#i watched a movie while sitting at the table | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

monicfever · 1 day ago

Note

hii, hope you are well! can u write how you imagine that would be the perfect date with dd and the punisher characters?

the perfect date 𝜗𝜚 daredevil & punisher hc’s

r e q u e s t e d ♡

characters used ᝰ .ᐟ matt murdock / frank castle / foggy nelson / karen page / elektra / ben poindexter / billy russo / dinah madani / muse / james wesley

⏜︵ MATT MURDOCK. 𐂯

1. THE QUIET RESTAURANT HE KNOWS BETTER THAN ANYONE. Matt takes you to a tiny, tucked-away spot in Hell’s Kitchen, family-owned, never flashy, not even listed online. He knows the owner personally, probably helped him out with legal trouble years ago. The lighting is low, almost entirely candlelit. Perfect for ambiance. But also perfect for him. You notice he’s relaxed here in a way he rarely is, shoulders down, voice softer. He asks the waiter for your order before you even open your mouth, because you’d told him earlier what you were craving, and of course he remembered.

2. THE ROOFTOP ESCAPE. After dinner, he takes you somewhere higher. It’s not a date with Matt unless it involves a fire escape or some wildly unsafe climb. But when you reach the top, it’s worth it. He’s laid out a blanket, brought your favorite drink in a thermos. There’s no plan. Just the city breathing around you, the air thick with the scent of summer and concrete, and Matt sitting close, knees touching. “I don’t need a view,” he says, turning his head toward you, “but I like hearing your heartbeat when you’re happy.” It’s quiet. Comfortable. And you know he’s listening to everything.

3. THE CHURCH AFTER HOURS. He brings you to the church, not during mass, but late. After hours. It’s dim, echoing, ancient-feeling. There’s something reverent about the way he walks between the pews, his fingertips brushing the wood like he’s grounding himself. He shows you a stained glass panel that used to terrify him as a child, and tells you why. Then he confesses, not sins, just thoughts. Fears. The mess in his head. Being with him is never easy, but here in this half-lit sanctuary, he lets you into the places he usually keeps locked. He touches your hand at the altar, not quite ready to kiss you, but the moment is full of tension and tenderness. Holy in its own way.

4. JAZZ AND WHISKEY AND A LOW CONVERSATION. A late-night bar with live jazz, Josie’s, probably, all soft brass and rasping vocals. He takes you there when he’s tired, emotionally bruised, but still trying. You’re tucked into a booth, close enough for your knees to bump. He listens more than he speaks, but when he does speak, it’s honest and low. He tells you what the music feels like to him, how the trumpet curls around his ribs like smoke. When he drinks, he does it slow, cheap whiskey, because he never liked the expensive stuff. Every date with Matt feels like he’s trying not to fall too hard, and failing anyway.

5. DOMESTIC. A perfect date might not even leave the apartment. He insists on cooking, something simple but good. Pasta with garlic and anchovies, that kind of thing. The whole apartment smells like warmth and oil and spice. He moves fluidly through the kitchen, confident, sleeves rolled, listening to the sizzle in the pan, occasionally bumping into the table and muttering under his breath. Afterward, you eat on the couch, knees up, and he leans into you while some old black-and-white movie plays in the background. He doesn’t really watch it. He listens to you breathing, to the sound of the city through the open window. He says, almost absently, “This feels...normal,” like that’s the most radical thing in the world.

6. HE’S NOT SUPPOSED TO BE OUT. You find out halfway through that he’s injured. He’s trying to hide it, holding your hand a little too tightly, biting his lip when he moves too fast. You call him on it. He sighs, almost laughs, and admits it: yes, he shouldn’t be out, yes, he probably shouldn’t have scaled that wall to get to your place, but “it was worth it.” You help him home instead, and the date becomes you fussing over him on the couch while he finally lets himself relax under your hands. You sit next to him and he leans against you, just enough weight to show trust.

7. THE RAIN DATE. One of his favorites. Not planned at all. You’re walking together when it starts to pour, sheets of rain, drenching and cold. He doesn’t rush. He lives in the weather, lets it fall over him like it’s cleansing. You start to complain but he just laughs, his head tipped back, his face open and joyful in a way you almost never see. You stop under a ledge to dry off, but he pulls you back into it, into the rain, hands on your waist, grinning. And then he kisses you and it’s perfect.

8. THE NIGHT YOU STAY UP TALKING. Not every perfect date ends in kisses or tangled sheets. Some just end with Matt sitting on the floor next to your couch, talking. About cases, about God, about pain and justice and what it means to keep going. He says things in the dark he’d never say in daylight. You see the depth of him, how much he cares, how much he doubts. He reaches up at some point to brush your fingers with his, not asking for anything. Just... there. And when you finally fall asleep beside him, he stays awake a little longer, listening to the quiet. Just to memorize the sound of peace.

⏜︵ FRANK CASTLE. 𐂯

1. THE DINER DATE. He takes you to a diner. Not because it’s romantic, because it’s safe. A place he’s scoped out a hundred times, where he knows the exits, the blind spots, which waitress has a kind smile and which one has a knife in her boot. The booths are cracked vinyl, the lights hum fluorescent and ugly. But Frank’s more relaxed here than anywhere else. He orders black coffee and fries, nothing more. He watches you eat, eyes soft in the corners. He doesn’t talk much. His comfort is in the silence, in the way he pushes the ketchup bottle toward you before you even ask, or reaches out to wipe something off your cheek with his thumb like it’s the most natural thing in the world. No music, no drama. Just the two of you in a space where, for once, no one is dying.

2. THE RANGE DATE. This is his idea of bonding. A dusty shooting range on the edge of nowhere, half-abandoned, no one around for miles. He shows you how to hold the rifle, steady your breathing, find your rhythm. He’s patient, quieter than usual, all focus and heat behind the eyes. When he touches your hands to adjust your grip it’s careful, measured, almost reverent. He watches you line up the shot, then looks at you like you’re the most dangerous and beautiful thing he’s ever seen. Afterward, you sit on the tailgate of his truck drinking lukewarm beer, sun going down, the smell of gunpowder still clinging to your clothes. He doesn’t say much, but he looks at you like you’re his, and that’s enough.

3. THE RAIN CHECK DATE. You make plans. Something simple. He agrees, says “Yeah, okay,” in that gravel voice like maybe he means it. But the day comes and he doesn’t show. Not a call, not a text. Nothing. You’re half-worried, half-pissed. Then, hours later, he’s at your door, soaked to the bone, knuckles split, blood on his shirt. “Had to take care of something,” is all he offers. But his eyes are hollow with guilt, like he knows he let you down. You don’t yell. You just nod, pull him inside, sit him down. Patch him up. The date becomes quiet care, hands in gauze and steam from a kettle, the weight of his head finally sinking onto your shoulder. “Next time,” he says, voice hoarse. “I’ll be there.” And you believe him.

4. THE NIGHT DRIVE. He picks you up without telling you where you’re going. No destination, no plan. Just asphalt and the sound of the engine under his hand. His fingers tap the wheel to some beat in his head, and he drives like he needs it, like speed is the only thing that drowns out the noise. You lean back, windows down, night air biting. He doesn’t speak for a long time, but when he does, it’s low and rough: stories about Texas highways, Afghan nights, the way New York smells different in the summer when it’s about to rain. You end up at a lookout with no name, stars half-swallowed by clouds. He lets you fall asleep in the passenger seat while he keeps watch — always.

5. THE NOT-A-DATE. He tells you outright: “This ain’t a date.” Says it like a warning, like a wall he’s trying to build in midair. You nod. You go anyway. It’s a walk through the woods outside the city, boots crunching on dirt, his eyes scanning the trees like ghosts might emerge. He keeps his distance, except when he doesn’t, reaching out to help you over a fallen log, pressing a hand to your lower back to guide you. You talk about nothing: birds, weather, how quiet it is. And when you pause to look at the sky bleeding pink over the horizon, you catch him staring, not at the sunset, at you. He doesn’t kiss you. But it’s there. In the silence. In the ache. In the way he almost says your name and stops himself.

6. THE GARAGE DATE. It smells like oil, metal, old leather. He’s fixing something, his bike, a truck, some piece of equipment you don’t recognize. You sit on a crate, watching him work. His hands are calloused and sure, black with grease, veins standing out under his skin. You hand him tools, sip a beer, maybe mess with the radio until he mutters, “Not that station.” It’s domestic in the weirdest, most Frank Castle way, like he’s letting you into the parts of his life he doesn’t even think about. He tells you what he’s doing, why that part’s important, what’ll happen if you fuck it up. And when he’s done, he wipes his hands on a rag and says, without looking at you, “You hungry?”

7. THE STAY-IN DATE. He doesn’t want to go out. Not because he’s tired, because he knows someone’s watching. He’s got that look in his eye, the one that says danger is close, too close. So you stay in. The lights stay off. He closes every curtain, double-checks every lock. Then, and only then, does he sit down beside you. You end up on the floor, backs against the wall, eating whatever leftovers you could scrape together. He keeps a gun within reach. His arm stays around you, loose but firm. His eyes scan the windows even when you’re laughing. But when you fall asleep against his chest, his head tips down and rests on yours. You don’t see it, but he smiles, just barely.

⏜︵ FOGGY NELSON. 𐂯

1. THE COFFEE SHOP DATE. It’s raining outside, but not the dramatic cinematic kind, just a constant drizzle that fogs up the windows and makes the world feel small. He picks the shop because he likes the smell of it, because they make the best mochas, because the barista knows his name and asks about Matt. You sit across from each other in mismatched chairs, hands wrapped around hot mugs. Foggy’s talking — rambling, really — about a client, about a podcast he half-listened to, about the squirrel that keeps breaking into his fire escape garden. He makes you laugh in that way that bubbles out of your chest without warning. Halfway through, he reaches over and absentmindedly wipes a coffee smudge off your lip with his thumb, then freezes like oh god was that too much. It wasn’t. It was perfect.

2. THE HOMEMADE DISASTER DATE. Foggy insists on cooking. “It’s foolproof,” he says. It is not. There’s smoke, two emergency trips to the corner store, a moment where you have to Google if shrimp can explode in a microwave. But you’ve never laughed harder. He’s wearing an apron that says Kiss the Cook like a joke, except he kind of means it. When things go fully off the rails he gives up and orders Thai food. You eat it on the couch in your pajamas, surrounded by a kitchen crime scene, and he looks at you like you just walked into his life with sunshine in your pockets. “I like this,” he says. “Even the... uh, fire hazard part.” He means it. Every bit.

3. THE BACKYARD MOVIE DATE. He borrows a projector from a guy at work, drags a sheet up in his tiny backyard, and strings fairy lights with a level of effort that screams please let this work. He sets out snacks, the good kind, not movie theater garbage, but actual baked goods and your favorite drink and popcorn that’s still warm. You lie side by side on an old blanket, watching some classic he swears is a “cultural necessity.” He knows every line. Quotes them under his breath. Occasionally glances at you when he thinks you won’t notice. And when the credits roll, he doesn’t make a move, just looks at you like you’re the whole screen.

4. THE "MEET ME AFTER WORK" DATE. It starts with a text: Meet me after work? I need to see your face before I melt into legal goo. You show up outside the office and he’s already waiting with two coffees and that warm, worn-out smile that says you made it better just by showing up. He’s in his work clothes but the tie’s loosened, the sleeves are rolled, and there’s ink on his fingers from signing too many forms. He doesn’t have a big plan, just wants to walk with you, shoulders brushing, talking about nothing and everything. He keeps slipping into your space, bumping your arm with his just to feel you there.

5. THE DRUNK BAR TRIVIA DATE. Foggy’s not a heavy drinker, but he is a competitive little shit. He signs you two up for bar trivia at the local pub and it’s chaos from the start. He shouts out the answers before you're allowed to, argues with the host over music round rulings, and buys a round of drinks for the table that beats you because “they earned it... somehow.” He’s flushed and laughing, louder than usual, his arm slung around your shoulder as he tells you “We would’ve won if they hadn’t mispronounced Dostoyevsky.” You take a cab home with him leaning into your side, murmuring things like “you’re the best part of my team, you know that?” over and over.

6. THE SICK DAY DATE. You’re sick. It sucks. Foggy shows up anyway. With soup. And cold medicine. And three flavors of cough drops because he didn’t know which you’d want. He stays even when you tell him he doesn’t have to, curls up beside you on the couch, watching terrible daytime TV with surprising enthusiasm. He presses the back of his hand to your forehead, murmurs “you’re burning up, sweetheart.” like he’s in a bad romance novel. He insists on fluffing your pillows. Makes you drink water. Tucks a blanket tighter around you every fifteen minutes. He kisses your temple only once, careful not to catch your flu, and says, “Don’t worry. I’ve survived Matt’s cooking. I’ll survive this.”

7. THE “I MISSED YOU” DATE. Maybe it’s been a bad week. Maybe you’ve both been pulled in too many directions. But when you finally see each other again, he holds on longer than usual. Doesn’t want to talk about the stress or the noise, just wants this. You. Him. Close. It’s a late dinner in a quiet corner of the city, somewhere low-lit and cozy. He can’t stop looking at you. He keeps reaching out, brushing your hand, your wrist, your knee under the table, like he’s checking if you’re real. “Sorry I’ve been MIA,” he says softly, voice scratchy.

⏜︵ KAREN PAGE. 𐂯

1. THE NEWSSTAND DATE. Karen loves a good ritual. Saturday morning, she meets you at the corner newsstand, coffee in hand, hair still a little messy from sleep. You browse the papers, discuss headlines, argue playfully about op-eds. She’s fired up before she even finishes her latte, gesturing with her hands, quoting sources. You don’t always agree and she loves that. She likes that you push back, that you listen. She links her arm through yours as you walk, talking about truth and justice and what people deserve to know. With Karen, conversation is intimacy.

2. THE LATE-NIGHT OFFICE DATE. She’s working late. Again. The newsroom’s empty except for the hum of machines and her voice, low over the phone. You show up with takeout and a tired smile. She lights up the moment she sees you, pulls you into a hug that says thank God you're here. You eat at her desk under flickering fluorescent lights while she vents about deadlines, ethics, and corrupt officials. She’s tired, but she still glows when she talks about the story. And you listen. That’s all she really wants, someone who sees the fire and doesn’t try to put it out.

3. THE SMALL TOWN ESCAPE DATE. You rent a car and get the hell out of the city. She picks the town, somewhere two hours north with a diner and a bookstore and a general store that sells homemade honey. She’s in jeans and sunglasses, one foot on the dashboard, singing along to old music on the radio. She smiles more when you’re not surrounded by tall buildings and ghosts. You stay at a bed and breakfast with a clawfoot tub and peeling wallpaper, and she says it feels like something out of a novel. At night, you share a milkshake in a booth lit by neon, and she says “I could stay here forever.” You know she doesn’t mean it. But she wants to.

4. THE MOVIE NIGHT DATE. Karen loves movies. Not just the good ones, all of them. Bad horror, dusty noirs, rom-coms from the '90s. She wants you to watch everything with her. You lie on the couch with her feet in your lap while she narrates trivia over the credits. Sometimes she laughs too hard. Sometimes she cries too easily. And when the movie ends, she doesn’t rush to turn the lights on. She likes the silence. The stillness. And then the moment passes, and she’s back to arguing about the plot holes.

5. THE SPAGHETTI NIGHT DATE. It’s her night to cook. You show up to a kitchen covered in flour and a playlist from 2003. She says she learned the recipe from her grandmother, but she’s guessing half the measurements. You help her stir the sauce, bumping hips, singing badly. She dances with you in the kitchen, socked feet sliding across tile. The food turns out decent but she insists it’s amazing, and you let her win. After dinner, she’s barefoot on the fire escape, wine glass in hand, talking about her childhood.

6. THE GRAVEYARD DATE. It sounds strange. It is strange. But it’s Karen’s idea. She says she likes places where people remember. You bring flowers, not for anyone you knew, just to leave. She walks with you between headstones, reading names out loud, making up stories about who they were. She tells you about people she’s lost. You don’t interrupt. You just listen. And when she takes your hand in hers, it’s with a quiet sort of gravity, like she’s saying thank you for not looking away.

7. THE GALLERY DATE. She says she doesn’t know much about art. She lies. She leads you through the museum with a soft sort of reverence, stopping at every piece that makes her feel something. She likes the sad ones. The ones that look like bruises and prayers. She says art is just a different kind of journalism, truth you feel instead of read. She stands in front of one painting longer than the others. Doesn’t speak. And you don’t press.

8. THE UNDERCOVER DATE. She pulls you into something half-legal, definitely risky. Says she needs a distraction at a charity gala where someone’s hiding something. She wears red — of course she does — and walks into the room like she owns it. She gives you a fake name to use, just for fun. You dance once, bodies close, her fingers tight around yours. Then she disappears into the crowd, chasing a lead. When it’s over, you walk home under streetlights, hearts racing, laughing like kids. She looks at you and says, “That was fun. We should break the law together more often.”

9. THE “I NEED TO GET OUT OF MY HEAD” DATE. She calls you late. Her voice sounds frayed. “I can’t sleep. Can you come over?” You do. No questions. She’s already at the door when you arrive, hair pulled back, sweater sleeves pushed up. You take a walk, nowhere in particular, just enough movement to keep the thoughts from swallowing her. She talks about guilt like it’s a second skin. You don’t try to fix it. Just walk beside her until she stops shaking. Back at her place, she lets you stay. You fall asleep with her back pressed to your chest, her breathing finally even.

��︵ ELEKTRA. 𐂯

1. THE ROOFTOP TRAINING DATE. She takes you to the rooftop of some forgotten building. No pleasantries, just raw, hard training. She teaches you how to throw a punch, how to fall without breaking, how to move silently. Every movement is precise and brutal, but her eyes never leave yours. When you mess up, she corrects you sharply but with care, like a fire testing steel. Afterwards, you’re both breathing heavy, sweat dripping, and she leans in close enough for you to feel the heat of her breath. “You’re stronger than you think.”

2. THE NIGHT MARKET DATE. The city’s neon blurs around you as Elektra drags you through crowded alleyways, the pulse of the night alive beneath your feet. She knows where to find the best street food, the sharpest knives, the most elusive vendors. You try new flavors, some spicy enough to make your mouth burn, others sweet and sticky. She moves with ease through the crowd, protective and alert, occasionally slipping into a shadow when trouble brews. You catch glimpses of the woman beneath the assassin, alive, curious, fiercely loyal. She brushes a stray lock of hair from your face and smiles, just for a second.

3. THE UNDERGROUND FIGHT CLUB DATE. This is dangerous, even for her. But she wants you to see the world she inhabits, the raw, brutal edges beneath the surface. The air is thick with sweat and tension, the crowd roaring as fists fly. She watches you watch, analyzing every flinch, every tight breath. When the fight ends, she pulls you close, blood on her knuckles and a wild fire in her eyes. “Not bad.”

4. THE MIDNIGHT SWIM DATE. You meet at the edge of a dark river, the moon casting silver across the water. Elektra strips down without hesitation, stepping into the cold like it’s nothing. You follow, shivering, but she’s steady. She swims with powerful strokes, pulling you into the water with a laugh that’s more rare than you thought. Floating on your backs, she points out constellations, voice soft in the night air. There’s no fight, no tension, just the two of you.

5. THE SECRET LIBRARY DATE. She leads you to a hidden library, one filled with ancient texts and dusty scrolls. Elektra isn’t usually one for quiet moments, but here she’s different, patient, almost tender. She pulls books from the shelves, reading aloud passages that resonate with her, stories of warriors, love, betrayal. You sit close, her hand finding yours between the pages, fingers intertwining. She doesn’t say much, but the silence hums with meaning. You realize this is her sanctuary and she’s sharing it with you.

6. THE FIRE ESCAPE ESCAPADE DATE. Spontaneous and reckless, she drags you onto a fire escape under the cover of night. You climb higher than you thought possible, hearts pounding, not just from the climb but from the thrill. At the top the city sprawls beneath you, a chaotic tapestry of lights and sounds. She pulls you close, the danger sharpening every sense.

7. THE RAIN-DRAPED ALLEY DATE. Caught in a sudden downpour, Elektra doesn’t run for cover. Instead she pulls you into a narrow alley, the rain dripping from her hair and skin. She laughs, dark, wild, free, and kisses you hard, rain mixing with the sharpness of the moment. The city blurs around you, thunder rolling distant and low. She’s alive here, unrestrained, the storm matching the tempest inside her.

8. THE KITCHEN DATE. It’s rare. She cooks. Simple things, strong coffee, thick toast, something spicy. The kitchen smells like smoke and pepper. She’s silent mostly, but the way she looks at you while you eat says more than words could.

9. THE ABANDONED WAREHOUSE DATE. She takes you somewhere no one goes. Broken windows, cracked floors, shadows that cling to the walls. It’s eerie, but she moves with purpose, like this place holds secrets only she can read. You talk in whispers, stories unfolding between the dust and decay. When she brushes your hair from your face, it’s a moment of fragile tenderness amid the ruin.

⏜︵ BEN POINDEXTER. 𐂯

1. THE EXACTLY-7:30 DINER DATE. Dex picks you up at 7:15. Not 7:20. Not 7:10. 7:15. He’s already anxious if you’re even slightly late, not because he’s mad, but because he’s wired like a bomb. He takes you to a quiet corner booth in the same old diner he’s been going to since before you met him. Same seat, same waitress, same patty melt and root beer. He’s trying to give you something “normal,” something safe. He’s deeply attentive, a little too still, always watching your face for approval. He doesn’t talk much unless you ask questions, and then he gets so excited to tell you about work or a podcast he’s listening to. He pays in exact change.

2. THE BOWLING DATE (ON A TUESDAY, WHEN IT’S QUIET). He suggests bowling like it’s a joke — “You ever seen me throw a strike?” But it’s not a joke. It’s controlled chaos. He takes you to a run-down alley on a weeknight when it’s mostly empty, just the sound of pins crashing and neon buzzing. He’s ridiculously good (of course), and sometimes people watch. He hates that. He relaxes more when it’s just the two of you. He lets you win once, but only once. He shows you how to line up your throw with intense focus, hands on your waist or shoulders, breath close to your ear. His eyes soften when you laugh. He doesn’t say much but he doesn’t want the night to end.

3. THE BASEBALL GAME DATE. Not a Yankees game. He’s not taking you into that chaos. It’s a minor league game an hour outside the city. Cheap seats, bad nachos, kids running up and down the bleachers. He brings you there because it reminds him of the only time he ever felt okay as a kid. He’s quieter here, calm in a way that makes you want to protect him. He doesn’t hold your hand until the seventh inning, and when he does, he doesn’t let go. He drives you home after and doesn’t kiss you. Just looks at you like he wants to, but doesn’t trust himself.

4. THE ICE SKATING DATE. Indoor rink. Early morning. Practically empty. He tells you he’s bad at it but he’s lying, he’s precise and graceful in a way that feels almost too perfect. He doesn’t go fast. Doesn’t show off. He circles back around you over and over, eyes locked on yours, smiling in that too-wide, too-sharp way. When you slip, he catches you before you hit the ground. He doesn’t let go of your hand for the rest of the session. Later, in the parking lot, he gives you his jacket even though he’s shaking from the cold.

5. THE MOVIE THEATER DATE (ONE THEATER, ONE SCREEN, BACK ROW). He doesn’t like crowds. He doesn’t like noise he can’t control. So he finds a weird little one-screen theater, maybe in Brooklyn, maybe Queens, that plays old films. No big blockbusters. Something quiet. Maybe The Conversation or Zodiac or Double Indemnity. He buys your ticket in advance. You sit in the very back row, far from anyone else. He doesn’t watch the movie as much as he watches you watching it. Afterward, he talks about the sound design and cinematography like he’s been rehearsing it in his head for days.

6. THE “STAY INSIDE AND PLAN EVERYTHING” DATE. You don’t go anywhere. That’s the point. You stay at his place — which is clean, sparse, sterile — and he’s made an itinerary. Literal bullet points. He’s scheduled food, movies, maybe board games. Every part of it screams “please don’t leave me for the chaos in my head.” He’s thought about what snacks you’d like, what blanket to have on hand, what movie you once said you liked in passing. You tease him gently, and he grins, but his hands still shake when you touch them. He’s not doing it for control. He’s doing it because he wants to do it right.

7. THE LATE-NIGHT WALK DATE (WHEN THE CITY IS QUIET ENOUGH). He doesn’t sleep. Not really. So when he texts you at 1:14 AM — “You up?” — and you say yes, he shows up fifteen minutes later with two cups of vending machine coffee. You walk through the quieter parts of the city: the waterfront, the cemetery, the industrial neighborhoods where even the rats are asleep. He opens up more when the world is quiet, tells you things he shouldn’t, things you didn’t want to know, and then goes quiet like he’s ashamed. He sits next to you on a loading dock and says, “I don’t know why you’re still here.” but he doesn’t ask you to leave.

