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madamechrissy · 3 days ago

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Take Me Home Tonight

♡ ♡ Pairings ♡ ♡ Law Professor Satoru Gojo x Student Fem Reader

♡ ♡ Warnings ♡ ♡ MDNI- Gojo is like 29 here, reader is like 22 or 23. Nothing too crazy. But is Professor/teacher forbidden type love. In this chap- oral sex (fem recieving), pussy slapping, rough sex, dirty talk.

♡ ♡ Word Count ♡ ♡ this chap- 7k

♡ ♡ Summary ♡ ♡ After passing your LSATs, your friends take you out to unwind. You never go out, so you are awkwardly agree, and you end up in the arms of a super hot man named Satoru. You end up screaming Satoru's name as he drops down on his knees before you, only to lose him in the club. All you have is his first name. Two months later, in your Criminal Law class, your heart stops. Your teacher? Professor Gojo. Or as you soon call him, Professor Dickhead. You can't fuck up your law school, and he won't fuck up his career, not just because he makes you wet in class, no, he's a dick. Right? That pout and blue eyes don't wreck you, right? - Lawyer AU

Chapter 14 ♡ ♡ Masterlist ♡ ♡ Playlist

Chapter 15- Final

Five years later

“Papa, Papa! I have a… um… ahjectin!” Comes your four year old daughter Noriko’s cute little voice, as you and Satoru are working at the office. Satoru comes to kneel in front of her, looking at her very seriously, she’s got on a little lawyer jacket that had been tailor made, white hair just like her dad.

“An objection! To me!?” Satoru demands, a hand on his chest, mouth open in a gasp, you watch with a grin, as your two year old daughter Faye sits on your lap, doodling all over a bunch of papers. She looks more like you, but she has Satoru’s swirling blue eyes all day.

“Ajectin! I get to stay up past eight with Aunt Maki, I will give you pwetty picture if I can!” Satoru looks at you now, those glittering blue eyes so full of mirth, and you suppress your own giggle behind your hand.

“A pretty picture, hmm you offer an interesting compromise. I don’t know, we have to ask Mama though.” Your daughter, Noriko smiles. Living up to her name at a young little age, she was as feisty as can be. You giggle again, earning her cute little glare.

“Sorry baby, okay, it better be a beautiful picture, I’ll tell Maki you can stay up an extra hour, but you better be good for her!”

“I will mama!”

“Then it’s a deal, little lawyer.” You say to her, she giggles and runs to you now, her little arms out, you pull her on your other leg with her sister Faye.

“I’ll make it so pretty Mama!” She smacks a little kiss on your cheek, and your heart is just so full it feels like it will burst, every little moment with your family is so beautiful.

“I’ll let you two draw then, I’ve gotta finish some work with dad, okay?” They nod and you scooch their seats up as high as they go, planting kisses on each of their cheeks, walking over to where Gojo is sitting on his desk, watching you all.

“You would have been such a shit defense attorney, glad you stuck with prosecution. You can’t even handle little Noriko?” He teases, you stick out your tongue, shoving at him playfully.

“She’s a beast, Toru, you know this.” He pulls you against him in a hug, arms around your waist, planting a little kiss on your forehead, making you sigh.

“I can’t wait for our date tonight.” He whispers in your ear, making you flush furiously now, you peek back and they’re still happily drawing, as you look back up at Gojo, seeing the lidded gaze he has.

Your hands clutch the lapels of his jacket as your shift, he would comment on it but he can’t around the girls, but his damn face speaks for himself, as you tiptoe and kiss his chin. “Hush!”

“Didn’t say anything.” He smirks, and you roll your eyes at him. “You can’t wait either, huh?”

“Can’t wait.” You whisper back, stealing a little kiss on those lips that always drive you to distraction, before you both get back to finishing up work for the day.

You both opened Gojo Family Law Firm two years ago, and it’s been insanely profitable. Maki and Yuta work for an elite law firm together, and Nanami and Suguru actually recently opened their own firm together with their good friend, Hiruguma. All of you are incredibly close, and tonight Maki is going to watch your girls, so you and Satoru can have a night out.

You are insanely excited, as you look over at your gorgeous husband, wearing that black pinstripe suit and leaned over his desk, the side profile of his face just absolutely perfect. You never, ever get tired of drinking in how beautiful he is, nor does he ever get tired of telling you how beautiful you are.

“Need a picture, Miss Brat?” He teases.

“Miss Brat my ass! I’m long past that.” You nudge him with your shoulder as you pour over paperwork, and then feel his eyes on you, one of his hands coming to sit on your lower back, leaning close.

“You’re always Miss Brat to me.” You shake your head and roll your eyes, kissing his cheek, looking back at your girls now.

“I feel like six years have flown by.”

“I know, time does go fast, as busy as we all are.”

“They’re getting so big already.” You feel choked up, and Satoru now leans to whisper in your ear.

“Want another one in you?” Your heart falters, you gasp and see his snowy lashes are lowered, his husky whisper making your pulse race.

“Satoru!”

“What? One more wouldn’t hurt.” You sigh, shaking your head.

“I think two is fine, I’m just getting my body back!”

“I love your body, always.” You eye his lips now, before you both clear your throats, scooching away as the kids have climbed out of their seats, pointing at you both and giggling.

“Mommy and Daddy smooch.” Noriko says, and Satoru grins now.

“No smooch!” Faye says.

“Smooch!” Satoru says, and you laugh at them, getting a little ‘mwah’ from him now.

“Yay!”

“Yuck!”

“Oh gosh let’s finish up for the day, so we can see Aunt Maki!” You say, and they are bouncing up and down, running around your big joint office now. You sigh, shaking your head. “I have three kids already.”

“I heard that, Missy!” Satoru says with a mock scowl, crossing his arms, but you just smirk right back at him.

“Let me look at that case.” You say softly, peering over now, Satoru had just grown more and more successful, the only case he ever did lose was Naoya on purpose, years ago, thankfully he has been in prison and isn’t leaving. Satoru also was able to exonerate the person he’d falsely put away.

This case he was on now was a very high profile murder case, a star athlete accused of murdering his wife, you and Satoru both have a nagging bad feeling about it, of course you don’t speak in front of the girls about it unless in murmurs. You jot down notes and point to them, he nods, his big hand on your waist as he leans forward, jotting his own down.

“Genius little brat.” He says against your ear.

“I learned from the best.” You say softly, smiling up at him.

“Mama, Papa, look! Ovewuled!” Noriko shouts, waving her cute little arms around and pointing to her sister.

“Overruled!? Why is she overruled?” Satoru demands, crossing his arms and looking so serious as he leans back in his big office chair.

“Because, Papa, she copied my drawing! In-ab-mis…”

“Inadmissible?” You finish, earning her nod, and then her little sister stomps her cute little foot, crossing her arms.

“Nuh- uh. Pwetty picture for Mama!” She says, holding it up now, you laugh softly, standing and bending low to take it.

“Is this Papa?” You ask, and she nods, grinning with her cute little teeth.

“Papa, Papa!” Faye shouts.

“It’s your favorite thing, Mama!” Noriko says.

You choke up then, gulping down emotions but failing, tears forming in your eyes as Satoru bends down, looking at the sketch of him, smiling so big. “This is such a good picture, baby! Why is it overruled, Noriko?” You ask.

“Because mine is better!”

“She gets the competitive streak from you.” You whisper, Satoru smirks now, holding the other picture out and grinning so big.

You have the three people you love most in the world right here with you, your two baby girls and your Toru, you’re not sure if anything could get better. You’re so full of love, especially as you watch the girls hugging each of Satoru’s legs, and he's walking them around as they cling to him, laughing. You put your hand on your chest for a moment, smiling at them.

“Papa, are you excited! Date with Mama!” Noriko says.

“Date Mama!” Faye says, and they point at you.

Satoru grins at you. “I’m very excited for a date with Mama.”

You really can’t wait for tonight.

You’re carrying Faye in one of your arms now, propped up on your hip, as Satoru is carrying in Noriko as you all walk into Maki and Yuta’s place. The girls get ridiculously excited, and Maki bends down holding her arms out, as they wiggle out of both of your hold, leaving you and Satoru laughing as you let them down. They run to her and jump in her arms.

“Maki, Maki!” They exclaim excitedly, Yuta comes out now and they run to him and hug his legs, he smiles and pats their heads affectionately.

“Hey girlies!” He says.

“Uta, Uta!”

“They like you better than us.” You say, pouting, and Maki wiggles her brows and grins deviously.

“I give them anything they want. Come here, I missed you.” Maki hugs you now, then Satoru, who pats her head affectionately, earning her glare.

“Did you miss me too!?” He asks.

“The tiniest bit.” She sticks her tongue out now, and the girls are bouncing around as you hand Maki their toys, tablets, everything basically. So many things Maki shoves them on the couch and shakes her head, taking in your outfit now. “You look so hot, whoo.”

“Thank you Maki.” You say with a blush, you’re dressed up in a slinky little black dress and heels, a pretty diamond necklace and bracelet Satoru bought you decorating your neck and wrists.

“You look so pretty.” Yuta agrees, hugging you then.

“Thank you! Ugh you two are the best for this, really.”

“We don’t mind at all. They’re our nieces you know.” Yuta turns to the girls then, bending down. “What movies are we watching?”

They start shouting then arguing, suddenly it’s like two baby lawyers, Maki snorts and shakes her head. “They’re just like both of you. Little monsters.”

“They’re angels.” Satoru says, as they continue arguing in lawyer form.

“Sure they are. You two, get out, go have fun.” Maki practically shoves you both out the door now, you stop.

“Let me say bye! Gimme kisses babies.” They come running up and you peck kisses all over their cheeks, until Satoru drags you away and Maki shoves you again.

“I said go on! We’re good.” She waves and shuts the door, leaving just you and Satoru, who looks your body up and down hungrily before picking you up, hauling you over his shoulder.

“Toru! Too high!”

“You look so good, I can’t have you getting snatched up.” He smacks your ass now, earning a squeak, before setting you down and sliding into the car, pulling you in with him as Ijichi revs up the engine.

“A date.” You whisper.

“A date. If we make it.” Satoru’s pressing you down, back against the leather seats, you gasp at it, hips shifting, thighs spread around his narrow hips. His hands come to rest on your hips, a little wider than they used to be, but Satoru couldn’t care less, in fact he loves your body more after babies. “This body…”

“Your body.” You whisper back, kissing him over and over, not the sweet kisses you normally share, this is desperate and hungry, this is the first date you’ve had in months since you all have been so busy. You’re both dying for each other, your gasp is loud when his cock brushes you under his slacks, pressing between your thighs. “Ngh…”

“Those moans, I wanna hear them so fucking loud tonight.” He whispers, you giggle then, hips arching up for more, watching his pretty blue eyes dilate, tasting his sweet breath against your lips as your hands slide up his strong chest under his suit jacket, over that crisp white dress shirt.

“I wanna be loud so bad.” Your words undo him, he’s already pressing harder, earning your little whimper, as his lips find purchase against the base of your throat and he’s sucking there. Your hands grip his shoulders tightly, feeling every tension as his hands glide down your thighs.

“Acting like some prim, proper soccer mom when you’re slutty.” He murmurs against your ear, only making you wetter.

“Slutty hmm? That’s you. Soccer dad.”

“Me!? You. Brat.” You giggle, before gasping, and he’s grinding more and more, your slinky dress up your hips as he’s grabbing one of your breasts in his hand now, squishing it over the silky fabric.

“Mnh…” You can’t think of a proper word, Satoru Gojo’s hands, lips and body collide with yours, you’ve never been able to get enough of him, and you never will get enough.

“Can’t wait.” He says then, and you laugh, breathy, pausing him.

“Satoru I’ll be dripping cum all night on the date!”

“Keep it in then.” He says.

“Gravity, Toru.” You retort. He rolls his eyes.

“Hmph, brat.” You’re both laughing now, he’s easing up just a bit, sighing as he looks down at you so lovingly, caressing your cheek with the backs of his fingers so delicately.

“So beautiful.” Satoru murmurs, looking at your pretty face, you light up as he says so, biting your lip and flushing, lashes lowering over your glittering eyes. And god you’re so beautiful, he will never stop saying it, because you should know.

“Thank you, I feel beautiful tonight.” You say, and he scoffs.

“Every night. Beautiful brat.” You’re wriggling under him, soft body so small under his long, lanky one, your soft breasts rising and falling, nipples perked up right against your thin dress.

“I won’t be able to wait if you keep looking at me like that.” You trail your fingers down his jaw now, studying him intensely, your breaths mingling in the car. God Satrou can’t wait to hear you scream his name.

You all still had plenty of sex, but it was different now as parents, it was sneaking in the laundry room and him fucking you over the dryer real quick and fast, a hand clamped to your mouth. It was quiet nights in the bedroom, sometimes interrupted by little knocks on your door when one of the girls had a bad dream, only to be shoved apart by two little girls.

You’d both end up on opposite sides of the bed, laughing and looking at each other, holding hands over them between you and falling asleep.

Satoru would have it no other way though, he loves his daughters so much, and he loves you so much, especially how amazing you are as a mother. He’s so proud of who you’ve become and who you are, a loving wife, an amazing mom, and a badass little attorney. You also still look just as good in those little pencil skirts as you always did, bossing him around.

“What is it, Toru? So quiet.” You say now, shaking him out of his thoughts. Satoru leans down lower, lips hovering over yours.

“Thinking how proud I am of you.”

“Satoru…” You’re blinking tears now, he laughs softly as one escapes your eye, dripping down to your temple.

“Crybaby.”

“Hush. That means a lot to me, thank you. I am proud of you.” His heart falters, at your words, at your touch, at your eyes reflecting all the love and desire he has for you.

“Of course you are, I’m the best.” He winks and earns your laugh, before slamming his lips down back on yours. “I love you, wife.”

“I love you, husband.” You kiss and kiss and kiss until the car stops, and Satoru sits you up, fixing your hair thoughtfully, as you adjust his tie and collar. “We’re still like two teenagers.”

“I know, you’re almost thirty.”

“You are in your thirties!”

“I’m a Zaddy you know.”

“Oh Jesus.” You smack your head and burst into laughter at him, as Ijichi comes to open your door now.

“Don’t laugh, you’ll be screaming it later.”

“I’m so sorry Ijichi.” You say then, putting a hand on his shoulder, he sighs, shaking his head.

“I get paid enough to ignore most of this.” Ijichi kisses your hand then, and ignores Satoru, earning his glare.

“I don’t get such sweet things!”

“You don’t pay me enough to kiss your hand Mr. Gojo.” Ijichi leaves then, and Satoru scoffs, rolling his blue eyes.

“He likes you better.” He says with a pout, you’re laughing softly, Satoru drags you in the building then, until you all are seated at a beautiful rooftop restaurant next to each other.

The lights are glimmering from the rooftop, lit up city lights decorating the distance along with a million glittering stars. Satoru’s hand is on your thigh as he leans close, forking a bite of yummy cake into your mouth after dinner, you’ve not laughed so much in a while, the both of you genuinely enjoying every moment. Now his hand on your thigh has you…

“You’re wet this easy, huh?” Satoru teases in your ear, you gasp, smacking on his hand now, glaring.

“What!?”

“Mmm, the heat emanating says you are.” He leans back to look at you, while the waitresses are bringing you both more drinks.

“You’re such a conceited, arrogant ass.”

He glares back now. “And you’re a slutty little brat.”

“Am I now?” Your hand finds him under the tablecloth, making him jerk, and you grin. “Taste of your medicine. Hmm, you’re hard already?”

“I’m gonna fuck this attitude out of you all night.” He says now, tilting your chin up, all while the waiters are pouring your wine, not hearing your whispers against the wind thankfully. “You think I will take it easy?”

“I hope you don’t.” You’re blushing as he’s grinning down at you, hand on your thigh pressing firmer, sliding up just so.

“Just wait till we get home, you know we have all night.”

“I know, fuck. I’ll check on them?” You take your phone and text Maki, Satoru pouts. “What!”

“Pay attention to me brat.”

“I am, I just… okay Maki said they’re fine and to just get laid.” You say with a huff, then you both laugh, sipping on your wine now.

“I’ve always loved your friends. Fuck how’d I get so lucky to have you?” He’s cupping your face so carefully, you feel emotions catch in your throat.

“I’m the lucky one, Satoru Gojo.” You brush his hair back gently. “Best father in the damn world, best husband. Best lawyer, best friend, best teacher. You’re everything, you know that?”

“Brat, don’t make me cry.” His lip trembles just so, and your foreheads rest together for a moment. “You’re the best mother, best wife, best everything.”

“You think so, Toru?”

“I know so. You make me so proud every day.” You both choke up then, in your own little world as waiters walk by, as people laugh and eat, but it’s just the two of you, with your love overwhelming your hearts in every way.

“I need you.” You say softly, then Satoru’s raising his hand.

“Check please.”

“Need these clothes off, now.” You whisper as you both stumble into your home soon after, yanking on his tie, unbuttoning his dress shirt with shaky hands, Satoru is turning you then, unzipping your dress.

“Beautiful fucking body.” He says softly, as the dress falls to a silky pool down your ankles.

You feel so beautiful with him.

You feel everything with him, every damn day.

It’s always like the day you met, that eagerness, the need, it never dims does it? Satoru always has you like this, a fucking mess as he’s stripping you completely, turning you to him and holding your face with his huge hands, kissing you deeply over and over. You melt against him, he’s picking you up, thighs wrapped around his narrow hips, as he carries you to the bed you share.

He’s laying you down on it, now just in his boxers, leaving you to study every muscle and line on his perfect body, but he’s soon spreading your thighs, kissing down your breasts, filling you with such intense need you can’t think. He’s sucking your nipples, you’re grinding your hips, pulling him in, gasping at the pleasure you feel while he’s slipping lower and lower.

“Love you, love you.” You whisper, he moans, kissing your tummy gently.

“I love you, fuck I love you. Every bit.” He’s kissing lower and lower now, you’re able to be as loud as you want, and fuck you are loud, head falling back, the dim lights of the room fading to darkness when his breath is on your cunt.

“T-Toru!” Your voice is hoarse as you’re screaming out, Satoru’s latching on to your swollen little clit now, sucking it in his mouth and humming as he watches you under those long white lashes. You’re gushing all over his pretty face, unable to even breathe, the pleasure is so - “So good fuck!”

“Mmm.” Is all you get in response, Satoru’s humming once more until your orgasm hits ridiculous, pussy clenching around nothing, covering his face in your slick as he takes a breath finally.

Your hands entangle in his silky hair, thighs shaking on either side of his head, he presses his fingers into the plush of one, as the other uses two fingers to sink into your little hole. You moan out at how good the stretch is, his tongue slipping up your slit to start drinking up every bit of arousal you have. He’s pumping his fingers up and down, right on that spot, making you damn near delirious.

“S’yummy.” He says, before starting to focus on licking your clit, while using his fingers, so much stimulation you almost wanna pull his head off, but you simultaneously want to drag his mouth closer. Your hands just clutch in his hair instead, as he’s pushing you into another orgasm, you feel everything tensing, about to explode.

“Toru!” You whine out, feeling his damn smirk against your pussy lips as he flicks one more time.

“You love it, don’t you miss brat?” He whispers, and your breath catches in your throat because you’re not sure if you can even speak, his fingers curling up in your soppy entrance. “You love when I eat your slutty pussy out, hmm?” He asks, voice dark and smug, and oh fuck it’s so hot, especially being called that.

You all never talked that way much any more, especially as parents, and the word fucking thrills you. You can’t help the whine that leaves you, nor the wetness that’s dripping down his fingers, loud in the room, you hear it. He’s grinning up at you, those white sharp fucking teeth glinting. Self satisfied, arrogant little shit, that you love more than anything, wrecking your mind.

“I love it, Satoru, I love it so much, it’s too much, I can’t, oh my god, it’s too much, I’m gonna - “ You’re cut off by another orgasm, your body writhing as he takes his mouth away to watch your pussy pulse and spasm hungrily. He’s grinning wider, his fingers still moving as your insides clench around them.

“But I’m not done yet, baby girl, you can take more, can’t you?” He says, and then he’s back at it, tongue flat against your clit, moving in a way that feels so fucking good, in tantalizing circles, and you can feel yourself getting wetter, your walls tightening around his digits. “Can you take three in you, baby?”

“Three…” You haven’t in ages, Satoru has been so easy with you lately, always knowing if he fucked you too good you’d scream out loud. You gasp when he’s shoved another long finger in your pussy, hoarse cry escaping your lips, head slamming back against the pillow. “Mnh!”

“So pretty stretching out f’me, you’re such a good girl.” You’re sobbing damn near as he continues, relentless on devouring your cunt, now kissing your tummy, the little stretch marks from the kids, spreading his hands across the expanse of your waist. “Fuck you’re pretty.”

“Fuck! Satoru, fuck me, please.” You beg now, you’re so full, so fucking full of his hand, craving his cock as he’s pressing it into the matress, pre cum leaking against his boxers, he’s throbbing just devouring you, his pretty wife.

You look down, watching as he licks you, eyes glazed with lust, and your heart stutters at how pretty he is between your thighs, even as your addled mind is sending you off the deep end.

“Pretty.” You whisper, his brilliant blue eyes glinting, pupils shrunk to pinpoints, he leans up, sliding his third finger out now, working you with two.

“Pretty?” He teases, his chin glistening with your arousal, you swipe at it gently, brushing a thumb over his pouty lip.

“You’re pretty.”

“You’re pretty. Especially this pussy, fuck.” Satoru’s buried his face back against you, pussy drunk on your taste, your smell, your everything.

“Fuck me! Please, no more… dick.”

He’s laughing against you, breaths making you jump, his fingers spreading the puffy lips of your sex wide so he can admire how pretty you are there. “Not yet, I’m having fun down here, drinking up my wife.”

Fuck even after years, being called his wife just does something.

“Want your cock so bad please, please.” You’re giving him those eyes, the ones he always melts for, but he’s having too much fun clearly, now pressing your thighs up high, smushing them against your body, tongue sliding inside your velvety walls now, long and curling up just so, making you spasm, literally twitching as you cry out. “Please!”

“Taste so fucking good.” Satoru smacks your pussy now, making you jolt, eyes rolling back in your head at how good it feels, the sting of his hit. He laughs now, spitting on your already stupidly wet pussy, watching it drip down and groaning. “So fuckin wet, aren’t you?”

“For you.” You whisper, he shuts his eyes in pleasure at those words, you’re trying to yank him up, but he’s just fucking you with his fingers again, scissoring them in and our of your now sloppy cunt, you’re wriggling every which way, it’s too much, all too much.

“Cum again Miss Brat.”

Miss Brat.

Fuck remember years and years ago, you both could not even be together, it was a mess, but you couldn’t stay away, either of you. Your Professor Dickhead is just that, a fiend between your thighs, enjoying every bit of you falling apart, long tongue flicking so fast on your clit it’s ridiculous. Your breasts are heaving, he grips one with his free hand, tweaking a nipple, edging you further.

