’ll get used to you.” You spoke with a small smile, turning to look at the cat who still had his back raised. You bent down, holding your hand out for it, peanut walking over to you, while still glaring at Logan.

Logan also let out a growl of his own at the cat, and you shook your head at the two, amused.

“You know what he reminds me of?” You asked logan quietly.

“What..?” He grumbled out, popping open a beer bottle while still staring at the cat.

“You. He’s like a mini you.”

“He is not a mini me.” He argued. You turned to him, tilting your head to the side, looking at his tufts of hair and you just giggled.

“Mhm. Be nice, peanut.” You pat his head, standing up and leaning into Logan’s ear.

“He’s a mini you.”

He rolled his eyes, lightly shoving his shoulder and you off of him, you smiling and laughing. Him and the cat stared at each other, logan narrowing his eyes.

“Mini me, my ass.” He murmured out.

Days later, you find the both of them, claws out, pointed at each other. And then you find them staring each other down. Then, once he gets warmed up to Logan, he jumps into your bed, nuzzling his way in between the both of you, making logan jump and glance down, just to find the cat.

You ended up renaming him to logan junior.

[mandoalorian]

the mechanic's girl [mechanic!bucky barnes x f!reader]

Synopsis: When your car breaks down, you pull into Barnes Auto Fix, and encounter Bucky, an older-looking man with a metal arm and a haunted past. As he works on your vehicle, you notice the way his sweat-soaked vest clings to his chisled frame and can't help but let your neediness and desire get the better of you.

Warnings/Rating: 18+ explicit content, no minors, smut, age-gap (reader is in their 20s), dom!bucky, he’s rough and possessive with you & talks you through it, unprotected p in v, m receiving oral, cunnilingus, spanking, biting, choking, allusions to cheating, daddy kink, breeding kink, praise kink, sex-tape, this is just pure filth, also the reader doesn’t have a clue about car stuff lol, she’s not dumb she’s just like me<3

Word count: 3800>

Masterlist

You pushed open the creaky door of Barnes Auto Fix, the bell above jangling weakly as a gust of swelteringly unbearable air followed you inside. The day had been a scorcher, the kind of hot, humid hell that made your clothes cling to your skin like a second layer, sweat beading on your forehead and dripping down your spine. 

The air inside the garage wasn’t much better. It smelled of motor oil and metal, with an undercurrent of gasoline, and the faint hum of an old radio playing a scratchy rock tune filled the space. Your car had sputtered to a stop just a hundred yards down the road, and you’d barely managed to roll it into the gravel lot outside, your thighs sticking to the vinyl seat, leaving you peeling yourself off it with a grimace.

Behind the counter, a man looked up from a greasy engine part he’d been inspecting. His stormy blue eyes locked onto yours with an intensity that made your breath catch, pinning you in place. He was tall, broad-shouldered, with dark hair falling messily over his forehead and a scruff of stubble along his jaw.

His white vest was soaked through with sweat, the fabric clinging to his chest like it had been painted on, outlining every ridge of muscle, every dip and curve of his torso. The humidity had left a sheen on his skin, droplets of sweat rolling down his neck, disappearing beneath the collar of the vest. A faded denim jacket hung open over the vest, and his left arm, shimmering metal from shoulder to fingertips, caught the dim light of the garage. Bucky Barnes, the name stitched on his jacket told you, and the way he looked at you, like a predator sizing up its prey, sent a shiver down your spine despite the heat.

“Car trouble?” he asked, his voice low and rough, carrying an edge of authority that made your stomach flip. He set the engine part down with a deliberate thud, wiping his hands on a rag, his movements slow and controlled. The motion made his biceps flex, and you caught a whiff of him—a heady mix of sweat, motor oil, and something unexpectedly delicious, like cedarwood and leather, a scent that made your mouth water despite the oppressive heat.