8. THE MUSEUM DATE (OFF-HOURS, PRIVATE TOUR). He somehow arranges a private tour at a museum — maybe he knows a guy, or maybe he just made it happen in a way you don’t want to ask about. It’s late. The lights are low. The whole building is yours. He shows you exhibits he already knows by heart. There’s something reverent about the way he moves through the space, like he’s in a church. He doesn’t touch anything. Doesn’t speak loudly. Just watches you take it all in, like you’re the art.

9. THE GUN RANGE DATE. He asks if you’ve ever shot a gun. You say no. He says, “Wanna try?” The gun range is quiet. Clinical. Controlled. He’s respectful. Painfully careful. He teaches you how to hold the weapon, how to breathe, how to listen. He corrects your stance without touching you unless you say it’s okay. You can tell it matters to him that you feel safe, that he doesn’t scare you. He doesn’t smile much during this date. But afterward, he says, “You were amazing.” And he means it.

10. THE “I DON’T WANT TO SCARE YOU” DATE. There’s no real plan. He just shows up at your door with his hat in his hands, eyes flicking nervously from your face to the floor. “We could just... hang out? If that’s okay?” You watch a show. You eat something simple. He talks a little too fast, like he’s rehearsing what a person should say. And every so often, he stops mid-sentence, panicked, like he’s afraid he’s ruining it. But you tell him he’s not. You tell him it’s enough. You touch his shoulder and he flinches, not from fear, but from how gentle it is. You stay up with him until morning. He lets you.

⏜︵ BILLY RUSSO. 𐂯

1. THE HIGH-END BAR DATE. Billy doesn’t take you to just any place for drinks, it’s a rooftop lounge, sleek and dimly lit, tucked into some hotel only people with business cards know about. He dresses sharp. You do too. He orders for you but asks first, always, and tips like a man with something to prove. Everyone notices him. He notices you. And when you talk, he actually listens. He smiles a lot, but it never quite reaches his eyes until you surprise him, a joke, a memory, something real. That’s when the mask slips, just a little.

2. THE HOTEL ROOM ROOM SERVICE DATE. He books a fancy room. For the view, he says. For the privacy, he means. He’s wearing a robe. You’re wearing his T-shirt. Room service comes in silver trays, overpriced wine in a cooler, everything tailored to your taste because he asked, weeks ago, subtly. You eat in bed. Watch something trashy. He teases you for it but he’s into it too. And when things slow down, when your head’s on his chest, and the city glows through the window, he goes quiet. He doesn’t fall asleep. He stays still, like he doesn’t want to miss this.

3. THE ART GALLERY DATE. Billy doesn’t pretend to be deep, not anymore, but he wants to be around things that are. He takes you to a small gallery opening in some converted warehouse space. Wine in paper cups, artists in black, but he’s oddly comfortable here. He stands behind you while you look at the pieces, hands in his pockets, watching you more than the art. He asks what you see in them. What you feel. When you turn the question back on him, he shrugs, grins — “I see you liking it. That’s enough for me.”

4. THE EARLY MORNING COFFEE DATE. Surprisingly domestic. He’s half-asleep, hoodie and joggers, stubble rough. He meets you at that one corner café with bad music and perfect lattes. You sit outside. He reads the paper. You talk about nonsense. He’s quiet here, less performative, like the armor’s not all the way up yet. When he laughs, it’s real. When he reaches for your hand, it’s not a move. It’s instinct. People pass and glance, and he lets them. He likes being seen with you.

5. THE PRIVATE CLUB DATE. This is when he’s showing off — not for you, but for himself. Some exclusive spot where the host knows his name. He wears cologne sharp enough to sting. He orders the steak rare and the wine expensive. You get the sense this is what he thinks he has to do to keep you. But somewhere between the dessert and the whiskey, he leans in and says something too honest, about his mother, or nightmares, or how quiet it gets at 3 AM. He’ll brush it off right after. But you won’t forget it.

6. THE GYM DATE. You don’t mean to call it a date. But he invites you to train with him — private gym, empty, padded floor. He teaches you to hit pads, how to breathe through a punch, how to move your feet. He’s intense, hyper-focused, eyes tracking everything. You land one solid hit on him and he grins, breathless. “Damn, alright.” he says, and you’ve never seen him look prouder. Afterward, you sit on the mat drinking water, sweat-slick and flushed, and he watches you like he’s never seen you before. Like you could break him if you wanted.

7. THE “I FUCKED UP” DATE. He shows up at your door late. Doesn’t say much. Just looks at you with that tight jaw, that I-ruined-something stare. You let him in. He doesn’t talk for a while. When he does, it’s careful. Too careful. “I don’t want to lie to you.” And he doesn’t. But he doesn’t tell you everything either. He takes you somewhere quiet, a dark little bar or a 24-hour diner, and he tries. Not to impress you. Just to be real.

8. THE CHINATOWN NOODLE SHOP DATE. One of his comfort spots. Loud, cramped, cash only, fluorescent lights and the best dumplings in the city. You sit side by side in a narrow booth, brushing knees under the table. He orders for both of you, fast and fluent. This is a rare look at him relaxed, mouth full, sleeves rolled up, joking about the old lady at the next table who yelled at him once. He eats like he grew up hungry. He glances at you between bites like he’s checking if you still like him. You do. And he knows it.

9. THE “JUST STAY WITH ME” DATE. There’s no plan. Just his penthouse, expensive, sterile, too clean. You bring over takeout. He makes a show of complaining about the movie you picked, but halfway through, his arm’s around you, his chin on your shoulder. His voice is low. His touch is soft. And when the movie ends and the room goes dark, he doesn’t reach for anything else. He just stays there, pressed against you like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded. “You don’t have to go.” he says, like he expects you to. You stay. He sleeps for once. Really sleeps.

⏜︵ DINAH MADANI. 𐂯

1. THE AFTER-WORK BAR DATE (WITH HER GUN STILL ON HER). You meet her at some hole-in-the-wall place, dim lighting, real whiskey, no music loud enough to drown out thinking. She’s already seated when you arrive, sipping something straight, jacket still on. Her shoulder holster is visible for half a second when she shrugs it off. This isn’t romance. It’s decompression. She vents about the bullshit at work, about the way people don’t listen, and you listen. That’s the date. Just you, her, the world pulled down to one booth.

2. THE "JUST GET IN" DRIVE DATE. She texts you: “Come outside.” You do, and she’s already in the car, engine running, hair up, something old playing through the speakers, maybe Fleetwood Mac, maybe Nirvana. She doesn’t say where you’re going. You drive over the bridge, lights cutting across her face, city fading behind you. Eventually you stop at some nothing-town gas station, sit on the hood, drink bottled tea, and talk. Not about work. Not about trauma. Just about old music, books, and what the stars looked like in Kandahar. She tells you something small, something true. She doesn’t want to go home yet. Neither do you.

3. THE MIDDLE-OF-THE-DAY MUSEUM DATE. She takes her lunch break late. Asks if you’re free. You meet at a museum, nothing flashy, maybe the Tenement Museum or the New-York Historical Society. She walks slowly, eyes scanning everything. She reads the plaques. She likes context. She leans in close to tell you things she remembers from her old studies, quotes, statistics, political history. She's sharp, not performative, and when she catches you looking at her instead of the exhibit, she says, “What?” but she’s smiling.

4. THE PERSIAN CAFE DATE. There’s a place she goes that no one at work knows about. Persian food, warm spices, real bread, people who know her order. She takes you there on a Sunday evening when she finally breathes again. She teaches you how to pronounce things right, tells you about her mother’s cooking. She doesn’t talk about Iran often, but here, in the soft light and scent of saffron, she lets herself remember. She eats slowly, laughs quietly, watches you like she’s trying to decide if she can trust how easy this feels.

5. THE “YOU'RE COMING TO THE GYM” DATE. You didn’t plan it. She texts “I’m already here. You coming?” It’s a gritty, old-school boxing gym where everyone knows her name. She wraps your hands. Shows you footwork. She doesn’t go easy on you. She likes that you keep up. The trainer says she’s never brought someone in before. Afterward, you both sit on the bench, dripping sweat, silent for a while.

6. THE TARGET RANGE DATE. She doesn’t ask. She just hands you ear protection and says, “Let’s go.” She keeps it professional at first, posture perfect, grouping tight. But when she sees your hands shake a little, she steps behind you, presses her hand to your back, and says “You’re alright. Just breathe.” That’s the real date: her teaching you calm, control, how to stand steady in the noise. Later, she lets you drive. Keeps her hand on your knee the whole way home.

7. THE “I NEED TO BE OUT OF THE CITY” DATE. She’s not in a good place. She doesn’t say that. She just picks you up and drives north. Into the woods. A lake. A state park. She parks the car and says “Walk with me.” She doesn't talk much until you’re a few miles in, the silence softening her shoulders. She finally exhales. Tells you about the nightmares, the guilt, the job she hates and won’t quit. She throws rocks into the water, jaw tight. You don’t try to fix it. That’s why she brought you. You just walk back beside her, and this time, she takes your hand.

8. THE LAUNDRY NIGHT DATE. Late night. You meet at the 24-hour laundromat near her apartment. She hands you a basket without comment. It’s quiet. Fluorescent. Smells like detergent. You fold shirts while she vents about her idiot boss and the paperwork she wants to set on fire. She lets her hair down, finally, and throws a sock at your face. It's the calmest you’ve ever seen her. At the vending machine, she buys you a bag of M&Ms. Says, “Thanks for being here,” in a voice that makes you forget the night is ordinary.

9. THE FILES-AND-WINE NIGHT DATE. She’s working late. You bring wine. She doesn’t stop working. Not at first. But she lets you read over the files with her, explain what she's tracking. She trusts you enough to let you in, into the mess, the obsession, the dangerous details. At some point she kicks her shoes off and leans back against you on the couch, wine glass in one hand, red ink on her other. “This isn’t exactly romantic.” she mutters. But she doesn’t stop leaning on you. She lets herself fall asleep there. That’s the part she won’t admit means everything.

⏜︵ MUSE. 𐂯

1. THE STOLEN GALLERY NIGHT. He blindfolds you. That’s part of it. Says he wants your “first impression” to be pure. When he takes it off you’re standing in an abandoned building, paint and blood and canvas smeared across the walls like a murder scene curated for aesthetic. It’s quiet. He calls it his “private exhibit.” You don’t recognize the medium. You don’t ask. He waits, head tilted, to see what emotion crosses your face first. Fear? Disgust? Awe? That’s the whole date. He doesn’t touch you. Doesn’t speak much. Just watches you walk through what he made, and decides whether or not he likes how you respond.

2. THE DINNER HE COOKS HIMSELF (BADLY). He shows up at your place. Somehow knows where you live. He says, “Don’t worry, it’s not poisoned. That’d be boring.” He cooks you something and it’s almost childish in its sincerity. Overcooked steak. Under-seasoned vegetables. But he tries. He watches you eat like it’s an experiment. He doesn’t sit. He crouches in a chair like a predator too restless to settle.

3. THE “DO YOU WANT TO SEE IT?” DATE. It’s raining. You’re in his car, some beat-up, anonymous thing with no radio. He drives for hours. Never says where. Finally, you stop in front of a warehouse by the docks. Inside: a tarp. A body under it. Not fresh, but not old either. His voice is soft. Childlike. “I wanted you to see it before the world does. Before I finish it.” He waits for your reaction like a child showing a drawing to a parent. Not for forgiveness. Not for horror. Just… approval. Or not. Either way, you leave different than you came in.

4. THE ROOFTOP SURVEILLANCE DATE. He brings you to a rooftop. There’s no blanket, no wine, no pretense. Just binoculars, police scanners, and an angle on Hell’s Kitchen that sees everything. “This is where I study them,” he says. “Before I decide what they are.” You sit in silence for over an hour. No touching. No conversation. Just him pointing out people. Murmuring what he thinks they are: “That one cheats on his wife. That one embezzles. That one kicks her dog.” You don’t know how he knows. You don’t ask. When you leave, he looks disappointed. “You didn’t ask for anyone’s name.”

5. THE ABANDONED CHURCH DATE. He thinks he’s funny when he calls it “romantic.” The pews are broken. Candles half-melted. A blood-streaked mural covers the altar wall made from oil paint and something thicker. He says he likes the stillness in places like this. “God doesn’t live here anymore. But I do.” He asks you if you ever lied to a priest. If you ever really confessed. He doesn’t touch you, but he invades space without needing to. He stands so close you feel his breath, but never his hands. It’s not intimacy. It’s invasion disguised as worship.

6. THE “MAKE SOMETHING WITH ME” DATE. He lays out supplies in front of you: paints, scrap wood, photographs, razors. “Let’s make something together.” he says, far too gently. You think it’s art. At first. But there are instructions. Rules. Things you can’t do. Things you have to do. He wants your hands dirty. Wants to see how far you’ll go. You don’t know if it’s a real piece or a test.

7. THE QUIET NIGHT IN (WITH THE TV STATIC). You’re in his place. Sparse. Windowless. You sit together on the couch. The TV is on, but it’s static. He says it helps him think. He asks you strange questions: “What’s your earliest memory of cruelty?” “Do you ever feel beautiful when you’re bleeding?” “Would you save a stranger if no one ever knew?” You’re not sure if it’s a conversation or an interrogation. But you answer. Because you want him to see you as something worth keeping.

8. THE “LOOK AT ME” DATE. No movement. No sound. Just the two of you sitting in a locked room, no phones, no distractions. He tells you to look at him. For one hour. Just look. “It’s a study,” he says. “Not of me. Of you.” Your eyes burn. You flinch. You try to speak, he raises one finger. No. When the hour ends, he finally exhales. Says, softly, “People always show you what they are if you look long enough.” You don’t know what he saw in you. But he smiles on the way out.

9. THE HOSPITAL DATE. Not your hospital. Not his. Just a hospital. He takes you to the trauma wing, says he wants to show you where the world bleeds. You sit in the waiting room together, silently watching people come and go, broken arms, crying children, gurneys and blood-slicked sheets. He points at people and says, “Art. Art. Not art. Waste.” You don’t speak. You don’t stop him. He watches your reactions more than he watches the people. You realize you’re the exhibit. You always were.

⏜︵ JAMES WESLEY. 𐂯

1. THE RESERVATION-NOBODY-ELSE-COULD-GET DATE. It’s not a loud place. It’s not on TikTok. There are no influencers here. Just real food, flawless lighting, and waiters who already know your name when you walk in. Wesley opens every door for you. He orders something elegant, but not flashy. He watches you across the table, totally present. When he touches your hand, it’s deliberate, thumb brushing your knuckles, grounding you both in that moment. He never talks too much, but he always listens. And if anyone bothers you? He doesn’t make a scene. He makes a call. You never see that person again.

2. THE OPERA DATE (YES, REALLY). He has box seats. Of course he does. He doesn’t go often, but when he does, it’s always for someone else. He brings you because he wants you to experience it, the elegance, the gravitas, the control of a story told through discipline and volume. You dress up. He looks devastating in a dark suit. During the performance, he barely moves. He knows every cue. Afterward you talk about it in low tones over a neat drink, and when you say something insightful about the second aria, he smiles with quiet pride. He doesn’t say “I love you.” He says “That’s why I brought you.”

3. THE LATE-NIGHT WALK WITH A DRIVER 30 FEET BACK. He doesn’t like chaos. But he likes walking with you. Only after dark, only when the city’s quiet and his security team has already cleared the area. There’s a black car idling half a block back. He pretends not to notice it, because this is his version of vulnerability. He walks close to you, always on the side facing the street, always watching the windows above. Once in a while, he’ll pause and say something completely sincere, like “You have an extraordinary way of noticing things.” You don’t know what he means by that. But it matters.

4. THE “I CLEARED MY SCHEDULE FOR THIS” DATE. It’s 3:00 PM on a weekday. He never takes time off. Ever. But today, he sends a car to pick you up and meet him at an art gallery, small, quiet, completely empty. He booked it out. Just for you. You walk the space alone. He doesn’t pretend to know art. He just watches you respond to it. You talk. You teach him things. He smiles more than usual, eyes sharp, body calm. And when you get to the final piece, he says, “I knew you’d like this one.” Because he already walked the entire exhibit yesterday to make sure.

5. THE WESLEY-COOKS DINNER DATE. Yes. He can cook. He’s not flashy about it. Just careful. Exact. Everything timed perfectly, risotto stirred like a ritual, steak seared with the same focus he uses to arrange hits. The kitchen is spotless. He hands you a glass of wine while you sit at the counter and watch him work. Dinner is candlelit not because he’s trying to be romantic but because he knows soft lighting makes you feel safer. Afterward he cleans up while you’re still finishing dessert. There’s jazz playing.

6. THE LIBRARY DATE. He tells you to meet him in a library. Not a big one — a private, old, dusty place with windows that catch the light just right. You sit across from each other at a long table, reading separate things, occasionally sharing lines that make you smile. He reads slowly. He likes holding the spine of a book in his hands, something about the weight of it, the control. He likes watching your face when you get to a good part. He doesn’t interrupt.

7. THE CLASSIC MOVIE THEATER DATE. He finds a theater that plays black-and-white films, original reels, organ music before the opening credits. You get popcorn in a red-and-white striped bag. The seats creak when you sit down. He’s watched this film a hundred times, probably. But he watches you watching it. When you whisper something about the scene — a little detail, a line of dialogue — he turns to you, and says, “Exactly.” He walks you home after. Doesn’t try anything. Just walks beside you in the cold, hands in his pockets, the streetlight throwing his shadow long behind him.

8. THE “EVERYTHING IS ALREADY HANDLED” DATE. You mention offhand that you’ve been stressed lately. Too much on your plate. Too many little things slipping. You don’t even ask for help. But the next weekend, he picks you up and drives you to a small house outside the city, someone’s guest home, fully stocked, fridge filled, phone off. You ask how he arranged it. He just says, “I thought you’d like some silence.” You spend the day reading, walking the grounds, sitting near the fireplace. It’s the kind of calm that feels orchestrated. Because it was. Because he saw what you needed before you knew you needed it.

9. THE CLEANED-UP-DISASTER DATE. You’re having a bad night. You call him. That’s the entire date. He shows up at your door in under fifteen minutes. Says nothing at first, just lets you talk. Or cry. Or sit in silence. Then he asks if you’ve eaten. You haven’t. So he orders something simple. No questions, no judgments. You fall asleep on the couch. When you wake up, the food’s been put away, the lights are off, and he’s still there. Reading quietly in a chair near the window. He doesn’t sleep. Not when you might need him.

10. THE “NO ONE KNOWS ABOUT THIS” DATE. It’s a bar with no sign. No windows. The owner recognizes him and waves you both in. There’s jazz playing on vinyl. Maybe five people inside, tops. He takes you to the corner booth. No one watches you here. He’s different tonight. Looser. Warmer. He lets his fingers linger on yours when he sets his drink down. He tells you stories that never make it into case files. Things about his childhood. About loyalty. About what people really are when you take the masks off. He never talks this way to anyone else. You know that. And he knows you’ll never tell.

started 5.20.2025. finished 7.15.2025.

( masterlist. )

©️ monicfever 2025

88 notes · View notes

peasack · 9 hours ago

Note

hiiiii love your work so muchhhh can you maybe write thunderbolts x platonic teen reader and how they would react to reader being kidnapped

OMGGGGGJAOAOWJWNDBEBHE

I LOVE THIS AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

Thunderbolts x Gn!Teen!Reader

✦Thunderbolts Reacting To You Getting Kidnapped Headcanons ✦

�� ࣪ ˖༺ ♡ ༻˖ ࣪ ∗∗ ࣪ ˖༺ ♡ ༻˖ ࣪ ∗∗ ࣪ ˖༺ ♡ ༻˖ ࣪ ∗

✦ John Walker

Instantly takes control of the situation, barking orders before Val even finishes telling them what happened.

Has zero patience for whoever’s behind it. Like, full-on snapping jaw, clenched fists, "Tell me where they are, now" energy.

He blames himself. Quietly. Thinks he should’ve protected you better. Will not talk about it, but he’s tenser than a live wire.

Once you're back, he doesn’t lecture, he just stays. He’ll hover around without saying much, always keeping you in his sight.

✦ Bucky Barnes

Goes full Winter Soldier mode in silence. No words, just gears turning.

It hits something deep. Flashbacks of all the Hydra years, the cages, the helplessness. He can't let you go through what he did.

Tracks you down without sleep. If someone’s in his way, they’re not breathing long.

When you’re safe again, he’s extra careful with you. Softer. He gives you space, but when you lean against him, he stays put until you fall asleep.

✦ Alexei Shostakov

Thinks it's a joke for two seconds. Then realizes you’re actually gone, and his entire mood shatters.

Storms around yelling about “cowards who take children,” throwing furniture while Ava keeps him from accidentally punching a wall into dust.

He’s angry, but the second he finds out you were scared, it crushes him. He hugs you too hard when you’re safe again.

Tries to cheer you up with stupid stories and knock-off superhero metaphors. You still end up laughing by accident.

✦ Ava Starr

Dead quiet when she hears. Face blank. Voice flat. Which means she’s absolutely furious.

Uses her powers to phase in and out of places like a ghost until she finds a trail.

Doesn’t believe in “taking it slow”, will literally teleport into someone's face mid-interrogation.

Once you're safe, she sits nearby, cleaning blood off her hands with that calm, “I’m fine” look. You both know neither of you are, but at least now you're together.

✦ Bob Reynolds

Dissosiated when he hears the news. Doesn’t say a word.

The moment he processes it, he just vanishes. Poofgone. Sentry-mode. The others won’t even know where he went until someone starts screaming for mercy three towns over.

He’s terrified of what he might do in the process. But he’s more terrified of not finding you.

When he sees you again? He just kneels in front of you, eyes glassy, and says quietly, “You’re okay. You’re okay.”

✦ Yelena Belova

Full-on rage. Puts a knife through a table without blinking. Hates that it happened on her watch.

She thinks tactically, starts chasing tech leads, dark web chatter, and gear she stashed from her Widow days.

Doesn't rest until you’re safe. And once you are? She makes you soup. Like, aggressively. “Eat. You are skinny and traumatized.”

Also forces you into a silly movie night. Forces. It's the way she handles fear, distraction and cuddly blankets.

∗ ࣪ ˖༺ ♡ ༻˖ ࣪ ∗∗ ࣪ ˖༺ ♡ ༻˖ ࣪ ∗∗ ࣪ ˖༺ ♡ ༻˖ ࣪ ∗

Thank you SO MUCHHHHH for letting me write this it was so fun and really brought me back to my 2020 YN marvel phase

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captain-spooks-ahoy · 23 hours ago

Text

From heart to ink (Xavier x non-mc!reader)

⋆˙⟡🪶─ .✦📜⊹₊ ݁. 𓂃🖊

(Part one)

Long Summary; You thought for sure that your penpal had either dropped off the face of the earth after you confessed your undying love to him or just decided to stop responding. You waited hours.. then right as you were about to leave.. he still hadn’t shown up. So you head home, the rain drenching your clothes.. you were sure he didn’t feel the same. You’d lost your only real friend to stupid feelings- whats that sound?

Pairings; lads Xavier x non-mc!reader

Note; takes place in a irl au, basically he’s from china (where the game is originally made) so I thought that if the reader is from America and Xavier is from china it’d make more sense?? Idk anyways this is on the longer side, multiple parts, and is kind of self indulgent, enjoy!! -🦈

I kind of experimented with my writing on this one, so if you see things like em dashes, etc etc that’s why lol. -🦈

⋆˙⟡🪶─ .✦📜⊹₊ ݁. 𓂃🖊

You had been in elementary school, you didn’t have many friends and often times you sat alone during activities. Your sweet teacher had tried to get you to talk to the other students but you simply didn’t want to. Opting to instead color, write, and play with the paper dolls you’d make in art class. Then she had a miraculous idea. Sitting down during recess with you she spoke softly “sweetie, do you like writing?” You nodded with big eyes looking up from your coloring sheet. She smiled softly at you, “would you like to write to a friend? You can write to them and they’ll write back, it’s called a penpal” you chewed on the inside of your cheek, thinking. A penpal? You thought for a moment more before you nodded with a smile “yeah!” Your teacher had felt like she’d finally won. That day she sent you home with a pamphlet with a note for your parents to read through.

You sat at the dinner table eating your macaroni and cheese. Then you remembered the pamphlet. “Mama! Can I go grab the packet miss john wanted me to give you?!” You say with way more energy than your parents had ever seen you exert. You mom nodded softly “go grab it then come back to finish your food bunbun” you quickly got up and ran to the coffee table in the living room. You grabbed the packet and note paper, rushing back to the dining room where you half slipped on the tile floor. Your mother took the pamphlet while motioning you to sit back down to finish your food. You took bites of food nervously while watching your mom’s brows furrow while she read the papers. Then she had a look that screamed ‘oh okay.. that seems fine’ she looked to your father who was watching her silently. “What’s it for?” He asked before taking another bite of food. You chewed on the inside of your cheek, your mother explaining to your father what it was. After she was done speaking, your father looked to you “you want to write to someone? A kid your age in another country?” You nodded quickly, “yes sir, miss john told me I’d get to make a friend! And that I’d uhm.. get to write..” you felt sheepish, your father had that look in his eye. The one that meant he was thinking really hard, he took a sip of his water before speaking “I see no harm in it, so long as my little girl is happy” you jumped up as fast as your little legs could and hugged your father tightly, then ran to your mother to hug her as well. You were beyond excited to have a new friend.