“I’m gonna cum again, I’m gonna cum again - “ The words are barely out of your mouth when your orgasm crashes into you, your back arching off the bed, your hands pulling on his hair until you think you might rip it out. He’s not letting up, not even a little, and you feel like you’re going to pass out from pleasure.

As you start to come down, Satoru’s movements finally slow, his eyes never leaving yours, and he pulls his fingers out, bringing them up to his mouth to suck them clean. “You taste so good, like heaven, baby.” He says, voice low and sweet, making you feel like you melt, you’re half dazed as he crawls up your body, kissing up your stomach, your chest, until his face is hovering above yours.

You cup his face gently, tears of overstimulation falling down your cheeks. “I need you inside me, please.”

“Yeah baby, do you? So bad you’re crying?” He teases, you just reach down, shoving his boxers over his firm ass, gripping it and arching up, rubbing your slick cunt on his cock, making him gasp.

“Off, all the way off.” You demand with a glare, and he’s eagerly complying, laying back on top of you, cock springing and smacking against your thigh. You eagerly grip it in your soft hand, stroking him up and down, watching his eyes roll back before he kisses you.

You taste yourself on his lips, his tongue dripping with saliva as it slides into your mouth, yours swirls with his, your hands slipping up and down his cock now, feeling it hot and twitching under your touch. You’re touching the tip, leaking so much precum, pulling back to slide it against your tongue, earning his feral growl, his brows low over his eyes now.

“Fuck you know what you’re doing to me. Brat.” He huffs, and you giggle, until he’s shoved his cock all the way inside your tight entrance, you’re screaming out at how good it feels, as he moans, eyes rolling back in his skull. “Oh my god so fuckin tight. How!? Brat and your evil tight pussy.”

You’d laugh but he’s fucking into you insane now, thrusting so deep, shoving your thighs up into a mating press, tip abusing your poor cervix. You’re shattering under him. His gorgeous face blurring in and out of your vision as your gaze swims, Satoru’s nose brushes yours as he studies you so intensely, hands shoving your thighs even further, even wider.

You struggle to take all of him, especially this deep, it’s been so long since he’s fucked you like this, like he’s lost his goddamn mind, making you a mess under him as his hips roll, grinding just so. You have a network of goosebumps everywhere he touches, everywhere his fingers brush, everywhere his lips press. Your cheek, your throat, your face.

Then he’s leaning back, kissing your ankle, your calf, fucking into you slower, but so hard the bed is creaking with every movement, the headboard smacking the wall with the force. He’s moaning, nipping your leg with his teeth when he’s slinging it over his shoulder, hands pinning you to the bed.

“L-love… your… cock, fuck.” You manage, he smirks, rolling his hips again, raising a brow.

“You do love it, don’t you? So slutty. You always wanted your Professor so bad inside you?” You’re gasping now, growing embarrassingly wet, and he notices, chuckling and leaning down, stretching you further.

“Never…. Used… a yardstick… fuck…” You’re laughing until he pulls out now. “No, back in!”

“Turn around, I think you need a lesson.” Satoru bends you over, your ass is in the air, he’s pressing your head into the mattress, lining his cock back up with your slick entrance now.

“Please, teach me. Ah!” Satoru’s shoved back in your cunt now, slamming hard, his pelvis smacking your ass, making it jiggle with each thrust as he smacks your ass cheeks over and over. The pain and pleasure are so blinding, you’re clinging to the sheets under you, crying out at how good it feels, him destroying you.

“Look at you, so pathetic, hmm?”

“Ah!”

“You’re mine. All mine. Mine.” Satoru’s whispering it like a mantra over and over, gripping your hips, thumbs pressing into the dimples of your back, sweat dripping down to your spine, he bends low to lap it up with his tongue.

“Y-yours.” Your voice is a breathy whisper, Satoru’s losing it, and you love when he does, love every filthy word pouring out of his pretty lips while he’s steadily pounding your cunt, fucking so deep you feel him everywhere. “Ngh!”

“That’s it, cum all over my cock, baby. Slutty little brat.”

“F-fuck! Toru!” Your head falls back, hair cascading messy down your back, urging Satoru to pull it, shoving his cock so deep, you’re trembling as your cunt gushes sticky arousal all over his veiny cock, earning his groan. Satoru’s bent over you, pulling your hair, kissing you so deeply, your tongues messy and dripping as you sob into his lips with pleasure.

“That’s it, milking my cock, huh?” He whispers now, pulling you up so you’re balancing on your shaky hands and knees.

“Fuck I missed this.” You whisper back, he moans, nodding, burying his head against your neck.

“You miss screaming like a perfect slut?”

“Yes, fuck yes.”

“Want all this cum in your cunt, huh?”

“Please, please, please.”

“So desperate, so needy.” Satoru’s fucking you harder now, grunting as he feels your walls fluttering around his cock, his balls slapping your overstimulated clit while he fucks you so hard from behind. He’s gripping your hair harder, his hand wrapping your throat now, shoving two fingers deep in your mouth, you suck them eagerly. “Cry for me, pretty. I love how good those tears look.”

“Mnh.” Is all you manage, while Satoru takes you over, fucking you so deep, his fingers shoved into your mouth, so deep your nearly choke, you’re slobbering all over them, spit drooling as your cunt drools on his cock, making him gasp and slow.

“Feel too good, too perfect.” His voice is softer, fingers still in your mouth, other hand wrapping your neck and squeezing, hugging you completely to his hard, lithe body while he’s pounding your pussy. You’re close again, and this time so intense you’re floating, no longer even here. “Perfect cocksleeve for me, huh?”

You nod as he pulls his fingers out, pressing you down into the mattress, his cock kissing your cervix again and again, hand around your throat squeezing as insane blue eyes look into yours. You try to focus, to cling to the blankets as if they’ll tether you, as he’s filling you so full, your tummy pressed into the mattress, cock wrecking anything you have left.

“Satoru! L-love…. You….” You hear his groan, he’s biting your earlobe, squeezing your throat harder, making it go fuzzy, blissful.

“Fucking love you, so much, so much… everything in me… loves you…” You’re crying now, at the love in your heart, at the sensations of your husband wrecking your cunt, wrecking your mind, your soul.

“S’all yours. All of me, all of it. Yours, yours, yours.” You squeak out the words, his hand lifts from your throat, turning your face to him, blue eyes devouring yours, studying your everything, hips rolling so his cock is slamming your spot, and your own eyes flutter in and out of focus, you’re clinging to his forearm, cunt dripping.

“I’m yours, baby girl. Always, always, always.” He’s exhaling now, kissing you again, cupping your jaw so possessive, while he’s taking you over. “Cum with me, let me feel that perfect pussy milk me.”

“Please, cum in me.” You’re gasping when he’s fucking you so deep, burying his cock inside your pussy, over and over, until you feel him throbbing, and his hot white cum pouring into you.

You cum just from that, from the hot sticky white ropes filling your pussy so good, you’re so full of him, as he pumps his hot load into your eager cunt. His whimper in your ear sets you off further, you’re shaking under him as he’s breathing heavily, his cries now being drunk by your mouth. Your cunt is spasming around his cock, milking him for every bit of cum he has, Satoru’s trembling now against you.

You both lay there, kissing, rocking back and forth, he’s gently pumping more and more of his cum inside you, but you’re already pushing so much out, with the force of how much he’s made you cum. You’ve created a slick mess down the blankets, down the bed, gasping and shaking when his teeth bites your neck hard, his hand gripping your hair and pressing into your scalp.

“Oh my god, I fucking love you.” He whispers. You giggle, breathless, looking back at him with swollen lips and mascara trails on your cheeks.

“I love you, fuck… we needed this.” You tease, grinning, he relaxes his hold, laughing now too, so handsome he breaks your heart every time.

“We needed this so bad.” He eases out, exhaling, watching as your fluids and his mix, dripping down the bed. “Oh my god… so sexy.”

“Satoru!” He’s shoved your ass in the air, burying his face against your pussy, lapping his cum out of it. “Satoru!”

“More.” Is all he says, you look back at him, shaking, and your cunt is throbbing all over as you study his pretty face.

“More.” You whisper back, and now your husband is lavishing your oversensitive cunt with his stupidly talented tongue, moaning against you, whispering how much he loves your pussy, you’d almost get jealous but soon you’re sucking his cock, sucking your cum off it.

He’s moaning and whimpering while you do, while you have his rock hard again, drinking his precum up and coating your tongue with him. And when you’re riding his cock with your sore cunt, and he’s gripping your breasts, and your hair is falling to the side of you both, covering you from the world, you know you could go again, again and again.

“So fucking good, baby girl. Taking me so well.” Satoru murmurs, hands on your ass, urging you to ride him more and more.

You’re weak, a mess, sweaty, both of you. But you’re urged on by the desire, the need to be so close to each other, to lose yourselves, and as you’re riding his cock so good, and he’s sucking on your nipples, moaning with his perfect lips, you can’t get enough. Neither of you can get enough, over and over, all goddamn night, until you’re both sore, exhausted, messes.

He’s ready for more, kissing you, still buried inside your pussy and hardening in you, caressing your face, lashes low. “Want another baby?” He whispers, smirking now, and you sigh.

“No!”

“One more?” He pleads, pressing deeper inside your pussy.

“No…” He’s grinning, fucking into your sore cunt, it hurts to take him but you crave it, you need it, need him.

“I’m putting another baby in you, brat.” He whispers against your lips, and your cunt is drooling down his cock, as you’re stretched and fucked beyond your means, he’s not stopping, and you don’t want him to.

You cup his face, eyes flickering down to his body, his abs flexing as he fucks into you. “One more.”

The Next Day

“Oh my god.” Your kids are running circles as you pull up your next case, looking at Satoru with a big grin.

“What is it, Miss Brat?” He asks, tapping his pen on his desk, flipping his page, blue eyes locking on yours.

“My next case… it’s apparently prosecuting Mr. Banks.”

Satoru pauses, then scowls, standing up, leaning forward with his hands on his desk now. “Excuse me!?”

“Sure is. Hmm, maybe I’ll take it. See if I can make the infamous Satoru Gojo lose a case.” You stand too now, leaning over your desk, lips turning up as his do now too.

“Oh yeah, you're challenging me? Psh. Rookie.” You cross your arms now, looking at the girls.

“Who would win, me or Daddy?”

“Mama!” Faye shouts.

“Papa!” Noriko argues now.

You walk to Satoru Gojo then, your husband, the father of your children, your best damn friend in the world. And he’s walking to you, meeting you in the middle of the room, hands in his pockets as he leans down. He brushes your hair behind your ear, smirks down at you, leaning to whisper against your lips, letting you taste his cool breath, inhaling his scent.

“Think you can beat me in any case, Miss Brat?” He asks, sarcastic tone dripping, conceited as fuck and tempting you to know end.

You lean against his lips, as your kids are giggling. “I sure do think I can. In fact, I’ll win.”

But you’ve already won, haven’t you? You have Satoru Gojo, now and always, and now his beautiful family. Who cares if he probably will stomp your ass in a case?

“I already won.” He says, mirroring your thoughts, you kiss him gently, pulling back and then raising a brow.

“So… challenge on, Professor?” You tease.

Satoru grins. “Challenge on, Miss Brat.”

The End

A/N: I am so emotional, I've been writing this one since June and I truly love Professor Dickhead and Miss Brat SO much. They have a huge chunk of my heart. I hope you all enjoyed their end, it seems as if Gojo Family Law firm will be having even more added to it aha. Love you all and see you in the others!!

Taglist: @jjknanamin @chiyokoemilia @marie-is-in-the-dark @seeing-stars-alt @maskedpacific @aldebrana @toffeebrat @antisocialinlw @trishiepo0 @jkslaugh97 @makingtimemine @inthedarkshadows000 @mima0127

#gojo x reader #jjk smut #gojo smut #satoru x reader #lawyer gojo #jjk x reader #jujustu kaisen #jjk gojo #gojo satoru #satoru gojo x reader #satoru gojo x you #satoru gojo x y/n #take me home tonight

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supremetheog · 2 days ago

Text

So creepy, everything keeps moving around inside my soundcloud

Hmmm.

Am I crazy?

Lmao

Whos got more slices tho

Last time I checc'd

Make sure you secure that window, you never know who could be peering in.

I've been living like today's my last for a long time now. It's why my life is the way it is. Thinking there was a hitman coming for me at any moment. Now I just don't care. It's not up to me.

I think that's really interesting, the concept of the electric soul. I wish I could understand it better. Sometimes I feel like that, too. I guess that's why Im on lock or whatever that means. News to me. There's so much I dont know.

Likewise, between the two towers, I think we would both benefit from the knowledge on the other side, dont you?

'To understand is to be free'.

Omg 🔥 thx for the name change btw

Only person whos done something like that

Stepped off of my toes for once

#Youtube

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luvergirl-866 · 2 days ago

Text

something like love

part - 6

pairing - paige bueckers x azzi fudd

word count - 4.7k

c/w - language, tiny bit of angst (this is only the beginning i fear.)

a/n - is it cringe of me to ask for live reactions? bc i want live reactions sb. anyway, sorry ik i said this chap would be long and juicy but i decided to hold off on the juicy part, i needed a lil more plot development! also ty to everyone who sends me asks, even if it’s just things like “when’s the next part😫” i love it sm lol. hope yall like this one!!

The next two days are—at least compared to the first two—almost peaceful. The weather is nice, just warm enough and not too humid, which Azzi’s hair appreciates. She got goddess braids done just before the trip and even in protective styles, her hair gets frizzy at the very notion of moisture.

The peacefulness largely comes from the fact that Paige is avoiding her parents like the plague, instead spending all her time with Azzi and her siblings. The third day they spend almost entirely at the local park, shooting around at the court there under the hot sun. Lauren even reluctantly joins for a few games, and she may be adamant about not wanting to play basketball but the talent for it must be genetic because she’s a natural. And if Paige and Azzi spend the whole ‘competition’ brushing hands and flirting, nobody says anything. (Though Ryan does wrinkle his nose at them a few times.)

The fourth day starts out warm, and so Paige and Azzi sneak the kids out bright and early (Azzi, of course, ends up with the job of waking all three siblings up—not one of them is a morning person whatsoever) and go to an ice cream shop, where they eat their cold, sweet breakfasts on the curb while they chat. Both Ryan and Lauren may have argued that they were too old to be excited about ice cream for breakfast anymore, but they both end up with matching, chocolate-covered grins when they’re done.

The weather turns for the worst before noon, though, and the kids want to go home but Paige insists they go to the arcade instead. When she says she’ll pay for as many games as they want, they’re easily swayed. Of course, Paige and Azzi make a competition out of the day, deciding to keep a tally of all their points so that whoever has the most wins by the end has to buy the whole group prizes.

Azzi gives it a fighting go but Paige plays way more video games than she does so she very nearly beats her—but then, when they’re almost out of game tickets, Azzi pouts at her about the whole situation, and suspiciously, she ends up making an incredible recovery, easily beating Paige at almost every game after that.

Lauren picks a koala plushie, Ryan picks some new shoes, and Azzi gets this shiny plastic tiara.

“You didn’t have to get the cheapest prize,” Paige says as Azzi adjusts the tiara on her head. “I got money.”

“I know,” Azzi replies, smiling at her reflection in the mirror. “But I had to. As the princess.”

Paige gives her that stupid fucking look again—the one Azzi still can’t figure out even though she knows Paige like the back of her hand, which is just driving her crazy—and that look shows up so often Azzi should really just start referring to it as The Look at this point.

But then Paige smiles, previous odd expression gone, and the way she does that,—slips out of it like she doesn’t even realize it was there in the first place—drives Azzi even more crazy than The Look itself.

Now, it is the fifth day. And Azzi reminisces on these past two blissful days to try and distract herself from the fact that Paige and her parents are having a heated argument right in front of her and her scrambled eggs.

“No, Paige,” Amy is saying. “Absolutely not.”

“You can’t do that!” Paige replies, throwing her hands into the air. “I’m an adult, I make my own money, I can do—“

“It’s stupid.”

“It’ll be fun!”

“It won’t, because it’s not happening.” Amy is unpacking a load of groceries, and Dean is lingering in the corner of the kitchen being absolutely useless. That seems to be his brand.

“Yes it will, Mom,” Paige replies, voice lower now but still obviously frustrated. “I wasn’t asking for your permission. I was just seeing if you wanted to come with us. I was tryna be nice!”

“Well it won’t be nice when you crash and we all drown, Paige.”

“Jesus, Mom! I ain’t gonna go around crashing!”

Azzi feels very uncomfortable, wishing she were literally anywhere else, but at the same time this is sort of amusing and she has to hide a smile in a bite of eggs.

This argument is, out of all things, about a boat. Paige wants to rent one and have a lake day, and though she didn’t want to, Azzi convinced her to invite her parents—she figured they’d decline but that they’d be offended if they weren’t at least invited.

She wasn’t really expecting a lecture to come out of it, though. But by the tired look on Paige’s face, she knew exactly what was coming their way.

“You don’t even have a boating license,” Amy continues, placing a new jug of milk and some apples in the fridge. “This is illegal. If you won’t listen to your mother, at least listen to the law.”

That very nearly gets a giggle out of Azzi. She chokes it down.

“This is a private lake, I’on need my license.”

“Well that doesn’t sound shady at all.”

“It’s not, it’s super legit!” Paige makes for her phone in her back pocket. “It has its own website and everything, I looked way into it.”

Amy stares her daughter down for a few seconds, hands on her hips, before she lets out a resigned sigh. “Like you said, Paige, I can’t tell you what to do. You’re an adult, do what you want. But you will not be taking your siblings on that death trap.”

“Wha…” Paige flounders, eyebrows furrowed, and her voice raises again, “that was the whole point of this entire thing!”

“Well, that’s too bad. It’s dangerous.”

“I’ll make them wear life jackets!”

“They’re teenagers,” Dean points out rather unhelpfully, and it’s the first time he’s spoken around her in days but Azzi is already sick of him again. “Neither of them are gonna wear life jackets.”

“I’ll force them, I swear.”

“Paige Madison,” Amy snaps, and Paige may be an independent adult now but she still straightens her back subconsciously at her mother’s warning tone, “no means no. They are my kids.”

“They’re my siblings!” Paige replies—rather boldly, Azzi thinks, because if Azzi were in her place she would’ve given up by now.

But Paige, as most daughters do, knows exactly how far to push her mother to get what she wants—apparent in the way Amy massages her temples with her fingers before saying, “You know what, Paige? Fine.”

Dean is jumping in immediately. “What? No, she can’t take my kids out on a boat.”

“She’s right, Dean,” Amy says, though she looks a little pained to be siding with her daughter for once. “They’re her siblings. She wants to do something fun for them.”

“It’s dangerous!” Dean motions sporadically at where Paige and Azzi are sitting at the island. Azzi’s eggs are gone now and so she has nothing to put her awkward energy into. “Neither of them owns a boat, and they are practically strangers—“

“She is my daughter,” Amy says, and it’s so quiet Azzi almost doesn’t hear it, but she does, and it sends shivers through her. Because there’s something dangerous, something protective in her tone, something only a mother who loves their child could convey. And it sends a flicker of hope through her. “She is my daughter and I trust her with her siblings.”

Dean flounders for something but comes up empty, instead storming off all red-faced like a child. Amy doesn’t look either of them in the eye when she says, “Let me know if you kids need anything today,” before leaving the two best friends alone in the kitchen.

Slowly, Paige turns to look at Azzi, something like disbelief in her expression. “Did that—actually go well?”

“Yeah,” Azzi responds. “I think it did.”

Things may just be looking up.

———————————————

Dean may be an asshole, but it turns out he was right about one thing: Ryan and Lauren will not wear life jackets.

“C’mon, guys, it’s the law,” Paige insists, thrusting a pink life jacket at her sister, who scrunches her nose in disgust.

“No way! That’s so ugly, Paige.”

“The color wont matter when you’re drowning.”

“You sound just like Mom!” Lauren sighs, and Paige’s mouth falls open.

“You did not just say that.”

Lauren gives Paige a smug smile, which amuses Azzi because it’s the same smile Paige gives her whenever she wins an argument. “And I meant it too.”

If Lauren were not much smaller than Paige, she would be tackling her right now, based off the look on her face. But instead she composes herself and turns to Ryan, who is sitting at the front of the speedboat on his phone. He feels his older sister’s gaze and looks up at her, then at the life jacket in her hands. “You’re funny.”

“I’m being so for real.”

“There’s gonna be hot girls in bikinis on the lake,” Ryan replies, as if this is the most obvious thing ever. “No way I’m wearing a life jacket.”

Paige sighs and rubs her temple with her fingers, and Azzi would never say it out loud (for fear of being pushed into the lake) but she does kind of look like her mom in this moment.

When Paige turns on her with a warning look, Azzi startles, wondering if she’s somehow read her mind. But instead, Paige picks up another life jacket and says, “Will you at least wear one?”

Azzi smiles, a little puzzled. “Paige, I don’t need a life jacket. I can swim.” Which is obvious considering she and Paige have spent various lake days at her family’s cabin.

“Yeah, but for my peace of mind, though!” Paige shakes the life jacket in Azzi’s direction.

The truth is, Azzi wouldn’t mind wearing the life jacket. But ever since she put on this bikini—pastel purple in color—Paige has been swallowing thickly and averting her eyes constantly. So Azzi thinks she has other reasons for wanting her to cover up.

And Azzi can’t let her get away with that, can she?

“I don’t need it.” Azzi steps forward and takes the life jacket out of Paige’s grasp, tossing it aside before reaching to trail her hand down Paige’s bicep, squeezing the hard muscle a little bit. “And besides, won’t you save me if I’m drowning?” she asks, smiling coyly.

Paige’s throat bobs, eyes landing respectfully on a spot past Azzi’s shoulder. “Well, that’s not really how that works.”

Azzi blinks, and she knows just how big and brown her eyes are when she looks up at Paige through her lashes. “No? Thought you’ve been in the gym?”

“I have,” Paige says defensively.

“Hm.” Azzi lets her hand trail off Paige’s arm, resting it on Paige’s side before dancing her fingers dangerously over Paige’s exposed abs. “You wanna prove that to me, baby?”

Paige’s eyes widen, and Azzi loves the way she can not only see but feel her stomach tense under her fingers. But the moment is broken by a gagging sound nearby.

Lauren—who has sat beside her brother and pulled out her own phone—is now looking at them with disgust. “You guys are so gross.”

“You shouldn’t be making sexual innuendos in front of Lauren,” Ryan adds on, though his eyes don’t leave his screen.

“Yeah!” Lauren agrees, then furrows her eyebrows and starts tapping at her phone. Azzi guesses she’s probably searching what sexual innuendo means.

“Hey, yo, don’t blame me,” Paige says, putting her hands up and taking two big steps away from Azzi. “She started it.”

“Azzi’s a freak,” Ryan says.

“Whoa, chill!”

“Hey, that’s actually offensive,” Lauren says. She has picked up a habit of defending Azzi with her life these last few days they’ve spent together, and Azzi has decided she would do the same. “That’s like calling her a monster or something.”

Ryan smirks, finally looking up at them. “I didn’t mean that kinda freak.”