You nodded, brushing a strand of sticky, sweat-dampened hair from your face. “Yeah. It just… died. I don’t know what’s wrong. Can you take a look?”

His eyes raked over you, slow and unapologetic, before he gave a sharp nod. “Bring it around front.” The command in his tone left no room for argument, and you found yourself moving to comply, your heart racing as you felt his gaze on you the whole way.

By the time your car was in the garage, the afternoon sun had dipped low, but the humidity hadn’t let up, the air thick and heavy, pressing against your skin like a damp blanket. Bucky popped the hood and got to work, his hands moving with a quiet confidence that spoke of years of experience. You sat on a stool nearby, sipping a lukewarm soda he’d pulled from a mini fridge in the corner, the can slippery with condensation in your hand. The silence between you was heavy, broken only by the clink of tools and the occasional grunt as he worked.

You couldn’t stop watching his hands—those strong, capable hands, one flesh and one metal, as they worked with precision. His fingers, smeared with grease, wrapped around a wrench, tightening a bolt with a deft twist, and you found yourself imagining those hands on you, the way they’d feel, firm and unyielding.

The thought sent a wave of heat through you, pooling low in your belly, and you shifted on the stool, pressing your thighs together to ease the ache. His white vest was practically obscene now, the sweat making it stick to him like a second skin, and every time he leaned over the engine, you caught another whiff of that delicious scent, a mix of hard work and raw masculinity that made your head spin.

“Fuel line’s shot,” he said abruptly, straightening up and wiping his forehead with the back of his hand. More sweat rolled down his temple, catching in the stubble on his jaw, and his vest clung to his chest, the damp fabric outlining his pecs, the faint outline of his nipples visible through the thin material. “I can fix it. But it’s gonna take a while,” He announced, taking a step back from the vehicle, his gaze locking onto you. “You got family? A boyfriend to come pick you up?” 

The way he said it wasn’t a question—it was a statement, or an assumption, even. And the weight of his gaze made it clear he wasn’t waiting for an answer. But regardless, you gave him one. You swallowed hard, nodding. “Okay,” you said, testing the waters. Bucky didn’t shift, his blue eyes like steel, boring into you like you were some sort of spectacle. “Family is on the other side of the country, and no, no boyfriend.”

You hopped onto the edge of the counter, legs swinging beneath you. Bucky’s jaw ticked, but he said nothing and just went back to work. You felt the shift in the air, the way his presence seemed to fill the room, commanding every inch of space. You tried to make small talk, asking about the town, the garage, but his answers were curt, his focus on the car unwavering.

He’d bought the garage a few years back, he said, after getting out of the military. Didn’t like people much. Preferred the quiet.

The hours passed, and you found yourself helping him with small tasks—handing him a wrench, holding a flashlight while he tightened a bolt. His hands brushed yours more than once, the contact leaving a smear of grease on your skin, the warmth of his touch lingering even in the stifling heat, and each time, your breath caught, the intensity of his proximity making your pulse race.

By the time he finished the repair, the storm had arrived, the storm that you both had known was forecasted. Thunder rumbled in the distance, and rain began to fall, a steady patter that quickly turned into a downpour. You stood at the garage door, watching the water stream down the gravel lot, the rain a welcome relief from the oppressive humidity, though it did little to cool the heat simmering beneath your skin. There was no way you were driving in that.

You heard the faucet turn off as Bucky had finished washing his hands, dropping a towel haphazardly by the sink. A signal that the work was complete.

Your eyes were locked onto the brewing storm outside, a flash of lightning making you jump slightly, and you realised you were holding your breath.

“You’re not leaving,” Bucky said, his voice a low growl as he came up behind you, so close you could feel the heat radiating off him. The scent of him hit you again, stronger now, a delicious mix of sweat and cedarwood that made your knees weak, and you noticed his vest was still clinging to him, the damp fabric outlining every inch of his torso in a way that made your mouth water.