⋆˙⟡🪶─ .✦📜⊹₊ ݁. 𓂃🖊

The first letter to arrive, arrived on a stormy day. It was summer now, while other kids your age would run around the parks and neighborhoods with their friends. You tagged along with your mom and dad to work, your mother worked as a nurse while your dad was a mechanic. But on days you didn’t, you would be spending the day with your dog Jack. You’d named him after your mother’s favorite character “Jack” off of a movie called midnight. You saw the mailman put the mail into the box and you quickly ran outside, not caring that it was raining. “Oh- do you live here lil lady?” The mailman asked softly. You nodded “yes sir! I came to get the mail! I’ll take it!” You say holding your hands out. The man chuckled softly, handing the mail to you. You rushed back inside as fast as your little feet could take you before putting all the mail on the coffee table. You looked through it before you finally found a letter addressed to you.

You opened it gently, the envelope was white with this pretty drawing on the back of the moon and stars. It was most definitely drawn with crayon. You took out the piece of notebook paper and couldn’t help the smile your ten year old face held as you read.

“Dear penpal.

My name is Xavier Sterling, I am eleven years old. My mom told me that you’re from America, I’m from china! My favorite food is beef hotpot! My favorite color is yellow! And I take fencing classes! I hope we can be good friends!

Sincerely Xavier Sterling”

It was short and sweet. You couldn’t help the excitement you had, he even wrote in English? You’d be sure to ask your mom and dad if you can learn Chinese to better talk to Xavier.

⋆˙⟡🪶─ .✦📜⊹₊ ݁. 𓂃🖊

You had been writing back and forth to Xavier for going on four years now. You were in eighth grade now and getting ready for the bigs tests for this year. The ones that determined if you passed your classes or not. You were studying hard in your room, when your mom walked in letter in hand. “You’ve got another letter from Xavier bunbun” your mom sat the letter on your desk. Then you noticed she was holding a small box. “What’s that mama?” You ask taking the letter and sitting it ontop of your notebook. Your mom smiled softly “your penpal sent you a gift I think. Remember not to study too hard and to get some rest okay?” She ruffled your hair then kissed the same spot. You groaned as you fixed your hair.

Once your mom had left the room, you quickly opened the letter. Iconically Xavier had done another cute space themed doodle on the back of the envelope. You opened it to see it was almost a two page letter, probably the longest one you’d received from him.

“Dear (name)

The last letter you sent was hilarious, your cousin really landed face first into his birthday cake? I wish I could have seen that in person, I assume it would be so much funnier. I’ve been doing pretty good with school this year, I have faith that I’ll pass easy. I’m not so sure about my friends though, it seems they’ve all forgotten to study. When I study I like to have a paper to doodle on while reading so I can pay attention better! I think you should try it!! Also, happy four year anniversary!!! Or well early four year anniversary! I know it’s not for another two weeks but I’m happy that we’ve been friends this long! I think I still have the first letter you sent in Chinese, I remember how I had to decipher some words like they were gibberish, it’s still so funny thinking about it! I will say your Chinese has definitely improved! I can’t wait until I get to hear you speak in person!

One of my friends, mc, found your letters in my room and got really upset. I don’t know why, I explained to her that we’ve been penpals and best friends for four years now. She just kept saying “she’s not a real friend though” but that just isn’t true. You’ve listened to be talk about some stuff that I’ve never told anyone before. You’ve told me things no one knows either, I’ve been there for all the milestones! Of course not in person but in spirit! I think she’s just upset that I have other friends besides her. Not sure why she’d be upset about that, but honestly you’re my favorite. You even hang my letters up on your wall! I have yours on my bookshelf in order from the first to the latest. Anyways, I wish you tons of luck on your exams! I sent you a gift as well, I hope it helps with your studying!!

-sincerely, Xavier”

You smiled widely at the letter, he was the sweetest guy you’d ever known. You look to the box, you gently folded the letter back up—placing it into the envelope—then putting it off to the side. You took the small box into your hands, when you opened it you found soft yellow and your favorite color tissue paper. “How cute..” you mumbled, a small blush appearing on your face. You pulled the tissue paper out to find something soft. You pulled it out to find it was a cardigan. Way too big to be one that’s fit you.. was this Xavier’s? You noticed on the inside of the collar that it had his initials stitched into it. Your face was red hot by now. There were more things inside the box, you pulled them out one by one. First was a note card, then a yellow mp3 player—with the charger—a few Chinese candies, and a really nice mechanical pencil that was paired with a cute eraser and extra led.

You picked the notecard up “you mentioned you don’t have any soft sweaters or cardigans, so I thought you’d like one of mine. I also thought you’d like to listen to something while studying and I thought this mechanical pencil was really cute and something you’d use often!” You couldn’t help but smile, your heart beating quickly. You put the cardigan on, it was comfy and a bit oversized—you enjoyed the softness regardless—you grabbed a pair of earbuds plugging them into the mp3player.

When you turned it on, it already had a playlist titled “play me :)”—you clicked on it— when it started playing you heard Xavier’s voice. “This is a first recording my voice for anyone.. but I thought you’d like to listen to something nice while studying..” he went on to read one of your favorite stories. He read it in Chinese of course but you couldn’t help but swoon. You never felt like this before for anyone.. let alone a boy. You listened to him read for awhile—eventually finding out he had been learning how to play the guitar— you listened to him sing softly the words to one of your favorite songs “iris” by the googoos. You couldn’t help but kick your feet in excitement. You couldn’t wait to write back to him, but first you needed to finish up studying.

⋆˙⟡🪶─ .✦📜⊹₊ ݁. 𓂃🖊

You wrote back to Xavier, as well as making up a small present for him. You remember him mentioning in a letter that he wishes he had a bracelet or something to fiddle with when nervous, and how he wanted to listen to music that you liked. So you took a few hours over your weekend—to break from studying—so you could make him a bracelet. A cute one that was made from string in your favorite colors. You added a yellow beads to either of the ends that hung down. You then set off to your dad’s computer to download music onto an as card. You had sent him a mp3 player similar to the one he’d sent you awhile back with some songs you loved. You created a playlist of more songs you loved, you even recorded yourself reading one of Xavier’s favorite books.

You were so engrossed with reading aloud you didn’t notice that both your mom and dad were watching with big smiles. Snapping a few pictures to keep for themselves of their daughter reading.

After you finished up with everything you sat down to write a little note for him to put in the box.

“Dear Xavier

Thank you for the wonderful gifts! The cardigan is super soft and I’ll definitely wear it often, i was surprised to hear your voice! It’s very nice to listen too, I think your singing is wonderful! I hope you enjoy the music I sent! As well as the other gift!

Sincerely (name)”

You quickly put everything inside the box—it felt empty— you decided you would gift him something else as well. You thought long and hard about it until you remembered he had said he didn’t have the cute collectible keychains in his country. They were these cute animal themed keychains that were dressed in fruits. You gave him the cute rabbit themed one, wrapping it in the same tissue paper he sent in his box.

You were sure he’d like the gifts you would send to him, especially since it was almost the four year anniversary of you two becoming penpals! Of course you had friends now—all of which knew of Xavier—but non of them compare to him. His letters have this weird calming effect that entice you to reread them when bored, sad, happy, all the time. You carry a little copy of your favorite letter from him. He was talking about the trip he took to the zoo and how the little rabbits at the petting zoo part were his favorite. You’re friends often asked why you never exchanged phone numbers or some kind of socials, but you just enjoyed writing letters. It was this sort of need to be able to get home, and write a letter to your best friend. Who were they to tell you that you should at least know what he looks like? You were just glad to have a friend you could rely on. Even if it be through words written on paper and little gifts sent back and forth.

⋆˙⟡🪶─ .✦📜⊹₊ ݁. 𓂃🖊

That’s the end of chapter one :P I hope you enjoyed it as much as I enjoyed writing it :> I’ll be working on the next chapter.

Side note, the first few chapters will go through pretty slow, they’ll be about the growing bond between reader and Xavier. How their letters evolve from just simple friendly words to deeper meanings, poetry shared and gifts given stuff like that. :P -🦈

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x-prettyboy-x · 2 days ago

Note

Can we have a fanfic of Erik with a goth girlfriend, maybe? The two stay inside together and just have a comfy day with each other.

Beautiful Darkness

You absolutely can🫶🏻 but be warned I know nothing about the goth scene, Ive always just been a emo/alternative person so forgive me if its not 100% accurate. Also this is short as fuck, my apologies, my lack of creativity really failed me on this one

Pairing: Erik Campbell x Goth!Fem Reader

Contents: You and Erik arguing over what movie to watch, Erik loving to watch you do your makeup.

Warnings: Mentions of violence, but its in a movie, and its grave encounters so.. yay Alex Wright🎉

Wc; 772

Masterlist

Erik had been dumbfounded the first time you walked into the tattoo shop, dark over exaggerated eyeliner, and a black lip over a paper white base. All black in a leather corset and lace skirts, platformed boots to match.

You'd had to repeat yourself when he didn't hear you the first time, the man just dumbfounded by the wonder that was.. you.

"I'm sorry.. what?" He'd asked softly, you smiled.

"I was hoping to get my tongue pierced?".

He had quickly apologized and fumbled for the paper work, handing it over to you with shaky hands.

That was a little over a year ago, and several piercings and tattoos(that definitely weren't just an excuse to see him) later, and a few dates, you guys had made things official. And you both couldn't be happier.

Erik had fallen into the routine for when you guys were gonna go out, he'd get ready in 10 minutes then sit with you for 30 minutes to an hour while you applied your makeup and tried to decide on an outfit.

Not that he minded, he loved watching the process. He'd even let you put eyeliner on him once or twice, staring up at you while you sit in his lap focused on your craft while he held you close with his hands on your waist.

And he had more photos in his phone of you doing your makeup than he could count.

But today, neither of you felt like doing much of anything. So that's how you ended up here, sitting on the couch with snacks thrown about the coffee table while you argued over what movie to watch,

"Like I said, scream! It fits perfectly with what we both wanna watch!"

"Baby.. we watch Scream like once a week. I love Billy Loomis as much as the next guy, but cmon. Grave Encounters 2 would be perfect!"

You scoffed and rolled your eyes, "No! I hate that movie, Alex is a prick and the entire movie is so shit."

Erik put a hand over his chest as if you had just cursed his entire family line with that one sentence.

"You take that back! That movie is a master piece and Alex is a visionary, he can be a prick if he wants."

Eriks movie pick ultimately won, Erik arguing it was only fair since you've made him watch Scream at least 25 times, and you've only watched Grave Encounters once.

Erik was sat back against the couch, one arm laid across the back of the couch and the other playing with your hair where your head laid in his lap.

"See? This is what I'm talking about. All his friends are begging to leave and he's more worried about being in debt because of those stupid cameras." You complained, already beyond annoyed.

"Well yeah? I wouldnt wanna be in debt for that shit either." Erik tried to defend his beloved character, but it just earned him a quiet laugh.

"I hate to break it to you baby, but he's already deep in debt. He's a college student."

Erik rolled his eyes and playfully covered your mouth.

"Shh.. Just watch the movie."

It only took another 30 minutes before you were completely over it, bringing your entire makeup bag into the living room and sitting on the floor to do your makeup while he finished his movie.

You glanced up at the screen just as you finished the white base for your makeup, seeing Alex's final descent into madness as he beat his girlfriend to death with his camera.

You hummed under your breath and focused on your mirror again, starting your eyeliner.

"I damn sure wouldn't have stood there while you talked about killing me, that girl is beyond dumb."

Erik sighed in defeat, pulling his attention away from the tv screen to look at you with a small smile.

"Alright, fine. I'll give you that, she is dumb. But that kill shot was bad ass, you gotta give me that at least."

"Yeah, that might have been the best scene of the entire movie. That and his little.. 'Theres nothing there' with that smirk at the end. He kinda looks like you when he does that."

"Oh fuck off, he does not. You're just saying that to make me happy." Erik laughed, watching intently as you finished your eyeliner on one eye.

"No, I'm serious. He has the same eye color as you, and when he smirks? That's all you, baby."

"And here I thought you hated Alex."

"Hey, I said he was a prick. I did not say he was bad looking."

#emson writes♡#emsons asks♡#erik campbell x reader #erik campbell #final destination bloodlines #final destination #richard harmon #final destination franchise

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thatssomegoodsoup · 2 days ago

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STU MACHER x READER x BILLY LOOMIS HCs

CONTENT WARNING: kinks mentioned

In this AU, the two survived, and y'all are all in college

Billy is the main planner in the relationship

Billy gets jealous easily (not between the three of you)

Stu LOVES teasing you both

They both think you look pretty / handsome in whatever you wear

You all have horror movie marathons and go to the theaters to watch whatever new horror movie is coming out (you're professional horror movie critics atp)

Their kinks include cat-mouse chases (where they dress up as ghostface and try to catch you), knifeplay, sadism, and bloodplay

^ Stu is a switch and Billy is a top

Billy and Stu were dating before they met reader, and the two decided that they'd try an open relationship

Billy is bisexual with a preference for women and Stu is omnisexual (sexually attracted to all genders) homoromantic (romantically attracted to men), I'd say

Stu has a higher sex drive than Billy

Stu is chaotically unhinged, and Billy is very calm and charming, I'll let the reader decide who's energy they're matching or if they're bringing a whole new energy to the table

Billy does most of the financial stuff (taxes, bills, etc.), Stu does the cleaning and laundry, and reader does the other chores (cooking, helping Stu with the cleaning). (divide and conquer lol)

Woodsboro is in California, and since LGBT was accepted in the late 90s/early 2000s in the state at that time (I think; I could be wrong), Stu's parents would accept y'all. Billy's father wouldn't accept your relationship, but his mother would be tolerant

Your relationship is triangular, you all love each other equally

Stu is supportive of your hobbies and would love to join in on whatever you do (he likes learning)! Billy would be the equivalent of a little kid standing in the doorway watching a soap opera on tv and constantly saying that they don't like the show when their parents ask them to sit down to watch with them.

^ If you're a baker, Stu will ask to lick the spoon. Oh and he will start food fights.

Stu has most of the money, as his parents are rich af.

^ He will treat you both with expensive gifts and shopping sprees, only occasionally though. He may be unhinged and unpredictable BUT he is responsible.

Stu is the small spoon and Billy is the big spoon, meaning reader would end up in the middle (or Stu, depending on his mood lol)

Stu is more cuddly and affectionate than Billy is

You three live in a big lakehouse or in a big house in a rich neighborhood (you choose!) provided by Stu's parents

Stu would love any pets you have! Billy acts like he could care less about your pets, but he is affectionate towards them ("dad and the dog" meme coded).

You three sleep in a big Californian king bed, although you do have two guest rooms for when you're mad at each other OR want some alone time. (or whenever your AC breaks in the summer, from what I've heard, California heat is terrible) (you do rock paper scissors to see who gets the big bed to themselves)

The safest place to be during a break in is with your two boyfriends (god help anyone who breaks into your house looking for money)

I feel like y'all would stay unmarried (polygamy is illegal in the US) and wouldn't let anyone else into the relationship (I think its called polyfidelity?)

You have a bucket full of little pieces of paper with date ideas (written by everyone ofc) for when you three can't decide what to do for a date

Billy is terrible at communicating his feelings (in general, he does communicate, he's just really blunt and not specific on what's bothering him), while Stu is really emotional and theatric.

The house is decorated with a bunch of things Stu impulsively bought (look at that man and tell me he wouldn't impulsively buy a dog statue)

Billy and Stu love anything you get them

Billy is really prideful and will defend you and Stu if you get insulted

Stu makes morbid compliments, sometimes

In an emergency, Billy is the one contacted, as Billy is the only one who can drive (if you can drive, than you are also an emergency contact)

They're not as active as ghostface killers anymore (minus Billy, he is good at hiding bodies)

Y'all laugh at all the ghostface copycats that have popped up over the years

A/N: I did a lot of research on polyam relationships to make this, so I hope I wrote it right!

Credit for divider: @sister-lucifer

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innjeong · 20 hours ago

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ᵃ ᵇᵃᵇʸ ᵒⁿ ᵗʰᵉ ʷᵃʸ…

────୨ৎ─────

𐙚 pairing: ot4(Bangchan, Lee know,Changbin,Hyunjin) x fem!reader

part 2 ! This is already the second part, if you want to go to part 1 which has the other members

ᵖˡᵒᵗ: ᴬᶠᵗᵉʳ ᵃ ˡᵒⁿᵍ ᵗⁱᵐᵉ ᵗʳʸⁱⁿᵍ ᵗᵒ ᵍᵉᵗ ᵖʳᵉᵍⁿᵃⁿ,ʸᵒᵘ ᶠⁱⁿᵃˡˡʸ ˢᵘᶜᶜᵉᵉᵈ, ᵃⁿᵈ ᵈᵉᶜⁱᵈᵉ ᵗᵒ ᵗᵉˡˡ ʸᵒᵘʳ ʰᵘˢᵇᵃⁿᵈ.

word count: about 760

It has a cute and romantic theme! English is not my first language, so I apologize if anything is spelled wrong..

The list of tags and requests are open, feel free to ask! please comment something or repost, I will be very gratefu

have a good read 🌸

.CHRISTOPHER BANGCHAN. 🐺

You waited for him to come home from the studio. You were nervous, the positive test hidden in the little box he gave you for your first anniversary—the one with thenridiculous but cute. When Chan walks in, backpack slung over his shoulder, his forehead sweaty and tired, everything seems in slow motion. He takes off his shoes and sets them in the corner, gives you a distracted kiss, and asks, "Are you okay, sweetie?" You just hand him the box, without saying anything. He frowns curiously and opens it. Silence. Chan looks at the pregnancy test, then looks at you. His eyes slowly begin to fill with tears. Neither of you speaks for a few seconds. "Are you serious…? Are you really…?" he asks in disbelief, almost speechless. You just nod. He drops the box, crosses the room in two strides, and hugs you tightly—so tightly that you both almost lose your balance. "Oh my God… I'm going to be a daddy." He whispers, his face hidden in your neck. "We're having a baby… I can't believe it…" And through his soft cries, he still smiles. "Thank you for giving me the best news of my life, I love you, my love."

.LEE KNOW. 🐰

You prepared a simple dinner, but you set the table nicely, even setting candles. He approached you a little suspiciously, looking at you with a raised eyebrow. "Did you cook? Is everything really okay?" You laughed. "Be quiet and sit down, Lee Know." After dinner, you handed him a small box. Inside was a tiny pair of blue baby socks. He looked at it. And froze. "Is this what I think it is?" You were silent. You just gave that nervous smile. Minho took a deep breath. He stared at the socks as if they were some kind of mystery. Then he carefully placed them on the table, got up, and came over to you. He stood right in front of you, looking at you as if he were still trying to take it all in. "Are you really pregnant?" he asked, more seriously than you expected. "Yes, love." He didn't answer. He just pulled you slowly into his arms and hugged you. He stayed like that for a while, his head resting on your shoulder. “I… I don’t know if I’ll be a good father,” he said quietly. “But I swear I’ll try every day.”

.CHANGBIN. 🐷

He'd gone out to buy food and returned with his hands full of bags. He was talking about the weather, about how he'd almost fallen because of a cat on the way, and about how the fried chicken took so long. You cut him off nervously: "Bin… I need to show you something." He looked at you, worried. "Did something happen?" You just handed him the test. Changbin took it, read it, looked at it again, and the world stopped. "…really?" You nodded. He dropped everything on the floor—even the chicken. "ARE YOU PREGNANT, PRINCESS? WE'RE PREGNANT?!" You nodded, your eyes welling up. He laughed, jumping up and down, half in shock and half in excitement. Then he ran to you, gently lifted you into his arms, and said, "YOU DID THIS? WE MADE A BABY?!" And then, with his forehead resting against hers, he whispered more calmly: "I swear I'll protect you both with everything I have, I promise."

.HYUNJIN. 🥟

You were lying on the couch, watching a movie, when you whispered, “Hyun…” “Hmm?” “I’m… pregnant.” He blinked. He slowly turned his face toward you. “What do you mean?” You took a deep breath. “I took the test. Three times. And they all came back positive.” Hyunjin sat up slowly, as if the couch had turned to jelly. He stared at you, his eyes wide, his mouth half-open. You thought he was going to freak out. But he laughed. First softly. Then louder. Until he started crying—laughing and crying at the same time. “Oh my God… we’re having a baby. A baby. LIKE OUR baby…” He fell into your arms, trembling, his head in your lap. “You’ve always been my favorite piece of art. Now you’ve made the greatest masterpiece in the world.”

────୨ৎ─────

end… Thank you very much to everyone who reads, this was my first ff's, I promise I will improve, tomorrow I will post the ff's of the members who were missing! I hope you liked it. If you want to request any ff's, I am available 🩵🥹

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yourplaceinaugust · 2 years ago

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my roommate officially moved out yesterday (she hasn't lived here for a few months but her stuff was still here) and so i was finally able to buy a proper kitchen table and my parents helped me set it up today and im so excited ive literally just been sitting at the table for hours

#inner thoughts to keep me sane #i watched a movie while sitting at the table #i drank my coffee while sitting at the table #i scrolled through tumblr while sitting at the table #i feel like an actual functioning adult now #i have a dining table!!!!!!!!!!#it's already full of plants #and my vase with my pride flag is on it #im contemplating buying another pride flag for my other vase #which is on the opposite side of the table as the other one #yknow to even it out #i cant wait to sit at my table and eat supper #or sit at my table and annotate a book #dude i am so happy #and its a nice table too #i got it second hand #i just need chairs #im currently using my desk chair #i have my eye on cute chairs at ikea #so next time my family visits ill buy them #id go myself #but i dont wanna deal with parking #or dragging a bunch of chairs up three sets of stairs #another plus of the table though #is that my cats love it

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whatwenthereagain · 8 months ago

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...you guys didnt grow up with a portable dvd player as your main source of entertainment?

#who was gonna tell me #what #like this makes sense #but still #i dont #that feels so wrong #cause my parents hated kids shows #they refused to watch them #so they got me a mini dvd player thing #and i grew up with that damn thing #sitting in the kitchen with my goofy ass kids table while my parents ate in the living room #watching some random movie they got me like alpha and onega dino digs lmao #its kinda funny #something that defined my childhood wasnt even a part of most's

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xplicitviewz · 2 months ago

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“Who’s calling?” Your husband, Nanami, huffs from above you, his hips snapping into you. Your teary eyes glance at your phone while you let out small whimpers. “I-it’s our son.” You breathe out, your thighs tremble beneath his hands holding them down beside you.

Nanami groans and stuffs his dick fully into you, a whine escaping your lips as he picks up the phone. Between his work schedule and your 4 kids, there isn’t time for you and your husband to partake in a your shared activities other than the few times you guys got creative.

There was this one time you guys had your oldest watch the kids while you guys went to the pharmacy to pick up some medicine, which ended in a quickie in the dark parking lot before heading home.

Or the other time you guys had a pool day and you went inside to start getting the snacks ready. Nanami followed shortly after to have himself his own quick snack. Both of your days are pretty busy, but Nanami never fails to make some time for you and your pussy. You can admit sex hasn’t really been a priority, until tonight. Upon realizing all the kids would be gone, you immediately called Nanami to be sure he brings his ass home when he is off and not do any overtime- yes you used your mom voice too. Nanami agreed not wanting to be scolded.

When he did get home, he noticed a few things, there was any tv on, or music blasting from your two oldest rooms. There weren’t toys scattered in the living room or the dining room table from your two youngest, no yelling or screaming from all of them in general, it was just quiet. He smelt food in the air, he usually does every night he comes home but it’d be already eaten, or everyone will be eating at the dinner table (he insists not to wait for him because he often stays late) but since he left early from work, it isn’t ready just yet. He quickly rushes up the stairs, starting to feel the panic seep in just a bit, all the kids rooms are empty.

He opens his shared bedroom to see you just laying on your stomach, in the silky robe he got you, reading a book. He calms down because if you were okay, surely, the kids were too. His eyes gaze down your figure, your feet are in the air crossed, while you read. The robe sits at your upper thigh, and since it’s so thin, your ass pops out in the most desirable way possible. “Honey?” He eyes you suspiciously, taking a breath as he starts to settle down, “Where are the kids.”

You heard the front door shut, squeezing your thighs together, feeling the arousal hit you even more. The book you have been reading had been in your mind, and hearing your husband come home really made you ready to take him, full. You had dinner cooking in the oven, almost ready to serve for just Nanami and you. Your oldest son is at a movie with his friends and they are going to go eat after. Your second oldest daughter is spending the night with her best friend, and your two youngest are sleeping over with their grandparents. To say you were practically rushing your oldest son to leave already, since he was the last one to go, was an understatement.