“Okayyy!” Paige jumps in before Lauren can do any more Googling. “Let’s get this show on the road. Imma go untie us real quick, then we’ll head out.”

For the first time, nerves bubble in Azzi’s tummy. “Paige, you sure you’ll be able to drive this thing?”

Paige looks almost offended at the question. “Yeah, duh.”

“It’s just, you’ve never driven a speed boat before…”

“Trust me, mama,” Paige says, nodding cockily to herself. “I got driving skills like you’ve never seen.”

Fifteen minutes later, Azzi realizes Paige was telling the truth. She has certainly never seen these driving skills before.

Paige is an—erratic driver, to put it mildly. This lake is private, huge, and though there are plenty of other boaters out Paige drives as if they’re the only ones on the water. At one point, she gets to such a high speed that even Ryan grasps onto Azzi a little bit.

When Paige very nearly runs into a cruising party boat, Azzi finally gets up from her place between the kids and marches over to Paige, who glances up at her with a sheepish smile. “Whoops.”

“Lemme drive,” Azzi demands, beckoning for Paige to get up.

“No!” Paige says stubbornly. “I’m doin’ good!”

“I thought I was going to die!” Lauren pipes up angrily.

Azzi motions to her. “See? You’re scaring your brother and sister.”

“Whoa, who said I was scared?” Ryan says.

Azzi decides against bringing up the fact that he kept clinging to her arm. “This is scary, I wanna drive.”

“But babeee,” Paige groans, bringing the boat to a stop so she can properly argue, “you drive like a grandma.”

“I drive like a sane person, is what I think you mean to say.”

“It’ll be boring.”

“Paige.”

Paige stares her down for a moment before sighing like a stubborn little kid. “Fine. You can drive.”

Azzi nods, pleased, and shoves at Paige’s shoulder when she doesn’t move. “Get up.”

A slow smile creeps over Paige’s face and Azzi doesn’t like the look of that at all. “I gotta show you the ropes.”

“I don’t need you to teach me how to drive this thing,” Azzi says as if it’s obvious, because really, it is. The thought of Paige trying to teach anyone her…unique ways is downright scary. “I got it.”

“Nah, I think you’ll need some help.”

“P, for real, stop being difficult and move.”

“I’m not about to—“

“Can we go?” Lauren says loudly, getting both girls’ attention.

“Yeah, I’m getting hot as hell just sitting here,” Ryan agrees.

“I wanna get to that diving cliff Paige was talking about!”

Before Azzi can turn back to Paige to continue arguing with her, Paige has her hands on her hips and is pulling her firmly into her lap. Azzi squeaks, grabbing onto the wheel for leverage.

“Paige!” she exclaims, turning to glare at the smug-looking girl underneath her.

“You heard them,” Paige says simply, shrugging her shoulders as if her hands are tied. “Let’s go.”

“I don’t—“ Azzi starts to argue once again, but then Lauren is sighing dramatically in that teenage-girl way of her’s and saying, “Seriously, come on!”

So, almost in a daze, Azzi turns back to the front and moves her hand to the shift, getting the boat moving slowly again. She tries desperately to ignore it when Paige leans up close to her ear and murmurs, “Atta girl,” but she can’t help the goosebumps that erupt over her neck and Paige must spot them because she chuckles lightly before leaning back, letting Azzi do her thing.

Trying to shake off the feeling of Paige’s hot breath fanning over her skin, Azzi amps up the speed a little bit, determined to show Paige that she can be fun and safe, as promised.

After a few minutes of skimming over the water, Azzi calls over the wind, “Thought you were gonna ‘show me the ropes’?”

“Looks like you got it,” Paige says, sitting straight so she’s pressed up against Azzi’s back again, and her hands find their place on Azzi’s waist.

“Why’d you make me sit on your lap, then, P?” Azzi asks, and her tone lilts teasingly but she is sort of freaking out on the inside because moments like these—moments where Azzi hardly bothers to hide her feelings for Paige and Paige, instead of shying away, responds—are becoming a little too common for comfort.

Paige rests her chin on Azzi’s shoulder, lips brushing her cheek when she says, “Think you know why, hm?”

Yeah. Definitely far too common for comfort.

Ramping up the speedboat a little bit—enough that Ryan whoops and Lauren leans over the side to touch the water—Azzi shifts her hips. She moves out of discomfort, almost subconsciously trying to get away from this buzzing energy between her and her best friend, but Paige lets out a huff of air at the motion and, curious, Azzi does it again.

A full-on gasp this time.

A flush creeps up over Azzi’s cheeks all the way down her chest, and she’s not sure if it’s from pleasure or shyness, though likely it’s both. But she can’t let Paige have the upper hand, because Azzi can’t even imagine how quickly she’d fold if that happened. So instead, she turns her head to the side and says, “All good, Paige?”

The problem with this is Paige’s face is still turned toward her when she says it. And when Azzi moves to reciprocate the angle, their lips are so close that they brush on the last word. On the utterance of Paige’s name.

Azzi jerks back as soon as it happens, putting a couple inches of distance between their faces, and she’s sure the flush is noticeable by now. She tries for a lighthearted laugh, “Oh, sorry, didn’t realize you were so close—“

She doesn’t see it coming when Paige kisses her.

It pulls a gasp out of her, lips now pressed against Paige parting slightly in surprise, and her eyes don’t even close until she feels Paige’s tongue dip inside her mouth.

It’s a quick swipe, her tongue against the space between Azzi’s teeth and upper lip before she’s pulling away—only enough to make the kiss much more chaste.

Her hands slide from Azzi’s waist to her stomach, and Azzi grips onto the steering wheel for dear life when Paige moans ever so quietly into her mouth, the sound barely heard over the wind whipping around them. And then the wind is whipping Paige’s hair into their faces, a few strands getting in Azzi’s mouth, which she takes as her opportunity to pull away. Paige stares at her—The Look again—for only a split second this time (Azzi much prefers that over the lingering one) before her face is breaking into a smile, not cocky or smug or teasing but just bright, and Azzi can’t help but laugh with her as they pull Paige’s hair out of her mouth.

“Keep your eyes on the lake!” Lauren yells at them, and when they look at her she’s got her nose wrinkled. “What is it with you guys and PDA today?”

“Maybe someone put viagra in their coffees this morning,” Ryan suggests, looking equally as disgusted as his little sister but also twice as amused.

“What’s viagra?” Lauren asks.

“Yo, Ryan!” Paige snaps, her hands moving tantalizingly from Azzi’s tummy to rest low on her hips instead, and Azzi forces herself to look back where she’s driving. “Keep it PG, dawg!”

“I could say the same thing to you,” he replies, and Azzi isn’t looking at him but she can picture the smirk on his face—she knows the look all too well by now.

The three of them bicker for a few more minutes, and Azzi tries really hard to focus on where they’re going rather than the implications of that kiss and all the questions that follow it.

Paige is the bad driver, but when she leans forward and mimics her—“All good, baby?”—Azzi worries she may be the one to crash this boat.

———————————————

“Sunscreen time!”

“No, what?”

“We just put some on!”

“Az, I’m never gonna tan at this point!”

Shaking the sunscreen into her hands, Azzi motions the three siblings towards her. “C’mon, you need it.”

“I don’t burn,” Lauren insists as she steps up in front of Azzi, lifting her arms dutifully anyway.

“You’re already getting a little red,” Azzi points out, applying an extra-thick layer onto Lauren’s rosy nose.

“This is lame,” Lauren groans, though she still lets Azzi work in silence and mumbles a thank you before she turns back to the lake.

Ryan is next, and he doesn’t complain about it but he does stare down at his phone the entire time, his head only falling back down when Azzi tries to push it up. “Ryan,” she sighs.

He tears his eyes away from his phone, only to look around subconsciously. Azzi knows he’s trying to see if the gaggle of teenage girls along the rocky beach have noticed him getting his sunscreen done.

“Hurry up,” Paige complains, nudging her younger brother in the back, and he turns around to shove her.

Azzi fights back a smile. “You can put it on yourself if that’s better.”

“It’s good,” he says nonchalantly, but he hasn’t quite mastered acting like he doesn’t care.

Azzi finishes up quickly, ending the torture with an encouraging smile, watching him run up to join his sister where she stands on the ledge above the lake, sneaking up on her. He pushes her in and Azzi laughs at the way Lauren screeches before her eyes drift to Paige, who is now standing right in front of her, looking awfully petulant.

“You really don’t want me to tan, huh?” she says, wincing as Azzi rubs the cold lotion over Paige’s sun-kissed shoulders.

“Your white ass is gonna burn if we don’t do this every thirty minutes,” Azzi says, reiterating what she said the past five times Paige complained about the sunscreen.

“I got a little melanin in me.”

Azzi looks at the way Paige’s blue eyes are squinting against the summer sun, the way her pale skin is already tinted pink, and raises her brows.

Paige holds her hand up. “Just gimme the sunscreen.”

Chuckling, Azzi squirts some into her hand before giving the bottle to Paige, who turns around and starts doing her front while Azzi does her back. They’ve done this maybe a hundred times, before countless sunny fair days and hot boat rides, but today it just feels a little…off. Everything feels a little off about them recently.

Azzi worries it may be her fault. She has always been good at hiding her feelings for Paige, good at making sure her attraction doesn’t show on her face just like she knows all her other emotions do. But recently, ever since they began this facade—and more so ever since they arrived in Montana—she knows she’s been slipping up. She thought she’d be okay but she wasn’t prepared for the way Paige would look at her like she wasn’t pretending, the way Paige calls her pet names even when they’re alone, the way Paige told her she liked kissing her and wants to do it again.

The way Paige did do it again.

And there lies the burning question: why?

Azzi knows Paige doesn’t have feelings for her. Azzi knows that she’s the only one who lies awake thinking about having Paige in every sense of the word, the only one who wakes up in the middle of the night thinking of Paige with an uncomfortable stickiness between her legs. She is the only one, of course, who is in love.

Then why do Paige’s eyes and hands wander nowadays? Why does she call her baby in quiet moments? Why did she kiss her when she really didn’t have to?

Could she be—attracted to Azzi? Maybe through playing this role, she’s seen Azzi in a new light, and realized her best friend is no longer dorky and fourteen but rather a tall, pretty twenty year old with a great ass. (And yes, Azzi knows she has a great ass.)

She could be attracted to her and not be in love. She could be attracted to her and have no other attachment whatsoever. The two things can be true at once, can’t they?

The thought flatters her but it mostly scares her, because she’s barely surviving this unrequited love as it is. But with her best friend having any level of attraction back? How is she supposed to continue on like that?

“Azzi?” Paige asks, and the tone of her voice implies she’s already said it a few times.

Azzi hums, blinking. “Sorry, yeah?”

“Uh,” Paige says, and it’s then that Azzi realizes her hands have stopped rubbing lotion into Paige’s back and have sort of just come to rest on her waist—like it’s instinctive. Like it’s natural. “You done back there?”

“Yeah, sorry,” Azzi says, but for some unknown reason she can’t find it in herself to let go.

Paige glances over her shoulder. “Azzi?” she repeats.

Azzi can’t really take it any longer.

“Why’d you kiss me?”

Paige’s sides tense up under Azzi’s hands, and then she’s stepping away, out of her grasp, and turning to face her.

The look on her face is guarded, almost closed off completely. This is dangerous territory and Azzi has barely dipped her toes in the water yet.

When Azzi’s hands fall helplessly to her sides, Paige says, “I was pretending.”

As much as Azzi doesn’t buy it, the words—and the flat, cold intonation of them—sting. “Didn’t feel like it.”

“Why’re you being weird about it?” Paige asks, eyes dancing nervously away from Azzi’s face.

“I’m not, Paige. I just—I wanna know. For real.”

“You agreed to do this for me,” Paige reminds her, as if that has anything to do with this. But, of course, it has everything to do with this, and Azzi hates how easy it makes it for the both of them to hide under a facade, a lie.

“I know,” Azzi says carefully, also taking a step back if only to get away from Paige’s chilly stare. “But you didn’t have to kiss me this time. There wasn’t a reason.”

Paige shrugs, and Azzi hates to admit it but she is much better than her younger brother at acting nonchalant. “We’re s’posed to be a couple. I don’t want my siblings getting suspicious. They know I’m a touchy person.”

Getting the sinking feeling that Azzi won’t get anything out of this conversation other than a fight, she nods slowly, looking down at the ground. “Yeah, I guess so.”

Paige, as usual, thaws at the slightest hint of weakness, taking a tiny step forward. “Did it make you uncomfortable?”

“No,” Azzi is a little too quick to say. The kiss caught her by surprise, but they’ve only done it two times and Azzi is quickly coming to find that kissing Paige is the most comfortable thing in the world—it’s natural, and right, and like curling up in bed with a book and a warm cup of tea—and Azzi also knows they should never do it again.

Despite the earnest answer, Paige looks at her suspiciously. “You sure, ma? Don’t ever wanna make you uncomfortable.”

Azzi does her best to fix her face, which she worries may be showing a little too much. “Yeah, yeah. I’m sure.”

“Aight,” Paige says, but she still doesn’t sound very convinced. Azzi’s just glad she’s letting it go.

“Sorry for bringing it up,” Azzi says. She’s not.

At this, Paige sighs, reaching out to bridge the gap between them, running a gentle hand up and down Azzi’s arm. “Nah, don’t be, I get it. Sorry for getting a lil defensive.”

A little? Despite the fact she doesn’t believe Paige one bit, and that she doesn’t like anything about the interaction they just had, Azzi manages a smile. “You’re good.”

Paige nods, and her smile at least seems to be sincere. But as they jump into the lake, and as Paige talks Azzi’s ear off while Azzi floats around lazily in a donut floatie, things feel even more off than before.

Azzi can’t quite place what it is until late that night, when they’re both going to sleep and Paige is, for the first time in ages, strangely quiet. She glances over to find Paige lying on her stomach, face turned away, breathing too quickly to be asleep.

And that’s when Azzi notices it. The gap between them, the sheer amount of space from Azzi on her side all the way to Paige, who is almost on the edge of the bed.

Paige always sleeps close to Azzi.

And she always sleeps with her head turned towards her.

@azzibuckets @smiths-fan--13 @ch12334 @makethemhoesmad @the-other-half @rosemariiaa

lmk if u wanna be on my tag list btw!!

#pazzi #pazzi fics #azzi fudd #paige bueckers #uconn wbb #wbb #wcbb #fake dating #paige buckets #the people's princess #wlw

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sweetpupii · 2 days ago

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a heavy, exhausted sigh could be heard from the front door as it closed and something loudly—a backpack perhaps—dropped to the ground. ( hopefully nothing broke. )

the shuffling footsteps going from the living room to your room a clear indicator that it was just jayce and not a very loud burglar breaking into your apartment.

“hi, how was—oh?” your smile quickly turned into a surprised look as he interrupted your greeting by taking your phone out of your hands, spreading your legs to lay his full body weight on top of you, letting out another deep exhale from his chapped lips. don't even waste your time trying to convince him to take a lip balm to leave the house; he always forgets.

“I'm so tired…” he mumbled against the fabric of your top, instinctively snuggling into your abdomen while seeking warmth and contact. eyes growing even heavier than before. “I missed you.”

a soft smile finding its way to your lips once more at the quiet confession, gently tracing his tense shoulders with an index finger. “missed you too; you got home pretty late.”

he lazily nodded with a hum, hands slowly sliding up and down at your sides to distract himself from the stress. today has been absolutely awful. he just wanted to come home and cuddle while you talk about whatever.

a break.

“I still haven't found a material that does the same thing as cobalt for my project and is also cheap; nickel overheats, silicon expands, and I can't even afford graphene… it's driving me crazy.” a slight groan can be heard in his voice, clearly exhausted from trying and failing multiple times.

“you won't be able to think about other solutions if you're working your ass off.”

“...yeah, I know that already, but I just—everyone’s already done with their own projects or already knows how to do it, but I'm still trying to figure it out.” jayce’s lips twitch into a frown, squeezing his eyes shut before burying his face on your chest. the gentle beat of your heart soothing his overwhelmed brain.

“from now on, no talking about work here unless it's really necessary. can't have you getting gray hairs in your early thirties.” he could only scoff at that comment.

“it's not like it would look bad…right?”

“nope but still, I would prefer seeing those because of the time that passes and not from stress.” the gentle kiss on his forehead automatically makes him lean forward into you, silently asking for more.

it felt good to think about being with you long enough you start seeing his gray hair appear.

“thanks…” jayce whispered while moving his head to also be able to return the affection with tiny kisses, his stubble lightly scratching your skin, gently trailing up to your lips with a steady and soft kiss that pulled you closer and easily melted away any lingering frustration in his body.

god, it felt good to be home.

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doctorbitchcrxft · 3 days ago

Text

Long-Distance Call | Supernatural Series Rewrite | Dean Winchester x Fem!Reader

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Fem!Reader

Warnings: lots of arguing, angst, everyone's saying things they don't mean, canon violence, canon gore

Word Count: 5056

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For hours most nights recently, you watched Dean sleep. In the dim light coming in through the cheap curtains in motel rooms, you would make out the details of his face and trace your eyes along them. He was just so beautiful, and you considered yourself incredibly lucky for every day you got to spend with him; despite the fact that those days were coming to an end.

Dean knew you hadn’t been sleeping, but you couldn’t bring yourself to tell him why.

Sam was driving himself crazy talking to witch doctors, professors, and demonologists trying to wrap his head around a way to break Dean’s deal. You didn’t get involved, though; you knew it was futile to do so.

You weren’t sure if feeling helpless and knowing the situation was helpless was better than feeling helpless and trying to gain control of the situation, but you knew Sam probably felt as horribly as you did.

“Y’know, someday, if we ever get a house— it could happen!” you assured Dean off his skeptical look. “We should get a couch. It’d be better for our backs than sitting on Baby or these shitty mattresses.”

You sat up facing Dean who lounged on the headboard in your shared motel room. Tension had been high between the brothers recently, and you decided it was best for the three of you to bunk separately.

“You are annoyingly optimistic, you know that?” he replied.

“I like to think of myself as more of a realist,” you returned. “But I’m trying to be more like you lately.”

“What do you mean?” Dean asked. His eyes held such an intensity when he looked at you.

In vulnerable moments like these, you couldn’t bear to look back at him. You opted for looking down at the mattress or, really, anywhere other than his face. “I mean, your whole thing is being annoyingly biting and sarcastic and— I mean, you just have the most amazing sense of humor— even when things suck major ass. And I don’t know how you do it. But… it’s admirable.” When your eyes returned to his face, he was looking at you with such pride and admiration.

“What?” you asked.

“I just love you,” he said.

You grinned widely and reached for his hand. You held it for just a moment before speaking again. “When are you gonna tell Sam?”

“What?”

“That we can’t save you.”

He sighed. “(Y/N)—”

“No, Dean, he deserves to know.” You shifted to your knees from your cross-legged position. “He’s on a wild goose chase instead of enjoying the time he has with you.”

“He’s a grown man, he can make his own choices,” Dean insisted, hand retreating from yours. He crossed his arms over his chest.

You gave him a look. “And maybe he’d make different choices if he had all the information about the situation available to him.”

“Alright, professor, no need to lecture me,” he grumbled, getting out of bed.

“Dean—! Don’t get mean just because you’re pissed at yourself and this whole situation,” you said, standing to face him. “Look, I’m only saying something because I don’t want the last few weeks of your life to be spent fighting with your brother.”

“Way to put that in perspective, (Y/N), thank you,” Dean spat.

“See, this is when your attitude pisses me off beyond belief,” you argued. “I’m trying to have a conversation with you, and you’re being a complete dick. This didn’t have to turn into a fight, and I’m not understanding why it did!”

“Because you’re my girlfriend, not my fucking therapist,” he responded. “I don’t need you to tell me how to live my life.”

“Okay, this clearly isn’t about me.” You shook your head, turning away from him to grab your shorts and shoes.

“Then, what’s it about, (Y/N)?”

You turned back to him. “Clearly, this is about your deal.” “Oh, my god,” Dean scoffed.

“You’re runnin’ out of time. You’re scared, and you’re lashing out. It’s crap. I only wanna help you because I love you,” you told him. “And I’m not gonna tolerate you getting mean with me just because I told you something you didn’t wanna hear.”

“Where are you going?” Dean asked, seeing you stomp toward the door.

“Out,” you replied. “Don’t follow me.”

***

That night, after yet another argument, you convinced Dean to let you sleep in his car and have him take the bed because you knew you wouldn’t get much sleep anyway. You were hurt and angry, but you missed holding Dean. You missed memorizing his features while he slept and finally seeing him at peace.

And the next morning, the situation was no better. Now, instead of Dean and Sam fighting, it was you, Dean, and Sam fighting.

Sam had gone to talk to another person about how to potentially break Dean’s deal. “So, the professor doesn't know crap.”

“Shocking,” Dean commented. “Pack your panties, guys, we're hitting the road.”

“What? What's up?” Sam asked.

“That was Bobby.” He gestured to the phone he’d just hung up. “Some banker guy blew his head off in Ohio, and he thinks there's a spirit involved.”

“So, you two were talking a case?”

“No, we were actually talking about our feelings. And then our favorite boy bands,” Dean replied dryly. “Yeah, we were talking a case!”

“Dean, stop being an ass,” you scolded.

“Well, get Sam to stop asking stupid questions.” Sam huffed. “So, a spirit? What?”

“Yeah, the banker was talking about some sort of electrical problems at his pad for like a week. Phone was going haywire, computer was flipping on and off,” Dean explained. “This is not ringing your bell?” He pressed when Sam looked at him skeptically.

“Well, sure, yeah. But, Dean, we're already on a case,” the younger one replied.

“Whose?” Dean asked.

“Yours!”

“Right. Yeah. Well, you coulda fooled me,” the older scoffed.

“What the hell else have we been doing lately other than trying to break your deal?” Sam protested.

“Chasing our tails, that's what. Sam, we've talked to every professor, witch, soothsayer and two-bit carny act in the lower forty-eight. Nobody knows squat! And we can't find Bela, we can't find the Colt. So until we actually find something, I'd like to do my job.”

“We should summon Ruby,” Sam suggested.

“I'm not gonna have this fight with you.” Dean shook his head.

Sam continued anyway. “She said she knows how to save you.”

“About that, Dean has something he wants to tell you.” You turned to your partner expectantly with your arms folded.

“What?” Sam asked, looking between the two of you.

Dean was giving you a glare which you returned.

“Dean, what?” Sam asked again.

“She can’t save me,” Dean answered finally, still holding your glare.

Out of the corner of your eye, you saw Sam turn back to you. “(Y/N)—?”

“She told us she can’t save him, Sam,” you admitted.

Sam turned his anger toward you. “Whoa, so you’ve known this whole time and haven’t told me?”

“It wasn’t mine to tell, Sam!”

“Yeah, but the both of you still kept a secret from me,” he responded.

“You really wanna talk about who's keeping secrets from who?” Dean snapped.

You turned to the car.

“Where are you going?” Dean called after you.

“Guess we’re going to Ohio.”

***

You were silent for the entirety of the ride to the deceased’s house. Dean and Sam only spoke to make a snarky remark directed at each other or at you, but you refused to respond.