You turned to face him, your back against the doorframe, and his eyes were dark, predatory, as they locked onto yours. “I… I guess not,” you managed, your voice trembling under the weight of his stare.

He stepped closer, crowding your space, his broad frame towering over you. “Good,” he said, his voice rough with intent. “Because I’m not done.”

Your heart slammed against your ribs as he reached out, his metal hand gripping your waist, pulling you away from the door and into the garage with a force that made you stumble. He didn’t let you fall—his metal hand caught your arm, steadying you, but there was no gentleness in his touch, only a raw, commanding strength that sent a thrill through you.

“With the car?” You asked, biting your lip incredulously. 

“With you.” He replied, his voice dark like honey. Before you could process what was happening, he had you backed up against the workbench, the edge of it digging into your lower back as he pressed himself against you, his body a wall of heat and muscle.

“Bucky—” you started, but his lips crashed into yours, cutting you off, the kiss hard and demanding, like he was claiming you.

His metal hand stayed on your waist, holding you in place with an iron grip, while his flesh hand tangled in your hair, tugging your head back to deepen the kiss. You gasped against his mouth, your hands grabbing at his shoulders, feeling the slickness of his sweat-soaked vest, the hard planes of muscle beneath it, and he growled low in his throat, the sound vibrating through you.

“You’ve been watching me all day,” he murmured against your lips, his voice a rough rasp as he pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes blazing. “Don’t think I didn’t notice. You want this, don’t you?”

Bucky brought his hand down to his belt, undoing it and unlacing it through the loops of his light-washed, oil-stained jeans. You glanced down, a knot in your throat forming when you noticed his bulge pressing against the denim. 

You nodded, breathless, your body trembling under the intensity of his gaze. “Yes,” you whispered, and that was all he needed.

He lifted you onto the workbench with a roughness that made your breath hitch, his hands gripping your hips hard enough to leave marks as he stepped between your legs, forcing them apart. His lips moved to your neck, his stubble scraping against the sweat-dampened curve of your throat as he bit down lightly, drawing a whimper from you.

“That’s what I thought,” he growled, his hands sliding under your shirt, pushing it up and over your head in one swift motion, leaving you exposed to the humid air and his hungry eyes. “What’s a young thing like yourself doing this far out of the city, alone?”

His metal hand pinned your wrists above your head against the workbench, the coolness of the material a stark contrast to the heat of his body as he pressed himself closer, his hips grinding against yours. 

“Fight with my boyfriend,” you mumbled, ducking your head down as warmth crept across your cheeks. "Needed to get outta there."

“Ah,” Bucky let out an airy chuckle. “You told me you had no boyfriend.”

And yet, he didn’t step back. If anything, he pushed closer to you, his frame towering over you. There was no room for running. No room for escape. 

“I’m going to break up with him.” You announced, your eyes nervously meeting his, anticipating a reaction.

“When did you decide that, doll? When you were watching me hunched over, fixing your car?” He raised a quizzical eyebrow, almost in disbelief. Almost like confusion was masking itself. Was he impressed?

Yes. Yes. You’d watched Bucky working meticulously in the heat, his skilled fingers doing laboured things that your boyfriend wouldn’t have the first clue about. When you didn’t reply, Bucky grazed his teeth over your neck. You gasped, fingers curling around the edge of the workbench. 

“You’re mine now,” Bucky said, his voice low and commanding, and the possessiveness in his tone sent a wave of heat straight to your core. “You ever been fucked by a man as old as me?”

His hand found your neck, his thumb brushing over your jaw as he admired your face. You felt a pool of heat coil into your abdomen. God, you could burst just from the way he looked at you. 

“Just how old are you?” You asked.

Bucky laughed darkly before turning his back on you, like he’d vetoed the question. Fine, he didn’t have to answer, but from the look of him, he had to be mid-40s. You briefly considered the age gap, but ultimately, you were definitely okay with it. 