“They are busy and safe.” You closed the book and turn your body towards him, your eyes hungry before you looked at him, but damn near starving when you did. That damn suit and tie. You explained where they all were as you sat up in the bed, impulsively pushing your chest out as you leaned back on your arms. Nanami didn’t ignore the lustful look in your eye, the way your nipples perked against the thin fabric, only assuming you had nothing on underneath. He quickly put a few things together, why you called him to not do overtime. He knew what his wife wanted, at least he thought so.

When your sweet loving husband started off kissing your neck, waiting to use the few hours to just worship your body, you, your hands cupped his chin and looked him dead in the eye, “Honey, I love you so much and I know that you do but tonight-right now I need you to fuck me like you don’t. I want y-“ His eyes darkens more at your plea, how desperate you were truly. How can he ever say no to his gorgeous wife. He cuts you off with a kiss before he started fucking you every way loose. Yes exactly what I said. But of course no matter what time it is, you guys are parents after all….

“What?” Nanami answers the call, still buried deep inside you, grinding against you as his thumb circles your clit.

“..Oh Hey dad, where’s mo-“

“She’s busy, are you okay, why are you blowing up her phone?” Nanami cuts your son off, his eyes focused on you squirming around, biting your lip to keep any lewd sounds hushed while he was on the phone with your son. He speeds up his movements on your clit, softly sucking in a breath when you clench tightly around his dick.

“I wanna buy some snacks and get some food after the movie, mom said she’ll send me m-“

“How much?” Nanami asked wanting him to get to the point so he can get back to his wife. He slowly pulling out before pushing himself back in. Your hand quickly covers your mouth as you shut your eyes. Your legs were shaking crazy. Your husband wasn’t one to always be rough in bed, but the times he is, you would feel it for days, in the best way possible. (He has that dog in him😞) Nanami definitely isn’t holding back, not when it’s been this long you guys were kid free for a few hours and together at that. Nanami was making up for lost time, fingering you until you couldn’t talk properly, eating your pussy like it personally offended him, fucking you left, right, up, down, diagonal, all up until your phone kept blowing up.

“Like about $40.”

“Okay, give me a moment.” Nanami grunts, as he bottoms out again, the way you squeezed his dick nearly knocked him out cold. He feels his dick throb inside you and pulls the phone away from his ear, breathing heavy.

“Thanks d-“

Nanami hangs up the phone and tosses it beside you before leaning in closer to you, peeling your hand away from your mouth and pulling it above your head. “Tell me something honey.” He hums kissing your swollen lips.

You whimper as he fucks you again, slow but rough this time, ”y-yes?” You gasp as he hits your cervix.

“When the kids ask for money, do you send it to them from my account?” He looks into your eyes, sweat dripping down his head watching your reaction to his question really his dick.

You’re screwed. Both literally and physically.

“Not alwa- o-ooh shit.” You moan, his hips moving faster than light. Nanami absolutely hates when you use your own money, hell, even when you were working. When you guys first started dating he already knew you were going to be his wife. Nanami would always say you didn’t need to work but you didn’t want him to be the sole provider. Eventually, you guys moved in together and you were still working. Though, he convinced you to work less hours and took you out on a date when you agreed. It wasn’t until you got pregnant with your first baby, did his wish come true. Shit, he was more excited when you both went down to your job to quit than he was to see the 2 pink lines.

“All the hours I work, being kept away from our family, my perfect wife -ngghh- my perfect wife’s pussy. And you still insist on usi-fuck- using your own money when you have access to my money- no our money, shit your money.” He moans grabbing your other hand and pulling it above your head with your other.

“Y-you pay for e-ever-“

“I’m supposed to baby. I want to.” He interrupts you, lifting your legs to his shoulders, and grabbing your phone with his free hand and sending your son $100 from his account. “Why must you make things complicated, love. I am the man, it’s my job to take care of you, our family. Let *thrust* me. Use my money for the kids, the house, the cars, whatever it is, I have enough, more than.” He kisses your lips softly, opposite to his thrusts. “Use your money I give you for you, whatever you want for you- shit for you. Everything I do is for you, everything I make, it’s yours, ours on paper, but it’s all yours. All for you.” He grunts into your ear, as if he’s teaching a lesson. Technically, he is.

“Don’t let me find out you aren’t using my money first again, okay hun?” He hums at you, a moaning teary mess.

“Now where were we?” He smiles before pulling out and flipping you on your stomach, lifting your ass up and spanking it. “Oh, right.” He chuckles as he spreads your cheeks apart, seeing your drooling sensitive pussy, clenching on air.

*edited but not proofread*

Pussywhipped!Choso | part 2

Married!Eren x Maid!Reader

Ex-husband!Eren

Sylus mini

Nerd!Armin x reader x boyfriend!eren

Best friend!jean x reader

#fae's lore #nanami kento x reader #jjk drabble #jjk nanami #nanami kento #jjk x poc!reader #gojo satoru #ryomen sukuna #geto suguru #eren x black fem!reader #aot college au #aot x poc!reader #nanami x you #jujutsu nanami

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teaboot · 6 months ago

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One time my mom took me to a hibachi grill with a bunch of her friends and if you've never been to a hibachi grill basically the draw is that theres a bunch of interactive performance stuff done by the cook who cooks for you at your table, and one of the tricks they did at this one was take a squeeze bottle full of liquor and shoot it into your mouth across the table (with permission)

And now at our table my mom explained this because it was my first time going, and she wanted to make sure to warn me it was liquor because she knows I don't drink- she just said "if he offers to shoot at your mouth, say no because it's alcohol".

And so the chef does his thing and it's all very impressive, but the time does come where he pulls out this squeeze bottle of booze and asks me if I wanna try

I of course say no, because I really don't do alcohol, so he moves on to someone else

And I watch, and slowly come to understand that this is some sort of game, because once someone is drinking from the continuous flow the chef starts counting "ONE! TWO! THREE!"

I realize that we're trying to see who can keep drinking the liquor from three feet away without choking or spilling, and its a bummer cause i kinda wanna try and I CAN'T

But he goes around the table with everyone there, and I think my mom makes it to three, one friend makes it to five, I think my brother got to three as well, and he comes back to me

And I'm REALLY bummed out now but I will not drink alcohol, so I sort of sadly repeat that I can't when he pulls out a SECOND BOTTLE and grins and goes "juice?"

And Im like FUCK YEAH LET'S GO and I'm a bit worried he's gonna spray it into my eye or something but he doesn't, it hits me right at the back of the throat, and I start drinking while the whole fucking table counts "ONE! TWO! THREE!"

And like

It just sorta

Kept going?

And Im looking at the chef and he starts freaking out by the time we get to six, and at around seven I kinda start looking around and my auntie is staring back in shock, my brother is laughing his ass off and my mom has her face in her hands

And then at like nine or ten it gets like. Super tense and quiet, and only the chef is still counting

And I guess it got too much for even him cause we're at eleven and I don't believe in quitting early and it is almost painful how awkward it's getting

So he cuts me off at twelve and raises his hands in the air and everyone else cheers and claps like a dumb movie

and I just sit back in my seat to look back at my mother staring at me surrounded by everyone she knows, bright fucking red in the face and choking with honest to god tears in her eyes and she puts her face back in her palms and starts chanting "I don't want to know. I don't want to know. I don't want to know"

So I give her the biggest, proudest grin and tell her, "I won."

So now every time something suggestive happens in a movie, or in conversation, or something shocking happens around us and she goes to jokingly cover my ears, I just ask her, "Remember when I won?" And she goes face-down and groans, because I know EXACTLY how she thinks I trained to develop that particular skill and she HATES knowing that about me

The truth is though, I'm a whole ass 28 year old virgin. I've never so much as kissed anyone in my life. I had no idea I could do that trick until that exact moment

But she doesn't know that, and I'm never gonna tell her

#EVER #That is the proudest I have ever been #teaboot #teaboot stories

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satorena · 4 months ago

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HOTLINE BL☆NG!

summ. wine nights and free will? a recipe for disaster— such as matching your ex on a corny dating app and having him in your bed within that same hour. . .

cw. eventual smut. 18+. fem!reader. alcohol/substance consumption. ex boyfriend!gojo. mild toxicity. breakup & makeup. girlhood ft jjk girlies. unreliable narrator sorta. sukuna slander. mild impact play. mild asphyxiation. oral (f). fíngering. backshōts. reader is a little questionable. self sabotaging my beloved. lowkey angsty. @/3aem on tumblr for art creds. most of these stories are real shit i’ve heard/experienced LOL. can you tell i’ve never used tinder a day in my life? 16.4k words. . oops.

rena’s note. @yung-notorious and her filthy mind. . .

“you like it when i fuck you like this? yeah you do.”

god, you do.

you can’t bring yourself to remember why you’d ever let go of dick this good. the kind that had you taking the rubber off and considering finishing inside. the kind that had you babbling apologies for having done absolutely nothing wrong. the kind that made you begin to believe his careless whispers, empty promises to work things out.

his fingers dig in the column of your throat, the weight of his hand wrapped tightly at your neck. he’s everywhere at once, but simultaneously no where to be found. while you can feel his tip prodding at your most sensitive spot, you don’t feel the overwhelming force of love he once bore with open arms for you.

“nahhh. . . don’t start running now.” you didn’t realize you were. the sheets are crumpled in your tight hold, while your other hand lightly pushes at his lower abdomen. naturally, he pins your wrist at your spine to maintain his ruthless pace, and with another gentle yet cruelly empty promise, “not when i’ve just gotten you back.”

how the fuck did you get yourself in this mess?

friday nights were meant to decompose after a long week. a cute tradition you followed— sipping on moscato wine and munching on takeout with your homegirls while the lamest horror movie played as background noise. the skincare bit happened every third friday of the month, which fell on this particular night, thin layers of korean products lathering at your skins while fluffy headbands sat atop your hairlines, keeping stray hairs away.

it was an easy way of recapping all of your week’s worth of bullshit and listing each girl’s new lineup of men of the season.

girlhood.

“i’m cool off men for a whileee,” you sigh, placing your third wine glass on the coffee table. you tuck your legs back onto the couch, propping your head into your palm. you watch as shoko, who’s seated on the floor, grabs your glass and fills it with another unsolicited round. you narrow your eyes at her, “after the shit kuna pulled— girl, slow down!”

“don’t watch me,” shoko chews at her unlit blunt tucked in her teeth, lifting an arm above her head to pass you your refill. despite the slight spin of the room, you accept the cup against better judgment, “keep talking. what the fuck did he do now?”

“you mean what didn’t he do,” seated in the pink bean bag rested on the floor, utahime quips. in between her teeth sits a wooden stick, drizzled in the honey-like wax residue she smeared over her shin. “i woulda left his ass the second i found out he— FUCK— lived with his mama at his big age.”

as utahime soothes her smoothened skin, yuki leans over the coffee table to grab at the blunt passed over to her. “y/n baby, you know i love you,” she starts off, taking a deep inhale before ghosting the smoke. you can tell she’s about the cook the shit out of you, “but come on— he lives in his parents’ basement. was that not a red flag in itself? is that seriously the kind of man you see yourself marrying.”

“nevermind the fact he’s pushing thirty and still unemployed,” shoko throws in her two cents, takeout back in her lap as she breaks open a new set of chopsticks, “he’s one more ‘tap in’ away from getting caught by the feds.”

“how much y’all wanna bet he’s at the club right now as we speak?” it’s a rhetorical question, but utahime pauses her waxing to check. with sticky fingers, she taps away at her phone, and with a knowing smile she yelps, tilting her screen towards you three, “aha!— and there goes the infamous money spread.”

“cornballllll.” shoko cringes.

you’re filled with dread and shame at the sight presented. god— every single chance you gave this man, he spun around and somehow does worse. it’s not like the two of you were together— never officially, but the sole fact that you’ve let this man treat you as if you were his girl haunts you. you’ve let countless of bullshit slide all because his stroke game came second within all the men you’ve dealt with.

the only thing you’ll give him besides a being a good lay is that you’ve never had issues concerning other women. he’s a very transparent guy— you’ve yet to receive a “hey girlie. . .” text from anybody. though, it isn’t like either of you have ever dropped any hard launches. it was mostly content that only close friends could catch onto— the interior design of his car, your latest set of nails, subtle shots of his tattoos, your purses and jewelry. nothing evident but pretty obvious to those who know.

if sukuna was still cool with him, however. . . yeah, he’d definitely know, considering the fact he purchased most of the purses you own. that’s excluding the fact your favorite necklace, the one with your name engraved, the one you always wear, was also bought by him.

“move,” you push utahime’s hand away from your peripheral, slumping further into the couch. embarrassment floods you yet again, and you drown it away with more wine. much to your chagrin, they spare no mercy as they giggle at your pout, “not too much on me— shoko, you’re literally the one who put me on!”

“don’t do that,” she rolls her eyes, picking at the orange chicken on her platter. you have half a mind at chucking your drink at her. “all i told you was to fuck him. nobody said anything about keeping him around.”

“instructions: unclear,” utahime giggles, smearing another coat of wax mixture onto her calves. “she’s now a year deep into a situationship with a man who files for disability checks to blow on parlays.”

you spring up in your seat, your wine nearly spilling on shoko in your excitement, “shit, i never told you guys!”

“told us what?” yuki kills the blunt in the ash tray, and stretches an arm to grab at her food. she knocks over a few emptied bottles as they roll on the carpet, and winces when one of them knock at shoko’s knee, “my fault girl.”

shoko clicks her tongue, but you loop your arms around her neck as you proceed, “before you bitches attacked me for literally just being a girl,” you decide ignore the way they all groan, “i was trying to tell you all why i finally ended shit with him.”

“well don’t hold back now!” utahime eggs on.

“guess what i found out,” you set the empty wine glass back onto the table. you’re most likely gonna need your hands in this specific conversation, “he bet thirty thousand dollars on the super bowl game— and lost.”

the room falls quiet. utahime pauses in her ripping, yuki drops her noodles from her chopsticks and shoko nearly chokes on her wine. amidst it all, three pairs of eyes slowly crawl to meet your gaze, in complete disbelief at what you’d told them.

“are you deadass?” shoko speaks first, her facial expression almost incredulous. her eyes are teary from her food slipping through the wrong tube. “you’re playing, right? right?”

“she has to be. . . this is a new level of low even for him.” yuki shakes her head, most likely in attempts to give him the benefit of the doubt. you don’t blame her— no sane person would drop thirty grand on a fucking betting app of all things— and on top of that, lose.

“i wish i was?!” you groan, still upset, “the worst part is that he told me that money was supposed to be deposit money for a condo he’d been,” you raise your fingers in air quotes, “looking into.”

“you know what though? this doesn’t actually surprise me,” utahime laughs, as if she hadn’t been in a daze for a solid minute. she rips at the strip, and winces, “didn’t i just say he was getting checks to place on parlays? frank gallagher looking ass.”

“but thirty thousand?” yuki emphasizes, blinking rapidly in her disbelief, “what the fuck would possess somebody to bet thirty grand on anything?”

“grown ass man, by the way.” shoko mumbles mindlessly, before chowing down some more food. you can’t find it in yourself to disagree.

utahime nods, blowing a puff of air, “on god, bro. don’t he got mortgages to pay off or some shit?”

yuki shoots her a deadpanned look, “girl, with what house.”

and that had been your final straw with him. not the fact he lived in his mother’s basement despite clearly having money to rent out a place, or the fact he was still flexing bands he allegedly has on the gram— but blowing all your money on a fucking football game. and losing. you do respect yourself, as much as these girls believe you don’t. a man with no ambitions and no money? you need to run and far.

“i’ll miss his dick though.” you pout, the alcohol already coursing through your body. being wine drunk always made you horny, that was a known fact, and letting go of one of your greatest eaters was not on your bingo card. naturally, the girls roll their eyes at your antics, “boo me all you want— he horsed me the fuck around in bed.”

“you used to say the same shit about gojo,” utahime points out, rising to her feet as she grabs the used strips in her hold, before circling around the couch, “and look how that ended up.”

technically. . . she wasn’t exactly wrong but that still stung a bit. “hime, seriously?” shoko rolls her eyes, and you feel her hand rubbing at your foot soothingly. her motions are a little stiff but you appreciate the sentiment, “we get you don’t fuck with him but he was still her man. and basically my friend, kinda.”

you hear her wince in the kitchen, followed by footsteps, “right. . . sorry girlie.” she runs back to you after throwing the waste away, and kisses at your temple. she doesn’t comment on the pout on your lips. “i didn’t mean it. . . okay maybe i did, but i’m still sorry!”

your history with gojo was complicated. you’d met him through shoko in your third year of college, at a kickback party hosted by his people. it’d been an invite only thing, but shoko had brought you along as a plus one, and you both instantly connected. as far as you were concerned, it was technically supposed to be a sneaky link vibe, but you soon learned gojo was anything but sneaky. in fact, he was so vocal in him wanting you, that he actually did end up getting you a couple months later.

he’s a year older than you, therefore he’d graduated a year ahead. the separation in itself was something you hadn’t looked forward to at all, but he had found himself a condo downtown, not too far from your residency, therefore seeing each other hadn’t been an issue. he always made it clear he wanted to see you— even after gruelling nine to five shifts in the office. his words matched his actions, driving you up to his place since yours had a stupid curfew policy for visitors.

(you’ve kept him in your dorm numerous times.) (your closet has suffered enough with his lanky ass.)

the first year worked out for the better. he was still welcomed to the parties you invited him to, he made time in his schedule help you with your studies, planned consist dates and even took you out on trips. he was physically, mentally and emotionally present— and you genuinely believed he would be your forever man when you’d introduced him to your parents at your graduation ceremony and he seemed thrilled. they adored him— and that says a lot considering they hated all your other exes. with good reason, but still.

it’d been the honeymoon phase until it wasn’t.

you expected arguments. those are inevitable in relationships, but with every argument he grew distant. you were now both graduated students juggling between jobs, rent and a relationship. it was a lot— your schedules never seemed to align which jumbled into multiple failed dates, which further escalated into more arguments. it hadn’t always been him, you could agree you were at fault too. that post graduation depression spiralled worst than you’d anticipated— the fear of falling behind when your boyfriend had already been successful so early into his career entirely consuming.

he reassured you plenty, but you could see it in his face as he spoke to you— he was exhausted. of work. of life. of you. he had bigger fish to fry than dealing with a workaholic girlfriend with low self esteem. the bigger the promotion, the less your value. you’d seen this play out before— it was less i love you’s and more hours in the office. less dinner dates and more project plannings.

the more time you spent by yourself, the more your mind began overthinking. you had no place in his life anymore. you didn’t resent him for it— you wish nothing but the best for him. he deserves to be successful in life, and he’s already so close to it. your slacking behind is nothing more than dead weight in his rise to the top.

the breakup had been anticipated. you’d broken up with him first. he never asked you to explain why. he nodded, never uttering a word. it’d been the first time you’d seen him in weeks. you kept it simple, “we should break up.” and he kept it even simpler, a curt bounce of the head in agreement. as quick as he’d entered your apartment, he left.

and that’d honestly been it. you’d been together for four years, and broken up for a year and a half. after all this time, you still don’t resent him for it. he made the rational choice in prioritizing himself and his future, and you simply didn’t fit in it. it took you quite some time to work on yourself as well, and you’re honestly satisfied with where you are in life. the breakup clearly worked in favour for you both.

it sucks that he was genuinely the only man you ever cared about. the only man you can confidently say you loved.

“look— now you got her thinking about him!” shoko complains, chucking the nearest thing— a throw pillow, at utahime. it hits her square in the face, to which she lets out a muffled oof! “way to fucking go.”

you blink out of your thoughts. well that’s embarrassing, you got caught up in the past again. you lift yourself from the slumping position you’d unintentionally fallen into the midst of daydreaming, “shit, my bad. got flashbacks to that time he ate me off the bone after his first promotion.”

“yo, what?!” yuki hollers, falling into a fit of laughter. shoko rolls her eyes so much you’re thinking it’ll get stuck at the back of her skull and utahime physically cringed from head to toe. “so fucking unserious— here we are, worried about your ass and here you go, upset you lost your best eater.”

not exactly, though there was some truth to her words. gojo was your best eater, and nobody’s topped him since. he really did tongue fuck you that night like you were the boss who raised his pay. but it wasn’t just the sex you missed— you wholeheartedly missed him. the closest thing to a soul bond you’ve experienced, now gone.

they don’t need to know all that though.

“oh come on,” utahime groans, picking at her nails. trust her to find any reason to slander your ex. for what reason? she’s never told you other than him annoying the fuck out of her, “he could not have been that great. it can’t be anything you can’t find elsewhere— plenty of men eat pussy.”

“okay but do they enjoy eating it or is it more of a duty thing?” yuki points out, rolling her thumb on her lighter mindlessly. she watches the flame arise, casting a soft glow on the sheet stuck to her face, “because you can definitely tell the difference. one eats for foreplay, the other eats for his own pleasure.”

shoko hums in agreement, still poking at her plate, “a man versus a munch,” and with a beat of silence, she takes a deep sigh, throwing her head back, “i should call him.”

“no! no you should not,” utahime laughs, before shooting you a glance. your smile quickly falters and is switched with a look of confusion as she points a nail filer in your direction, “and you,” you cock a brow, “stop thinking about him. we’re supposed to be independent women, y’all need to stand the fuck up.”

“hime, please, you were literally just complaining to your close friends about your latest dry spell.”

“irrelevant!” she dismisses yuki, waving a hand absentmindedly. you don’t see how it’s irrelevant exactly, but you let her proceed. “we are sexy, successful and strong women. stop relying on the past and focus on the future. there are bitches that fought for their lives for the freedom we have! you could literally get dick anywhere— they actually have apps for it, if you didn’t know—”

“so tell us, o’mighty one,” shoko cuts her off, “are you suggesting we download tinder to relieve our stress?”

she remains quiet, and you can see the gears churning in her head. you’re about ninety nine percent positive shoko was fucking around, but the scrunch in your friend’s eyebrows tells you she’s seriously contemplating the idea, “. . yes actually.” she finally decides.

“hime. . .” shoko groans, but is effectively cut off when she springs up to her knees to grab at her phone.

“no, seriously, think about it!” she scrolls through her phone like a maniac, searching through the app store and typing the name in. you all watch her incredulously, her enthusiasm in the matter as if she hadn’t been preaching about feminism half a minute ago, “i’ve met some of my best lays in college through tinder. i haven’t been on this app in years though.”

you don’t see why not. you were pretty tipsy and would never have agreed to this under typical conditions, however it could be regarded as a bonding activity. you also haven’t been on tinder since before your last relationship, and the shit sukuna put you through this past year was enough to make you want to deal with literally anything else.

“i’m down.” you pull out your phone, and shoko may have gotten whiplash with how quick she snaps her head back to eye you. you shrug your shoulders, “we don’t have to take this shit seriously— god knows i’m not entertaining anybody on this app for real.”

“exactly!” utahime nods, walking up to scoot herself beside you. she nudges at shoko with her foot, who flicks at her toes to keep her away, “it’s just for shits and giggles.”

“i’m definitely not doing this shit,” yuki crawls to sit at the couch’s feet, right at shoko’s side, and grabs at the remote sitting uselessly on the table, “but i will be watching you both embarrass yourselves.”

“the only other bitch with common sense here.” shoko sprawls her legs onto yuki’s lap. she receives a slap at the back of her head by utahime, and naturally she slaps the hand right back. “can’t stand that little fucker sometimes.”

“aweee, love you too!” she blows a kiss at her to which she receives a middle finger. you snort, eyes glued on your screen as you redownload that forsaken app back into your phone.

you’d probably regret it in the morning, but that was something saturday you would have to deal with. as of right now, with white wine in your system, logic was not an option. you were learning to live more in the moment, and apparently that starts with the corniest dating app in the world.

it’s not like you’d magically stumble upon your ex on the platform. now wouldn’t that be something? ha!

there’s no fucking way.

this had to be one big, fat cosmic joke. a cruel prank, even. and if it was, then the universe had a twisted sense of humour. you still don’t believe it— were the girls in on this? this kind of shit didn’t just happen to anybody.

it took about a total of twenty minutes between logging back into your old account, updating your password and bio, and swiping left on passing profiles until you landed on it. on. . . him.

you blink slowly. your phone is shaky beneath your unstable hands, and you’re pretty sure you’ve been holding your breath in far longer than recommended for the average human. it’s quiet as fuck in the room— despite the three girls huddled over your shoulders, sticking their noses in all directions to get a clearer view of your illuminating screen— almost as if to confirm if what they were seeing was truly was they were seeing, as if this was all too fucking ironic to be true.

there’s a knot of anxiousness that simmers in the pits of your stomach. you’re pretentiously aware that even the slightest movement— one wrong click or swipe, would ultimately change everything. there was too much at risk here. “oh there’s no fucking way. . .” shoko speaks up first.

utahime leans in impossibly closer, a few centimetres away from fully emerging with your iphone as her nose scrunches, “way too sexy? fuck around and find out? god, he’s still so corny, i swear.”

your eyes trail over his biography, curiously. that “way2sexy” had been an inside joke you both shared years ago— back when drake had dropped one of gojo’s favourite albums, certified loverboy. he overplayed the shit out of that song when it came out, so much that you received multiple complaints from your RA for “public disturbance”, but he swore it worked as daily affirmations for him in the same sense crystals and tarot cards worked for spiritual girlies. you called him corny for it, but before you knew it, it’d shown up in your spotify wrapped the following year.

rapid memories of morning rays of light peeking through blinds, a groggy yet mysteriously clear “alexa, play way 2 sexy” as you fixed your sheets and lit your candles, fighting over who gets to spit toothpaste residue first, hearty laughter to fumbled lyrics, shared minty kisses paired with one “gimme one more” too many.

the ache clenching at your heart is hard to ignore.