You asked the woman what happened to her husband, and she reluctantly told you that he kept talking to a woman named Linda on the phone. However, there was no one on the other line when she would pick it up to check.

Curious about who this woman could have been, you and the brothers returned to the motel to research.

“Linda's a babe. Or, was,” Dean commented.

Your heart dropped. You knew he was kidding, but now was so not the time to make jokes like that. “Don’t say shit like that, please.”

“She’s dead, (Y/N),” he replied dryly. “Don’t be jealous.”

“I just think it’s in really poor taste to say that right now considering the state our relationship’s in,” you told him, trying to remain as calm as possible.

He slammed his laptop shut. “Are you seriously picking a fight with me over this? Right now?”

Sam interrupted before you could respond. “Oh-kay! That’s enough. Who’s Linda?”

“Linda Bateman.” Dean turned his eyes away from you. “She and Ben Waters were high school sweethearts.”

“So what happened?” Sam asked.

“Drunk driver hit them head on. Ben walked away.”

“So, what then? Dead flame calls to chat?” Sam wondered aloud.

“You would think, but Linda was cremated. So why's she still floating around?”

“You got me,” Sam shrugged.

“What about that, uh, caller I.D?” Dean asked his brother, referring to the number he’d found on Ben’s phone.

“Turns out, it's a phone number,” Sam replied. “It's about a century old, back from when phones had cranks.”

“So, why use that number to reach out and touch someone?” Dean returned.

“Got me there too, but we should put a trace on it.”

“Well how the hell are we going to put a trace on something that's over one-hundred years old?”

Sam suggested that the three of you should head to Ben’s phone company’s local office posing as representatives of their headquarters.

“You guys go ahead without me,” you said.

“Oh, c’mon, (Y/N)—”

You cut Dean off. “No. Both of us need space before we kill each other. So, please. Go.”

“Whatever,” Dean grumbled and stormed out of the room.

Sam stayed behind with you for a moment. “I’m sorry about him,” he said.

You sniffled, wiping away tears that threatened to spill from your eyes. “It’s okay. Just a rough patch, I guess. Call me when y’all have something.”

He nodded and pulled you into a hug. Sam placed a quick kiss on the crown of your head before following his brother out of the door.

***

Sam called to inform you that the number had called over a dozen people multiple times over the last week. So, you and the Winchesters split up to investigate. Without a car, you stayed in the motel room and called the numbers Sam had forwarded to you posing as a representative of the phone company. One of the people you’d spoken to said that he’d been hearing his deceased brother calling him to reconcile the broken relationship they’d had when his brother passed away.

Just as you hung up the phone with him, Dean burst into the room and immediately started pacing.

“What’s wrong?” you asked.

Dean didn’t answer.

Sam sat at the table in the room. “He said our dad called him.”

“No fucking way,” you breathed out. “You really think it was him?”

“I don't know, maybe,” Dean grunted.

“Well, what did he sound like?” Sam asked.

“Like Oprah!” the older brother snapped. “Like Dad; he sounded like Dad, what do you think?”

“What did he say?” you questioned.

“My name,” Dean replied.

“That’s it?” Sam pressed.

“Call dropped out.”

You shook your head and folded your arms, sitting cross-legged on Sam’s bed. After the recent fights with Dean, you’d decided to get a room separate from the two brothers and had been hanging out in their room all day. “Why would he even call in the first place, Dean?”

“I don't know, (Y/N)! I’m not a fucking psychic,” he snarked. “Why are ghosts calling anybody in this town? But I mean, other people are hearing from their loved ones, why can't we? It's at least a possibility, right?”

You wanted to chew him out for snapping at you like that, but you truly had no energy to put up another fight.

“Yeah, I guess?” Sam replied in your place.

“Okay, so what if....” Dean trailed off, only looking at his brother. “What if it really is Dad? What happens if he calls back? What do I say?”

“Hello,” you suggested.

“Hello?” he scoffed.

You shook your head and rolled your eyes.

“That's what you come back with. Hello?” Dean continued.

“Fuck off, Dean,” you sneered.

Dean huffed, grabbed his jacket, and headed for the door.

Sam shot you a puppy-dog-eyed look and turned to the door to stare after his brother.

You sighed and buried your face in your hands.

“(Y/N)?”

You picked your head up.

“What’s happening to you guys?”

“I don’t know,” you admitted, tearing up. “We started fighting ‘cause I told him to tell you about the whole ‘Ruby’ thing, and I said some mean shit, and he said some mean shit, and it’s just a mess now.”

Sam gave you another puppy-dog-eyed look.

“It’ll be fine, though. I’m sure it’ll blow over.”

If it was even possible, Sam’s face dropped even further.

“Don’t look at me like that,” you smiled lopsidedly, knowing he just didn’t know how to help. “Can we talk about something other than my boy drama?”

Sam nodded. “Sure.”

***

For the next few hours, you scoured the internet for information on the “SHA33” number that was calling these poor people.

Dean returned with caustic remarks to spare. “Find anything?” he asked Sam while pretty much blatantly ignoring you.

“After three hours, I’ve found no reason why anything supernatural would be going on here,” Sam sighed, shutting his laptop.

“Me neither, Dean, thanks for asking,” you said.

“Well, you know, you think a Stanford education and a high school hook up rate of zero-point-zero would produce better results than that,” Dean scoffed at Sam.

“Hilarious,” you deadpanned, hoping to elicit some sort of a response from Dean.

He shot you a glare, but other than that, he said nothing. Dean reached into his pocket and pulled out a packet. “Motel pamphlet rack.” He dropped it on the coffee table along with a few books. “Milan, Ohio. Birthplace of Thomas Edison.”

“So what?” you asked.

Sam grabbed a book and leafed through it.

Dean just raised his eyebrows at you as Sam looked up from the book.

“You're kidding,” he said.

Dean smirked as his brother.

***

Well, a huge waste of time was the only thing Dean’s suggestion led to. The tour you went on at a museum showed the invention Thomas Edison believed could communicate with spirits and informed you that he was a devout occultist. However, the “spirit phone” didn’t set off the EMF detector.

Sleep refused to claim you. Your anxiety kept your mind racing through the long hours of the night. You sat at the table in your room staring at the door just waiting for Dean to knock. However, despite it being three in the morning, he hadn’t come yet. Your fights had all been stupid and petty, but both of you were too stubborn to be the first to admit fault.

And with each passing night, you could feel the clock ticking. You knew Dean was running out of time, and you just wanted him to hold you again. As the sun rose, your heart sank knowing he hadn’t come to make things right with you.

You stayed in your room upset until Sam called you to come over to theirs.

“What’s up?” you asked upon entering.

“That girl Lanie—” Sam was referring to the victim he’d spoken to— “her Mom's ghost spooked her out pretty bad last night.”

“That sucks,” said Dean, typing furiously on his laptop.

“What… are you doing, Dean?” you asked hesitantly.

He looked at you briefly; the expression on his face confusing. He looked back down at his computer. “I think my dad’s right. I think the demon is here. Check it out.” He handed you some papers and dug around in his bag.

“What is this, weather reports?” you asked, leafing through the papers.

“Omens. Demonic omens,” he responded. “Electrical storms everywhere we've been for the past two weeks.”

Trepidatiously, you said, “I don't remember any lightning storms.”

“Well, I don't remember you studying meteorology, either,” he snapped.

‘So much for us being civil,’ you thought.

“But I'm telling you, that bastard's been tailing me; wearing some poor dude's meat,” Dean finished.

Sam took some of the pressure off you. “And it’s following you because…?” he asked.

“I guess I'm big game, y’know? My ass is too sweet to let outta sight.” Dean threw a wink at you, and you were getting incredibly thrown off by his changing attitude.

“Okay. Sure,” Sam snorted.

Dean snatched the papers back from you. “Don't get too excited, Sammy. Might pull something.” He stood from the bed and moved away from you and his brother.

“Dean, look, I wanna believe this man, I really do…”

Dean cut his brother off. “Then believe it! if we get this sucker, it's Miller Time.”

“Yeah, that's another thing. Dad rattles off an exorcism that can kill a demon? I mean, not just send it back to hell, but kill it?” Dean’s eyes lit up. “I've checked it out. This is heavy duty Dark Ages. Fifteenth century.”

“Dean,” you said softly. “I checked on it, too. So did Sam. So did Bobby.”

“Okay, and?” he scoffed.

Sam jumped in. “Look, it definitely is an exorcism, okay, there's just no evidence it can kill a demon.”

“No evidence it can't,” he rebutted.

“Dean…” you trailed off, not wanting to start a bigger fight.

“Hey, as far as I'm aware the only one of us who has actually been to Hell is my dad. And maybe he picked up a couple of tricks down there, like which exorcisms work,” he snapped.

“Maybe!” you replied. “I hope so; for your sake. But we gotta be sure.”

“Why aren't we sure?” he asked.

“’Cause I don't know what's going on around here, Dean!” you cried. “I mean, some guy blows his brains out, a little girl is scared out of her wits—”

“Wow, a couple of civvies are freaked out by some ghosts. News flash, (Y/N), people are supposed to be freaked out by ghosts!” he shot back.

You held his stare venomously. Dean eventually dropped his head in frustration.

“Dad tell you where to find the demon?” Sam asked carefully.

“I'm waiting on the call!” he shouted.

The tension in the room was thick, and you had no idea what to say.

Sam sighed deeply and tried to change the subject. “I told Lanie I'd stop by.”

Dean scoffed. “Oh, good, yeah. No, you go hang out with jailbait. Just, uh, watch out for Chris Hansen. Meanwhile I'll be here getting ready to, y’know, save my life.”

Sam shook his head and turned to the door. You just stared at the floor.

“You two are unbelievable, y’know that?” Dean shouted. “I mean, for months, we’ve been tryin’ to break this demon deal. Now, Dad’s about to give us the fuckin’ address, and you blink? The man is dead, and you’re still butting heads with the guy?!” He turned his attention to you. “And you? What happened to us? What happened to your ‘unconditional support’?”

“Dean, you still have it!” you replied. “That was never in question! What I’m questioning is where your fuckin’ head’s at. Because this is not you.”

“Oh, god.” He rolled his eyes and began to pace.

“I’m not gonna mince my words,” you began, anger boiling to the surface. “This is fuckin’ crazy. I mean, there is no proof. At all. All you’re acting on is blind faith.”

“Yeah, well, maybe!” He shouted back. “Y’know, maybe that's all I got, okay?”

You held his stare, the anger melting out of you at his words. When you could see tears forming in his eyes, he looked at the floor.

Sam piped up. “Please. Just please don't go anywhere until I get back. Okay, Dean? Please.”

Dean stayed silent.

“C’mon, (Y/N),” Sam urged you.

You looked up at Dean. For the first time that week, he offered you a kind word. “Go. It’s okay.”

You nodded. As you turned to go, you stared over your shoulder back at Dean.

***

At Lanie’s house, the young girl got you up to speed on what happened to her the night before.

“Have you told your father about any of this?” Sam asked her.

“And bother him at work?” she replied. “No. He wouldn't believe me anyway, he'd just chuck me into therapy.”

“So what did your mother say?” you asked.

“She wanted to see me. So at first I thought I was supposed to go to the cemetery,” she sniffled.

“Did you?” Sam prompted.

Lanie nodded meekly. “Nothing happened. But then she started asking me to do other things.”

“What sort of things?”

She almost seemed embarrassed to say. “Bad things.”

You crouched down and looked up at her, breaking her gaze from the floor. “Lanie, please. Can you tell me what happened? It’s very important.”

She teared up, young eyes swimming in fear and sadness. “Mom told me to go to Dad's medicine cabinet.”

You waited patiently for her to continue.

“She wanted me to take his sleeping pills.” She stopped for a minute to gather her courage. “Take all of his sleeping pills.”

“She wanted you to kill yourself?” Sam couldn’t help himself from saying.

She nodded, crying harder. “Why would my Mom want me to do that?”

You shook your head. “I don’t know.”

“She just kept saying, ‘come to me,’ like, a million times,” she hiccuped.

Your eyes widened. “Oh, sweet girl, that's not your mother.” You stood from the ground.

Sam told Lanie, “Listen to me. Don't answer the phone. Don't use the computer. Don't do anything unless I say to, alright?”

You started down the stairs and listened carefully; just one set of footsteps was following you. You turned back to see Lanie still at the top of the stairs. “You okay?”

Her breathing was quick. “Where's Simon?”

“Simon?” you asked.

“My little brother,” she responded.

The next thing you knew, you were watching Sam shove the little boy out of the way of a speeding truck from the porch of Lanie’s house.

Immediately, you called Dean. “Dean, it’s not your dad,” you rushed out.

“Then what is it, (Y/N)?” he asked flippantly.

“A crocotta,” you answered.

“What is that, a sandwich?” he scoffed.

“They typically live in filth. Mimic loved ones. Whisper, ‘Come to me,’ then lure you into the dark and swallow your soul,” you stated.

Sam motioned for you to head to his rental car as soon as he delivered Simon to his sister safely. You followed quickly.

“A crocotta, right, damn, that makes sense,” he snarkily replied.

“Dean, c’mon, babe—”

He cut you off. “Hey, don't these things live in filth?”

“Yeah,” you replied.

“Oh, god, at the phone company there were these flies. Pretty much as soon as we got down to the basement where this guy Stewie was hangin’ out,” he rushed out.

“Okay, uh, okay,” you nodded. “Meet us there.”

You brought Sam up to speed on the conversation you’d had with Dean, and as night fell, he sped to the phone company.

***

Despite calling Dean several times, you and Sam had to keep moving forward with the case. You watched as the man Sam described to you as Stewie unlocked his car. Silently, you rushed him with a metal spike. You shoved him down onto the car and held a metal spike to the back of his neck.

Stewie grunted. “What the hell?!”

“I know what you are,” you spat. “And I know how to kill you.”

“Wait, wait— Please! If we're overcharging you for the call waiting or something I- I can fix that. I am your friend!” he stammered.

Confusion overtook you, and you turned to an equally confused Sam. You suddenly noticed a man standing behind him with a bat. “Sam, look out!” you cried.

But it was too late. He was hit over the head with a bat, and you released the man in front of you. You threw your spike at him, but he caught it just before it hit him. He stalked toward you, and the man smiled widely. The man you’d been holding down shoved you to the ground from behind, and you were knocked out, too.

***

When you next came to, your wrists and feet were bound; that was the first thing you felt. Your head pounded, and your wrists ached from how tight the bindings were. When you opened your eyes, you turned your head to see Stewie was dead and bleeding profusely from his chest.

You shrieked in horror, and then, the man who’d knocked you out appeared in front of you. “The fuck is wrong with you?!” you snarled.

He just laughed mockingly as he stalked between you and Sam.

You realized something. “My last call with Dean. That was you. You led us here.”

“Some calls I make, some calls I take, but you have to admit, I had you fooled for a while. All that Edison phone crap,” he chuckled. He moved over to a telephone exchange cabinet and sighed in ecstasy.

“What are you doing?” Sam asked.

“I’m killing your brother,” he smiled. “Or maybe I'm killing another guy. We'll just have to see how it goes.”

***

The creature removed the knife from the chest of the man beside you. You grimaced at the wet squelching sound it made as he did.

“Y’know, mimicking Dean's one thing. But my Dad?” Sam complimented mockingly. “That's a hell of a trick.”

“Well, once I made you two as hunters, it was easy. I found Dean's number, then your number, then your father's numbers. Then, emails, voicemails, everything. You see, people think that stuff just gets erased, but it doesn't. You'd be surprised how much of yourself is just floating out there, waiting to be plucked,” the creature grinned.

“Dean’s not an idiot,” you stated sharply. “He’s not gonna kill that guy.”

“Then the guy kills him,” he shrugged. “And I kill you two. And here I thought I was only getting one hunter.” He stalked toward you, and you struggled harder. “Now, I’ve got another. And a pretty one, at that.”

You reared back and spat in his face. Almost like a reflex, he immediately backslapped you.

Unfazed, your head returned to a neutral position and you just glared at him.

“I’m gonna enjoy this,” he said, tracing the knife down your cheek. “Technology. Makes life so much easier. Used to be, I'd hide in the woods for days, weeks, whispering to people, trying to draw them out into the night. But they had community, they all looked out for each other, I'd be lucky to eat one or two souls a year. Now when I'm hungry, I simply make a phone call. You're all so connected. But you've never been so alone.”

Just as the man’s jaw unhinged like a snake to reveal rows of teeth, Sam came up behind him and wrapped his arms around his neck in a chokehold. You sat patiently while Sam and the crocatta struggled for the knife. You watched both men slam each other into various surfaces until they disappeared from view.

You couldn’t do anything to help yourself, and you anxiously waited for— hopefully— Sam’s return into the room.

Much to your relief, Sam stumbled back in minutes later. You grinned up at him happily.

***

You were the one to drive Sam’s rental car back to the motel seeing as he was injured and sore from his fight with the monster. You went at least twenty miles-an-hour over the speed limit for the entirety of the drive.

You burst into Sam and Dean’s room, and you began to panic when you didn’t see him there.

Then, you checked your room, breathing out in relief when you saw Dean holding a wash cloth to his eye. “Dean!” You ran to him, kneeling down in front of him.

He looked up at you, and you immediately kissed him passionately. He returned your kiss eagerly. When you broke away from him, you took the cloth from Dean’s hands gently to help him clean the wound.

“Sweetheart,” he said. “I— I’m so sorry.”

You placed your free hand on his knee. “We’ll talk in a minute, alright? Let me clean you up first.”

He nodded.

***

“There,” you told him having placed the final bandage on his assortment of cuts. “That guy kicked the shit out of you.” Although Dean would normally laugh at jokes like that, his countenance was completely serious. “I’m so sorry,” he repeated.

“I know,” you said softly. “I am, too.”

“I just— I lashed out, and that wasn’t fair to you. You were right,” Dean admitted. “It scares me how well you can fuckin’ read me. And with everything going on, I just—”

“I get it,” you cut him off. “I’m sorry, too. I was being petty. I got mean, too.” You paused for a moment. “I’m sorry it wasn’t really your dad.”

Dean looked down at the ground. “Naw, I gave you a hell of a time on this one.” He huffed. “I wanted to believe so badly that there was a way outta this. I mean, I'm staring down the barrel at this thing. You know, Hell. For real, forever, and I just…” he trailed off, unable to finish.

Your eyebrows scrunched sadly, and your eyelashes flickered.

“I’m scared, sweetheart. I’m… I’m really scared.” As tears pooled in his eyes, he couldn’t seem to meet yours.

You nodded, tearing up as well. “I know.”

“I guess I was willing to believe anything. You know, the last act of a desperate man,” he tried to joke through his stifled cries.

“I can’t believe I’m saying this, but there’s nothing wrong with having hope, Dee,” you told him gently.

“Hope doesn't get you jack squat,” he scoffed. “I can't expect Dad to show up with some miracle at the last minute. I can't expect anybody to, y’know? I mean, the only person that can get me out of this thing is me.”

“And I’m right there with you,” you told him. “Every step of the way. To Hell and back.”

Dean offered a lopsided smile. “To Hell and back.”

Series Rewrite Taglist: @polireader @brightlilith @atcamillanorrman @jrizzelle @insomnia-bookworm @procrastination20 @mrs-liebgott @djs8891 @tiggytaylor @staple-your-mouth @jesstherebel @rach5ive @strawberrykiwisdogog @bruhidkjustwannaread @mxltifxnd0m @sunshine-on-marz @big-ol-boat @mgchaser @capncrankle @chervbs @simpingdeadcharacters @nesnejwritings @stillhere197 @tearsforhan @take-it-on-the-run @iloveyou2mia @maxinehufflepuffprincess @ohgeehowdigethere @seninjakitey @berarenado @s0urw00lf @princessleahorgana @quarterhorse19 @isla-finke-blog @silverdoragon @karacaroldanvers @gayandfairycore @examishbookwyrm @star-yawnznn @real-sharena-h @fandomloverrr @metalmonki @onlyangel-444 @yu-winchester @benniwiththefanni @daisychaingirl @immagods @missmieux @yoongi-holland @littledebbieinabigworld

#dean winchester x reader #dean winchester x y/n #dean winchester x you #dean winchester #supernatural #spn #supernatural series rewrite #spn series rewrite

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growth-opportunities · 10 hours ago

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"Ta-dah! See? You didn't believe me, but here they are! My huge knockers! My gigantic jigglers! My massive fucking tits! What, are you gonna go shy on me now? Don't lie to me; don't tell me that this isn't what you wanted. You were goading me on, trying to rile me up, hoping that I would whip them out, weren't you? Well, guess what? It worked! Not that I needed much help getting riled up. God, growing these tits have made me so fucking horny! They're not just big; they're so sensitive. It's like every time I went up a cup size, they doubled in sensitivity! I made myself cum the other night just from playing with my nipples and thank god I sit in the back of the classroom so I can subtly rub my tits through my shirt without anyone knowing. It's mind melting. It's addictive. It's getting worse. Even now, I can feel the air on my nipples and it's driving me crazy.

"...Well, don't just sit there! Do something about it! You managed to get my huge and growing tits out in the open, you've got me whimpering and groaning in arousal and, what, you're just going to stare at them! Grab them! I know you want to! Sink your fingers into my soft tits! Be rough! Suck on them so hard your cheeks cave in! If you don't make me cum, I'm never showing them to you ag- AAAHHNNNN~~~!"

#breast expansion #breast growth #sensitivity change #tell me this isn't the dream

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lefteagleblizzard · 15 hours ago

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𝔗𝔥𝔢 𝔱𝔦𝔪𝔢 𝔴𝔢 𝔩𝔬𝔰𝔱

Mike Schmidt x male reader

A request that I received from a friend on tumblr. ‘The reader has to leave for a week roughly, when he comes back Abby is obviously excited and wanting to play with the reader the rest of the day. But all Mike wants to do is have you under him writhing in ecstasy. Basically it's Mike having blue balls for most of the fic until the end when it's night and he *politely* hugs the reader while they frantically make love’

Tags: Part 10 of this miniseries of Mike Schmidt x male reader. No use of Y/N. Age-gap (5 years) between you and Mike. Male reader. He/him pronouns used towards the reader. Mike is missing you deeply. A tiny bit of jealousy. Mentions of phone sex. Smut. Top Mike. Bottom reader. Anal sex.

Words count: 3000 words

Part 1-Part 2- Part 3-Part 4-Part 5-Part 6-Part 7-Part 8 -Part 9

Can also be found on wattpad and ao3

The moment you stepped through the door, Abby's squeal echoed through the house. You barely had time to set your bag down before she came bounding toward you, her little arms outstretched. She wrapped herself around your waist in an enthusiastic hug, nearly knocking you off balance.

"You're back! You're back!" she cried, hopping on her toes as if to emphasize the sheer force of her excitement.

You laughed, ruffling her hair affectionately. "Missed me that much?"

She pulled back, her face a mixture of indignation and joy. "Of course I missed you! You've been gone forever!" She tugged at your hand insistently, her small fingers gripping tightly. "You have to see what I did while you were gone. I drew a lot! And I made one for you and you have to see it."