“I want to remember this,” he said, his voice dripping with dark promise as he reached into a drawer on the workbench and pulled out a small, battered camcorder—the kind that was popular in the late ‘80s, with a clunky lens and a red record button. Your heart skipped a beat, a mix of nerves and excitement flooding through you.

“You’re gonna look so good on camera,” he said, setting the camcorder on a tripod nearby, angling it to capture the two of you against the workbench, the storm outside framing the scene like a gritty, intimate movie. The red light blinked on, and the air felt heavier, the moment charged with a new kind of intensity. You felt exposed under his gaze, under the lens, but the way he looked at you—like he owned you—made you want to give him everything.

He released your wrists, but his hands didn’t stay idle. He tugged at his own vest, peeling the soaked fabric off and tossing it aside, revealing the sweat-slicked expanse of his chest, the dark hair dusting it, the scars that told stories of a hard life. His scent enveloped you completely now—cedarwood, leather, and that delicious musk that made your head spin—and you couldn’t help but lean forward, pressing your lips to his collarbone, tasting the salt of his skin.

He let you, but only for a moment. Then his hands were on you again, rough and insistent, one gripping your thigh to pull you closer, the other tangling in your hair as he tilted your head back, forcing you to look at him. “Not yet,” he growled, his voice a low rumble. “I fixed your fucking car. You’ll do what I want first.”

He kissed you again, hard, his teeth grazing your bottom lip as his hands roamed your body, possessive and unyielding. Then he pulled back, his eyes dark with intent as he pushed you down onto your knees in front of him, the concrete floor rough against your skin.

“Show me how much you want this,” he ordered, his voice rough with desire as he unzipped his jeans and pulled them down to his ankles. 

No fucking underwear. Holy shit.

You looked up at him, your breath coming in short gasps, and the sight of him—towering over you, his chest heaving, his white-hot intensity burning in his gaze—made your pulse race. Your hands trembled as you reached for him, pressing soft kisses along the taut skin of his lower abdomen, feeling the lingering heat of the day on his skin.

He was fucking huge, thick, a distinguised vein running up the base of his cock. You already felt full just from the sight of him, and you suppressed a moan as your core clenched around nothing. His muscles tensed under your touch, and he let out a low groan, his hand resting on the back of your head, guiding you with a firm grip. You parted your mouth, and he nudged himself against your lips, asking, no, begging for entry.

You could barely take half of him before you were gagging, unshed tears glossing over you as you looked up at him with big, doe-like eyes. Obscene sounds filled the room as you sucked, the taste of his sweat and precum leaving a saltiness on your tongue. 

His grip tightened in your hair, a silent command for you to open wider, and you obeyed, your hands and lips working in tandem, drawing out every shudder, every growled curse that fell from his lips.

Eventually, your nose was pressed against his stomach as he’d pushed himself down your throat. The sounds he made—low, guttural, almost feral—sent heat pooling in your core, and you felt a surge of power, even as he dominated the moment, knowing you could affect him like this.

You pulled off him with a wet pop, gasping for air as a string of your saliva connected your lips with his cock. But before you even gave him time to adjust, you were back on him, this time licking a stripe down the underside of him before palming at his balls. He was loaded, and as you took him between your lips again, he made you feel small.

“Agh!— fuck,” he hissed, his hips twitching and bucking into you. 

The camcorder’s red light glowed in the corner of your vision, a silent witness to the way Bucky’s chest heaved, the way his metal hand flexed against the workbench as he braced himself.

Bucky grabbed a fistful of your hair and pulled you off his cock with a groan, not wanting to finish yet. No, not before he had the chance to feel your pussy.

He yanked you back up to your feet, his hands rough on your arms as he spun you around, bending you over the workbench with a force that made you gasp. The edge of the bench dug into your hips, and his metal hand pressed between your shoulder blades, holding you down as he leaned over you, his breath hot against your ear. “You’re so damn perfect like this,” he murmured, his voice a low growl, and the praise, paired with the roughness of his touch, made your knees weak.