“i would give him the benefit of the doubt in believing he hasn’t updated his account,” yuki draws out, eyes narrowing as a finger sticks out to point, “but his age matches. emoticons as a grown man. . . no shade though.”

his age did match. inside joke aside, none of it was adding up. if he already had his account set up years ago, had he willingly changed his bio to one of your most infamous gags after the breakup? if you were to swipe right right now, would it instantly match? you don’t think you want to figure it out— both possible outcomes scaring you shitless.

“should i swipe left?” you speak uncharacteristically softly, torn between the idea of tucking your tail inwards and running away from the opportunity or your typical it is what it is mentality.

“yes! obviously— mmmph?!”

“do you want to?” shoko, with a pillow stuffing an agitated utahime in the face, counters. between all the girls, she seemed to understand you the most, granted her own relationship with the man. you’re sure he had given her his own version of their breakup, how you’d opened the doors to endless opportunities for him, had given him the easy way out. you never bothered asking her, afraid of the illusion you’d created to shield yourself shattering, “only you have the answer to that.”

“i honestly don’t know,” you sigh, joints in your thumb aching from hovering over your screen for too long. swiping left meant completely abandoning any the possibility of the two of you as one. you don’t want that responsibility weighted on your shoulders again, “what if he’s moved on? the shit that’ll do to my ego if i swipe right and he passes on me?”

shoko finally grants her friend the permission of speech, freeing her off the couch decoration, though the look she gives her serves as a warning to tread lightly. with a heavy breath, utahime releases a puff, “i’d crashout, just sayin’.”

“but what if he hasn’t moved on?” yuki poses, and apparently that was all the confirmation you needed to swipe. fuck pride— pride wasn’t going to get your back blown out. pride wasn’t going to help you get the love of your life back. pride can go fuck itself.

“wait—”

utahime is cut off again, however, not by shoko but tinder itself. the notification pings loudly, resonating in depths of your ear cavity and shoots straight to your chest. you can feel your heart pounding wildly against your rib cage. it’s so silent you can hear a pin drop, and the way your gut churns gives away the end result to your spontaneity.

it’s a match.

“well. . . shit.” shoko slumps back into the couch nonchalantly, and you don’t need to see her to know she’s sporting a smirk. you do feel her knee knock into yours. fake ass idgafer.

you’re no better, biting down your bottom in order to suppress the smile itching to spread. a year later and the sole idea that he’d already came across the same mindset as you, willing to give whatever it was that needed a second shot, had you beyond delusional. god, you need help.

“look at youuu, cheesin’ and shit!” yuki pokes at your cheek and you swat her hand away, ultimately caving into the smile. fuck yeah you were geeked— it’s hard carrying a nonchalant attitude when you were an honest to god, soft hearted lovergirl. if you played your cards right, with a few lash bats and glossy lips, you’d be getting dicked down in no time.

“i’m gonna be sick.” utahime deadpans.

“and i’m getting dickkk,” you sing, jumping to your feet as you stood on the couch. you turn around, hands clutching onto the headrest, giving your ass a cute shake as it rotates in circular motions. you feel shoko’s hand tapping it encouragingly, her phone illuminating as it records while she rests her head on your moving thighs. you hear yuki cackle, pulling out her phone to film as well. you giggle, “rip that pussy!”

“ayeeee!” they complete the lyrics, and the vibes are restored yet again, girly giggles filling the room. when your legs begin to feel wobbly, you stop your twerking to plop yourself right back down, leaning your head onto shoko’s shoulder.

you hear her click her tongue as the recording of your ass graces her screen, and she groans, “gojo is one lucky bastard— he can’t handle all that.”

he most definitely can, and has. you’ll opt with shrugging in the meantime.

“with that being said,” utahime jumps in, crossing her legs, “what’s the next move here? you reaching out first?”

your lips straighten as your mind reflects. if you still know him as well as you think you do, he’s definitely going to text you first as soon as he sees the green light. sure, you were anxious for a reply, desperate to check what his temperature was— but you’d already sacrificed a grand amount of dignity just swiping right. he could do take on the role of texting first.

“nah, i’m almost a hundred percent sure he’ll—”

ping!

you all whip your heads to the source of the sound. your phone. the screen shines as it undergoes facial recognition, and exposes the messenger. from tinder. gojo. sending you a message. just as you’d expected.

you can’t help the cocky smile, eyes trailing at their perplexed faces, “—text me first.”

naturally, the girls are impressed. even you are— that timing? would it be insane to genuinely be considering gojo might honest to god be your soulmate? yuki blows a puff of air, followed by a laugh, “your pussy has to be magical cause what the fuck?”

“ladies and gentlemen,” utahime stands to her feet, fisting her hand into an imaginary microphone, and addresses her fake crowd. in the hostiest voice she can muster, she curtsies as she continues in comedic fashion, “miss pussy fairy in thee flesh.”

“put a stamp on it.” shoko shakes her head in acknowledgment, laying her own phone in her lap as she claps. yuki places two fingers in her mouth and whistles at you, to which you rise to your own feet and dramatically place a hand over your chest in faux humility.

“oh please!” you flatter yourself, tucking your hair behind your ear. you smile behind your palm, your improv classes in high school coming in clutch, “this is too much— thank you! thank you deeply.”

“girl, byeee,” utahime breaks character first, giggling as she sits back onto the abandoned bean bag. you mimic her motions, as she pops open a stray water bottle and swallows a big gulp, “open his text! i wanna see what he said!”

you’re in the same boat, thumbing at your phone to unlock it and open the app. naturally the girls hover over you yet again, just as eager to see how he finally broke the no contact phase. it took him less than three minutes to slide in your messages, as the option had finally been granted.

right as your thumb hovers the message, a hum draws out your throat, “how much y’all wanna bet it’s something corny?” you tease, something close to a hunch giving it away. seeing as your assumptions were deemed accurate just a few minutes ago, the only way he’d think of clearing the ice would be with something plausibly lame.

“open itttt!” utahime ushers you, hands clamping at your shoulders. you roll your eyes, letting her dramatics sway your body back and forth before she lets up. you let out a sigh, and open the unanswered message.

and just as you’d predicted. . .

@gsatoru: they say shooters shoot 👀

“oh brotherrrr,” the girls groan in sync, and even you can’t stop the cringe that stiffens your face. if there’s one thing that hasn’t changed, it’s the fact he still doesn’t act his age. he needs to let those college days go.

“now, what’d i tell y’all.” you tut, leaving out the part of nostalgia simmering deep and warmly in your bones at his predictability. ever the goofy he was, gojo satoru. jeez.

“i was really found myself rooting for him too,” shoko sighs, rising to her feet. she dusts at her lap then stretches her limbs lazily, “i’m gonna go pee— hime, i swear to god, don’t take my seat.” she doesn’t look back to flip her off when she hears utahime blow raspberries her way. to which, against shoko’s wishes, leaps over to snatch her seat.

both you and yuki give her a deadpanned look, but yuki voices out your thoughts, “she’s gonna get on your ass and i’m not helping you out.”

“girl, boo.” utahime rolls her eyes, “more importantly, what the fuck do you answer to that?” her nail taps at your phone screen, peering at you expectantly through lashes.

you consider your options. do you reciprocate the same energy or do you call him out on his corniness? matching his vibe would be like starting off a blank slate— a new start, new conversations, something almost superficial. like a fling you meet at the bars for one night of fuckery that you regret the next morning. but calling him out would induce in falling into familiar patterns— calling him a cornball while he attempts to sweet talk you, old conversations brought up, risking broken boundaries for the sake of reminiscing.

decisions, decisions, decisions.

“i’m thinking taking the easy way out.” you nod your head, readying your fingers as you type your response out.

you miss the exchanged glances between utahime and yuki, too busy trying to format how to come off playful but not forgetful. flirty but not desperate. come pull up on me but demurely. well you’ll be damned— in what world had you ever expected second guessing yourself for gojo?

“what’s the easy way out?” yuki asks, and you hit send. where this confidence comes from is beyond you, but any error you make you can blame on the wine (you’re hardly fazed but it’s nice to have something to pin the blame on instead of yourself) (old habits die hard).

you tilt your phone, holding it out as you watch the girls’ brows furrow, eyes scanning over the screen. when their faces contort into a look of amusement mixed with horror, a girly giggle escapes your throat.

@yourstrulyname: sukuna ryomen wsp with you?? 🙈

“you didn’t!” utahime hollers, her laughter so intense she doubled over to clutch at her stomach. yuki sways her body back and forth as she finds herself in a hysterical fit as well. “goddd, i would kill to see the look on his face right now.”

“yooo, that’s evil.” the blonde swipes at a tear. “woulda had me deactivating the whole account.”

“who’s deactivating?” shoko pops back in, not without slapping utahime upside the head. she ignores the way utahime complains in favour to swipe a nearly emptied bottle to pour.

“it’s not even that bad,” you defend yourself, flashing her your screen as she installs herself in the bean bag utahime once occupied. her eyes squint as she reads the conversation, nearly bulging out their sockets when she catches your message, “nahhh, don’t give me that!”

“if he gives you the time of day after that,” shoko swirls the wine in her glass, snorting, “he must really still be in love with you.”

“he should know i’m playing. . .” you’re not sure if you’re trying to convince the girls, him or yourself. you really were just joking around— albeit a terrible joke, but one regardless! sukuna was officially removed from the roster, a financially irresponsible man never standing a chance against you, “right?”

“don’t ask us?” utahime chimes in, uselessly, to which you roll your eyes. well shit, maybe you should double text? let him know you were just fooling around, trying to check temperatures and establish the mood. your phone pings again, and all unnecessary thoughts are thrown out the window.

@gsatoru: oh so you got jokes now?

as you’re about to let him know you’ve been had jokes, but never the goofy type, you see the bubbles pop up, a telltale that he’s got more to tell you. you let him have it, already having possibly fumbled the mission before even starting. it feels like an eternity and a half waiting on his text, the girls having huddled over you yet again, just as curious to see what he had to counter with.

@gsatoru: can’t be a joke if the guy had you outside on valentine’s day tho. stk steakhouse? really girl?

your jaw falls slack. you watch with burning eyes at your screen as your built up suspicions were ultimately confirmed. okay, so those two were still somehow connected. you didn’t like to question male friendships, the lack of loyalty not one you’d ever understand. god forbid you ever started fucking with utahime’s ex of many years.

“wait. .” said girl speaks up, drawing the word out as she processes his answer. her tongue rolls around in her mouth, face cringing as the next words follow, “i can’t lie, he kinda ate you up.”

“just sassy as fuck,” shoko laughs, and it’s one of those giggles reserved to shit she honestly finds hilarious, “really girl is crazy. all comfortably like he’s one of your homegirls.”

“now what’s wrong with stk’s?” yuki grumbles, picking at her nails with a childish pout on her lips, “everybody isn’t born with a silver spoon plugged up our asses. god, i can’t stand rich people.”

you don’t bother answering the girls, already aware he chewed with his response, that he’s as sassy as he was years ago and that he had found that particular steakhouse shabby despite it being a fucking steakhouse. these were things you already knew. your thumbs proceed before your mind can register,

@yourstrulyname: been keeping tabs on me?

“you don’t look too happy,” shoko pokes at your cheek. there’s an ache creasing in your forehead, and you relax the furrow of your brows. you’re not exactly upset, just a bit on edge with his approach— you can’t tell whether he’s on tens or not. whether he’s genuinely joking around or not.

“i’m fine.” you poke back, and she nods. she ushers the other girls to pick a new movie to play, and you clock this is her way of allowing you some privacy between exes. you shoot her a grateful look, and she offers a sly wink. you’ll make sure to update her on whatever happens as soon as it’s over.

you switch your ringer off, and open his new message.

@gsatoru: hard not to when he posts you like he has smth to prove

@yourstrulyname: who said it was me?

you knew it was you. you knew he knew it was you. but still, you wanted to hear it from him yourself, wanted to know if he really was keeping tabs on you ever since the breakup. it’d help ease your mind with unanswered questions.

@gsatoru: you mean besides the bags and jewelry i got you?

@gsatoru: your build was a dead giveaway. could recognize you blindfolded in a room full of women

you bit your lip. you could work with this text, play around with it and see if shit flips. would he fall for the bait? you’ll start off slow, create an opening and see if he decides to indulge.

@yourstrulyname: like what you saw?

he answers instantly and your heart sinks a bit.

@gsatoru: of course

@gsatoru: you’re as a beautiful as the day you left me

is that how he saw it? you assume you did leave him in a practical sense, but there was no way he hadn’t seen it coming miles away. you had both been caught up in your lives, the additional stress of romance an unwanted factor in the rise of your careers. so yeah, you’d given him the opportunity to leave. it’s not as if he fought it anyway, so did you really leave him if he’d closed the door on his merry way out?

this was starting to get personal. toeing between the line of uncharted territory and familiarity. everything you didn’t want— debriefing the logic behind the underwhelming breakup on tinder of all places was out of the fucking question.

@yourstrulyname: you still cool with sukuna?

@gsatoru: something like that

@gsatoru: he’s slimey as fuck for sliding on you tho

you figured as much. you couldn’t imagine a world where gojo wouldn’t feel some type of way at his friend going after his ex girlfriend a couple months fresh off a breakup. he probably felt the same way towards you, the difference being one owes him more loyalty than the other.

@yourstrulyname: and what does that make me?

@gsatoru: did he mean something to you?

he didn’t. you think of the importance of somebody meaning something to you— the fear of losing that person larger than life itself. the joy of waking up in that person’s arms on a rainy morning. the vulnerability in bonding souls with that person. the relief your body undergoes as it melts in that person’s embrace.

he didn’t mean shit to you.

@yourstrulyname: no

@gsatoru: then that makes you someone who made a choice

neutral and impassive. you wondered if he truly meant that. in a sense, you assume he really did mature.

@yourstrulyname: so he’s in the wrong but i’m not?

@gsatoru: who am i to assign right from wrong? you’re both adults at the end of the day

you don’t know what to answer to that. there was a lot of truth to his words— you were both consenting adults with choices made. jeez, just what had gojo gone through all these months that made him none the wiser? you’re considering leaving him on opened for a while, at least until you come up with an answer to that philosophical ass message, when he double texts you.

@gsatoru: this is so backwards lmaoo. what’s good with you? how’ve you been?

so he realized it too. thank fuck— skipping small talk and diving into the nitty gritty this late at night was not how you expected your night to go. the girls had completely forgotten your predicament, invested in the latest reality tv show flashing on your flat screen.

@yourstrulyname: been good. you?

@gsatoru: wow you’re as dry as ever

@gsatoru: life’s been blessed, could be better tho. too much to explain over text

oh? was this what you were thinking it was?

@yourstrulyname: what are you getting at, gojo?

@gsatoru: gojo? so it’s fuck me then

@gsatoru: not getting at anything. ball’s in your court, yn

so it was. you contemplate it for a second— should you invite him over tonight? the girls won’t be upset about kicking them out, and if anything they’d encourage you to call them as soon as it’s over. you suppose your doubts lie within the idea of having your ex boyfriend back into your territory. in the comfort of your home, a home he’d once already graced.

as scary as it sounded, you also desperately craved seeing him. it’d been a solid eighteen months since you’ve broken up, and thirteen since you’ve last seen him entirely. ironically, around the time you started getting involved with sukuna. you weren’t sure if it was your heart or pussy talking, but laying up in bed with this man was not something you were against.

fuck it.

@yourstrulyname: you know where i stay at

and his response comes instantly.

@gsatoru: be there in half an hour.

oh fuck.

“yo. . .” you speak up, for the first time in a few minutes. the girls turn their heads, acknowledging you, as you shut your phone close and chuck it across the sofa. “i love y’all but y’all gotta go, like now.”

shoko shakes her head, but there’s a smirk on her lips. utahime, as lost as ever, gives you a frown. yuki has most likely caught on, rising to her feet, dusting her lap, “say no more.”

the girls do you an immense favour as they excuse themselves. they pick at empty bottles and containers, throw dirty dishes in the dishwasher, rearrange the throw pillows and even light up your candles. you feel bad for kicking them out so late, so you pitch in some money for gas as well as the inconvenience.

as they cleaned out your living room and kitchen, you’d rushed to your shower for a mini cleanse. pulling out your bests, you wash over intimate parts thoroughly, lathering your limbs in scented soap, before rinsing, brushing your teeth and stepping out. you stare at your reflection through the haze of steam, the foggy mirror reminding you of the missing messages he used to leave on mornings you had to get to work.

no point in dwelling on the past when he was on his way over this moment. you swap your silk robe for the skimpiest loungewear you own— matching camisole and shorts, and let your hair cascade back down. you’re about your fifth spritz of body spray when the doorbell rings, and your stomach flutters.

you halt in your step when you notice how fast you’re going. yikes! the last thing he needs is his ego inflating, knowing you were rushing to get him inside, nevermind the fact you washed, pulled out your sexiest pyjamas and even wore a brand new pair of panties. you know. . . just for preparations. better safe than sorry.

after the third mindless lap around your kitchen, you make your way towards the door. you inhale sharply, clenching at your shaky fingers, easing your nerves. you quickly snap out of your daze, pulling the door open.

his eyes, momentarily distracted by the number engraved in the wall next to your door, glaze over your figure curiously. his hands are tucked in the pocket of his sweatpants. he lets out a breath, a sound borderlining a chuckle as it shoots straight to both heartbeats, shoulders drop from its hunch,

“hey.”

he’s thick.

no perverted shit. you’ve noticed he’s put on weight in the right places— not to say he’d been anything less than nicely built in the past, but his biceps are significantly fuller and the material of his compression tee stretched over bulging muscles in a telltale pattern.

somebody’s been at the gym one too many.

“you good with this?” he mumbles, hand running across the smooth skin of your calf. with every stroke of his palm are fleeting memories of the past, burning deep into your limb. you hate the way your stomach sinks st the thought, “me being here and shit.”

“wouldn’t have let you in if i wasn’t.” you answer honestly, back pressed into the arm of the couch. you don’t understand how fast he’d gotten comfortable with being in your personal space just like that— you don’t understand how you’d allowed him in your personal space just like that.

he nods, and the air is eerily quiet. you watch with furrowed brows as he traces shapes into your skin with his fingertip, a frenzy of emotions resembling those of turbulence all in cerulean eyes. he’s torn— you can see it in the way his nose scrunches, as if he’s debating on whether he should voice out his thoughts or not. whether it’s worth debriefing— if this is his last shot or not.

with all this time passed, he’s still so easy to read.

“what is it?” you sigh, albeit irritated. the last thing you’d planned when you got rid of your friends in favour of having your ex over was this weird ass tension roaming. crazy sentence to speak— you know, but you were really hoping it’d be less talking involved and more sexing. it wasn’t that you were against conversing with him, but the way he was choosing to go about it was just so. . . awkward .

he senses the irritation laced in your question and immediately chuckles. his laugh sounds breathless, almost dry, but he shakes his head. his free hand swipes at his nose, a tic of his you noticed years ago whenever he’s feeling bashful or caught, and clears his throat.

“how’d you and sukuna happen?” he rips off the bandaid, and asks you the last question you wanted to hear. the tracing on your leg slows down, and your arms tighten a bit around your torso.

you let out a puff of air. if gojo notices your discomfort, he doesn’t mention it. in fact, he doesn’t pull the question back at all— he stares at you intensely, as if baring into your soul, as if the answer to his question will determine whether the boulder weighted on his shoulders will free him of restraint or not.

as if he still stood a chance or not.

“not much to say,” you shrug, as dismissive as possible. he doesn’t budge, the same intensity in his gaze and you roll your eyes, “honest to god. we broke up, he was there at the right time and shit happened.”

the words simmer into the stillness of the night, and he swipes his tongue over his lips pensively, “were y’all ever official?” he pushes, and you click your tongue against your teeth, offering him a deadpanned look. seriously, as if he didn’t know his own friend— in what world was sukuna anything worthy of official?

“god, no.” you shudder, and he nods again. “you know your friend.”

“i don’t,” gojo counters, momentarily wrapping his hand around your ankle. it fits as perfectly as it did all those years ago, where thumbs at your anklet— another prized possession he’d gotten you. your face heats in embarrassment, and he flicks his eyes to glance at you, a fleeting smirk on his lips, before staring back at the jewelry, “going after my ex girlfriend is not something i expected. i don’t know him at all.”

fair enough, you think to yourself. there has to be some lingering resentment towards you for the same reason. had the tables been turned and he’d gone after one of your closest friends, you would’ve cut him off from your life completely. you were being truthful— it wasn’t anything remotely serious with sukuna, not even close to how it’d been with gojo, but you could see it as a matter of principle. you’d already taken the initiative to break up with him first, and going after his homeboy?

god, you had questionable morals.

“it’s different with you,” he feeds in, as if he could read your thoughts. it was probably written all over your face, the scrunch in your brows never letting up. his index finger slides beneath the band of your anklet, the contrast of the silver shade lining perfectly against his complexion, “‘s hard to explain, but you broke up with me so you technically owe me no loyalty— besides, i get why you ended things. never blamed you.”

now that peaks your interest. he gets why you ended things with him? he never blamed you? you clear your throat, forcing the question out, “you do?”

“of course,” he shrugs naturally, as if it hadn’t taken you eons to conclude. as if it hadn’t broke you apart when you’d realized how unneeded you were, “i honestly expected it. you deserved better than what i was giving. you must’ve been lonely— work had always taken a big part of my time, and that left you behind in the dust.”

you’re waiting for the punchline. he continues, “i can’t lie to you— i was wishing you’d resort to cheating over breaking up. that way you’d still be mine, even if it was temporarily,” he chuckles, a soft shade of pink dusting over his cheekbones, as he sniffs, “corny, i know. but you didn’t deserve putting up with my bullshit, so you left. time is of the essence, and that was the one thing i never seemed to give you. you fell out of it— out of love, so. . . i’m sorry.”

words cannot seem to leave you. you’re left utterly speechless— that had been so far from the reason, the realization sitting bitterly at the pit of your stomach. anything, literally anything, would’ve been better than hearing him lie to you again.

“that. . .” you inhale a sharp breath, steadying yourself, “is nowhere near the reason why we broke up.”

he stops in his caress. you think he got whiplash from how fast his neck snaps, eyeing you incredulously. he genuinely seems so confused, and you hate it. to think he’d show up with some lame ass excuse, so far stretched from the truth of the matter, and expected you to believe that. to believe him.

he blinks slowly, “i don’t understand.”

you try to pull your leg away from his lap, feeling like he was stripping you bare of the last bit of dignity you had left, wanting to rip you open. he presses the weight of his hand lightly, urging you to stay near while simultaneously giving you the option to pull away. the ball was in your court yet again.

“wait— help me understand,” the pad of his thumb rolls over your ankle bone gently— far too intimately. your feet curl away, protectively, and his fingers stroke at the ball of your heel, “please. what drove you away? what was it i did?”

there’s a pang in your chest. does he really plan on keeping this up? right in your face? it was one thing wishing him well despite the obvious, but dragging it out even a year later was a bit much. inviting him over was starting to seem like a terrible idea.

“i fell out of love?” you parrot, unbelieving. “gojo— i’m not the one who fell out of anything. i gave you a way out, and you happily took it,” his face contorts into a deeper state of confusion. you huff, “i’m not blaming you for it or anything, but shit, don’t get up in here with lies to cover your ass.”

“lies?” he whispers, to himself, running his free fingers through tousled white locks. he stares at your anklet hardly, like the gift has all the answers he’s looking for. you don’t think he’s avoiding eye contact, but he seems so distraught, so out of the loop, that broadway ought to sign him to a new movie deal. what an actor.