"Abby, take it easy, you're going to knock him over," Mike's voice came from the kitchen, casual but unmistakably warm. "He has been gone a week and you've got him chained to you already?"

"I missed you too," you said with a grin before kneeling down to meet Abby’s eye level. "Have you been good while I was gone? Not driving your brother too crazy, I hope?"

Abby giggled, then held out her pinky. "Promise I've been super good. Except maybe when I made Mike drop the spaghetti last night because I tried to do a cartwheel in the kitchen."

You glanced up at Mike, your smile widening. “Sounds like I missed quite a week.”

Mike rolled his eyes, though the faintest smile tugged at the corner of his lips.

"Sorry about her," his lips twitching into a faint smirk. "She's been talking about you all week. You'd think you were gone for months." His voice sent a pleasant shiver through you, low and steady but edged with amusement.

"She's fine," you said, smiling. "Honestly, it's nice to be missed."

He leaned against the doorframe, the dim lighting catching the tired creases under his eyes. Black hair messy t-shirt that clung to his lean but sturdy frame. His gaze lingered on you and only now did you realize how much you had missed him.

Abby, oblivious to the silent tension, kept tugging at your hand. "Come on! I need to show you something!" Her excitement bubbled over, her small hands pulling you toward her room with surprising strength. "I drew so many things while you were gone and you have to see them all!".

You glanced over at Mike, offering him a half-apologetic smile as his sister guided you by her room. He leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, his lips twitching between amusement and thinly veiled frustration.

Mike's brow arched slightly as though to say, ‘Really? After a week away, you're prioritizing her?’ But he didn't speak his protest aloud. Instead, he pushed off the doorway with a grunt, muttering, "Guess I'll just... wait my turn."

The room was a kaleidoscope of colors, with crayon drawings taped to the walls, scattered across the floor and piled on her tiny desk. Abby flopped onto the carpet, pulling out a stack of drawings with the urgency of someone sharing top-secret information. "Okay, okay! Look at this one first. It's Chica but I made her of a different color."

You chuckled, sitting cross-legged beside her as she thrust the drawing into your hands. “A total masterpiece."

Her eyes sparkled at your praise. "You think so? Look at this one!" She shuffled through the pile, pulling out another one that she eagerly handed to you.

"This one is us at the park," she explained, holding up a crayon drawing of the three of you surrounded by flowers and trees. "Those two are you and Mike holding hands! I drew it because you're always together."

You couldn't help but laugh softly, feeling a tinge of embarrassment but also a deep sense of affection. "You're quite the artist, Abby. I look amazing here. You're going to be famous one day."

Her eyes lit up at the compliment, and she beamed with pride. "Really?"

"Absolutely," you assured her, glancing at Mike. "Right, Mike?"

From the bed, where Mike had sprawled out with all the ease of a man trying to keep his patience in check, a low sound of approval erupted. He smirked at the question, his gaze flickering between you and Abby. "Yeah, kid. You've got some real talent. Be careful, though. Keep going like this and his ego's going to get too big." His dark eyes watched you intently, softening ever so slightly every time Abby smiled at you.

Abby's grin widened and she immediately dove into her stack of drawings to find more to show you. Mike's smirk softened into a fond smile as he watched her animatedly interact with you. He loved seeing you and Abby bond, though his gaze kept drifting to you, lingering on the curve of your back as you leaned forward, the way your lips quivered when you laughed and the soft glow in your eyes as you encouraged Abby.

A part of him felt guilty for how often his mind wandered, but he couldn't stop the flood of thoughts. He knew he should focus on the moment, but his body's reaction to having you so close after a week apart was impossible to ignore

He clenched his jaw, trying to focus on the mundane but his gaze kept wandering back to you. Your fingers brushed hers as you helped her shuffle through the pile of pictures, your laughter soft and genuine as you let her talk about her latest dream.

‘God, those hands...’ his eyes lingering on the way your fingertips moved. He didn't mean to stare, but the memory of those same hands clutching his shoulders, clawing at his back, sent a flash of heat straight to his core.

He shifted uncomfortably on the bed, feigning disinterest as his thoughts betrayed him. The view of the way you leaned slightly forward, the curve of your spine visible through your shirt made it ten times worse. He wondered, for the briefest of moments, what it would feel like to have you there on the floor, pinned beneath him, the softness of your moans muffled against his lips.

Abby leaned against your shoulder, holding up another picture. This one was clearly meant to be Mike, his hair a chaotic swirl of black scribbles. "This one's you, Mike! I made his hair messy because it's always like that." she exclaimed, holding up a surprisingly decent rendition of his perpetual frown.

"It's not always messy," he protested half-heartedly. He was leaning against the bed frame, one leg propped up, his head tilted lazily against the wall. You turned toward him with a grin. "She's not wrong, though."

Mike shot you a glare, though there was no real malice behind it. "I see you've both decided to team up on me. Great. Just what I needed after a long week." he muttered.

Abby giggled, unfazed by his grumbling as she kept eagerly pulling out new drawings she made

His eyes softened at the sight of you and Abby together. She was sitting so close to you, practically in your lap, her small hand tugging at your sleeve as she babbled on about her next masterpiece. It was enough to make his heart ache, both from the warmth of seeing you bond with her and the sharp sting of jealousy that you weren't paying attention to him.

He let his head fall back against the wall, staring at the ceiling as he tried to shake the frustration bubbling in his chest. He shouldn't feel like this. Abby was a kid and she deserved every bit of your attention. But damn it, he'd missed you. A week without you had felt like an eternity and now that you were here, he had to sit back and wait?

His fingers twitched at the memory of the previous night at work. Alone in the security office, watching the flickering monitors, the silence stretching endlessly. It had been another slow, uneventful shift, the kind that made every second feel like an hour.

One second he was leaning against the chair, the next he got up and grabbed the nearby phone and dialed the number of the structure you were in.

He'd called you on impulse, not even sure you'd pick up so late.

"Mike?" Your voice had been groggy but laced with concern. "It's, like, two in the morning. Are you okay?"

The sound of your voice had been a balm to his frayed nerves. “Yeah," he'd said, leaning back in the chair, the phone pressed tightly to his ear. "I'm fine. Just... bored. Wanted to hear your voice." His tone had shifted, growing rougher, more deliberate.

There'd been a pause, and then a soft chuckle. "You miss me that much, huh?"

He hadn't denied it. He couldn't. Instead, he'd let the words tumble out, his voice dropping to a husky murmur as he told you how much he'd been thinking about you. And God, the way you'd responded, your voice growing softer, breathier, as the conversation took a turn he hadn't dared hope for.

By the end of it, he'd been a mess, stroking himself as your whispered moans filled his ear. He'd closed his eyes, picturing you on his lap, your hands clutching his shoulders, your body rocking against his as he thrust up into you over and over. He could still hear your voice, the way you'd gasped his name when you came. It had been enough to leave him breathless, slumped in his chair with his hand still wrapped around himself.

The memory of your voice, the way you'd whimpered his name through the phone, sent a fresh wave of heat coursing through him even now.

"Mike, you're not even looking!" Abby's voice snapped him back to the present. She was holding up another drawing, her brow furrowed in mock frustration.

He adjusted his position on the bed, praying Abby wouldn't notice the tension in his body, forcing a smile. "Sorry, kiddo. Let me see."

The hours dragged on, but for Mike, every second felt like an eternity. He loved how natural you were with her, how effortlessly you fit into their little world. But the selfish part of him, the one that had spent countless sleepless nights imagining your body pressed against his, was losing the fragile grip it had on its patience.

Night had finally fallen and Abby, despite her earlier determination to stay awake and keep playing, had succumbed to exhaustion. She lay nestled inside the fort she had spent the better part of the evening constructing, pillows stacked precariously, blankets draped over chairs and furniture, her breathing slow and steady. Mike had taken care to tuck another blanket securely around her, brushing her hair back gently before stepping away.

You stood near the doorway, arms crossed, watching the scene with a fond smile. There was something endlessly endearing about seeing Mike in dad mode, his gruff exterior softening as he ensured Abby was warm and comfortable.

"She's out cold," he murmured as he joined you at the door, his voice low to avoid waking her. His gaze lingered on her for a moment longer before he gently shut the door behind him.

When he turned back to you, there was a shift in his expression. Without a word, he reached out, wrapping his arms around your waist in a firm but measured embrace. His face nuzzled into the crook of your neck, his stubble brushing against your skin as his breath came hot and steady.

"Finally," he murmured, his voice husky. "My turn."

You chuckled softly, though your breath hitched at the weight of his tone. "What, you missed me that much?" You tried to keep your voice light, teasing, though your heart raced as he held you.

He pulled back just enough to meet your eyes, his dark gaze smoldering. "You have no idea." His fingers pressed into your lower back, pulling you closer until your bodies were flush. "No more interruptions. You're mine now."

Mike's hand never left your waist as he guided you down the hall toward the bedroom. His grip was firm but not rushed, his thumb stroking small circles through the fabric of your shirt. Once inside, he kicked the door shut with a soft thud, the sound sending a thrill down your spine.

He turned to you, his eyes tracing over your face before sliding lower, drinking in the sight of you like a man starved. "I've been waiting all day for this," he said quietly, voice low and rough. "All week, really."

He leaned in and captured your lips with his own. The kiss was deep and consuming, tongue brushing yours, coaxing a soft moan from your throat.

He broke the kiss only to press his forehead against yours, his breathing uneven. "God, I missed you," he muttered, his hands sliding under your shirt to touch the bare skin of your back. "Every damn second you were gone, I was thinking about you."

Mike eased you onto the bed, his weight settling between your legs as he kissed you again. His hands worked your shirt over your head, tossing it aside before his lips moved lower, trailing down your neck, your chest, each kiss deliberate and hungry.

His fingers skimmed the waistband of your pants, pausing for a moment to look up at you. "Let me take care of you," he murmured, his voice thick with longing.

He leaned down, his lips pressing against your collarbone, your chest, the soft skin of your stomach. Each kiss was hot and deliberate, leaving a trail of heat in its wake. His stubble grazed your skin, a delicious contrast to the softness of his mouth.

When he reached your waistband, he paused, glancing up at you through his lashes. "Can I?" he asked, his voice rough but laced with tenderness.

You nodded, your breath hitching as his hands worked your pants and boxers down in one smooth motion. The cool air against your heated skin made you shiver, but that sensation was quickly replaced by the warmth of his hands as they smoothed over your thighs.

He took his time, his gaze never leaving you as he pressed open-mouthed kisses to your inner thighs, his stubble brushing against the sensitive skin.

"So perfect," he whispered, his voice barely audible, his breath hot against you. "I've missed this so much."

His hands spread your legs wider as he continued his exploration, his lips and tongue teasing you until you were trembling beneath him.

When he finally pulled back, his pupils blown with desire, he reached into the nightstand for the small bottle of lube you both kept there. The sound of the cap clicking open sent a shiver of anticipation through you.

He poured a generous amount onto his fingers before setting it aside. His eyes met yours as he coated his fingers, the intensity of his gaze making your breath catch in your throat.

Your body was trembling with anticipation as you felt his hand slide between your legs, his fingers gently parting your thighs. The first touch of his slick fingers against you made you gasp, your hips instinctively arching off the bed as he began to prepare you. His movements were slow and careful, his fingers working you open with a patience that made your heart swell with affection.

"You're so tight," he murmured, his voice dropping to a near-growl as he worked you open. "God, I've missed feeling like this."

He took his time, making sure you were comfortable, that you were ready, before he added a second finger, then a third, each one stretching you further, preparing you for what was to come.

You could feel every nerve in your body alight with pleasure, every touch sending sparks of electricity through you.

When he finally pulled his fingers out, you couldn't help the whimper that escaped your lips, your body aching for more.

He reached down to unbutton his own pants, quickly shedding the rest of his clothes until he was just as bare as you were.

He settled between your legs, his body pressing against yours. You could feel the hard length of him pressing against your thigh.

His words sent a flush of heat through you, your hips moving involuntarily as you chased the feeling of his touch. His free hand gripped your thigh, holding you steady as he added another finger, his movements deliberate.

"You're doing so good for me," he said, his voice softening for a moment. "So good."

The first stretch was intense, a mix of pressure and pleasure as Mike slowly pushed inside. He let out a low, guttural sound as he buried himself to the hilt, his hands gripping your hips tightly. "Fuck," he muttered, his head falling forward against your shoulder. "So tight. Feels even better than I remembered."

He paused for a moment, letting you adjust, his breathing ragged as he fought to hold himself still. "Tell me if it's too much," he said, his voice low but tender.

"It's good," you whispered, your hands sliding up to his shoulders. "Go on."

You clenched around him, drawing a sharp groan from his lips. His movements started slow, his hips rocking gently as he let you adjust. But as your hands found their way to his back, your nails digging in slightly, he couldn't hold back any longer.

Mike's pace quickened, each thrust deep and deliberate, his breath hot against your ear. "You feel so good," he rasped, his voice raw. "God, I've missed this. Missed you."

Your moans filled the room, mingling with the sound of his ragged breathing and the rhythmic slap of skin against skin. Every movement, every touch, felt electric, the built-up tension of the past week spilling over in waves of pleasure.

Mike leaned down, his lips brushing against your jaw as he murmured, "You’re taking me so well... so perfect."

His words sent a shiver down your spine, your hands clutching at his shoulders as he drove into you with a newfound urgency. His hands roamed your body, touching, gripping, as if he couldn't get enough.

By the time you both reached your peak, you were a mess of tangled limbs and breathless moans. Mike collapsed beside you, his hips stuttered, grip on you tightening as he buried himself to the hilt. His groan was deep and guttural, his body shuddering against yours as he spilled into you, pulling you close against his chest as you both tried to catch your breath.

His fingers traced lazy patterns on your back, his lips brushing against your temple. "Don't ever leave me for that long again," he said quietly, his voice still rough from exertion as he tightened his arms around you, his breath evening out as he held you close.

Note: If you liked this story please leave a comment, I love reading them <3. Up next i’ll post another Mike Munroe fic ;)

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itsa-me-lily · 3 days ago

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This was yet again, not what I was intending to write. I was going to try to do the fic for the spa day hint but I got too caught up in my head on logistics. Remember kids, don't let logic or canon stop you from writing the fiction you want to.

This is a pallet cleanser for me after posting 'It's a Quarter after One'.

Here is the rest of the Military Program Spouse list.

Warnings;

Nothing really. Just tension.

Movie nights, were supposed to be peaceful. A way to unwind from the day and maybe, possibly, in the realm of, spend some time with a person who's existence didn't drive you crazy. So how this turned into you using Simon like a living barbie doll you weren't sure, but you couldn't complain.

That was a lie, you knew exactly how it turned into you belting Simon's pillows around his waist. You had a fucking point to prove.

Simon had been willing to watch a new documentary from the Smithsonian with you, a piece about historical fashion and the myths that spiral out of it. You hadn't thought that Simon would want to watch it, but he had shrugged when you'd ask and well, gifted horses and mouths and all that.

You had made veggie snacks for the boys, and popcorn for you and Simon, queued up the film and the night was off. For the most part it was alright, some stuff you already knew, others you didn't. Simon was pretty silent the entire time, until they got to the corsetry and the discussion of tight lacing.

Simon wouldn't believe the idea that it was mostly an illusion trick. Said that men were obviously smarter than that. You called bullshit. He called your bullshit bullshit. So belting his pillows to his ass.

And no, you weren't going to think about how thick his waist was, or how solid he felt as you tightened the cord around said waist. And you especially weren't going to look up at him because you were positive he was doing that thing where he was staring down at you with his dark eyes that made you feel like you were being sucked in via your soul and did not make your heart skip. Not thinking about it at all.

Giving the improvised belt a tug, and not thinking about his...everything, you nodded, pleased with how the pillows bulked around his waist. Now just for the final piece. You grabbed a throw blanket from the couch, wrapping it around the front of your husband.

(How dare that man be a fucking brick wall of muscles. Seriously what the fuck.)

Once you were ready you grabbed your phone, snapping a photo and disregarding the unimpressed look on Simon's face, already talking over his silence to prove your point.

"Look your shoulders are already broad enough," (Not thinking about it) "So we just had to balance out the width of your hips. Now instead of looking like a Dorito, it's like an hourglass, and your brain gets tricked into thinking your waist tinier."

You're zooming in to show him what you meant when there's a knock on your door, making the both of you freeze to stare at each other. You weren't expecting anyone, and given how tight his shoulders drew in, neither was Simon.

It was tense as you waited to see what would happen. And it only got tenser as there was another knock, whoever was at the door insistent.

"Oi LT, ye in for the pub? Never answered me earlier."

Oh. It was Johnny. At the door. To see if Simon wanted to go out. Because Simon hadn't clarified with him earlier? You almost felt like your strings got cut as you relaxed, looking at the door as you answered for Simon before the Scot could start knocking again, or break down your door.

"Just a second Johnny."

You looked back at Simon and felt your breath catch. He was so...intense sometimes. For a moment all there was, was you and him, the TV lighting half his face and showcasing the curve of his brow that lead to the bridge of his nose, the rest of his face hidden by his surgical mask.

"We should get the door."

"He can wait."

Simon's voice couldn't possibly be that deep most of the time. You'd have noticed it before right?

You had to swallow, your mouth turning dry as you tried to think of something to say.

Thankfully a certain impatient Scot saved the day by knocking yet again, though sounding uncertain this time.

"Are ye alright in there? Am I interrupting-"

"We're fine MacTavish."

You had to make a break for the door then, or else you were all going to be stuck in some loop of talking through a door or not talking while the oxygen apparently left the room. You made an effort to try to ignore whatever Simon was doing behind you as you made the few steps to the door to open it, unaware of the flush that was painting your cheeks.

"Sorry about that, come in."

Oh. Kyle was with him too. You waved over Johnny's shoulder giving the young man a happy greeting, but both of them were too busy staring over your shoulder into your living room. You hadn't really give Simon time to unpillow his ass...oops.

"I was trying to show Simon how proportions with creating visual illusions..."

"Ye look thinner Lt."

You shot Simon an 'I told you so' look, which you were pretty sure he did not appreciate. Instead of trying to get himself out of his pillows he just crossed his arms over his chest, leveling his sergeants with a look.

"Not going out tonight."

"I don't think you have a matching handbag there Ghost."

You couldn't help but grin at Kyle's joke, though you tried to bite your lower lip to hide it. You had done this to the poor man after all. Neither Kyle nor Johnny gave the same consideration as they snickered. Simon didn't seemed impressed with any of you though as he came over, thankfully not tripping over his improvised skirt. With a curt good night he just shut the door in the boys face, though it didn't shut out their laughter as they walked away.

You two didn't say anything as you listened to the laughs fade into the evening. Once it was clear that your guests had left you looked up at Simon, noticing how the tips of his ears looked just a little redder.

"You could have gone out with them if you wanted. I wouldn't have minded."

Simon didn't seem to hear you at first, instead turning to head back to the couch, the blanket making a soft swish noise against the floor. When you didn't follow him he simply turned to sit on the couch, making it clear that there was space next to him on the couch.

"You proved your point. Now get over here so we can finish this."

Edit;

Simon does not care about if tight lacing was a common practice or not. He simply argued to a) argue with you and b) because a part of him was a 'little' hopeful that you'd pull a corset out of somewhere to model or something. Play stupid games get stupid prizes.

Edit edit;

Soap bribes reader to send him the photo of pretty princess Ghost and he hoards it for just in case black mail.

#military program spouse #simon x reader #simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley #cod #Simon x Thimble

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nisaconite · 2 days ago

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actually wait i want to articulate on this because. because jayce haters will say that his predicament in e7 was 'karma' for being the one to create hextech and try resurrecting viktor with it in the first place. and maybe in some way it was, but more importantly:

he and ekko both saw what they needed to realize in order to reach a satisfying conclusion. ekko, like he admitted to powder, had given up. he had lost hope in restoring the undercity, in finding peace, in jinx.

so he was given a glimpse of a world full of hope and everything that could have been. he got to see the undercity the way he had originally dreamed of. he got to see jinx and powder as the same person, irrevocably part of each other, but not the monster he had made her in his head all the same. and this was crucial to his role as 'the boy saviour' - because how could he save anyone when he didn't have any faith that it was possible?

jayce, on the other hand, has always been the dreamer. the man of progress. the golden boy. throughout the show, he has consistently dared to aim higher (sometimes further than he could reach), allowing his ambitions to drive his decisions, refusing to give up on anyone or anything even when it's time to let it go. take viktor's death, for example. jayce brought him back when he should have let it rest, and viktor was never the same for it. jayce even says it himself during their fight in e8 later:

jayce needed to be the one to see the worst-case scenario because he, for all his bright-eyed optimism, tended to overlook the flaws in his own creation. he had a dream of hextech and how it could make the world great, and he persisted in chasing after it, even when it became painfully clear that he wasn't any better off for it. he needed to see what was going wrong - and not to kill his hope, but to redirect it. to be able to tell viktor that he had never needed to be better, or perfect, or anything except himself.

in conclusion i am insane about this show. this show makes me insane. also free my man jayce he went about some of his choices a little clumsily and admittedly i also wanted to scream at him after act 2 but. but also i would go a little crazy, caveman-style, if i went through what he did.

#arcane #arcane s2 spoilers #arcane spoilers #jayce talis #ekko #jinx #powder #viktor arcane

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blissfullyecho · 14 hours ago

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A Very Niche Level-Up + Looksmaxxing Idea List for 2025

This list is for the girls that get it. It’s niche and not for everyone, but I’m throwing up at the fact that every “how to level up in 2025” post talks about journaling sad pages 24/7, drinking 8 cups of water a day, and walking 10k steps. How original.

Again, this is a very niche set of ideas. If you can’t relate then you can’t relate. But if you enjoy a good plastic surgery post and luxe lifestyle, maybe you will :)

1. Upgrade your car. We’re getting the Lexus’, the BMW’s, the Mercedes, the Jag’s, etc.

2. Upgrade your home. We’re living in high rises, we’re living in coastal areas, we’re living up in the mountains, we’re living where Amazon can drop our package off and we don’t have to worry about a porch pirate; we’re living in nice areas and in nice units/homes.

3. Breast augmentation.

4. Rhinoplasty.

5. Medical grade skincare.

6. Fresh, organic whole foods; focusing on lean protein, nuts and seeds, mushrooms, onions, leafy greens, pro/prebiotics, sea moss gel, etc.

7. Russian manicures and pedicures or a good acrylic set. Dip powder had its thing for a while but I’m not going to dip my nail in a powder everyone else dipped their nails. I bet they don’t even wash their hands and if they did, they prob didn’t even use soap.

8. Laser hair removal. Everywhere. If you want a design down there that’s cool, but you literally use the bathroom and it drips in the hair. “Oh but I use a wipe”. Okay, next time you need to wash your hair.. don’t use shampoo. Use a wipe. Invest in a bidet but still, hair shouldn’t be in your 🍑 or near the sensitive areas of your 🦋 the top is fine but if you have a period, pee, or “the other thing”, hair should be no where near those areas.