Your breath hitched, fingers scrambling to hold onto the edge of the bench as he kicked your legs apart with one boot. You gasped, but he was already behind you, already shoving your skirt up and groaning when he saw you weren’t wearing anything underneath.

“Fuckin’ knew it,” he muttered, large hand smoothing over your ass—before he brought it down with a sharp crack that echoed through the garage.

You cried out, thighs clenching. “Bucky—”

“Say it again.” Another slap. “My name, sweetheart. C’mon.”

“Bucky,” you whined, louder this time, desperate, humiliated, soaking wet.

He chuckled low in his throat, and then he leaned down, biting your shoulder, hard. “You wanna act like a needy little brat, I’ll treat you like one.”

You could barely breathe as his fingers slid between your legs, rough and unrelenting, no teasing this time. “So wet for me already,” he growled, almost to himself. “Bet none of those boys your age ever touched you like this.”

“N-no,” you stammered, rocking back onto his hand.

“That’s right,” he said, dragging his fingers down again, slower this time. “You’re mine now. You get that?”

You nodded, but it wasn’t enough. He grabbed your chin, forcing you to look over your shoulder at him. “Say it.”

“I’m yours.”

He kissed you then—filthy, biting, possessive—his hand still between your legs, the other wrapped around your throat like he couldn’t stand the thought of letting you go.

“Good girl.”

And then he turned you around, lifted you like you weighed nothing, and laid you flat on the bench.

“Now keep those pretty legs open, sweetheart,” he said, undoing his belt with one hand, the clink of it making you shiver. “Daddy’s gonna ruin you.”

Your back hit the cool metal with a clatter, tools shifting around you, but you didn’t care—not with the way he was looking at you. Like he was starved. Like you were the one thing he wasn’t supposed to touch, and he was gonna do it anyway.

“Look at you,” Bucky muttered, tugging your thighs wide open, eyes locked on the mess between your legs. “So fuckin’ wet already and I haven’t even gotten my cock inside you yet.”

You whimpered, hands gripping the bench behind you for balance. “Please—”

His hand came down hard across your inner thigh. Crack.

“Did I tell you to beg, baby?”

“N-no, Daddy,” you whispered, voice breaking.

“That’s right,” he said, dark and smug as he palmed himself, already leaking at the tip. He wrapped a hand around his cock, giving it a few rough strokes, eyes never leaving yours. “You don’t beg unless I say. You take what I give you. And you’re gonna thank me for it, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” you said, breathless, almost crying with need.

"Yes?"

"Yes Daddy." you huffed, correcting yourself.

He didn’t wait any longer—he lined himself up, dragged the head through your slick folds once, twice, and then thrust in with one brutal stroke.

You cried out, head thrown back as he bottomed out inside you.

“Fuck,” he growled, both hands on your hips now, holding you still while he stayed buried deep. “So tight for me, sweetheart. This little pussy’s never gonna be the same.”

He pulled out almost all the way—then slammed back in hard, making the workbench rattle beneath you.

You moaned his name, over and over, each thrust driving it out of you like a prayer. Your legs trembled around his waist, but he just gripped you harder, biting your collarbone and fucking you rougher.

“Take it,” he snarled, one hand slapping your ass while the other squeezed your throat. “Take all of it like a good girl.”

You were already unraveling, eyes glassy, brain gone. Every time his hips slapped against yours it sent sparks shooting up your spine. You couldn’t think. You couldn’t speak.

But he wasn’t done.

He bent over you, pressing his chest to yours, lips brushing your ear. “Gonna fill you up,” he whispered, filth in every syllable. “Gonna fuck my cum into you so deep it’s all you’ll feel for days. That what you want?”

“Yes, Daddy,” you sobbed, clutching at his shoulders.

“Say thank you.”