“time is of the essence and you failed to give it?” you continue regardless, throat restricting as it burns in an emotion you’re far too familiar with. suddenly, you feel like you’re twenty five again, left to your own devices and thoughts in the emptiness of his apartment, dressed in your prettiest outfit and another failed date night. “i never gave a shit about that, i knew how much of a hardworking man you were. i took it to the chest— anything to keep you from leaving. you stopped loving me, gojo.”

his jaw falls slack, mouth gaping and you blink your lashes furiously to prevent tears from appearing. god, this was so humiliating, bearing your heart raw in front of your ex boyfriend, “y/n, i never—”

“spare me,” you scoff, mortified by the rush of emotions coursing through you. you take a deep breath in, calming yourself to avoid further explosive feelings, “this isn’t me saying i was the perfect girlfriend. i know i wasn’t— you know i wasn’t, and piling a spiralling partner on top of all the shit you were dealing with wasn’t an option. that’s fine,” it was fine. it didn’t matter, “doesn’t matter anymore. i broke up with you, you didn’t fight to stay, and we both moved on. shit happens.”

it hurt a lot. the sound of the door clicking shut, followed by the crack splitting in your chest. the run towards your bathroom, emptying your contents from both your stomach and heart. you were undeniably a mess, that period of time it took for you to recover. you would never voice it out loud, but you’d been praying he’d tell you just how wrong you were. how he needed you in his life. how you weren’t a burden to him. how he loved you enough to fight through it all.

he hadn’t.

there’s a soft hum in the silence. the sound of your clock ticking near the entrance door. the pounding of your heart against your rib cage. seconds turn into minutes of quietness, and it does no good to your mind. you’re focusing your gaze on the inanimate objects in your apartment, anything to dismiss the reality of the situation. your leg feels cold as his hand pulls away suddenly.

he rolls his tongue against his cheek. another tic of his— he’s formulating his word choice, carefully. you’d seen a ton of this before, though it usually followed a deep sigh and a you’re good baby, trust me. the more you’d see it, the more anxious you became. and christ, if that anxiety wasn’t forming right back.

it takes a while for him to speak, and every passing breath had your chest tightening. he runs his hand across his face, tiredly. when he pulls it away, there’s a melancholic smile on his face, “i think there’s a lot that needs to be addressed. jesus, i always knew you sucked at communicating but this is something else.”

you glare at him. he doesn’t mind it, continuing, “no, you weren’t the perfect girlfriend. but you were my girlfriend, and that’s all that mattered to me. you wanna talk about spiralling? nothing i’m not familiar with— you’re the only reason i didn’t let myself fall into that rabbit hole. you kept me going after graduation. i worked as hard as i did to make sure you wouldn’t have to lift a finger around me. that was the end goal— you were end goal.”

gagged is what you felt. nothing else pure shock. he doesn’t stop there. he isn’t merciful anymore.

“i know i didn’t go about it the right way,” a regretful puff of air is released, “i canceled on you often. our phone calls were shorter, our texts were vaguer and at some point i’d forgotten what you tasted like. but i never loved you any less. not once, even after we argued. not to say i’ve converted into those spiritual people, but you’re the closest thing to a soulmate i’ve experienced.”

shit, you weren’t tripping. he felt it too. fuck. the weight of his words made it impossible to steer him away. you want to intercept, to call him a liar and turn a blind ear at his confession, to shield yourself but how could you when every word he spoke broke the bricks you’d built down?

“i’m not an asshole— i could feel you slipping away. i did try my damned hardest to reel you back in, as you’d done with me. clearly that hadn’t worked how i was hoping it would,” a bitter laugh, or maybe a resentful one. towards you or himself? you wouldn’t know, “it’s because i loved you so much, i let you go. i knew i was losing you, and when you finally came to me, the right thing to do was agree. why keep you from reaching your fullest potential? you weren’t happy with me, trying to fight the inevitable was cruel.”

the inevitable. letting you go was the right choice to make because fighting the inevitable was cruel. he loved you so much he had to let you go because you deserved more than what he had to offer. you call bullshit— in what right did he have to make that choice for you? what right did you have to make that choice for him?

it’s too much at once. your eyes burn with a remorseful feeling, your heart aches in agony and your mind is clouded with thoughts. there your ex boyfriend sat, wide eyes still as blue as when he’d once been yours, presenting you his heart raw in cupped hands— and you still couldn’t find it in you to believe him fully. everything yet nothing made sense. vulnerability was a scary thing, and you weren’t ready to face it.

so, you kiss him.

his breath is taken out of his chest as you lean forward, sealing his mouth shut. you can’t take any more of his merciless words, and the only way to get your mind off it is by getting on it. he feels stiff against you, pupils dilating as you mould lips with his own. your hand travels to the back of his neck, sitting on your knees as you hold him still.

and with a faint lip smack, he pulls away ever so slightly, hands hovering awkwardly over your waist, his breath warm and fanning your cupid’s bow, “wait—”

“don’t wanna talk,” you interrupt, placing another chaste kiss on his lips. he tastes as good as the day you left him. and with another soft smack, your voice lowers, reduced to a whisper, “you gonna fuck me or not?”

he blinks and you stare back at him, full of conviction. a simple yes or no question— and he could gladly see himself out if his answer didn’t satisfy you. his hands finally rest on your waist, and you take it as an invitation to straddle over his hips. he eases your movements by aiding, lifting you just barely to sit on him. his hands fit just as they did all those times ago. a sour, bittersweet feeling— fingertips caressing the nakedness of your torso beneath your camisole.

your back arches as he finds your sensitive spots with quickness. he’d always been great at that, leaving trails of goosebumps past his teasing touches.

“you’re doing it again,” he mumbles against your lips, ever the hypocrite, fingers gripping at your waist like a vice. he rolls your hips over his own, reeling in the softness of your palms cupping at his face. you ignore him when he continues, still nibbling on his bottom lip the way he loves, “you can’t— mmh, avoid this forever.”

maybe not, but you sure as hell could right now. the tip of your noses bump into one another as you tilt your head, deepening the kiss. you want to rid your mind of these plaguing thoughts, ones that made you doubt everything you thought you knew. losing control was out of the question, so naturally you needed it back into your grasp.

sex was an easy way to do that.

“yes or no, gojo.” you give him one last chance, grinding your hips down on his awakening dick. you feel his bulge through his pair of sweats, the print so evident you wondered why he was trying to fight it. the sight alone had your panties dampening in your arousal, uncomfortably sticky against your loungewear.

he hums in between kisses, a false pretend of debating his options. his fingers slip beneath the waistband of your shorts and past your panties, fondling at the flesh that sat beneath. he could fake it all he wants, but fuck chivalry— he was turning to mush the more you sucked at his tongue, licking at the crevice of the roof of his mouth.

it’s when you sink your teeth into the flesh of pink lips, not hard enough to draw blood but enough to draw a moan from him, he comes to a conclusion. he nods his head, snaking his arms to wrap at your waist tighter as finally kisses you back.

“it’s always a yes.” for you. he doesn’t say it, doesn’t need to, but you hear it and dismiss it. no more lovey doveyness and time to get to the nitty gritty of shit— getting your back blown out. the very thought alone is enough to put a smile on your lips.

bingo.

your bedroom door hardly shuts before he pins you against it. he’s annoyingly big— tall in height and wide in weight. he towers over you comically, hands roaming at every inch of your body as he drinks you up. his lips seek yours desperately, sliding over your glossy ones with practice that suggests hints of comfort.

your arms loop at his neck, and his at your waist. his mouth hardly lets up of yours, mumbling a little jump, as you comply with ease. thighs trapping him in your hold, you then find yourself face to face with him as he lifts you, large palms cupping at your ass. you fit just as perfectly in his hands as you did years ago, flesh so fat he gropes it tenderly.

the walk from the door to your bed passes in the blink of an eye, a timeframe you find pointless to recall as you indulge in the taste of him through his tongue. his presence is so overwhelmingly powerful— every touch and caress at your body reducing your limbs to mush. you cling to him, either out of safety reasons or desire, tilting your head from side to side to deepen the lip-to-lip action.

when he gets to the edge of your bed, he lowers you until your toes reach the floor. due to the difference in height, your lips part, a thin string of saliva connecting from both your mouths as proof of your unison. the blue shade of his orbs darken with desire, eyelids lowering as he drinks up the sight of you— lips plump and swollen, slick in saliva, chest heaving from lack of oxygen.

he raises a hand from your waist to cup at your face, and you detest the way your lean into his touch. your cheek fits in his large palm, and he swipes a thumb at your bottom lip, collecting your shared spit onto the pad of his digit. as he smears the fluid further across your mouth, he prods his thumb a little further— testing out the waters, wanting to see if you’d cave into old habits.

naturally, you allow it, his thumb swallowed by your puckered lips. you roll your tongue over his finger and your eyes never leave his— hoping to convey the rush of emotions you feel through your sultry gaze. your core throbs in want, your stomach erupting in butterflies and your heart pounding unnecessarily. unspoken words you’re positive he understood, if the way he groans when your teeth sink lightly into his digit said anything.

“you’re gonna be the death of me,” he mumbles, popping his finger back out. it’s coated in saliva, and like the freak he is, pops it into his own mouth. once he’s had his fill, he removes his hand from his mouth, and lowers it to your fleshy waist, slipping past the waistband of your panties, “take these off— ‘m hungry, need a taste of that pussy.”

your cheeks nearly split from your excitement, and you comply to his order, gripping at the hem of your shorts to pull them down to your ankle. he assists you despite the previous demand, his own hands atop of yours, a warmth and sense of security so familiar. when your shorts reach past your mid thigh, you allow him to meet you halfway.

he pulls your shorts down to your ankles, lowering himself to a knee. his movements are agonizingly slow, basking in the sight of your thighs in contrast of the shade of your loungewear. he steadies a hand onto your calf, patting it lightly, and you lift your leg just barely, permitting him to slide the shorts off your ankle and tossing it aside.

when the item is discarded, he redirects his focus back to you. he pampers your skin in kisses— delicate but hungry, trails of moisture crawling back up at your inner thighs and shooting right to your core. he looked unexplainably sexy on his knees, littering your body in hushed praises, the tip of his nose nudging at your soft skin. you bit your lip in attempts to cease it from wobbling at the intimacy he was providing.

“god, you smell so good,” he speaks into you, hands snaking to the back of your thighs, pressing you forward into him. your panty covered cunt presents itself right before him, and he plants his nose right into your intimates, your body shuddering as his nose bumps into your clit deliciously. a shaky breath escapes you, and his hands travel upwards to play with your ass. “turn around, wanna eat it from the back.”

the words are taken from you when his hand slaps your ass encouragingly, releasing a mini squeal, “you’re still too freaked out.”

“mhm, something like that,” you don’t see it, as you’re occupied on spinning on your feet to plant your hands on your matters for stability, but you’re positive he’s smirking. your arch your back for him, wanting to properly present the meal he plans on devouring. your cunt oozes slick against your thong just thinking about how he’s going to do you in, “there’s that arch,” a hand slides in the curve of your lower back, before snapping the band of your thong. it recoils against your cheek and you jerk forward at the sting.

“oh? did that hurt?” he taunts, and as you’re about to protest, he does it yet again. the snap is intense but never painful, but the nerve he had to play around like your pussy wasn’t a few centimetres away from his face. you don’t acknowledge how your panties cling even tighter to your folds.

“fuck off,” you curse through gritted teeth, but your hips wiggle backwards in attempt to get him to hurry it up. as if now was any time to tease— you couldn’t stand it when he did it all those years ago, and your feelings haven’t changed since, “get on with it. . . the fuck?”

you hear him sigh, almost disappointedly, and it only aggravates you further. your brows furrow in annoyance and you think you feel a vein tick at your temple.

“still so disrespectful,” gojo tuts, rubbing at your booty tenderly. so he wasn’t exactly wrong, but how was he expecting you to react when he’d just said he was going to eat you out, and proceeds to do anything but that? of course there’s going to be a little pout on your lips, “we gotta work on that attitude of yours.”

your face twists into a look of further aggravation, and you tilt your head back, readying whatever other bratty objections you had— though you’re ultimately interrupted by a sharp sting that spreads across your ass.

the strike of his palm against your cheek sprawls into an intense heat, the pain oddly pleasurable, and the moan that rips out of your chest is impossible to suppress. your eyes nearly jump out of their sockets at the audacity, and right as you’re about to complain, he does it again. and again.

“o-okay, shit!” you attempt to voice out, but he’s relentless, delivering blow after blow onto the same ground. there’s a curve in his palm, and it amplified the sound across the room. despite your protests, you can’t deny every jolt of pain rushes to your clit. you’re positive he knows you’re enjoying this, “gojo— fuck, okayyy!”

to your pleasure, he eases the slaps, opting to smoothen his hand flat across the reddened flesh. he hums pensively, the heat of your skin radiating against his palm in a way that forces a smile on his lips, “ ‘okay?’ what do you mean by that, baby?”

you clench your teeth at his faux ignorance. you know exactly what he wants from you, and you’re not sure if you’re able to give it to him as you are. an apology— he wants you to apologize, that bastard. your left cheek stings like a bitch, even with his now gentle touches, and your core is begging you to cooperate with him, in order for that attention it was neglected of. he is such a dickhead— putting you in a predicament like this one.

you swallow the last bit of dignity you hold, a constant reminder in the back of your mind that this was for the greater good— for the sake of your pussy. with a pained sigh, you tilt your head backwards to meet his playful gaze that stares back at you, right below the plump of your ass, and you muster the cutest look you can give.

doe eyes paired with a little pout, “‘m sorry. . . for the attitude,” you’re not sorry at all, but you desperately want your cunt in his mouth, so you do what you have to do, “can you eat it now? please?”

he flashes you a million dollar smile, all thirty twos on full display, and it takes every ounce of willpower in you not to roll your eyes right then and there. he was so full of shit, his eyes might as well brown. but still, you knew he got off on this kind of thing, and when he presses a quick kiss at the print of your lips, he replies, “of course, sweet girl— only because you asked so nicely.”

there’s no further need to speak, as you feel your thong being pushed to the side, followed by a cold breeze hitting your bare cunt, meshed with warm breathe as he feasts .

gojo eats you out like he has something to prove, and you know what— maybe he does. to prevent you from straying from him, he grounds you with two firm hands gripping at your ass. he spreads the flesh apart, his tongue lapping at your slick greedily. you can’t tell who’s moans are louder— yours or his, the man so engaged in sucking at your clit, nibbling on the bundle of nerves with practiced ease. you hold onto the sheets on your bed with dear life, thighs trembling as you struggle to hold yourself up.

“fuck, don’t stop,” you whine, pushing your hips further back, your mind overcame with utter greediness for more of that insatiable pleasure. you might as well have swallowed him whole into you, just as he’s swallowing you whole into him, his tongue diving deep past your hole and into your folds. he flicks his tongue expertly, licking at every crevice and nook of your cave, his jaw working overtime as his bottom lip never lets up at your clit.

your entire pussy is consumed by him, no area going neglected— drool slips past his mouth and spills onto your floor. a familiar heat licks at the pit of your stomach, a telltale that your dam is bound to burst anytime soon. he remedies your ache with another painful spank at your ass, groaning into your pussy when you clamp down on his tongue.

he was so fucking nasty— fucking into you with his tongue like he needed this more than you did. he makes out with your cunt, like he was a starving man on death row. at a particular cruel angle of his tongue fucking, your body would react with an all consuming tremble, fingers clawing at your duvets, your lungs releasing pathetic mewls. and the further you pushed back into his merciless mouth, the closer his nose nudged at your puckered forbidden hole.

he pulls away with a gasp, subbing his mouth out for his fingers, the pads of three fingers rubbing messily at your sloppy lips. the sound it creates is downright filthy, so painfully loud that it damn near drowns out your own moans.

“pretty fuckin’ pussy,” he spits a wad of saliva at your already soaked cunt, further amplifying the squelching sounds. he drags his fingers down to your clit, pinching at the bud with enough pressure to have your knees buckling, before sliding back upwards to your clenching hole. he slides into your entrance, index and middle fingers twisting in with ease, “bet she missed me, hm?”

“y-yes!” you nod mindlessly, your high creeping up on you as he works himself into you. taking six inches of fingers twice was a task in itself— the average length of a man’s dick serving purpose as fingering was just downright disrespectful. his knuckles poke at your silky walls, stretching you out to the best of his abilities, “shit— oh fuck, ‘m gonna cum!”

to your statement, he latches his lips back to your neglected clit, sucking on the bud as if he were intentionally trying to milk you dry. he hums at your taste, the vibrations shooting right up your alley and into the knot tightening in your guts— and when he curls his fingers upwards, at that spot that has stars dancing beneath your eyelids, the dam breaks. that knot stood no chance.

“oh goddd,” you cry out, spraying your release all over. it dribbles out your pussy and past the lower half of his face, to which his jaw widens as his mouth gapes— greedily aiming to slurp at your juices while simultaneously flicking your bean. the stimulation has your brain going dumb, as you fall flat onto your bed, drool collecting at the corner of your mouth and staining your sheets damp.

he lets you ride out the euphoric bliss, the movements of his fingers and the lapping of his tongue slowing down the more your body reacted to the overstimulation. when he deems you well spent, he lets up, slipping his fingers out and popping them back in his mouth, swirling your taste across his pallets, “as sweet as ever,” rising back to his full height.

you haven’t came that hard in a while, limbs reduced to nothing as you merge into one with your bed. your legs are still trembling, and your chest heaves as you exhale deep breaths. letting your eyelids close shut, you take the time to regroup yourself from that mind shattering orgasm. who the fuck had he been fucking that forced him to keep this skill? granted, you had no right to complain but holy shit, he was no fucking noob.

you feel the weight of his body press on top of you, a well-built chest meeting your moist back. it doesn’t take much to realize he’s hovering over you. his lips litter kisses at the column of your neck, moving up to the shell of your ear, leaving a trail of goosebumps after each embrace, “you tappin’ out already?” gojo snickers at your shell of a body, and you kiss your teeth at his typical mockery, “what happened to my champ while i was gone?”

“fuck off,” you pout, a little embarrassed by the fact that you really were retired from the game. sure, you were getting dicked down real good by your previous partner (question mark), but it never had you as exhausted as you currently were. there was absolutely nothing gojo satoru couldn’t do, and that ticked you off to no end, “nobody said shit about tappin’ out.”

“hm. . .” he hums, nuzzling his nose into your jugular, his hips grinding into the cleft of your ass. it’s impossible to ignore the bulge poking into you, and you doubt he was trying to hide it regardless, his hips rolling against the plushness of your behind, “guess sukuna didn’t do as good of job as he should’ve.”

that has your eyelids opening right back up. talk about an awkward situation— bringing up you and your ex’s (question mark) sex life while having sex with your other ex was a double edged predicament in itself. had you agreed, which lowkey wasn’t entirely wrong, you’d be stroking the fuck out of gojo’s ego and be disrespecting sukuna. but had you disagreed, you could end up on gojo’s wrong side and fumble an entire night worth of dicking.

so, once more, you take the easy way out, at the expense of inflating the white haired man’s ego, much to your dismay, “think you can do better?”

he stays silent for a while. in what you assume is him coming up with an answer to your question, his kisses travel to the dead centre of your shoulder blades, wet and open mouthed, as they crawl lower down your spine. with every kiss, your body caves into a state of relaxation, as if he was undoing every stress clouding at your hazed mind with his mouth alone.

he lands at the middle of your back, before he pulls away abruptly. and just as soon as he started, he was finished— removing himself off your body entirely. panic settles quickly in your stomach, as you turn your head around to see what he was up to. had you unintentionally hurt his feelings? damn, and here you were enjoying the body worship.

“what are you—” your words are cut off as his hands cup at your waist. he slides you back towards the edge of the bed, your feet planted on the floor once more. you feel some residue of your previous orgasm beneath your heels, eugh. you don’t have much time to spend thinking about how gross it feels when a hand holds your shoulders, and lifts you right back up.

your brows jump to your hairline in surprise at the sudden manhandling, though you can’t deny you found just a bit sexy. with his chest pressed into your back once more, you can feel his heartbeat thudding at the blade of your left shoulder, the organ withholding a steady rhythm— the tempo of a lullaby you’d once been accustomed to. and then big arms wrap around your frame, and holds you.

you hate the way your body folds so easily to his touch. it’s been an entire year, and despite your mind shouting at you for the intimacy you’re allowing to gallop right back into your life, your heart craves it. the sense of security his embrace offers you alone makes the least of sense, but you blindly lean into him, allowing yourself to be deluded for the time being. he won’t be yours as soon as this is over, so you might as well take the most advantage of the situation.

it takes a minute for either of you to speak. here you stood— half naked and legs sore, but still happily in his arms. his cologne is still as rich and dominating as it’d been all those times ago. he breaks the silence first, his chin resting above your shoulder, as he mumbles, “you really hurt my feelings, you know.”

to some degree, you know you did. about what exactly? you weren’t sure, but still, you offer him what you believe he wants, the realization leaving a bitter taste in your mouth, “i’m sorry.”

“‘s all good,” he kisses your cheek so tenderly that your neck cranes to the side to meet his gaze. gojo had always been so readable when it came to emotions, as he always wore his heart on his sleeve, but even with all the knowledge you knew about, you weren’t prepared for the look in his eyes. raw, unfiltered emotions. you only notice the close proximity between you both when your noses bump into one another. he shoots you a warm smile, “could never be upset with you. you hold that power over me.”

it’s you who kisses him first, and he returns the favour with more intensity. it’s an awkward positioning for your neck, but you don’t let up regardless of the ache in your joints. his mouth stays on yours as if you were his lifeline, tongues sloshing one over the other, brushing your lips together so gingerly.

in the midst of his tongue down your throat, he slips a hand in between your thighs, cupping at your abandoned pussy. the casual brush of his fingers at your core sent a breathy whine from your throat right into his mouth, and it only motivated him to work harder, rubbing slow patterns into your throbbing clit. your hips chase the feeling, riding the wave of his fingers.

he pulls away from your mouth, just barely, mumbling against your kiss bitten lips, “one of these days you’re gonna let me finish speaking,” followed by a knowing smile. sure, it could be seen as a flaw, but it was the only way you could protect yourself while keeping him within arm’s reach. never ready to have him but never prepared to let him go, “we can do that later— gotta blow your back out first.”

you couldn’t agree more.

it all happens so quickly— he retrieves his hand from between your thighs, having collected your juices at his fingertips, before lubricating his dick. he pumps at the length leisurely, his bottom lip tugged by his top row of teeth, and the groans he lets out are enough to have you squeezing your thighs eagerly, your cunt aching and ready to go. in the midst of your eagerness, you slip your hand behind you and catch his twitching cock, working your wrist right above his own, jerking him off.

a deep groan grumbles from his chest, and he instantly stops your hand from moving any further. you frown at his ceasing, but when you tilt your head to voice out your confusion, he offers a sheepish smile, “don’t wanna cum too soon,” ever the minute man, he was.

though, you soon find yourself regretting your own thoughts the very instant you feel the tip of his dick pushing past your entrance.

there’s a blended harmony of both your moans that bounces off the walls. his fingers dig deep into the flesh of your hips, holding onto you so tightly you’re positive you’ll bruise, and you clamp down on his intruding dick so tightly you’re positive you never want to let him go. the initial stretch is a feeling you’ll never get used to, but the sensation is all but unwanted.

“fuckkk, y/n,” he moans right into your ear, his voice so full of want, you can’t help but understand exactly where he’s coming from. he pulls his hips back, almost entirely, though his tip stays inside. it takes him a second to regroup, mumbling incoherent words under his breath, before he plunges back into your cunt.

and from that point on, it’s wraps. he fucks into you like a madman— as if he’d been punishing you for your crimes. punishing you for sleeping with another man. punishing you for leaving him a year and a half ago. punishing you for punishing him. his pace is ruthless— hips meeting your ass as fast as he’d pull out, pounding into your little hole to mould it into the shape of him.

he’s thick, this time on perverted shit.

you’re so painfully full of him, and despite your arms stretched outwards to grip at the sheets that had suffered more than enough of your abuse on them, your walls never let go of him. you don’t want him to pull out ever, utterly obsessed with the rough pace he set from the jump. it feels impossible keeping the curve of your back when the tip of his length repetitively attacks at your golden spots.

“ohmygoddd,” you words come out slurry, head lolling forward uselessly. if he kept fucking you like this, you weren’t going to let him leave again. stuck in an endless loop of bliss, with every thrust into your folds, his balls would slap at your clit and drive you insane, “y’re d-doing me s’gooddd,”

“yeah?” he eggs on, his voice as breathless as you’d been, though his pacing would never suggest so. there’s a hypnotic recoil of your ass bouncing back onto his pelvis that indulges him into disrupting it, delivering a new spank at your cheeks. you cry out at the feeling, and he strikes again, hips never letting up, “tell me more baby.”

you rise at your tip toes when you feel yourself sinking, legs giving out yet again. you hold yourself up at your elbows, a newfound confidence pushing your hips back to match his pace. when he heaves out a loud moan, you’re encouraged to keep going. the melody of your skins slapping against each other echoes into the stillness of the night, arching your back the further he plunges into your guts. you’re so turned on, the evidence creaming around the perimeter of his cock, easing the slides of his dick inside of you.

“toruuu,” you whine, too fucked out to notice your first mistake— calling him by his favorite nickname. at that given moment, you couldn’t care any less, the intense heat in your guts growing once more. the curve of his dick reaches spots you don’t think anybody could reach, almost as if he was made entirely for you, “you’re so big— can feel you, nghhh, everywhere!”