9. Lip filler. Everyone can benefit. Ask for a pout that sticks out a little bit. I don’t suggest a lip flip, I couldn’t do anything with a lip flip and it was driving me nuts.

10. Fake tan. Sunlight is fine but a spray tan just makes you look a million times better. Every skin tone and every race benefits from a spray tan. Trust.

11. Muscle definition. Muscle looks so much better than fat AND bones. You want muscle. Did you see how Bella Hadid had her foot on our necks at the VS fashion show this year? I was sickkkkkk.

12. Long hair. But if you have a face shape like Hailey Beiber, short hair looks better.

13. Makeup. Remember water-based products and oil-based products don’t mix, so make sure you choose your products wisely so your makeup doesn’t separate and you look a mess.

14. A better paying job. I left my hospital job and now I work in luxury real estate and international yacht sales.

15. Red light therapy for face and body. I have a body red light therapy dome that I got online for around $3,000 (USD) and it’s life. The one I have for the face is from Sephora and I spent like $400-$500 on that one. Whatever it says on the website.

16. Lashes. If you’re a pro at strip lashes, then yes. But I get my lashes done. Do not go crazy. Natural lashes are in so I ask for a classic whispy set focused for thickening my lash line and NOT for length.

17. Morpheus8 for skin tightening. I used it on my inner thighs and it literally saved my life

18. Lipo. If you’re a good candidate, get it. Sometimes belly pooch is hard to lose. I don’t have a pooch but I’m sure when I have kids I will.

19. Vampire facials. I can confidently say my best facials were vampire facials. My med spa charges around $950 for each facial

20. People can tell you’re wearing Shein. Their clothes are cute online but I’m going to hold your hand when I say this, they never look flattering in person when they’re being worn. People can see the loose thread and the see-through material. They also don’t fit anyone well and makes a lot of you look square. You get what you pay for in clothing. Learn about the basics of clothing and you’ll quickly only buy quality.

Yeah this list isn’t meant for everyone, but walking 10,000 steps isn’t going to take you to the next level. Neither is drinking water. They’re good habits, but they’re not going to level you up. And yeah I understand my list requires having money, but this is literally what my blog is about.

My 2025 Mindset Level Up book is here!

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cheriebourbon · 1 day ago

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【ＣＡＧＥ　ＯＦ　ＤＥＡＴＨ】

ghost x soap — 6.5k

tags:: simon has a not-so-secret job, ghoap!, smut, bickering&tension, tf141 somewhat included, motorcyclist au.

cw:: drinking&under the influence, friendly teasing, use of cigarettes, praise&kisses, making out, tiny bit of begging, both worked up so it’s just explosive, blowjob, handjob, choking, wet&messy, overstimulation, several orgasms, anal, missionary, simon is more dominant, pet names, crying but not from pain, loose lips, simon forgets his strength and gets a bit rough, leaves his mask on for a good portion, but when taken off he is depicted as having blond hair, brown eyes, and scars all over.

notes::

hihi cherries o’ mine, I hope you’ll enjoy this fic just as much as I do. like.. gnaw on your fingernails and giggle in your bed kind of enjoyment. no such thing as crazy here, just silliness. anyways, all of my headers and icons are from pinterest:33

stay hydrated, stay healthy, much love from cerise<33

synopsis::

in which, simon riley, reveals his side job as an amusement performer for the cage of death to the tf141, and johnny mactavish, bets that if he stood in it with him driving around he won’t get scared one bit.

in which, johnny mactavish, harbours a secret from simon riley, his close mate, and has to swallow back the overwhelming emotions.

The autumn breeze swept through the dimly lit pub—a place Task Force 141 had come to call their own. Nestled in a quiet corner of the city, it was a hole-in-the-wall kind of joint, just rough enough to feel like home. No prying eyes, no eavesdropping from outsiders. Just a place to talk shop without anyone batting an eye.

The drinks weren’t the finest, but they did the job. And that was all that mattered after a long mission. As usual, laughter echoed off the walls—loud, raucous, and contagious. Soap’s voice stood out, cutting through the din like a blade, his laugh punctuated by the occasional crackle. It was impossible not to join in once he started. Red faces, tears, the tang of alcohol in the air—it was all part of the ritual.

“Johnny, go on then,” Ghost chuckled, the sound deep and gravelly, still echoing with the remnants of his laughter. The corners of his mouth curled up in a teasing grin as he leaned against the weathered wooden counter, his eyes glinting with mischief.

“Let’s hear you say something in that nonsense you call language.” The atmosphere was light, charged with the playful banter between friends, and Ghost was enjoying the moment.

Soap shot Ghost a sideways glance, then slapped his arm with the back of his hand. “Gibberish? Awa’ an’ bile yer heid, L.T. Ye’ve got a better chance of me understanding yer orders than yer precious ‘Queen’s English.’” His thick Scottish accent cracked through, sending another round of laughter rippling through the table.

It was a running joke. Soap’s party trick—his native slang. It was like a secret language to them, a humor only a few could appreciate. But it always had the same effect: pure chaos. The whole group was in stitches, faces flushed and voices hoarse.

Price let out a sharp snort into his glass, the sound echoing slightly in the dimly lit room. He shook his head, a wry smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “Alright, that’s quite enough out of you, Soap,” he said, his tone a mix of exasperation and camaraderie.

“If you keep it up, you’re going to give us all a damned bloody heart attack.” His eyes glinted with amusement as he glanced around at the others, who were stifling their laughter at Soap's antics.

Soap leaned back in his chair, a devilish grin spreading across his face as a mischievous gleam danced in his bright blue eyes. “Suit yourself, Cap’n,” he retorted, his tone full of playful defiance. “I was just gettin' my abs in shape from all that laughter we’ve had tonight.” He flexed his arms exaggeratedly as if showcasing a rock-hard physique.

Gaz, sitting across from him, let out a loud snort, shaking his head as he rolled his shoulders in a mock display of confidence. “Rock-hard abs, huh? Don't let the rest of us find out, or we’ll be stuck doing crunches all night!” His teasing retort was accompanied by a dramatic eye roll, making it clear he wasn’t taking the banter too seriously.

Meanwhile, Price, ever the composed leader, arched an eyebrow in amusement, the corner of his mouth twitching upward in a half-smirk. He took a deliberate sip from his cold beer, savoring the bitter taste, before quipping back with a playful edge, “You don't already have them, Garrick?” His tone was filled with jest, the light atmosphere making the jibe all the more enjoyable.

Gaz's face instantly paled at the implication, his eyes widening in exaggerated horror as he waved his hands in a frantic gesture. “Not what I meant, sir! Not what I meant at all!” he stammered, feeling the effects of the drinks kick in and the warmth of embarrassment creeping up his neck, turning the moment into a lighthearted spectacle that drew laughter from the rest of the group.

Price leaned back in his chair, the leather creaking softly under his weight, and gave Gaz a skeptical look that conveyed his disbelief. “Too bad. Might be worth another round of training, eh?” he said, a hint of challenge in his voice.

Before Gaz could muster a response, the atmosphere of the pub shifted dramatically. A deep, resonant roar pierced through the usual din of chatter and clinking glasses. A Harley-Davidson, its powerful engine reverberating like thunder, pulled up outside the establishment. Price’s expression instantly hardened; he froze in place for a moment as the familiar sound washed over him, memories flooding back like a tidal wave.

“Reminds me of the old days,” he murmured, his voice barely loud enough to break through the muted sounds of the bustling pub. His gaze was distant and contemplative, lost in a time long past.

Gaz, puzzled by the sudden shift in Price's demeanor, leaned in slightly. “Pardon, sir?” he asked, eager to understand what was going through his superior's mind.

Price blinked, as if emerging from a trance, and refocused his gaze on Gaz. “I used to own a Harley,” he explained more clearly this time, a tinge of nostalgia coloring his tone. “Sold it when I signed on for this gig. Some things you have to trade for a cause.” The words hung in the air, heavy with unspoken sacrifice and the weight of choices made in pursuit of duty.

The table fell into a comfortable silence, the kind that comes from shared experiences and unspoken camaraderie. The flickering light overhead cast shadows across the faces of the men gathered, emphasizing the moment. Ghost’s interest was suddenly piqued; he leaned forward slightly, his voice dropping to a low, steady murmur, almost conspiratorial. “Really? You had a bike, Cap’n?”

Soap turned in his seat, his posture shifting with newfound curiosity. “A Harley, aye? I always thought you looked like the type,” he remarked with a cheeky grin. “What happened to it? Got rid of it for a lady perhaps?”

Price shrugged, a hint of nonchalance on his face, but his eyes betrayed a deeper story. “Had to let it go. Part of the job, you know how it is. You give up a lot for this life,” he let out, his tone devoid of bitterness—just a calm acceptance of the sacrifices he’d made over the years.

Ghost hummed thoughtfully, his gaze glinting with mischief beneath his mask. He leaned back slightly, allowing the air to thicken with anticipation before continuing. “I might have a side gig if you’re interested,” he said. “Involves a bike. You could always come watch.”

Price’s eyebrow shot up, intrigued. “A side gig, eh? What sort of job are we talking about here?” His tone carried both suspicion and interest, a mix that hinted at the unpredictability of their lives.

Ghost leaned in closer, the tension in the air palpable as he let the moment hang before finally dropping his words like a stone in water. “Cages of death,” he stated simply, his voice low, but the weight of it was unmistakable.

The phrase landed at the table like a hammer strike, sending ripples through the group. Soap’s grin widened, his excitement morphing into uncontainable enthusiasm. He clapped his hands together, the sound echoing slightly in the dim room.

“Cages of death, hm?” he echoed, laughter bubbling up in his chest. “Sounds like a bloody laugh. Do you reckon I could stand in there with you, Ghost? Not a tremble in me.” His voice dripped with cocky confidence, betraying a thrill-seeker’s spirit.

Ghost’s lips curled beneath his balaclava, the gesture barely reaching his eyes but still a hint of amusement. “Bet, huh? We’ll see, Johnny,” he replied, the challenge evident in his tone. “Why don’t you come down tonight and show me what you’ve got?”

Price and Gaz exchanged a look that spoke volumes; an entire conversation passed between them without a word. “Those two are something else,” Price muttered under his breath, a mix of amusement and exasperation dancing in the corners of his lips.

Gaz shook his head, a grin creeping onto his face. “This should be interesting…” he remarked. The banter seemed to hang in the air, a promise of reckless adventure just waiting to ignite.

Soap’s eyes flickered over the screen of his phone, the message from a contact named “Simon, my L.T.💀” clear as day. The address to some rundown amusement joint, the same one he was standing outside of. He typed out a quick reply: “Where are you?”

Seconds later, the response came in: “Didn’t I just send you my location?”

Soap’s fingers hovered over the keys before he shot back, “Very funny, L.T. But I’m serious.”

The reply was instant: “I am too.”

Soap grinned, his thumb typing: “Simon.”

A pause. Then the phone pinged again: “If you’re at the entrance, follow the path in front, take a right by the food truck. There’s a spinning globe. I’m nearby.”

Soap raised an eyebrow. “Very vague.”

“You wanted my location. Work for it.”

Soap snorted. “How kind of you.”

“I know. See you soon, Johnny.”

He rolled his eyes with a hint of a smirk, muttering under his breath, “That muppet.” He clicked the side button of his phone, shutting it off before shoving it into his jacket pocket.

His boots crunched against the gravel as he walked, the cold evening air biting at his skin. He was glad he wore a jacket, even if it hung a bit loose at the waist. It was more comfortable that way. Didn’t mind the extra space—he wasn’t a man who skipped meals, after all. A good steak? No chance he’d pass it up. He chuckled to himself. Maybe Simon would be so generous. Or maybe not. That man had a way of keeping him on edge.

The food truck wasn’t hard to spot. Soap’s

eyes shifted from the truck to his phone. “Following the trail of clues you left me.”

The response was quick: “Good on you. We’ve got a Sherlock Holmes.”

Soap smirked, typing back: “Not that smart, L.T.”

“Oh? Says who?”

“Me.”

“Well, I second that. You don’t have to be Sherlock to be smart.”

“You’re just trying to get on my good side.”

“Am I not already?”

“No.”

“I’ll have to fix that then, won’t I?”

“Yes.”

“Hurry up. Can’t fix it if you’re not here.”

“Aye, L.T. See you.”

Soap tucked his phone away and jogged towards the spinning globe. He stood there for a moment, scanning the area, but saw no sign of Ghost. He was about to send another message when—THWACK—a hand slapped down on his shoulder.

The move nearly earned a quick jab to the ribs, but Soap froze, recognizing the skull balaclava before he could react.

“Damn,” Ghost muttered under his breath, “so much for seeing me.” His voice rumbled from behind the mask, “Thought you were clever. You think I’m gonna just stand in front of the globe like some tourist attraction?”

Soap’s brows furrowed as he took in the sight of his best mate. “That’s not the point, though.”

Ghost was the same as always—tall, broad-shouldered, and completely unreadable. He wore his signature skull helmet, the black balaclava covering the rest of his face. His brown eyes were focused, piercing as ever, but his posture was relaxed.

His jacket was a black-and-white Marlboro racing leather, the brand he liked to rep. The fit was tight on his frame, highlighting the muscles in his arms, but it wasn’t the jacket that caught Soap’s eye. His gaze wandered down, past the belt and black cargo pants—perfectly tailored to hug the hard lines of his legs—right down to the boots. Black, simple, but worn in just right.

A soft click of Ghost’s skull gloves snapped Soap out of his wandering thoughts, his gaze shooting back up to meet the man’s eyes. “Eyes up here, Johnny,” Ghost’s voice rumbled, tinged with a dry humor that Soap recognized all too well. There was a flush creeping up to his ears under the mask, but it didn’t matter. Ghost didn’t let that kind of thing slide.

“Sorry, L.T.” Soap said, rubbing the back of his neck as he felt the biting cold air wrap around him, amplifying his sense of vulnerability. His voice emerged rough and gravelly, a reflection of the chill that seeped into his bones.

Ghost, standing nearby, simply shook his head, a low chuckle escaping his lips as he caught Soap’s sheepish expression. “Can’t blame a man for looking,” he replied, an amused glint in his eyes as he took in their surroundings.

Soap couldn’t help but crack a grin, though he decided against voicing any witty retort. They weren’t here for lighthearted banter about appearances or attire; their focus was on a more pressing matter at hand.

Ghost leaned back slightly, the atmosphere around him shifting as if the very air was responding to his commanding presence. “Enough ogling,” he said firmly, his voice cutting through the tension. “We’ve got work to do. Let’s see if you’re not scared.”

Soap raised an eyebrow, a teasing smirk playing on his lips as he fixed his gaze on him. “Scared? Me?” he replied, stepping forward deliberately, the grin still lingering on his face like a challenge. “You’re the one hiding behind that skull mask, L.T.”

“Let’s find out, then,” Ghost announced, the atmosphere crackled with tension as he turned to face Soap, his spirited gaze fixated on him. The challenge was clear, hanging heavily in the air like a storm cloud ready to burst. With a mix of trepidation and determination in his eyes, Soap felt the weight of the moment.

He stood before the cage, a massive iron beast that loomed like a dark sentinel, a grim reminder of the danger awaiting inside. It wasn’t just a cage; it was a challenge. A test of everything he was. Time to face it. Time to prove himself. What happened next could make him—or break him.

The roar of the crowd hit him like a wave, electric and deafening. Soap took a steadying breath and stepped forward, walking into the cage. The steel walls pressed in on him, but he didn’t flinch. He stood tall in the center, a soldier ready for battle. Behind him, Ghost moved with his usual predatory grace, closing the door to the cage with a sharp metallic clang. Then he stalked toward his bike—already waiting inside, courtesy of the crew. The hum of the engine was a promise, a warning.

Ghost paused just behind him. His voice came low, almost a murmur, but sharp enough to cut through the noise. “You can still walk away, Johnny. Last chance.”

Soap didn’t even flinch. He shook his head, a grin curling at the edges of his lips. “Go on, L.T. Give me your worst.”

Ghost’s dark eyes softened for a fraction of a second, a glint of something like respect in them. “Always knew you were a fearless bastard.” The words were heavy with meaning, but before Soap could reply, Ghost swung a leg over his bike, settling in and adjusting his gloves with practiced precision. The rubber creaked as he tightened his grip, revving the engine until it roared to life.

Flames erupted from the outside of the cage, bursting into the air like a signal. The show had begun.

Ghost shot forward, the motorcycle tearing through the confined space with a savage grace. The way he maneuvered—sharp, calculated, precise—was hypnotic. He swerved around the cage like a predator circling its prey, the bike growling as it sliced through the air. With each pass, he edged closer, closing the distance by inches, then feet.

Soap felt it—the pressure of Ghost’s presence as he sped by. Those brown eyes, burning with intensity, locked onto him, gleaming with a raw, unfiltered passion. Ghost wasn’t just in his element; he thrived in it. The way he moved, the rush of adrenaline, the danger—it was in his blood, and Soap couldn’t deny it, even if he tried. It was magnetic. Mesmerizing.

And something inside Soap… stirred.

Then, without warning, Ghost signaled for him to raise his arms. Soap hesitated for a split second—confused, but obedient. He lifted his arms, the movement instinctive.

And that was when it hit him.

As Ghost circled closer, the tip of his gloved fingers brushed across Soap’s stomach. A fleeting touch, but it was enough to set off a ripple through his body. Soap’s breath hitched, eyes widening slightly in surprise. The contact was deliberate. A slow, almost teasing gesture.

Ghost didn’t let up. The next pass, he brushed across Soap’s chest. The heat from Ghost’s body was palpable now, the bike roaring beneath him as the distance between them grew even smaller. Soap’s pulse quickened. The crowd’s cheers grew louder, but all he could hear now was the hum of the engine and the quickening rhythm of his own heart.

Ghost’s gloves skimmed the lines of Soap’s belt next, grazing the skin just below his ribs, a trail of veins. The touch was lighter now, but it was charged—every movement deliberate, each touch inching closer to something Soap couldn’t quite put his finger on. His face flushed, and for the first time in a long while, he felt that familiar, unwelcome knot of embarrassment.

The crowd seemed to sense it, the air crackling with their energy. They loved it. The tension, the showmanship, the raw, unspoken dynamic between the two men.

It felt like the world had tilted, spinning just for them. Each brush of Ghost’s bike, each loop he made around Soap, left him breathless. Soap lost himself in the rhythm of it, his thoughts drifting far away—toward something he couldn’t quite grasp. What did all this mean? Was it just adrenaline? Was it just a game to Ghost, or was it something more? They’d never been just friends, had they? Soap’s pulse quickened, but he couldn’t make sense of it. The fleeting touch, the proximity—it was too much.

It was only when a pair of warm, gentle hands carefully grasped his wrists and slowly lowered his outstretched arms that he felt a sudden jolt of awareness wash over him, pulling him swiftly back to the present moment. The sensation of touch, both familiar and grounding, broke through the haze of his thoughts, jolting him from whatever world he had briefly inhabited.

“Thought I lost you there for a second,” Ghost said, his voice low and smooth, laced with that familiar, warm chuckle that made everything seem a bit lighter. He stood beside Soap, having dismounted from his bike, the powerful rumble of the engine now a distant echo in the background, replaced by the soft rustle of leaves and the subtle sounds of the world around them.

Soap blinked, momentarily disoriented, as he processed the whirlwind of events that had just unfolded. “You did,” he replied, his voice coming out steadier than he felt. His arms dropped to his sides, the tension slowly easing from his muscles.

It felt almost instinctual as he began to walk away from the confines of the cage, the metal bars behind them feeling both oppressive and distant. Ghost matched his pace, a reassuring presence by his side.

“Yeah? What was going on up there?” Ghost’s voice was casual, but there was something beneath the question, a hint of concern. His eyes searched Soap’s face as if waiting for an answer.

Soap hesitated, hands slipping into his pockets to give him a moment’s reprieve. “Us,” the word almost slipped out before he could stop it.

Ghost’s brow arched, a flicker of surprise crossing his features. “Us? What about us?” He unstrapped his gloves, the rip of the velcro punctuating his curiosity, as he tugged them off with a hint of impatience.

Soap turned toward him, a breath of air in his lungs. “Nothing,” he shrugged, trying to shake off the weight of the thought like it was just some passing fancy he could dismiss. “Just a stupid thought.”

Ghost didn’t buy it. The way Soap’s eyes flickered, like he was holding something back—Ghost wasn’t about to let him off the hook that easy. “Johnny,” his voice dropped an octave, a warning tone sliding in beneath the surface. “Speak to me. What’s on your mind?”

Soap hesitated the weight of Ghost’s stare pressing against him. He nodded toward the path ahead, taking the first step. “I will,” he promised, voice a little quieter. “But we need to talk somewhere more private.”

Ghost raised an eyebrow, a flicker of intrigue crossing his face at Soap's unexpected invitation. “Your place?” he asked, a hint of skepticism lacing his tone, but the curiosity in his eyes betrayed his interest.

Soap nodded emphatically, “Yeah,” he replied, his voice steady and confident. As he spoke, he casually brushed his fingers along the fabric of his jacket, a subtle gesture that misrepresented his eagerness to talk. With a purposeful stride, he turned on his heel and headed toward his truck, the sound of gravel crunching beneath his boots echoing in the quiet air.

Ghost fell into step behind him without a second thought. He’d been dropped off earlier anyway. No real reason to stick around at the station now. And besides, Soap was bothered by something, and Ghost was determined to figure out what it was. No more running from whatever this was between them.

When they rolled up to Soap’s flat, a heavy silence filled the truck. Soap killed the engine with a sharp twist of the key, but the tension still lingered between them. He grabbed his gear and hopped out, his face flushed, eyes distant—like he was wrestling with something that had been eating at him for a while now. Ghost knew that look too well.

With a heavy sense of tension hanging in the air, the two figures stepped into Soap's dimly lit apartment, their footsteps muted against the floor. Soap carefully turned the key in the lock, ensuring there was no trace of sound as the door clicked shut behind them. Ghost lingered near the entrance, his posture tense and alert, scanning the room for any signs of movement or danger. The atmosphere was thick with an unspoken urgency, and every small creak of the floor seemed amplified in the stillness that enveloped them.

He waited, watching Soap’s back as the man stood there, lost in his thoughts. Eventually, Soap turned to him, expression softening into something Ghost didn’t expect—vulnerable. It made his chest tighten. Soap’s voice came out quiet, almost unsure. “I just… can’t, Simon.”

Ghost’s gut tightened, a knot forming in his throat. He stepped forward, voice low but steady, trying to pull Soap back into the moment. “Can’t what, Johnny?” His gaze locked on the blue of Soap’s eyes—deep, familiar, a shade of the ocean that felt like home.

Soap ran a hand through his Mohawk, messing it up like he wasn’t even aware. He looked away for a second as if the words were harder to say than a bullet wound. Then, he exhaled sharply, finally forcing it out. “I love you.”

The words hung between them like a grenade on a hairpin, and Ghost was frozen. He hadn’t expected that—hell, didn’t want to expect it. Soap looked embarrassed, and vulnerable, like he’d just dropped a piece of his soul on the concrete.