“Thank you, Daddy—thank you, thank you—”

He kissed you then, deep and messy, swallowing every sound as he fucked you into the workbench like he was trying to break you open. Your name was a growl on his lips as he came, hips jerking, cock twitching inside you while he held you down and moaned against your throat.

The camcorder captured it all—the way his hands roamed your body, the way you arched against him, the way the fluorescent lights flickered above you. It was raw, messy, intense, and as the storm raged on outside, you surrendered to him.

Your legs were shaking.

Your back was sore.

And your thighs were soaked—dripping with his cum, your release, sweat, and something so much filthier it made your cheeks burn.

You barely noticed when Bucky pulled out, cock still hard, chest still heaving like he hadn’t even begun to slow down. He watched you for a second—just stared at the mess he’d made of you, spread out on his workbench like something for him to tinker with.

“Look at you,” he murmured, almost to himself. “So fuckin’ perfect like this.”

You whined softly, trying to close your legs, but his hands shot out—rough and fast—grabbing your knees and keeping you spread. “Ah ah. Don’t hide from me, baby. Let Daddy see what he did.”

You turned your face, embarrassed, only for him to grab your chin and force your gaze back to his. “You wanted this, remember?” he said with a smirk. “You begged for it.”

“I know,” you breathed. “I know—I just—”

“You did so good,” he said suddenly, softer this time, but still wrecked, still growling at the edges. “So fuckin’ good for me. My perfect girl.”

That made your chest flutter.

And then he stepped back, grabbed one of the old, half-clean shop rags from the nearby counter, and started cleaning you up—gentle now, but still firm, still his.

You gasped when the cloth dragged over your thighs, and he grinned.

“Sensitive already?” he teased, kneeling between your legs, his eyes flicking up to yours with that dangerous gleam.

You nodded, lips parted, completely fucked out—but glowing. His gaze dropped back to your thighs, admiring the mess he’d made, before he reached for the rag again and gently finished wiping you down. He was quiet for a moment, almost focused, but the tension hadn’t left him—it just simmered lower now, heavy under the surface.

“You took it so well,” he murmured, tossing the rag aside and smoothing his palms over your thighs. “Didn’t think a pretty little thing like you could handle my cock like that. Guess I underestimated you, huh?”

You huffed out a small laugh, still face-down on the bench, your cheek resting against cool metal. “I could barely walk before. I’m definitely not walking now.”

“Good,” he said, and you could hear the smirk in his voice. “Means I did my job.”

He helped you up carefully, guiding your body until you were wrapped in his arms, your legs slung around his waist as he carried you across the garage, like you weighed nothing. He set you down gently on the old couch tucked in the corner, grabbing his flannel from the hook nearby and draping it over your bare shoulders like it was instinct.

You melted into the warmth and the scent of him, blinking up through your lashes as he sat beside you, one arm resting along the back of the couch, fingers playing with your hair.

“You alright, sweetheart?” he asked, voice low, a little hoarse now. “Wasn’t too much?”

You shook your head instantly, leaning into him. “No. It was perfect.”

His eyes darkened again, like just the memory of having you like that made him want to drag you back onto his lap.

But instead, he leaned in, brushing his lips over your temple. “You ever show up in that little skirt again,” he muttered, voice sinful and teasing, “I’m bending you over the hood of my car next time. Right in front of the open garage door.”

Your whole body reacted—heat flooding your cheeks, thighs clenching.

He chuckled darkly, watching you squirm. “Yeah. That got your attention.”

“Maybe I will,” you said, half-daring.

He looked at you, all rough affection and smouldering hunger, and smiled like a man who knew you were already his.

“Daddy’s not done with you, baby,” he whispered, tugging you closer. “Not even close.”

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔:･

Taglist: @notreallythatlost @houseofaegon @bunnyfella @sunday-bug @wintrsoldrluvr @maryevm @mcira @monsteraddicts-world

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