“that’s cause i am everywhere,” you think you can hear him smirking behind you. though, he has every right to feel entitled, with how much of a mess he’s reduced you to. he rolls his hips deep, a firm bulge forming into your tummy. as if he’s got a sixth sense or eye, he leans forward to rest his chest against your back— your eyes rolling back from the new angle. he slides a hand beneath your stomach and presses at the bulge hard. you can’t help the squeal you let out, “that’s me right there.”

you nod your head feverishly, the applied pressure on your stomach pushing his cock right at your cervix. oh god, he was going to kill you. what a wonderful way to go— all judgements clouded in favour of an eight inched dick penetrating your walls, “‘s all yours— mmh, always been.”

and that’d been your final mistake.

because the chuckle he lets out right into your ear is dark. the sounds shoot right up to your spine, shivers crawling up your back deliciously. he might as well be back stabbing you with how his cock plunged so sloppily out of your gaping cunt, “you always knew how to, fuck, pillowtalk,” he pants into your neck, his additional weight onto your shaking frame nothing short on welcoming. the hand pressing into your stomach lowers to your clit, and pinches meanly at the bud, “you know i’d, mmh, give you the world if you asked— my smart girl, shit.”

he’s so cruel, talking to you so lovingly despite it all. you tighten your eyes, in poor attempts to ignore the tenderness of the words fleeting his lips and focus instead on the stretch of your cunt down his dick. you feel yourself creaming on him, further proof of both your unison through his diabolical thrusts. he pinned you into place like this— unable to do anything but take what he gave you gratefully.

at a particular stroke at your abused golden spot, your body releases another tremor of shudders. it overtakes you from head to toe, a moan so ripe escaping your lips as you claw at ruined sheets. gojo works into aiming at that spot over and over again, each thrust more intense than the previous one. the change of his pace, slowing for a minute, draws you near the end of the line quicker than you’d anticipated.

“oh?” he grunts playfully, swaying his hips back and forth into your poor pussy. mercy is nowhere to be found, however, “you like it when i fuck you like this?” another agonizingly beautiful thrust at the same place, you can’t help but reward him with a cry. he’s fucking you into the damn mattress, and he has the balls to ask this question knowing the answer. still, you nod your head mutely, tears collecting at your lash line, and he nips at the skin on your jaw, “yeahhh you do.”

god, you do.

and suddenly, you can’t bring yourself to remember why you’d ever let go of dick this good. the kind that would have you taking the rubber off and considering finishing inside. the kind that had you babbling apologies for having done absolutely nothing wrong. the kind that made you begin to believe his careless whispers, empty promises to work things out.

in the midst of your delusions, he pulls you both back up from the bed, standing once again. at this new position, he reaches impossibly further into you, the difference in your heights making up for the inches he’s dug into you. his fingers dig in the column of your throat, the weight of his hand wrapped tightly at your neck. he’s everywhere at once, but simultaneously no where to be found. while you can feel his tip prodding at your most sensitive spot, you don’t feel the overwhelming force of love he once bore with open arms for you.

or was it you were feigning you don’t? because as he works himself back into you, at a pace so tender yet cruel, the line of boundaries you’d once set has been entirely deterred. a force so overwhelming, just like his entire being, bringing you right back to him as if you’d never left— nevermind the fact your thighs could barely support themselves, quaking pathetically. it was getting too much— everything was a lot.

“nahhh. . . don’t start running now.” you didn’t realize you were. the sheets are crumpled in your tight hold, while your other hand lightly pushes at his lower abdomen. you were a trooper, but there was only so much pleasurable torture you could handle. naturally, he pins your wrist at your spine to maintain his ruthless pace, and with another gentle yet cruelly empty promise, he coos, “not when i’ve just gotten you back.”

how the fuck did you get yourself in this mess?

oh right. . . tinder. you had a bone to pick with the ceo of that app right after you come back to your senses.

“i— i can’t,” you fumble at your words, the lack of oxygen catching up to you. you’re bound to his mercy— hands tied, breath nearly restricted, pussy obliterated, and yet, there’s nowhere else you’d want to be. the pressure on your throat lolls your head backwards, chin facing the ceiling as your eyes fall onto snowy lashes, “gonna cum again— oh fuckfuckfuck,”

and despite his brutality, he shoots you a sweet smile, the contrast in his words versus his actions grand, “right behind you, baby.”

you cum, and hard . much harder than you had before. you gush your fluids down his piercing cock, your folds squeezing him tight as you release. you think your mind blanks for a minute, an orgasm so powerful, you fear your eyes would stay stuck at the back of your skull. you shiver in his embrace, the insatiable desire racking your body from top to bottom.

when he pulls out, you fall flat yet again onto your stomach, face first. you assume you look like a puddle of nothingness, your limbs spent from the overexhaustion. but still, you find yourself in a similar position to prior, as gojo leans over your body, a hand holding him up as the other works on his jerking him cum out. smart move, not finishing inside, though a weird feeling of disappointment sits in your stomach, swapping the fiery heat from your orgasm.

he sinks his teeth into your shoulders as you wince, emptying himself right onto your lower back. it runs hot and smooth into the dimples of your back, that you can’t help but stretch your limp arm towards the mess to collect the residue on your fingers. you pop them into your mouth, his taste still so familiar as he plops right at your side, face up.

there’s a thick silence that fills the sex scented room. you wonder what is going through his brain now that the lust demon that was half his ego had been taken care of. was he on the same page as you were? had he realized just how messy this could turn out? he’s too quiet for a man of his nature— and that terrified you shitless. no matter the outcome, you’re ready to kick him out. post nut clarity was a scary thing— it revealed the violent truth of how tempting the flesh could be, even with consequences on the line.

you want to beat him to it. the last thing you need on your consciousness is your ex boyfriend who’d you invited into your home a year after you broke up with him, leaving you. he seemed petty enough to do the eye for an eye shtick— it wasn’t too out of character for him.

with a heavy heart and sigh, you turn your head to the side where he lays comfortably. the words want to die in your throat, but your urge them out, the sooner the better, “you should—”

“no.” he interrupts, followed by a yawn.

you frown at that, brows scrunching as you insist that yet again, “you need to—”

“nah.” gojo cuts you off yet again, rolling onto his side. his dick falls limp onto your bed, and you don’t think about the mess it’s making. to be fair, you’d done far worse. and it was proven difficult to care about that mess when he brought a finger to play with your loose hairs, cerulean eyes zeroing in on them, “i’m tired. let’s get you cleaned up and go to bed.”

“you’re not listening to me.” you click your tongue, a little desperate to have him hear you. you’re scared to keep him around longer, because you know you’ll grow attached again and that already ended terribly once, and took you forever and a half to get over. he has to leave and right now, “you have to go.”

gojo hums at that. he stops the twirling of your hair, rather reluctantly, and finally meets your sharp gaze. he still looks at you like you hung the stars in the sky, “why?”

you narrow your eyes, “you know why,” you shouldn’t have to explain why two exes cozying up after indulging into each other was a bad idea. common sense, you figured, but was it common sense to have him over in the first place? a flurry of various emotions coursing over you laced with exhaustion had you overthinking like a motherfucker, “this was a bad idea.”

he trails his finger along the slope of your clenched jaw, and you don’t think about the fact it immediately relaxed at his touch. the longer he traced your skin, the longer he kept looking at you like that, you were wavering in your own logic. you’d both gotten what you wanted in the first place, so why was it he was still here? the rational decision would be to pretend this never happened and part ways again, but why was the thought of him locking the door behind him once again at your expense making you feel sick to your stomach?

when his finger lands at your pouty lips, he taps his index finger twice against the flesh. naturally, your pout deepens. his eyes flick from your mouth to your shying gaze, and his index swaps for his thumb. he runs the pad of his finger across the reddened surface, and his voice falls a few octaves lower, hushed for nobody else but you to hear, “you don’t want me to leave.”

you don’t.

he takes your silence as acceptance, and plants a soft kiss to your lips. it’s enough to rid your mind of its plaguing doubts in the meanwhile. and when his hand slides to cup at the back of your neck, ultimately deepening it, you can’t find it in you to care about the consequences for the time being. not when he was swallowing you whole like he was the one terrified to feel you slip from his fingers. you melt into him far too easily.

well. . . that was something you’d deal with in the morning.

tinder: 1, you: 0.

now can y’all stop calling me a deadbeat 🙎‍♂️

#rena☆star.#jjk #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jjk x reader #gojo satoru smut #gojo satoru x reader #gojo satoru x you #gojo smut #gojo x reader #gojo x you #gojo x y/n #gojo thirst #jjk gojo #gojo satoru

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nanamisgirly · 24 days ago

Note

hey gorgjus, I have a request 😛

Lads men when reader is ovulating and all she wants to do is..well her man. Doesn’t matter where or when she’s just super needy for multiple rounds to the point where maybe even they’re a bit shocked, but up for the challenge~ ofc u don’t have to but I’d die if u did 🤭💕

୨୧ — a/n HIIII it took me so long to write, I was turned on each time HELPPPP, anyway I gave my whole hope you will enjoy!! ALSO sorry I yapped so much (as per usual 😔), COMMENTS AND REBLOGS ARE VERY MUCH APPRECIATED MA GIRLIIIIES <3333 (especially comments I love talking to you 💋)

୨୧ — FEAT bestfriend!Caleb, boyfriend!guitarist!Xavier (have the vision IT'S CANON IDCCC), boyfriend!Rafayel (day at the beach), boyfriend!Zayne (grinding on him), boyfriend!Sylus (on mission duuuh) x fem!reader

୨୧ — cw multiple position (prone bone, matting press, cowgirl,..), cumplay, rough & messy sex, degrading (calling her a whore, needy), praise, nipple play, pet name, p in v, unprotected sex, breeding kink in Caleb, creampied, cumming dry, oral sex (Caleb giving, Rafayel receiving), squirting in Caleb, cumming on face in Caleb, size kink, big stretch, big cock, masturbation, semi-voyeurism (Xavier, Rafayel, Sylus), Caleb just won't shut up, unashamed reader, fighting for dominance, sub Rafayel, Sylus is down bad for her, mean Zayne, teasing, belly bulge (Xavier), lot of spit and drool, overstimulated reader and men!, they do moan bc as long as I live my men WILL moan!

𓂃۶ৎ CALEB

Caleb is sprawled out beside you on the couch, legs widely open, one ankle resting lazily on the edge of the coffee table. His thighs are stretching the grey fabric of his sweatpants, making your case much worse and making you impossible to focus on the movie playing on the TV.

And the way his hoodie is pushed up to show those big veiny forearms, golden skin stretched on muscles…

You shake your head, trying to stop the thoughts, you’re his best friend for fuck’s sake. You’re supposed to be watching a movie and maybe eating popcorn, not fantasizing about straddling him and grinding against his muscular thigh. You’re not supposed to salivate for the bushy happy trail picking under his ridden-up hoodie.

It’s useless…your skin is so hot, your pulse is thudding behind your ears, and you’re so wet it’s uncomfortable how your pantie is clinging to you.

“You okay?” he asks, as he saw you shift for the nth time.

And it’s unfair, unfair how pretty his face is. Soft, boyish lips, tenting you, with a stubble he didn’t bother shaving this morning making you wonder how it’d feel between your legs. And no need to talk about his big round purple eyes, making you go insane.

“yeah” you say standing way too fast. “I just…don’t feel well. Gonna head to bed early.”

“Oh…” he blinks those giant puppy eyes at you, making you grow wetter. “Okay. Do you need anything?”

“No, don’t worry. See you tomorrow.”

“Alright. Sleep tight, babe.” His follows you with big concerned eyes.

Babe.

Babe?!

You swear you’re about to slam your head against the wall. Why is he making everything so hard? Your pussy is pulsing, in need. So in need to be stuffed it actually hurt.

It’s unbearable.

And really, is it wrong to take matters into your own hands?

To grab that big, veiny dildo you keep stashed in your bedside drawer and sink it into your dripping cunt while your best friend sits just meters away in the other room?

Is it really wrong to tweak your nipple with your free hand, imagining it’s his rough palm twisting and tugging, his voice in your ear telling you how tight and messy you are for him?

You gasp as you push it in, slow at first, then desperate. You’re already soaked and your walls clench around the toy greedily. Your eyes flutter shut, jaw slack, hips lifting off the bed as you start to fuck yourself faster, harder.

And all you have in your mind is Caleb. His purple eyes, his strong and big body that could easily manhandle you—roughly.

You moan—loud, unashamed—and arch off the bed, back taut, lips parted as the waves build fast and wild.

You don’t hear the door creak open.

Not until—

“I keep hearing you making noises, I’m worried you—”

You freeze—only for a second—when your eyes, heavy and glassy, blink toward the doorway.

Caleb is frozen mid-step, one hand on the doorknob, his brows dawn in confusion that melts into something darker. His mouth parts, his eyes drop to the way your legs are spread, how your hand is working that dildo inside you like you need it to breathe.

But at this point? You truly don’t care. Your hips keep jerking, desperate and out of control, slick coating your thighs in glossy streaks. Your gaze meets his—blurry with tears of frustration—and you let out the most fragile, needy whine.

He doesn’t move, he simply stares—like he’s watching the holiest, dirtiest thing he’s ever seen. You can only see his chest rises and falls, nostrils flaring.

His eyes drop to the soaked sheets, the obscene squelch of the toy still buried between your legs and your fucked-out eyes begging him to do something are driving him into oblivion. His cock already hard and painful.

“you’re fucking yourself…” his voice is low, “lying in here whining for me like that. Thought you were sick.”

You watch as he approaches—slow at first, like he’s afraid the dream will vanish—before he kneels at the edge of the bed. He grabs your wrist, almost gently, and yanks the toy from your cunt with a wet, messy pop. You keen at the loss, hips bucking, slick spilling onto the sheets.

“You needed this bad, huh? So bad you couldn’t ask me? So bad you were ashamed to sit next to me on the couch?”

You can’t answer—just nod through the haze, cheeks flushedyour walls clenching around nothing, feeling so empty it hurts.

His gaze drops to your empty hole and how your hips keep twitching.

“Are you in heat or something?” his eyes are still fixated on your cunt, almost like he’s talking to her. “You smell like it. Like you’re ready to be bred.”

You whimper, spreading your legs wider, offering yourself. “Caleb... Fuck, do something ‘bout it. I can’t... it’s too empty... I need—I need—"

That’s all it takes.

Caleb lunges, hands bruising on your thighs as he pulls you down to the edge of the bed.

“fuckin’ hell.” He buries his face between your legs with a groan that sounds like agony and bliss all at once. “This pussy’s crying for cock, babe.”

You gasp when he wraps his arms under your thighs and locks you in place, dragging his mouth through your folds—tongue’s everywhere sloppy and greedy, licking everything you could give him.

“mmmh such a sweet taste.” His voice’s muffled by your puffy lips. “You gonna cum for me, sweetheart? Please, let me have it, please. I want you to mark me. Wanna be drenched in you. I’ve waited so long to be covered in your cum, your sweet liquid all over my face, hot and warm.”

His lips suck on your clit, hard—creating suction.

“No more toys. No more hiding in your room touching yourself when I’m out there. All this cum going to waste? Not in my watch.” You’re lips part in a silent scream when he suddenly inserts two long fingers into your soaked pussy, curling them just right—just onto your spongy spot.

“Caleb, don’t stop—ah!—feels so good,” you pant, rocking into him. “Your tongue—oh! Right here! Yes, fuck—need more…”

“You’re gonna get it—mph keep tugging on them—” Caleb’s eyes roll back as your fingers grope his hair, pushing him deeper in your cunt. “gonna give you the real thing if you make a pretty mess on my face. You can do that right?”

Your heart is pounding so hard, and your walls keep clenching and clenching. At this point, you’re gushing all over his face.

The pleasure overwhelming your sense. “Caleb move your fingers faster..”

And he does just as you asked. His fingers soaked, filthy sounds escaping your pussy every time he moves them in, they’re white. White of your arousal.

And when he sucks on your clit once again, you cum harder than ever. Back arching, scream ripped straight from your lungs as you convulse around his fingers.

But when you collapse, breath ragged, the ache in your core only gets worse. Your body aches, womb throbbing—begging for him and only him. A hunger that no toy, no fingers and no tongue could satisfy.

You prop yourself on your elbows, eyes blown wide and pupils sharp as you look down the thick, flushed length already in his hand. Veins running up the shaft, the tip swollen and deep brown. So pretty your mouth goes dry. There’s probably drool coming out of the corner of your lips.

“Need you to fuck me.” You rasp. “Fuck me so deep I could feel you for days.”

His jaw clenches, knuckles going white around the base of his cock. “You’re not ready—”

“You smell me, don’t you?” you grab your knees and pull them up, wide, exposing everything. “You said it—I’m in fucking heat. I want to be stuffed. I need to be bred. Caleb, please…” you look up at him with teary eyes.

“Fuckin’ mine.” He snarls, yanking your hips down until your ass is flush with the edge of the bed and he’s lined up, cock head brushing over your soaked entrance. You arch up into him panting and almost crying from the pressure building under your skin.

Caleb moves his cock head up and down your entrance, circling your sensitive clit with his fat tip—smearing all his precum across your folds.

“Caleb…stop the tease. Put it in.”

He leans over you, face twisted in lust and longing. “As the lady begs.”

And in one brutal thrust, he’s deeeep inside you. Your cunt stretches wide around him, to its maximum, it’s borderline with pain. His cock’s so thick you swear you can feel every tiny twitch, every fucking pulse against your walls.

His forehead presses to yours, one hand fisted in your hair, the other locked under your knee to keep you open. “You’re so tight. . like so fuckin’ tight—shit, hiding this perfect pussy from me, you some of selfish girl, ain’t you ?”

“Caleb,” you cry, tears leaking from your eyes. “If you don’t move—”

He lets out a guttural sound, something animalistic—cutting you off—and starts driving into you, fast. The bed creaks under his thrust, wet slaps echo around you.

“My needy little fuckdoll…” he whispers against your ear, “So so wet and desperate, how long have you been walking around wanting this pussy to be fucked properly?” He pants, thrusting harder, “My cock’s the only thing that’ll help you, mhh? Say it.”

You sob, words crumbling in your throat, your pussy gripping him so tight it’s like you’ll never let him go. “Forever.” The word rips out of you, cracked and breathless. “I thought about you every night. Wanted this cock in me so bad I couldn’t fucking sleep—please, Caleb, I need it.”

“Oh, fuck,” he groans, thrusts getting messier. “I knew it. Knew you were touchin’ yourself thinkin’ about me—slippin’ fingers into that sloppy little hole pretending it was mine.”

“Yes!” you cry, choking on it, back arching off the bed.

Big rough hands suddenly slam into your hips, holding you down—pinning you on the mattress as his thrusts becomes more and more sloppier. And when his fat tip hits something wicked inside you—

“Holy fuck,” his voice wrecked, pausing only a split second to look down at the mess you just made. “Did you—did you just…squirted?” his eyes are still on the white liquid all over his pelvis, his balls and thighs.

You nod, a bit ashamed, a bit too fucked-out to fully comprehend.

“Gonna make you do that again.” He shifts your legs up higher, hitting now at a deeper angle, hips pistoning without mercy. “Wanna see that pussy gush all over me again, spill for me—paint my cock with it even. Fuck that’s so hot, you have no idea.”

𓂃۶ৎ XAVIER

Are you a whore for wanting to fuck Xavier’s cock buried deep in you again? And right before his big concert, no less.

He’s waited for this moment for so long, going on and on about how excited he was to perform with his band at this famous festival — a major turning point in their career.

And it’s not like Xavier didn’t satisfy you before coming here. He knew you were ovulating and was more than happy to fuck you for who knows how long—long enough to cum dry, reduced to those weak, poor little spurts.

But it is his fault for looking so damn sexy in the back stage waiting room : pretty makeup, painted nails, and some mouthwatering outfit—if we could call even call that an outfit. It’s just tight leather pants and a jacket with nothing under it, his abs—and the tattoo down his hips—plus his pink nipples are right there in front of you. and watching him run through his setlist on guitar wasn’t helping one bit. His long fingers gliding over the strings, teasing the cords…

“Hey, you good?” Xavier’s voice pulls you out of your trance. “You all flushed and��shifting in your seat.” He tilts his head, clearly concerned. “If you need something I can call—”

“No!” you respond too quickly, making him furrows his brows.

When he smirks and his pupils dilate more, you realize he knows exactly what’s going on. “You really are one horny girl.” He laughs softly, shaking his head in disbelief before turning his attention back to his guitar.

“God forbid a girl wants her man all over her.” You mutter, crossing your arms with a fake pout.

Xavier hums, amused—only making you even more irritated.

You cross your legs. Then uncross. Then squeeze your thighs together, desperate for relief.

“Something wrong with the seat?” he asks, still pretending to look at his guitar, rings flashing under the light.

You shoot him a glare, but it only fuels him. He lets his eyes roam over you for a long second, slow and unashamed. “You really are squirmy tonight. Is it the pants?” he gestures lazily to himself. “You don’t like leather, maybe?”

Before you can answer, someone passes by the open door of the backstage lounge, tossing Xavier a quick, “Five minutes, man!”

He waves a hand without looking. His eyes stay on you. “I’ll make it quick,” he shouts back—but you don’t know if he means it to him or…to you.

More people start moving outside—crew, staff, the bandmate walking past, making it much worse. The room doesn’t even have a door, just a curtain half-drawn. But it might as well not be there at all.

And Xavier starts tuning again, lazily, strumming slow, deep chords. It’s like foreplay with a guitar. Every sound, every note, synced to the rise and fall of your breath. Like he’s playing you.

“Touch yourself,” he says quietly.

Your head snaps up.

“No one’s looking. Just a little. Over the pants.” He adds like that’s supposed to help your case.

“No need to tell me twice.” You shift, subtly, rocking your hips the smallest bit where you sit.

“Rub your clit a bit, get some relief before I go out there.” He whispers for only you to hear, his pupils have eaten the deep ocean blue of his eyes. “I’ll be thinking about it the whole time.”

You bring a hand to your clothed pussy, cupping it, your thumb coming to your swollen bund, pressing and circling it—you whimper at the sensation, a deep exhale leaving your lips.

“Fuck this.” He groans.

He drops the guitar onto the couch, grabs your wrist and pulls you up like you weigh nothing. You stumble into his chest, dizzy with the contact, with the heat radiating off his skin. He looks left, right and practically drags you out of the lounge, down a narrow hallway and around the corner.

There’s a supply closet. Barely lit. barely big enough to stand in—but it will do.

He shoves the door open and pulls you in.

The moment it shuts, he slams you against it—hard enough to rattle your bone in the best way—and cages you in with both arms.

“You couldn’t wait,” he breathes against your cheek. “My cock is still sensitive from earlier and here you are. Shifting in your seat like a brat. Was it not enough?”

“Well, you wore leather,” you tease, smiling fully—but it disappears as fast as it appeared when his mouth crushed onto yours.

His tongue licks your lips, kissing you with all he got. One thigh sliding between yours and pressing against your aching core. His hands move down your hips, forcing you to grind down on him, adding more pressure as his tongue invades your mouth.

The kiss is filthy—both of you fighting for dominance. Nothing sweet or gentle. Just teeth, spit and bruising heat. Wet sounds echo in the cramped closet—muffling the world behind the tiny door—drool dripping down your chins.

“I swear you’re gonna be the death of me,” he says once he pulls away to take a needed breath. “My cock is barely functioning, and—fuck” his eyes rolls back when you arch to reach one of his strawberry-colored nipples with your mouth, teeth tugging enough to make him hiss.

“We gotta be quick, okay? Don’t be too loud—”

“I’m not the one who’s loud, Xavier,” You snap, hands already on his belt, pulling his cock free. “Pull my pants down now, would ya? It’s not like we have time to lose, mh?”

You nuzzle into the side of his neck, kissing the sensitive spot under his ear while his thigh presses back and forth against your soaked panties.

His hands move fast, yanking your pants and underwear down in one go—then flipping you around so your bare ass is pressed flush to his leaking tip.

“I don’t need to be prepared—”

“So greedy,” he cuts you off, slamming his hips forward and sinking into your warm, dripping cunt.

“Oh, fuck.” You moan, palms flat against the cold wall, pushing your hips back, desperate to take all of him. Xavier’s cock is curved perfectly to hit that throbbing, aching spot that had your vision going white within seconds.

He holds you tight, grinding his hips into yours in a punishing, frantic rhythm. His mouth crashes to your shoulder and his bites into it. “How’s that?” he pants, breath hot and wild. “Is it a good fuck? Do you like being fucked like this?” one of his hands grabs a handful of your ass, fingers digging in hard.

“That’s what you wanted? My fat cock inside your needy cunt.” his hips clapping against yours with filthy, echoing slaps. You can feel it. Every inch. Every stretch of him.

And you feel so full—the pressure is insane. Your belly is tight, heat coiling in your core and crawling up your spine. When you glance down, just barely, you can see it—a faint bulge at the bottom of your stomach every time he slams in, punching the air from your lungs.

“Fuck,” you gasp. “You’re so deep—I can see you inside me.”

His rhythm stutters, a choked moan ripping from his throat as he presses a hand flat over your lower stomach, right where his cock is visible. “Stuffing this tight pussy all nice.”

Your head tips back, a broken moan ripping from your throat as your back arches, hips rocking to meet him halfway. “So good—ah!—really good Xavier—don’t you dare stop,” you cry out, voice trembling.

And just as his other hand comes to twist your nipple, hard fast, just how you like it—

“Has anyone seen Xavier?” a voice cuts in, rushed and far too close.