Ghost couldn’t breathe for a second. He swallowed thickly, fighting to keep his voice steady. “Johnny—you don’t want to say that. I’m not… I’m not a good man. You’re better than that.” His words were low, heavy with something Ghost didn’t quite know how to handle. His mind screamed at him to pull away, to shut this down before things got too real, too messy. But his chest, his heart, was screaming a different story.

Soap shook his head, frustrated now, his voice raw with an emotion Ghost didn’t know he could carry. “I don’t care. I love you, Simon. I don’t want anyone else. Not like this. Not after everything we’ve been through.” His words were almost desperate, a plea that hit Ghost square in the chest, and it was the desperation that did it. It unraveled him.

Ghost’s hands twitched, almost of their own accord, before he reached for Soap, pulling him in. “Johnny…” His breath was shaky, his grip tight—more than tight, it felt like he was holding on for dear life. He shook his head in disbelief, eyes flickering with something torn between uncertainty and raw need. “I love you too, dammit.”

The words came out rough, and jagged, but they were true. They had to be. Holding him now, with Soap so close, so real, felt like the only thing that made sense in the chaos of their world. There were no clear answers, no neat little boxes to put this in. But this—this—felt natural, like breathing, like everything they’d fought for, bled for, led them to this.

Suddenly, the importance of his balaclava began to diminish, as the heat from each labored breath intensified against his skin. The suffocating fabric clung to his face, trapping warmth and making it increasingly difficult to breathe comfortably.

After a few gasping moments, he decided he could no longer bear it; he yanked the balaclava off, letting the cool air rush over his flushed complexion. As he caught his breath, he realized the extent of his scars—each one telling a story of its own, mapping a journey filled with trials and tribulations.

Pretty much every possible place a scar could exist on his body seemed to be marked, a testament to battles fought and survived. His hair was a shade of blond, fluffy from the balaclava covering it, mimicking Soap’s haircut somewhat.

Ghost’s nose brushed up to Soap’s, a soft gulp audible as his honey brown met Soap’s deep pretty blue, his lashes fluttering up to his. It made him damn near die of a stroke right then and there. His lips lingered open, scared to just kiss him outright but his teeth gritted, a low “fuck it,” leaving him as his calloused hands grabbed the backside of Soap’s head.

He pulled him in closer, the tender texture making contact with one another as their eyelids shut, trusting one another. Ghost locked his lips to Soap’s, hungrily tasting him like it would be his last time, it was greedy, sloppy. His hands moved closer together, combing through Soap’s Mohawk which earned a gentle moan from the Scot.

Soap’s own hands tugged at Ghost’s jacket, a quiet teasing chuckle parting their kiss as he did so. Not last very long because Soap shut him up by gliding his tongue through to Ghosts, crisscrossing and tangling with Ghosts in a fervor.

Ghost ripped apart the kiss, panting as a saliva trail dripped along Soap’s chin, one of his thumbs running across his face to wipe it away, “Didn’t know you had that in you,” he mumbled.

Soap frowned, his hands tugging once more at Ghost’s jacket, “Take it off,” he pleaded, sounding more whiny than he meant. It was the heat of the moment, and Ghost couldn’t put him at fault.

“Shit, alright..” Ghost hissed, giving himself some space as he unzipped the jacket and tossed it to the floor. A plain grey shirt tucked along his belt and pants, but from Soap’s look alone he threw that off too.

The uneven scars of different types that crossed over muscles and veins earned heavy gazing, “You have a lot..” Soap pointed out, and Ghost narrowed his eyes. Ready to put his clothes back on until Soap’s fingertips grazed over a few, “They look badass on you.”

Realization dawned on him, and the invisible scowl that had etched itself on his face faded away. “Is that a compliment?” Ghost asked his tone a mix of curiosity and caution. He tightened his grip around Soap's wrists, effectively halting his forward motion. The grip was firm yet not aggressive, Ghost’s eyes searched Soap's for clarity, wanting to decipher the meaning behind his words.

Soap's head bobbed rapidly in agreement, his eyes wide with enthusiasm. "Of course, Simon," he replied, his voice filled with enthusiasm and certainty.

Ghost hummed softly to himself, a low sound that filled the quiet room as he released his grip on Soap’s wrists. With a casual grace, he glided over to one of the wooden cabinets lining the wall.

He had planned to ask where he kept his hidden stash of cigarettes, but before he could utter a word, Soap broke the silence, clear and direct. “Top far corner of the third shelf.” With a faint smirk, Ghost nodded, grateful for the quick response, and turned his focus to the shelf that held the promise of smoke and solace.

“You know me too well, Johnny,” Ghost stated with a lopsided smile, a hint of mischief glinting in his eyes. He reached into one of the worn cardboard boxes stacked beside him, rummaging through the assortment of items until his fingers brushed against the familiar crinkle of a cigarette pack. Extracting a single cigarette, he brought it to his lips, the paper crinkling softly.

Soap, always quick to lend a hand, fished a small, well-used lighter from his pocket and flicked it open. The soft click of the lid echoed in the momentary silence. Ghost leaned in, the flame dancing just inches away, catching the edge of the cigarette and igniting it with a satisfying sizzle. As he took a slow drag, the smoke curled around him, “‘Want to be good for you, L.T.”

Ghost held the cigarette delicately between his pointer and middle finger, the ember glowing softly in the dim light. As he took a drag, a sudden thought flashed through his mind, compelling him to act. He turned to Johnny with an intense gaze, his voice low but commanding. "On your knees, Johnny. Now."

The unexpected demand sent a jolt through Soap, who instinctively tightened his jaw, a mixture of surprise and defiance flaring in his chest. Yet, despite the rush of emotions swirling within him, he found himself obeying, slowly sinking to his knees. The tension in the air thickened as Ghost watched him with unwavering focus, the smoke curling around them like a ghostly embrace.

“‘You said you wanted to be good for me, so prove it,” Ghost hummed. He took a long drag from his cigarette before he ground the still-lit ember against the cool, worn surface of the countertop closest to him. With a deliberate motion, he turned his full gaze towards Soap, his eyes glinting with amusement.

And Soap did the unthinkable. He slowly unclasped Ghost’s belt, pulling it out of the loops and tossing it to the side. He unzipped and unbuttoned the rest, his hands yanking down Ghost’s pants and boxers. Soap’s jaw fell, drool leaving his lips as he took in the sight of Ghost’s dick.

It was veiny, cut, a decent length that he could probably handle, and had some girth to it. That part had him slightly worried, but he could only imagine the reward for his service.

He moved closer on his knees, his lips coming into contact with the premature leaky tip, and Ghost grunted at the image he was given. One of his hands came to the nape of Soap’s neck, the other cupping his balls, “Careful. Careful, Johnny. Don’t go too fast so soon.”

Soap listened, and once he had his lips around Ghost he went at a slow pace. His tongue lapped over the curvature of his tip, prodding along the side and gently sucking with his lips. The parts that he couldn’t reach quite yet with his mouth were gently grasped by his hands, placing soft pressure as he rubbed the sensitive skin up and down, enough friction to create a sheen of lather.

Soap batted his pretty blue eyes up to him, his tongue gliding in a teasing motion, popping the head of Ghost’s dick in and out. The teasing became too hard for Ghost to resist, he wanted more, the sin of greed returning as he used his hand to force Soap’s head further. A short amount of choking and gagging sounds escaped him, peeking back up to Ghost once more.

“Mean of me, I know. But you can take it. Just let me in,” Ghost sighed, cooing smooth comments to the Scot who felt butterflies flying up his stomach and core.

And with every inch swallowed was a gentle thrust of his hips, getting Soap nice and slowly prepared for more with each second. Soap’s hands trembled along the base, and that sudden teary-eyed look made his dick throb, he knew it was a nasty thing to get off on, but it couldn’t be helped.

Soap stroked his dick and bobbed his head at a more moderate pace, that rapid warmth of an orgasm shooting through him as white strings spurted out and into Soap’s mouth, “Fuck, fuck… take it Johnny,” Ghost exasperated, rocking his hips with more meaningful thrusts. Coming down from a high that came so easily when Soap started picking it up.

Soap’s mouth didn’t leave until he collected every last drop, milking it out of Ghost and swallowing it down. He opened up his jaw to show what a good job he did, and Ghost pressed a kiss to his forehead, “Good boy, such a good boy.”

The outline of Soap’s ears flushed a deep shade of crimson, evidence of his dirty thoughts. Ghost approached, extending a hand to help Soap rise from the ground. Once Soap was on his feet, Ghost gently cupped his cheeks in his strong hands, tilting Soap’s face upward to meet his steady gaze. “Now, I’ll take care of you, yeah?” he questioned, his voice low and reassuring, ensuring that Soap felt the warmth of his sincerity and support.

Soap nodded eagerly, “Aye, please do,” a look of gratitude in his eyes as he felt Simon's comforting touch. The gentle pressure of Simon's hand against his back was a welcome relief, slowly easing the remnants of the choking and gagging fit that had overwhelmed him moments before. As Simon rubbed soothing circles, Soap could sense the prickling tears that had threatened to spill over in his moment of distress.

As they entered the bedroom, Ghost gestured for Soap to settle onto the bed, the quilted comforter inviting against the backdrop of the evening’s dim light.

Soap plopped down, his clothing quickly shedding to form a haphazard pile beside him. Each piece seemed to carry the remnants of the day, crumpled and slightly worn, with the fabric softly rustling as they fell.

Ghost couldn’t help but admire Soap’s unruly Mohawk, which stood defiantly in all directions as if it had its own life. Despite—or perhaps because of—the chaos, there was something undeniably appealing about it. The way it reflected Soap's carefree spirit brought a playful smile to Ghost's lips.

Ghost slowly crawled up to Soap, situating himself in between his legs as he looks at the way Soap’s dick was dribbling milky ropes already, “Hm, haven’t even actually touched you yet,” Ghost gave another tease, only to be met with a punch to his arm.

“Simon,” Soap tugged his lips into a frown, his pretty blue eyes widening in shock as watched Ghost lick and spit on his fingers thoroughly, strands of saliva dripping down his arm as his hand centered itself near Soap’s hole.

His fingertip circled along the opening, carefully slotting in a finger before adding another, “Yeah?” Ghost huffed, his eyes focused on the way Soap clenched from the burning sensation. He gently moved his fingers upright with flicks and circular movements, Soap beginning to slouch into the headboard.

“Don’t want your fingers, I want you,” Soap gritted, completely unconcerned about his disheveled appearance. With a desperate intensity, he reached out, grasping Ghost’s hand and forcefully pulling it away from the distance that separated them. His brow furrowed in frustration, a tight line etched across his forehead as he focused on closing that gap, craving the intimacy that had been just out of reach for far too long.

Ghost paused, but he didn’t argue, he gave himself a few good tugs and lined himself up with Soap’s ass, “Alright.. but don’t blame me, love.” And that burning sensation grew like a fire inside, Ghost’s hands pressed Soap’s hips, leaving crescent markings. Each press deeper had a moan from Soap, it hurt no doubt, but he settled quickly. The feeling of his plushy walls relaxing gave away that he was almost good to start moving.

Ghost peppered a few kisses of encouragement along his shoulders, feeling Soap’s legs tuck up and along his hips was a sign for him to continue. His hands moved up to his sides, he moved forward and had Soap folded into him, his stomach chub pancaking inwards.

Soap sighed and cooed softly, fully speared on Ghost’s dick, and with that as full encouragement Ghost softly and carefully tested the waters. Each click of his hips meeting Soap’s thighs didn’t fall deaf on his ears, he kept him still, and the way his balls slapped against Soap’s ass just right almost made him cum alone.

Ghost maneuvered himself to where his dick could perch upright inside of Soap, and hit all those gooey spots. The milky ring collected at the base of his cock as he gathered himself together and began pounding a bit further into Soap.

“Si’.. Si’” Soap pathetically moaned, his hands gripping the sheets of his bed, throwing his head back, and arching his back to the air. His hips moved around desperately, his blue irises lulling back from the pleasure his body was taking in.

Ghost groaned and grunted, his desires taking over entirely as his nails clawed into Soap’s sides, knuckles turning white. The bed creaked as he began fucking Soap stupid, his core tightening and heating up with the pace. It felt so good, Soap was pulsating at every curved motion, beaded sweat trailing along his forehead.

And Ghost kept stuffing his cock into Soap without giving him a break, it was just addicting, overstimulating in the best kind of ways. The mere sight alone had Ghost in shambles, “Fuckin’ hell,” he rasped, his voice lowering significantly from the overwhelming feelings alone.

He just couldn't stop sinking back to Soap, his cock twitching and his balls full, ready to release everything he had into him when the moment was right. The slick of his precum was hardly noticeable with the arousal fluids drenching his thighs and dick.

“Gonna cum, Si’..” Soap babbled out repeatedly, muffled cries leaving him, the air punched from his lungs as Ghost gave strong and firm final humps, grinding just right into his ass as the two released everything they had. Warmth filling Soap up in ways he couldn’t began to believe, and Ghost’s cum just kept pouring out.

It dripped out in a messy manner when he slowly slid out his cock, the milky strings all over the two and the bed, “Fuck, did so well for me, Johnny,” he praised with utter stardom. If his pupils weren’t originally hearts, fuck by god were they now.

Ghost could only laugh at the sight, he knew the mess he’d have to take care of tomorrow morning, but for now he’d cuddle with his newfound boyfriend.

If this wasn’t love, he didn’t know what was.

#ghoap #ghost x soap #fan fiction #cheriebourbon #call of duty #task force 141 #credits to the rightful owners #dividers aren’t mine #motorcycle au #smut #cod smut #simon ghost riley #john soap mactavish #john price #kyle gaz garrick #⊹₊⟡⋆#♡⸜(˃ ᵕ ˂ )⸝

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walmartbrandwhatever · 3 days ago

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I need to hear about WLW Marbit plssss

OKAY IM AWAKE NOW.

So last night me and some mutuals were yapping up a storm because someone had mentioned how a highschool production had a female two-bit and how marbit went crazy and since we all know I'm literally insane over wlw marbit we started yapping.

I fear I wrote SO much but I hope yall enjoy this because it's just me yapping and probably doesn't make sense.

So I believe @girlishwhimsies had mentioned soft butch two-bit x fem marcia and I fear I have NOT stopped thinking about it. Like godddd imagine all the events that happened.

Like Marcia a girl who has dated a lot of guys just praying to feel some sort of feeling back first talking to two-bit who is by far the coolest fucking girl she's ever seen and realizing something was different about this girl. Marcia who had learned very quickly in life that things were very "black and white" and there are rules she has to follow to stay with her collective group. Despite knowing that she still give this girl her number in hopes of... something.

Then Bob dies and her focus turns to Cherry and her boyfriend who's she's always just convinced herself she's liked him even though he sort of treats her like shit.

Two-Bit who the jokester still in her group full of boys and just having a blast is so silly to me. She's still a amazing fighter who's just pretty much doing whatever she wants without a care in the world. Her constantly getting in trouble at school for wearing pants and shorts at school. Two who stayed behind in order to watch over Johnny and ponyboy is actually so important to me (I believe @brunetteairhead said this at some point ‼️).

Two-Bit who has always seemed so brave and strong literally falling all over the place because of some soc girl who is prettier than anyone she's ever seen at the drive-in. She like tripping over herself trying to impress marcia because she's never met a soc girl like her before. She's quick-witted and confident and that takes two by surprise. And getting Marcia’s number was the highlight of her night. While walking home doubt settling and making her decide to toss the number assuming it was fake makes me so sick.

Then Johnny and pony run away and everything goes down from there. She see Marcia once in the week their two youngest are gone and it's at the police station. Marcia doesn't see her but two spots her almost immediately. Marcia is just staring off into space and the bag underneath her eyes are dark. Two was leaving after being questioned so they never got to talk again.

Then later that week two gets jumped. Marcia standing there with her back turned hurt her for more than any kick or punch she got from the socs pinning her down. Long after her torment two wasn't sure what she was going to do, she could barely walk let alone all the way to the curtis residence and that's when she sees someone coming towards her. Marcia coming back and helping Two and two finds herself in Marcia's house holding her side because it hurts like a bitch but she can't believe she's in Marcias house. The two of them practically losing it because they both sense there's something there but both know they can't act on it because Marcia still has a boyfriend and two still worried about her friends. (Marcia breaks things off with trip after this because she doesn't want to be with someone who thinks its okay to hurt others .)

Them meeting eachother after a few months post book and both of them just kicking their feet n shit because they are SO down right bad. Two-bit yapping to soda about marcia knowing she likes her so bad and Marcia yapping to Cherry about how two isn't like any boy she's ever met and how she really wants their friendship to be good and Cherry hesitantly pointing out how she thinks Marcia might want more than that and marcia freaking out because she knows that it's wrong to want to see herself with this girl. A girl who seems so impossibly strong and a girl who just seemed to understand her better than anyone she's ever known. She knows it's wrong but she can't find it in herself to care. She denys her feelings for awhile because she doesn't want to ruin everything she's worked so hard to build.

The two of them hanging out more and more until eventually they are hanging out at Marcias and two is allowing Marcia to paint her nails despite not necessarily caring too much about like having her nails being done etc but she can't find it in herself to say no to Marcia whenever she makes that face that looks like a puppy who just got kicked so she always agrees. Anyways the two of them are laughing and joking and Marcia like brushes a curl out of two-bit face and the both of them sort of freeze because they are so close together. Two-bit shockingly makes the first move and kisses Marcia (ofc with a bit of hesitation but Marcia meets her halfway) and the both of them just pull away both shocked that they just kissed.

Marcia in that moment does panic for a moment before realizing that she liked the kiss and that no kiss that she's ever shared with a boy ever felt like that. Part of her couldn't find it in her to care that this was "wrong." It felt right and she wanted more, she wanted to sit here and be happy with two.

Meanwhile two is panicking so bad because Marcia is just sitting there with this shocked expression and two-bit is frantically apologizing and trying so hard not to scream or cry she doesn't know herself bit then Marcia takes two-bits hands and tells her that it's alright and that she liked it which catches two completely off guard.

"Wait you did?"

"..yeah"

Anyways after that fact they just sort of just do not talk about it for the rest of the night because the both of them have no clue how to go about talking about what they are so they just wrap up their hangout and go about their week. Two-bit absolutely losing it the next day to soda and is practically screaming over how the kiss was and how she doesn't know what to do and marcia reluctantly yapping to cherry and cherry fully saying "I told you so" and marcia just going crazy because she wants to hold Two-bits hand and she wants to be able to kiss her again but not knowing if Two-Bit wants the same(she does) and they are just complete messes I fear.

ANYWAYS once they start dating they have sleep overs all the time. Two-bit will go to the curtis house and they immediately know she was at Marcias because her nails will be all nice and pretty and her hair will be all nicely braided and she is giving them the look of 'don't you dare talk about it'. Soda totally makes fun of her for it and they almost always end up fighting on the ground.

Anyways I have no clue if any of that makes sense but they've truly taken over my life I fear.

#the outsiders #the outsiders musical #the outsiders broadway #marcia the outsiders #marbit #two bit mathews #wlw marbit #GODDD i love them #i fear theyve taken over my mind its so bad #qpr server got me cooking so hard #qpr server this is ur fault ly tho #sodapop curtis #the outsiders headcanons #the outsiders fanfiction #ponyboy curtis #johnny cade

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hopesapowerfulthing · 9 days ago

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Obsessed With You - The Orion Experience/Fan Behavior - Isaac Dunbar

Gift for @t3acupz

#Hannibal #Matthew Brown #will graham #nbc hannibal #brownham #gay hawks #jonathan tucker #hannibal nbc #I literally could Not get this out of my mind #it was driving me crazy so I got up to make this #enjoy my brainrot #I had never used that program before but it mostly worked!!#our conversation made me feel more creative than I've been in months #this is low effort so dont judge too hard #I am... going to bed now LMFAO #Video #OT #live look at my brain rn is just this video

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mummer · 1 year ago

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just saw asteroid city last night, pls explain the proposed significance of the kiss!!

answering this publicly hope thats ok! cant do a readmore im on mobile *****asteroid city spoilers below beware*****

i dont remember anyones names so this is gonna sound partly unhinged. okay so the edward norton playwright and jason schwartzman actor (not character, in the black and white parts) are lovers right. tbh i thought this was kind of a gag and forgot about it. but later we find out that the playwright died 6 months into the production. i didnt make the connection that THAT’s why the actor-jason has to suddenly leave the stage and freaks out backstage about how he’s not sure he’s Doing it right. hes not talking about acting!! because he himself is literally grieving his lover while he’s playing a character who’s grieving his wife written by his lover so obviously it’s too much!!! actor-jason is trying to find meaning in his death through his writing but there isnt any meaning in death [gerris drinkwater voice] which is what the play is trying to say anyway. he doesnt think he’s performing grief right even in his own life!!! (and tbh it’s the 50s so he wouldnt be able to perform grief publicly anyway!!!!) the play starts with a car accident… anyone would search for some hidden meaning there, some sign…. so when he talks to margot robbie outside it’s not really about finding the CHARACTER’s motivations it’s about the actor himself being able to process the playwright’s death! and adrien brody director was probably also dealing with that too (him and norton seemed to be good buddies) so the whole “sleeping backstage” thing gets a bit sadder maybe? maybe everyone else got this in the theatre and im just stupid lol but crazy making stuff to me!!! the whole story is about sublimated gay grief that cannot be expressed?!?!

the tweet that caught me onto this was here which posits that the playwright’s death was a suicide but i think that’s pretty stupid and unnecessary because the whole thing about the play asteroid city is that death is random and meaningless. im pretty sure that’s what the alien represents— a shocking and absurd event that isnt outright evil or menacing, not something anyone can predict or make sense of, it’s just a thing that happens to you out of nowhere, it doesnt mean anything. he’s a little black figure, he’s death! giving and taking! aagh

#you’re the wife who played my actor :(#posthumus #asteroid city #imagine youre in love with a playwright and he writes a play before he even meets you about how you cant get over his death which hasnt #happened yet. id go insane too #im going to see it again to see how this informs the whole thing because its driving me crazy #rewatching the performances knowing that they're performing people performing. augh.#remember when bryan cranston accidentally appears in frame. rending my garments #also ‘you cant wake up until you fall asleep’ confused me a bit but then i remembered that the margot robbie scene was supposed to be put o #as a dream sequence and it makes sense now. thanks #aliens are the new fairytale monster symbol of death. the ultimate Unknowable #EDIT okay i read the wikipedia summary got some facts wrong adrien brody is sleeping in the theatre during rehearsals so its not because of #the playwright’s death he’s just like that.

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citrus-moonlight · 2 days ago

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Tara, I love this chapter so much!!! The way that you manage to create such a tangible desire between the two of them even though she doesn't even know what he looks like (and as far as she knows hasn't met him yet 😏) is incredible.

Reader being able to have a different type of release first when she blocks her mother's number was so satisfying. I love how she's finally able to let go of that part of her as she realizes that it isn't worth it anymore, that she is worth so much more than someone who didn't and doesn't want her, now that she knows what it's like to have someone who does.