Your head whips toward him, but he’s already looking at you—his face stricken for a second, then overtaken by that same unhinged, hungry need.

“He was in his room, like, two minutes ago.” You distingue one of his bandmate’s voice.

“Shit, shit—we gotta hurry,” he grits out, barely louder than a breath. He’s still buried in you, still chasing that last high.

His thrusts grow ragged and sloppy. He grips your hips tighter, slamming into you harder, deeper—the slap of skin on skin is loud and soaked with all the slick leaking down your thighs.

“Please, come with me, sweetie…” his voice’s raw, fucked-out against your shoulder. One hand fumble between your legs, fingers finding your clit, rubbing fast, messy circles.

Every thrust slam into your sweet spot with punishing accuracy, and the pressure in your belly coils tighter and tighter. You can’t think—can’t breathe—his cock is pulsing inside you, so hot, so hard—

“gonna come—I’m gonna —” you whisper, eyes fluttering, completely gone.

“Do it,” he groans. “Let go. Come for me. Make a mess on my cock—make this pussy gush, baby.” He demands, fingers pressing tighter to your clit—coaxing your orgasm, his thrusts getting more erratic and rougher.

Your walls locking down around him, gushing, your legs shaking. The orgasm crashes into you like a fucking truck. Your body convulses, clit pulsing under his fingers, your cunt fluttering around his cock—the bulge in your stomach pulses with every thrust.

Xavier hisses through his teeth, losing control the second your walls squeeze once too hard around his wide length. “Jesus—fuck, yes!—j-just like that—oh shit…” he chokes out, burying himself deep inside as hot ropes of cum fills your womb, cock twitching.

His head drops to your shoulder, forehead slick with sweat against your skin.

For a second, it’s just your breathing—ragged, tangled, all-consuming.

“Xavier! You coming or what?” someone shouts, just outside the door.

“Goddamn it.” He mutters, pulling out of you with a protesting whimper, trying to steady his breath. His cum starts dripping down your thigh as he stumbles back, moving fast and try to shove himself back into his boxers, one hand fumbling with his zipper.

You stumble a little, legs shaking as you fix your clothes, heart still hammering in your chest.

Before he can fully turn away, you grab his jaw—his breath stills, eyes snapping to you.

You pull him into a filthy, wet kiss that’s all tongue and teeth. Going on your tiptoes, you bring your mouth to his ear and murmurs “Don’t forget…we’re not done, pretty boy.”

Your tongue flicks against the shell of his ear—goosebumps parkouring down his neck.

You smirk and purr at his reaction. “And don’t forget who you belong to when girls start throwing their bras at your face, mh?”

His eyes widen, hungry, and then he’s gone—rushing out the door, jaw still tingling from your grip.

𓂃۶ৎ RAFAYEL

It was such a hot day. .

The kind of heat that slicked your skin in sweat before you’d even moved, the kind that left the air heavy and unbearable.

So, when Rafayel suggested a beach day, with that shy little tilt of his head, you had almost laughed. Not because it was stupid idea, but he thought it would cool you down.

He didn’t know better.

You were absolutely a wet mess for his cock. Your body was way more much hotter than the sun hitting on the sand.

So, of course, when you found the hidden cove—all shadows and crashing waves—you were on Rafayel before he could even make a comment on the view.

“Please, Rafayel,” you whispered, breath ghosting hot across his lips. Your chest heaved against his, pinning him effortlessly, and your fingers curled around his wrist.

His breath hitched, pupils blown wide, violet eyes barely visible through the haze of lust and disbelief. Even his lips were still kiss-swollen.

“I—I don’t think I can even fuck you properly,” he stammered, voice cracking so cutely. “Even If I wanted to. I’m still—God—I haven’t recovered yet…”

And indeed, you’d both spent most of your times in the hotel’s bed sheets, fucking all night all day from the kitchen floor to the bathroom’s sink. His mouth and dick buried between your thighs pulling so many orgasms out of you, and him. Non-stop.

Your body pressed tighter, practically purring against his as you leaned into his neck, nipping just above his collarbone. He gasped—so easily startled

You could feel his pulse against your lips—frantic. You took your chance and slid your hand down his toned stomach until it reached the front of his swim shorts. When you cupped his length with your palm, he twitched violently.

“For a man who says he hasn’t recovered, you’re quite well-functioning y’know.” You mock.

You slowly lift your gaze from his cock to his face—eyes glassy with hunger—and you whisper, “you only have to be here. I can do all the work…please, Rafayel. I need to soothe the ache.”

He blinked, breath stuttering hips already betraying him with a slow roll forward. “I can’t take much more—”

You cut him off with a grind of your hips, dragging your soaked bikini bottom over the swell of him, letting him feel exactly how needy you were—your folds stuck to the fabric, your slick a mess between you both, and he whimpered.

“Just keep looking pretty,” you murmured, licking into his open mouth. “That’s all you ever have to do.”

You sank to your knees, hands tugging at the waistband of his shorts with zero patience. His cock slapped up against his stomach—flushed an angry pink, throbbing, soaked in precum—his tip redder than usual from the overstimulation.

You let out the most pornographic moan ever, head tilting as you watched the fat bead of slick drip from his slit. He twitched under your gaze, a pitiful whimper slipping from his bitten-red lips.

You flattened your tongue against the underside of his cock, dragging it cruelly from the base to the tip, savoring the salty-slick taste of him. You circled his swollen head with the tip of your tongue, smearing his own precum around it, watching his thighs tremble.

“F-fuck—ah, I—” he choked, fingers scrambling against the rock behind him, eyes wide. “P-please—please, baby, don’t tease—”

You laughed against his cock before sinking down, swallowing him in one wet, choking glide, shoving your face until your nose pressed into the soft curls at his pelvis.

His back arched.

One hand clawed helplessly at the rock wall behind him while the other gripped your hair in a panic-tight hold, trying to either stop you or pull you deeper—he didn’t even know.

You moaned around him, loud and guttural, your thora vibrating around his cock, drool bubbling at the corners of your mouth. Your ruined bikini clung to your body like a second skin, soaked clean through—fabric bunched between your folds, practically dripping as you rocked your hips against nothing.

You pulled back just to spit thickly onto his cock, watching it mix with your slick and his precum, running down your chin, stringing between your lips and his tip as you licked back up with filthy abandon.

“I—I can’t—” he sobbed, head slamming back against the rock. “Y-you’re too—fuck—it’s too much, I can’t—”

“You can,” you snarled, fisting the base of his cock with one hand, pumping him hard as you licked his tip with quick, sloppy little flicks. “You will.”

The second he came—spilling down your throat, twitching in your mouth, voice broken and wrecked—you climbed on top of him. Still on your knees in the sand, bikini bottom shoved aside, folds glistening and dripping with need.

He was still softening when you straddled him, and he looked at you with dazed, glassy eyes—eyes that screamed mercy.

But you were past hearing it.

“Fuck, I need you,” you rasped, nails digging into his chest as you guided him back to your soaked, pulsing heat. “I don’t care if you’re not ready. I can’t—I can’t wait anymore, Rafayel. I need to cum or I’m going to lose my fucking mind.”

“I—I just came…and maybe, your pussy needs to—”

“I’ll make it fit,” you snapped, grinding his oversensitive cockhead through your swollen clit. His body tried to flinch away from the contact, but you caged him in—legs strong, body relentless—and pushed.

His mouth fell open in a silent moan, his whole frame spasming beneath you. “Oh God—it’s too much, I swear—”

You dropped onto him fully, hips slamming down as you bottomed out in one desperate stroke—not listening to what he was saying, driven by lust.

Even softening, his cock was stretching you full, he still reached deep.

“Rafayel, babe—I need it,” you whimpered, already riding him, pace feral. “Need to cum sooo bad.”

Your cunt was making noises to the point of indecency, your juices squelching loud and obscene, splashing everywhere around you—on you. His hands gripped your hips weakly.

“You’re milking me—I can’t, it hurts—please, fuck, I—oh fuck!”

“you’re gonna take it,” you snarled, sweat dripping down your temples, your ruined bikini top falling askew, tits bouncing with every thrust. “I want to cream on your cock, Rafayel. You want it too, right? Lemme pretty, be a good boy.”

His hips bucked up once, involuntarily, and you screamed—your clit grinding against his pelvis, your pussy fluttering, sucking him in deeper like your body knew nothing but this hunger now.

With tears in his eyes, cock twitching helplessly inside you, he whispers “I’m gonna cum again—”

“Fucking do it,” you panted, riding him faster, rougher, losing all rhythm, chasing your orgasm like a woman possessed.

And no long after, you felt hot long ropes of cum filling your cunt, his fingers bruising your thighs as his eyes closed shut. Cumming harder than before, body completely at your mercy.

You followed seconds after, cunt spasming wildly around him, milking him through his own overstimulation.

You collapsed forward, chest to chest, both of you soaked in sweat and cum.

𓂃۶ৎ ZAYNE

you squint at the red glow of the alarm clock on the nightstand.

4:00 am.

You stare at the ceiling like it might talk you down. It’s fine. One day. You can do it. You’re not a sex addict, right? One day is fine.

You tell yourself that. Over and over. For over an hour now. Since you woke up, heart pounding hard against your ribcage, panties soaked.

You’ve twisted in the sheets, rolled from side to side, trying to calm it, trying to wait it out.

No use.

You sigh as your turn your head toward Zayne. You watch the slow raise and fall of his back as his breath steadily. He’s out cold, like someone completely exhausted can be. And you get it—he had a brutal shift at the hospital. He has… What? Twelve or thirteen hours on his feet? Probably more. And he’ll be up again in ninety minutes.

He needs this sleep.

But the way his back stretches in the moonlight, muscles taut and perfect like someone sculpted him out of sleep and sweat—it makes you ache. Makes your thighs clench. Makes patience feel like a joke.

He’s always giving so much. To his job, to everyone. Always putting in more than he has to. Always chasing better. And he deserves rest. He really does.

But unfortunately, there’s this pulse between your thighs, stubborn. A knot of need that won’t untangle. Your panties feel like a tease, there’re soaked to the point it feels like they’re mocking you for trying to be patient.

You turn toward Zayne once again. Your gaze shifting between the ceiling and him.

He hasn’t moved. His lips are parted just slightly, his skin’s warm under your fingertips as you brush his hip.

You bite your lower lip as you mentally curse yourself for what you’re about to do.

You swloly slide closer to him, careful not to wake him up, your legs slips between his, and you press in, grinding your needy core against the strong curve of his thigh—it’s solid and so perfect… exactly what you desperately need.

You bite your lip, hard. It’s the only way to stop the sound that nearly escapes when your clit drags just right across his thigh.

His skin against yours, the faint scent of him clinging to the sheets, the little flex of his leg when he shifts ever so slightly in his sleep—it’s so freaking good.

There’s nothing cute or sweet with what you’re doing.

You’re rutting against your boyfriend’s sleeping body like some feral thing, chasing your orgasm in silence, praying he doesn’t wake up and see you like this—panting, wide-eyed.

You’re so wet it should be illegal—slick soaking through the lace, leaving his thigh all slicky with your arousal.

Every roll of your hips sends sparks through your core, your face twists.

Stop. You should stop. Just go to the bathroom. Use your hand.

But you can’t. even with all the will power of the world.

You can’t.

His body, his warmth, his strength. There’s something so Zayne that only him can do.

Even if he doesn’t touch you back, even if he’s deep in some dream far away from you—you’re still losing your mind grinding on him.

Quietly.

Your thighs tremble as the pressure builds, heat coiling low and tight, your body twitching for more, more, just a little more—

You bury your face in the pillow, teeth sinking in, trying to smother every sound.

You’re right there—hips twitching, whole body shivering around the friction, balancing on that thin, shaking edge. One more grind and—

“Mmh…” Zayne stirs, a low grunt rumbling from his chest as he moves, disoriented.

“what time is it…?”

Shit.

Heart in your throat, you stop moving entirely.

Too drenched in need to think straight, too mortified to breathe.

You don’t say a word. Maybe he’ll roll over. With a bit of luck…maybe he won’t even notice.

His thigh flexes, your slick clings to his skin. And he goes still too.

A long pause.

“…are you grinding on me?” his voice is thick with sleep, raspy—making your clit throb.

You press your face deeper into the pillow, cheeks burning, shame crawling down your spine. “I—I didn’t mean to wake you up,” you whisper, voice cracking. “I just...I couldn’t sleep.”

His gaze drops. To your hips. Then your ruined panties. His thigh wet with your arousal.and even though he looks like he’s still trying to process the image, his body reacts faster than his brain.

“Jesus.” he mutters, voice rougher. “…How long have you been doing this?”

“…a while.” You reply quietly.

That pulls a breathy, stunned laugh from his, still half-asleep but definitely hard. Zayne props himself up on one elbow, eyes adjusting, blinking—trying to pull himself out of the sleep.

“I tried not to wake you.”

He watches you for a long second, hair messy, “You were gonna cum on my thigh and not say a thing?”

You nod, barely, ashamed and aching.

“Fuck. You’re actually serious.” His hand reaches out, thumb brushing the curve of your tummy. “You needy little thing,” His lips twitch in a mean smile. Way too amused for someone who just woke up to his girlfriend fucking herself on him.

“You’re so fucked.” He drags the words out in that wrecked, sleepy voice of his—the one that send a shiver down your spine.

“Take ‘em off.”

You blink.

He tapes your panties, eyes glinting. “Go on. Take those ruined little things off. Since you’re already this far.”

You hesitate, heart pounding.

“Aww, now you’re shy?” his tone turns sharp with mock sympathy as his golden eyes fix yours. His hands come to your hips, and he rips your panties off.

The sharp sting causing you to gasp. “Here we go…wasn’t that hard.”

He leans in, breath warm against your cheek, that grin still curling his lips. “You gonna finish what you started?” he murmurs. “Gonna show me how bad you needed it? Since you couldn’t even wait for me to wake up?”

You can’t even answer—just a shaky whimper as you straddle him again, your body obeying even as it trembles, already too raw. Zayne leans back, propping himself up against the headboard, spreading his legs wide. “Atta girl,” His voice’s thick with sleep and arousal. “Show me.”

But the second you drop your full weight onto his thigh, your body jolts. Your hips twitch instead of rock, thighs squeezing as your head falls back in a helpless arc.

It’s too much.

You can’t move. Can’t even breathe right. The slick drag of skin-on-skin against your pulsing clit is sharp and unbearable—like pleasure and pain got tangled together and started burning.

Zayne notices instantly.

“Ohhh,” he breathes, tilting his head to the side, lip caught between his teeth. “You really were fucking losing it, huh?”

Your mouth falls open in a pretty O, eyes fluttering shut as he flexes his muscles under you.

“Look at you,” he laughs softly, darkly, pressing a kiss to your jaw as his other hand threads into your hair and pulls—not hard, just enough to make your throat arch for him. “Fucked yourself out all alone, like a big girl. What, thought you’d just hump my leg and sneak off to sleep after?”

He kisses lower, breath brushing hot against your neck as his mouth drags over your skin. One hand grips your ass, the other holding your hair tight to keep your neck bared as he leaves kiss after kiss down the curve of it—open-mouthed and wet.

Every part of you is sensitive. Your cunt’s throbbing, leaking onto his thigh, your whole body barely stilling with every tiny shift of friction.

“Lemme take this off for you,” he whispers onto your collarbone, hands slipping beneath your shirt. “There we go… You feel much better like this don’t you?”

He doesn’t wait for an answer. He just smirks at the sight of your bare chest, nipples hardened and flushed, completely at his mercy.

He leans in, blows softly onto one—just enough to make you shiver—and the sensation shoots straight between your legs. You whimper, hips bucking as one of his hands returns to your waist, forcing you to grind your drenched pussy against the firm muscle of his thigh.

“Go on,” he murmurs, voice muffled as his mouth closes around your nipple. He nips at it, then sucks

“Be a good girl. Cum on me. I want you to make a mess on me.” he flexes his thigh just right beneath you and you can’t hold it anymore.

A loud moan escapes you as his teeth close again on your nipple, this time a slow aching chew—your body locks up—back arching, nails digging into his shoulders as you cry out. Your climax rips through you, messy and unrestrained.

Before the tremor even leaves your body, he’s moving.

You feel his hands slide beneath your thighs—rough, commanding—and in a blur, you’re flipped onto your stomach, face buried into the pillows, ass lifted high.

You barely catch your breath before he’s behind you, spreading you open with no hesitation, breath hot, voice gone dark.

“You will take this like a good girl, ‘kay?” He murmurs, almost too gentle for how he manhandles you. He peppers kisses across your shoulders—probably apologizing in advance.

His weight settles over you, chest pressing into your back, caging you between the mattress and his wide, unrelenting body. His hands keep your ass in the air, firm and unyielding, while his cock brushes teasingly against your soaked, oversensitive center.

“Gonna be a bit rough,” he warns, breath warm against your ear. “That okay with you?”

You whimper, nod, and he grins—low and sharp.

“Yeah… I know it is. You love being fucked like this. Like a dirty little whore.” He slaps your perfect little ass before adding, “Hold onto the pillows, love.”

And in one brutal push, he’s all the way in. his cock buries to the hilt, stretching you wide open, the sudden fullness knocking the breath from your lungs. His hips are flush to yours, pubic hair brushing your holes, his body locked tight against yours.

“Fuck!—Z-Zayne…’s lot—ah!—”

“That’s okay,” he pants, mouth at your neck—almost drooling over your skin. “You’re my strong girl. You can take it.”

And then he moves—thrusting into you like he’s lost to it, all control burned away. Each stroke is brutal, deep, precise, pounding you into the mattress with relentless force. The bed slams against the wall with every thrust, the headboard rattling loud enough to drown your cries.

He keeps you pinned, keeps your hips arched just right, locked in that perfect angle. All you can do is hold on—fingers twisting in the sheets, face pressed into the pillows, body trembling with the force of it all.

“’S right,” he rasps, pleasure thick in every breath, sweat sticking his chest to your back. He’s nearly gone, nearly forgetting he’s got to be up in less than an hour. “Takin’ this dick so damn well… you’re perfect.”

Your body responds on instinct—tightening around him, walls clenching like a vice. It hits him like a punch to the gut.

“Fuck,” he groans.

You whimper beneath him, nearly sobbing into the pillow. You can feel everything—every thick ridge, every puffy vein, the way his cock drags and stretches you just a little more with every deep thrust. It’s overwhelming. Too much. Not enough.

He hisses through his teeth, hips stuttering for half a second.

“Shit,” he grits out, golden eyes locked to where your bodies meet—where you’re dripping, splashing, making a soaked mess with every slam of his hips. “You tryin’ to choke my cock or somethin’, huh?”

His hands move from your hips until both palms are cupping your breasts. He squeezes onto the soft plush, thumbs brushing over your sensitive nipples as his thrusts keep slamming into you from behind—only to hear your pretty ‘Ah! Ah!’ followed with ‘Deeper Zayne!’

“Can’t stop clenching. So sensitive—these fuckin’ tits—” he groans again, rolling one nipple between his fingers.

You arch into him, helpless. His cock driving into you, his hands pulling at your chest, his mouth licking your neck—all of him wrapped around you, inside you.

“Hold still,” he growls, voice barely human now, hips picking up pace, bed slamming again. “I wanna feel you cum on my cock with my hands all over you.”

𓂃۶ৎ SYLUS

“Again?” Sylus’s voice comes raspy, broken in the edge.

“Pleaaaase,” you purr, letting the word rolls on your tongue, hands firmly pressed on his chest—pushing him against the cold wall.

His head falls back with a dull thud. “Kitten…” he breathes, his ruby eyes dropping to look at you as you press your body against his. “We’re on a mission… I don’t think that’s the moment—”

“You’re sweating,” you whisper, fingers dragging down his forehead, lips ghosting the corner of his jaw. “That’s not like you.” You’ve seen him calm in gunfire, unfazed in blood—it was uncharacteristically of him to have an uneven breath.

“I just think…” you trail off, rising onto your toes, mouth brushing his ear, “if we make it quick… no one has to know.” You bat your lashes, voice a soft, sultry question. You already know the answer. You know you got him wrapped around your finger. You only needed to find the right arguments. It was just a matter of seconds.

Sylus exhales hard through his nose, like it physically hurts to resist you. His jaw ticks.

“You’re insufferable.” He snaps as his hand fists in your shirt, dragging you down the hall without a word.

You smile like crazy. He’s just so cute, isn’t he?

You pass doors. Equipment crates. A stack of mission gear left behind. His body is tense, every step coiled like he’s keeping himself from pinning you to the wall right there and tearing into you in front of anyone who might walk past.

Once he finds a room, he shuts the door with his boot and pin you against it. Dim light filters through a single wall panel, dust swirls in the air, it’s abandoned, quiet and safe.

His hands cage your jaw, his forehead presses to yours. He's panting like he just fought someone off.

"You drive me insane," he growls.

“Is that so?” you blink up at him, biting the inside of your cheek to stifle the laugh. You play dumb, “didn’t notice.”

His hand shoots up, fisting the collar of your shirt. And before you can even gasp, his mouth crashes into your—bruising, teeth clicking, no space to breathe between the kiss and the punishment.

There’s nothing delicate.

His lips crush yours, dragging your bottom one between his teeth until you whimper. The heat of it stings the ache spreading deliciously down your spine. He kisses like’s he’s mad at you, mad at him for not knowing how to tell you ‘No’.

And you kiss him back just as hard. Your fingers tangle in front of his shirt, twisting fabrics tight in your fists. One hand slip between your bodies, palming him through his pants firmly.

He jerks in your grip, groaning straight into your mouth. His hand flies to your hip, squeezing hard enough to leave a bruise. The other grabs your wrist, stopping your hand mid-stroke.

“I don’t think I can cum.” His eyes are heavy-lidded when he looks at you.

“As long as you can get hard,” You smirk, lips swollen and heart racing. “that’s all I need.”

With a growl, Sylus moves fast. He drags your pants down your legs with urgency. Your panties don’t stand a chance—he doesn’t even pull them off, just pushes them to the side, fingers grazing hot and rough against your soaked heat.

You’re already undoing his zipper, not bothering with finesse. His pants stay on, barely shoved down enough to free his cock, thick and flushed in your hand.

He lifts you with no more ceremony, strong hands under your thighs then rapidly under your knees so your legs could rest on his wide shoulder. The position locks you open, exposed—your back pressed to the cold door, legs draped high and wide against his warm body.

His cock drags upward through your slick folds, heavy and hot, teasing that swollen ache with just enough pressure to make you whimper. The contrast of his warmth against the door’s chill makes your skin burn.

Teeth graze along your jaw, and his voice comes out low, “Gonna fuck you all nice and good, promise. Hold on tight.”

You don’t even realize you’ve grabbed two fistfuls of his white hair until he thrusts forward, so hard that your entire body tightens, already bracing for the stretch, the slam, the mess.

His forearms warp around your thick thighs, holding you in place with an iron grip as he piston into you. You’re suspended between the door and his chest, barely able to think—let alone speak.

When he moves it’s rough—slow but deep. The weight of his pants clings to his hips, the waistband scraping your thighs every time he thrusts in.

His mushroom cock head kisses your cervix each time he brutally bottoms out, drawing a raw cry from your throat.

The sound of the scrape of wood behind you is almost louder than your own voice breaking. “Is this how you wanted it?” he rasps against your mouth, his breath hot, sharp. “On a mission—still begging to be stretched wide?”

Sweat beads at his temple. His jaw’s clenched. And all you can do is take it.

“Yes-Yes! Exactly…you’re so—oh shit!—good to me Sylus.” You pant, head hitting the door behind you as your eyes roll back. The way he’s still mostly dressed, the grind of fabric and heat—it's driving you to the edge faster than you’d admit.

His jaw tightens when you yank on his hair again, and he groans—low and ragged. A bead of sweat rolls down his temple. He keeps you pinned high, panting into your neck as his pace builds—fast now, reckless. His gaze flickers down to the way you’re clinging around his length.

His arms flex with the effort. He resumes his pace to quick deep strokes. Wanting you to reach your orgasm.

“I—I think I’m going to cum dry...” he chokes out against your ear.

“That’s okay Sylus, j-just don’t stop—” You can feel his cock twitching violently against your gummy walls.

“You feel so—so—fuck!” He drops your legs from his shoulders, almost trembling himself, he doesn’t let your feet hit the floor. He keeps you flush against the door, panting into your neck.

His hips keep moving, slower but no less intense—the friction of your ruined panties, pressed awkwardly between you, makes everything more unbearable.

His hands slide under your thighs, lifting you again to tilt your hips, to find that devasting spot that has your vision white out at the edges.

“’m gonna cum, kitten—’m sorry—” he rasps.

You feel the stuttering of his hips, the soft broken sound he makes into your shoulder as his body goes taut and shudders hard. What little he has left spills in weak, pulsing ropes.

But you? Sylus’s long fingers slip beneath what’s left of your panties, finding your clit instantly. He presses and flicks in quick, messy motions. He’s still coming from his high as your pussy paints his cock white.

^⌯𖥦⌯^੭

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