"You smile at your phone. Your eyes are watery, your cheeks are warm, and your lips are lopsided and trembling. You can blame all of that on the wine, but the way your heart is battering against your ribcage? You've got it bad for some words on a screen, a hand, a pair of shoes, and a ghost."

I love how gone she already is, how everything is building so intensely and she doesn't even know what he looks like yet. And then when she finally lets herself go to the thought of him, and the realization that the relief barely lasts because now the floodgates are open and she only wants more?? LORD. The tension is so good, and I love how delicious it feels as he metes out little details in pictures and words and how they're all so precious to her as she tries to form a picture in her head to focus her desire on (and I am forever screaming at "I'm not going to describe my cock to you" 😂).

"Well then. I'll keep that in mind. I really liked the maroon silk one, personally. I bet it would feel nice on my skin." >I agree, it would feel very nice on your skin.

Good lord, that man is so smooth. And I am also enjoying that she picks out a maroon one (because now I am thinking about that silk robe, and how they would go so well together 😏).

You're done hesitating. Of course you are. But when you take that step, it's going to be on your terms. You know, instinctively, that you should never give up too much power to him. Both because it would be so easy to lose yourself in him—which you don't want to do now that you've finally found yourself—and because he would delight in never giving it back.

The duality that of him that you show is so good, how he swings from >I could have you however I wanted, couldn't I? to the vulnerability admitting that he wants her to touch his face, the "but I think I will if you do it." I love that contrast between the predatory part of him, the part that's truly so dangerous (and yet so intriguing), but then you continue to show how needy he is underneath that, something he's trying to hide under his own mask (he's so pathetic and touch starved, I need him).

And then of course the smut is always so incredible, the way he talks I am just 🥵🫠😵‍💫. The >Only me. Only I can see you like this and >That's right. I'm going to make you sob my name. He's so possessive and demanding I'm going to lose it.

>It's all I've been able to think about for months. It's going to feel so fucking good to finally get to fuck you and come with my cock buried inside of you. And I'm going to do it over and over again until I physically can't anymore. >Do you understand? I NEED you. Fuck!

Ok, knowing it's speech to text makes this is so fucking hot, imagining how desperate his voice must sound, and then THE FUCKING PICTURE?? EXCUSE ME???? And her almost tipping and that feeling of freefall adding to everything when she comes, oh my god that was such a perfect parallel to this whole experience with him, LIKE JESUS CHRIST TARA THIS IS SO GOOD.

Seriously, I am always beside myself when I come back to this chapter, your dialogue and all of the interactions are always so dynamic even when their just talking and exploring. I am so excited to see where things are going to develop and evolve once she finally meets him! (truly I am gnawing on the walls, your slow burns are always so amazing, it drives me crazy and I love every minute of it!) 💖

Seriously, I am always beside myself when I come back to this chapter, your dialogue and all of the interactions are always so dynamic even when they're just talking and exploring. I am so excited to see where things are going to develop and evolve once she finally meets him! Truly I am gnawing on the walls, the way you write and and slowly ratchet up the need and tension is always so mind meltingly good, that slow burn drives me crazy and I love every minute of it! 💖💖💖

The Devil Makes Us Sin

Fandom: Luther, Luther: The Fallen Sun

Pairing: David Robey/F!Reader

Chapter 4/? (12.8k words)

->start at chapter 1<-

<- Chapter 3

AO3 Link

Summary: Your life isn't perfect, and you don't enjoy moonlighting as a camgirl for so many repulsive men, but you need the money and it's yours. You're getting by just fine. You're content.

At least you thought you were. Then you get a strange text message. And you aren't sure if you're horrified or intrigued.

Warnings: Explicit rating, smut, stalking, spying, blackmail, manipulation, dubcon, dubious consent, Dom/sub, sadism, masochism, unprotected sex, oral sex, masturbation, mutual masturbation, choking, dirty talk, praise, humiliation, possessive love, yandere, minor description of gore, minor description of violence, murder, discussion of murder, shame involving sex work, light shaming of sex work, emotionally abusive mother, troubled mother/daughter relationship, sexual harassment, workplace sexual harassment, alcohol consumption, religious trauma

A/N: To all of my fellow readers with mother issues, this chapter is for us 💖 Because those troubled mother/daughter relationship and emotionally abusive mother tags hit real hard this chapter (I'm not projecting, you're projecting). But I eventually make it up to you, I promise. (As a reminder from my notes last chapter, David uses voice to text when they're chatting 😏) Also, I changed the formatting for texting conversations because eventually there will be texting while there is external dialogue, and I don't want it to be confusing. So his texts continue to be in italics and Reader's are in italics AND quotes.

Work title is from "Paradise Circus" by Massive Attack. Chapter title is from Tanaka Mhishi's poem in Literary Sexts II. Text divider 1 is from Francisco de Goya's Witches Flight. Text divider 2 is from Caravaggio's Sacrifice of Isaac.

Chapter 4 - I am fragile and unholy. Open. Ravage. Eat.

That night, after calming down from your conversation with David, you finally do the thing that you've been putting off for far too long. The thing that causes panic to swell in your chest and your mind to recoil whenever you start to examine it.

You think about your mother.

So you pour a glass of wine, set your phone off to the side, flop down on your couch, and you begin to metaphorically unpack.

You've always prided yourself on being an intelligent woman. You know, logically, this will help you feel better in the long run. It will help you heal. Help you grow. And right now that's what you yearn for—to know and embrace yourself as you truly are, not who you pretended to be for so long that you almost believed it. Not your mask.

The mask that you built because of her, you think. One crafted out of fear and shame. Other people may have honed it, but she laid the foundation.

You also know she's the reason you have so many hang ups and difficulties forming connections with people. You know it's part of the reason you've been miserable for so long. You know this needs to be done. You know that.

It still…well, it hurts.

You learned at a young age to be fiercely independent because you couldn't count on her for support. Or encouragement. Or warmth. Her answer was always the same: "Pray or go to confession." As if all of your problems were your own fault or stemmed from a lack of faith.

And the message was clear—The only love you'll ever get is God's love. Maybe he can fix you.

You wanted it, though. God, did you want her to gather you in her arms and tell you, just once, that she was proud of you. That she truly loved you. You did everything you could to please and placate and impress her, hoping if you were good enough or hid well enough, you might finally get all of that. You got good grades, you were well-behaved, and you went to church, even when you stopped believing. You gave up your dream of being an artist for her, for christsake!

Sure, a part of that was because she tainted the piece of yourself you turned to for expression and escape. But since you're already unpacking every horrible bit of this, you can finally admit to yourself that you also gave it up for her.

For nothing.

Because it didn't work. Getting a business degree and an office job didn't make her proud, it only created a new direction in which you were lacking. You lost a part of yourself and got nothing in return. The thought of it makes you so angry that hot tears prick your eyes.

You get up to pour yourself another glass of wine.

You don't even know why your mother treated you the way she did. You think that if you could at least know why it might be easier to stomach. Then you wouldn't feel so confused and lost. Sure, it would hurt, but it would be something solid you could sit with.

Perhaps she saw that you weren't what she would call normal, and she hated it—wanted to spurn you into changing and hiding. It's ironic, then, that her disgust just fueled that darkness within you. Gave it the sustenance it needed to grow, devoid of warmth, in the corners of your heart and mind.

Maybe all of this would have turned out differently, if only she had loved you.

Or perhaps that's just who she is, and, even if you had been everything she wanted, it still wouldn't have made a difference. Still wouldn't have been good enough. You got it from somewhere, after all.

You'll never know either way.

What you do know is this: If you couldn't count on your own mother, then why would you ever think you could count on or trust anyone else?

Why wouldn't they brush you aside eventually as well? Why bother getting close to anyone—assuming they didn't bore you in the first place? Why wouldn't they see the real you and look just as disgusted as the one person that should have loved you unconditionally?

And people continuously proved you right by walking away when you didn't thaw under their attention or they caught a glimpse of that darkness—until David. Until he looked and saw the real you, and it only made him want you more.

Well, you're thawing now.

No.

You're melting.

You wonder what your mother would think of you if she could see you at this very moment. On one hand, you've laid waste to the life you built for yourself for a man that stalked you. She'd have a few choice words for you there, such as disappointment and embarrassment. "What will people think?" But on the other hand, you finally have someone and he's rich, which would go a long way towards forgiveness. Because, even though she prides herself on her piety, pride is her greatest sin. She would tell everyone she knew, as if it were her achievement, while conveniently leaving out the rest of it. Like the fact that you're happy.

As you're pouring your third glass of wine, you debate calling her. It's not too late. She should still be awake. You can finally ask her why. Why nothing you've done has ever been good enough. Why she cared about God and what everyone else thought more than her own daughter.

You can ask her why you can't remember the last time she hugged you or told you she loved you. Because a daughter should be able to recall that, shouldn't she? Oh, she said it plenty in front of other people. She gave you scraps with no meaning behind the words or warmth in her eyes. But in private, where no one else was watching her performance? You got nothing. You starved for affection. Maybe you can ask her why.

But you know that's the alcohol talking.

And it wouldn't do any good anyway. You won't get the answers you seek or the apology you need. You won't get promises to do better. You won't get a mom.

This was all for nothing.

Instead, you pick up your phone and block her number.

No contact. A clean cut. Never again.

You expect that to hurt, too, but for the first time since you started this, you feel lighter. Because you're finally done looking for hope where there isn't any to be found. You're also finally acknowledging that you deserved everything she never gave you. And that isn't a failing on your part—it never was. It's her failure. Another one of her sins. Now it's her loss.

Maybe you should have done that years ago, but you're doing it now. You're moving forward and letting go, and that's what's important.

While your phone is in your hand, you check your messages to confirm that David hasn't sent you anything. You aren't surprised. You hadn't expected him to. But that doesn't mean you didn't want him to.

You want it all the time now, you realize. It's only been a couple of hours since you ended the call, but you'd still love nothing more than to get back on and talk to him again until the early hours of the morning.

You may have been able to stop yourself from angrily calling your mother, but the combination of wine and your already weakening grasp on your self-control when it comes to him means you're typing before you even realize it.

"Thank you. For everything. I can never say it enough, David, because you've done more for me than any person in my life EVER has. I mean it. Truly. I'm so grateful."

"Also, for the record, I'm certain I could pick you out of a crowd now."

You're welcome. Always.

And I'll keep that in mind the next time I need coffee.

You smile at your phone. Your eyes are watery, your cheeks are warm, and your lips are lopsided and trembling. You can blame all of that on the wine, but the way your heart is battering against your ribcage?

You've got it bad for some words on a screen, a hand, a pair of shoes, and a ghost.

The next morning, you sleep in until a gloriously late hour. Just because you can. And because last night was emotionally exhausting—you're certain the wine didn't help either. Even when you're no longer tired, you lie in bed, wrapped in the warmth of your blankets, and bask in the knowledge that you never have to go back to that office ever again.

Or speak to your mother, you think with a contented sigh.

You feel untethered, but not adrift. No, you know exactly which direction you're headed, and now you have the freedom to do so.

Eventually you resume your search for a new bed on your phone as well because you start to think about how blissful this lounging would have been on a comfortable mattress. With silk sheets. And a new nightgown... Oh, now there's an interesting thought. You could get something new and sexy. Maybe something with lace. Or more silk. Or, even better, something sheer that barely covers your ass.

You also think about how much David would enjoy all of those things.

You start off looking at sleepwear that leans more sensible than sexy, but as you begin to wonder what he would think of each one, you quickly find yourself clicking on more and more revealing pieces.

It's when you're looking at a see through, drapey number that comes off with only a clasp between your breasts that your phone buzzes with a new text message.

You grin. You wondered how long it would be before he reached out to you. Now you're absolutely certain he's keeping tabs on you and saw how racy your searches were getting. Part of you was doing it on purpose—baiting him until he couldn't resist any longer. Even if it gave him away. You know better than to trust a coincidence.

Are you enjoying your first day of freedom?

"Immensely. I haven't even gotten out of bed yet." You're smug as you hit send because now you've added the thought of you in bed to his mental image of the lingerie.

Is that so? Sounds as though you're having a lovely morning.

Any other exciting plans for the day?

"Not unless you count a date with a book on my nightstand."

Depends on what kind of book.

"Well, there are two of them for me to choose from. One is a murder mystery. The other is a steamy romance novel." It's a lie. You have two art history books and an Amedeo Modigliani biography on your nightstand.

I see. Two very different types of thrilling.

"Exactly. On one hand, the murder mystery would stimulate my brain."

It takes a minute longer for you to get a response to that.

And what would the romance novel stimulate?

"My heart, David. What else?" You bite your lip in excitement as you continue to type.

"Now tell me which one you would like best."

If I had to choose between the two, I would prefer the murder mystery.

"Of course you would. But I meant which of the lingerie you would like best. Because I know you were watching me."

There's another pause.

All of them.

"All of them?! But there were so many!"

I'm certain. I liked all of them.

Especially since you'd be the one wearing them.

A pleasant heat unfurls in your chest and creeps up your neck at the thought of him sitting there, watching you browse, picturing you in every outfit…and maybe even saving a few of the links for later.

"Well then. I'll keep that in mind. I really liked the maroon silk one, personally. I bet it would feel nice on my skin."

I agree, it would feel very nice on your skin.

Fuck.

The mental image of his hand trailing up your thigh—pushing the hem of the nightgown higher and higher while the fabric and his palm slide over your quivering flesh—flashes vividly through your mind.

You had been enjoying a morning of relaxation and contentment just a few minutes ago. Even with a bit of light teasing about the lingerie, it had been peaceful. Now? Now that feeling has been reshaped and is nothing more than a memory. Now a slick heat has ignited in your core, and you're left nearly panting and writhing in your blankets from the intensity of it.

How quickly he can send you reeling.

God, you're definitely buying that one. Later. Right now, however, you finally have the chance to flirt with him—really flirt—and you're going to take it. Because you know where this is headed. You know where it could have resolved yesterday but didn't because you were at work.

And you're so glad you're not at work right now, stuck squirming and struggling at your desk as you try to ignore the swollen ache between your legs. Instead, you're squirming in the privacy of your bed, and you no longer have to ignore anything. Now you have no intention of stopping.

This is how you want to respond to him.

You're also really enjoying feigning innocence, and you're curious to see how much longer he'll play along. Because you have no illusions that he's buying a second of it.

"I don't think I'll be getting the black one with the sheer lace top, though. It didn't look very comfortable. I wouldn't be able to wear it for long."

Before he can reply, you quickly type out, "Wait. You're not busy, are you? I should have asked first before carrying on about my online shopping. That was rude of me."

I'm not anymore.

"Just get out of a meeting?"

I just canceled my last meeting because I've suddenly found something much better to do.

"Is helping me pick out pajamas really that thrilling?"

You can stop playing dumb now. You and I both know exactly what you're doing.

"What am I doing?" You straighten up and hold your breath in anticipation. You must be getting to him. You expected him to hold out just a little bit longer. Not that you're complaining. Not when you know you have his full attention.

You're trying to get me bothered as payback for yesterday.

"Is it working?"

You know it is.

"And just how bothered are you?"

Very.

You let out a shaky breath as you sink back into your pillows and begin to settle in. "Good. But that's not the only reason I'm doing this, David."

Is that so? What other reason do you have?

"Because I want to. Because I'm enjoying having the freedom to respond to you the way that I want."

Intriguing. And how are you doing that?

"I'm sure you'll find out soon enough." You shift your phone to your dominant hand to keep it steady. Then your other hand disappears beneath your covers and continues traveling down to the waistband of your panties.

Will I?

"You will. As long as you continue to please me." You nudge the fabric out of the way to give yourself the access you need and eagerly slip your hand inside. When your fingers finally brush over your arousal, you groan with relief.

There's nothing I want more than to please you.

"Is that so? How are you going to do that?" You repeat his words back to him as you rub a little harder along your damp folds. The added pressure makes your eyelids go heavy with lust. You spread your legs wider, seeking even more of that friction.

By giving you what you need.

God, you want that. From him. The thought of it makes you ache. Your fingers move to circle over your clit, dragging some of your wetness with them, and you moan into your empty bedroom. You shakily type out, "And what do I need?"

Me.

Shit. You had planned to go slow and tease yourself. You wanted to draw out the banter so you could savor your first time touching yourself to him. Because, despite the fact that he's turned you into a horny wreck several times already, you've held off until now. But as you read his text—that single word—it's as if your body has been doused in kerosene and lit on fire. Your hand speeds up.

"You seem awfully sure of that."

I'm very sure.

Are you going to tell me that I'm wrong? Or are you going to be honest?

You quickly debate finding a way to deny it. To get him to push harder because his arrogant confidence is stoking the flame in your belly and you want more. But every response you come up with sounds so flimsy. You know it won't work. He'll just call out the lie. He knows exactly how you're responding to him now, and he won't let it go, like a shark sensing blood in the water.

Well, if he wants to circle, then you'll give him prey instead—something he can't resist.

"Honest."

There's a good girl. Then be honest for me. Tell me what you need.

You cry out and your hips roll to meet the rhythm of your fingers. Your other hand is still gripping your cell phone, holding onto it for dear life so you don't drop it and miss a single word. "You."

That's right. And are you thinking about me right now?

"Yes." You are. You're thinking about his hands all over you, driving you wild and breathless and working needy little whimpers from your throat.

Very good. I hope you're thinking about all of the things I plan to do to you when I finally get my hands on you.

"Tell me. Please." More, you think. God, you need more.

And spoil the surprise? You'll have to use your imagination for now.

You grunt in frustration. "That's a little difficult when I don't know what you look like."

That is unfortunate, isn't it?

He's so god-damned smug! Jesus, it's infuriating!

There's a responding surge of wetness beneath your fingers, and the slick sound becomes obscene in your quiet bedroom.

"I've told you, it's unfair."

Nothing about this is supposed to be fair.

Your grip weakens and your phone nearly slips from your grasp, but you frantically right it. You're getting so close… "David, please!"

I promise when we move forward, you'll find out for yourself. But only when you're ready.

Unless you're done hesitating?

You know he's dangling that in front of you, tempting you with what you want so you'll say yes. You want to say yes. You want to call him right now and let him hear you say it as you moan and beg into the phone.

But that's giving him too much.

"I suppose we'll see, won't we? I would hate to ruin the surprise."

Now who's being unfair?

"I'm only playing by your rules."

Clever.

My clever, beautiful girl. I can't wait to see you like this. I bet you look so good for me right now. Don't you?

"Yes!"

That's right. So fucking good and needy for me. God, I want you so much.

Your grip goes slack again, and this time you do drop your phone onto the bed. But you don't stop to pick it up. You're too far gone now, and you couldn't type even if you wanted to. Instead, you redouble your effort and greedily chase your orgasm, your hand moving in rapid strokes against your clit.

It's fast and messy and desperate. You haven't masturbated like this in years, but the tension has been building inside of you. It's grown under all of his teasing, his suggestive comments, his perceptive observations, and his unrevealing photos until you couldn't ignore it any longer. Now you need to release it at last—to immolate yourself in your desire.

For him.

"David," you moan. His name rolls off your tongue for the first time in ecstasy. It happens so naturally, as if you've said it that way a hundred times before. As if your mouth knows the way to give shape to your longing.

Hearing his name, when you're already poised on that edge, is your undoing.

You throw your head back into the pillow and arch off the bed with a cry as that tension finally snaps, sending a white hot fission through your veins in its place. Your toes curl and your newly freed hand bunches a fistful of your sheets, pulling them taut while your whole body shudders with every violent swell of pleasure.

As you come, all you can think about is him. "Fuck!" The movement of your fingers over your clit becomes jerky, but never slows. You're determined to make every second of this feel so fucking good. "David!" It rolls and rolls and rolls through you, weakening and yet seemingly without end as you work every last bit of rapture from your sensitive flesh—

Until, finally, you collapse against the bed with a whimper, and your hand flops weakly down onto the mattress next to you. You lay there, gasping for breath, your eyes closed, and your limbs and your brain and your belly humming in the heady afterglow of your release.

By all accounts, this should bring you a bone deep satisfaction. It should have quelled the fire that burns for him, even if only temporarily.

But as your mind clears, you feel quite the opposite. As if something has awakened inside of you, stirring from a deep slumber in that same way he roused your darkness.

And it's ravenous.

You grope along the bedspread for your phone.

When you pick it back up, your hands are still trembling from the intensity of your orgasm.

"I think I'm rather enjoying my new freedom."

So am I.

A groan is wrenched from your chest as you glance up at his previous messages and wonder just how much he was enjoying it. You have a pretty good guess.

"God, David. I miss you."

I miss you, too. But not for much longer.

"Would you like to chat now?" There's a renewed flutter of interest from your swollen sex as you think about doing this again, but for him.

There's nothing I want more. Unfortunately, I have some important personal matters to take care of this afternoon, but I promise the evening is yours. How does 6 o'clock sound?

There's a pang of disappointment in your chest. That's hours from now! But before you can pout, you remind yourself that you're an adult. You can control and entertain yourself until then, for christsake. Besides, he said the evening was yours. You'll have plenty of time to talk to him later.

You also really want to ask what sort of personal matters because you're curious about what they could be, and about him in general, but he would have elaborated if he wanted you to know. The word personal also denotes a certain level of privacy. So you leave it be. For now.

"That sounds lovely. I'm looking forward to it."

Me too. In the meantime, I hope you enjoy your date with the book on your nightstand.

"I've changed my mind there, actually. I have a lot more shopping to do instead." You give your phone a little grin.

Oh?

"Yes. It's been so productive and satisfying thus far. Who knows what other wonderful things might result from it?"

I see.

"I hope you enjoy your afternoon."

I'm certain I will. Enjoy your shopping.

You end up purchasing some of the lingerie that gets you particularly worked up whenever you think about him—especially the maroon one. Then you spend the rest of your day purging your wardrobe of your boring work clothes and whatever else reminds you too much of your old life. The result is a sparse apartment and an even barer closet, but you like it. It's a reflection of where you are in life and of all the room you have to grow and rebuild the way you want.

You may occasionally take breaks from downsizing to browse for new outfits and dresses, but it's to figure out what you like so you can eventually replace what you're getting rid of. It's definitely not to keep David intrigued throughout the day and looking forward to talking to you again. Not when he's so busy. That would be cruel.

You can't remember ever smiling this much.

You log on several minutes early. You don't care that it's probably a little pathetic. You don't even care if it lets him know exactly how eager you are for this. You've been checking the clock since five and you were getting impatient. You can only pace so many circles in your living room before you lose your mind. Not that sitting there and staring at your own face is any better, but at least it gets you closer to him.

To your relief, he logs on a few minutes early, too. Possibly because he knows you're already here, but you hope it’s because he was impatient as well. The electronic chime makes your heart swell in your chest.

"Hello, David."

Hello, darling.

The image of you on the screen practically swoons at his greeting. There's no other way to describe the gentle tilting of your head, your dreamy smile, or how your eyes soften with affection.

You barely recognize this woman.

You're not sure you've ever made that face before now. Or if you have, it was when the National Gallery rotated Cornelius van Haarlem's Two Followers of Cadmus devoured by a Dragon back into display after you hadn't seen it in a while. Never for another person. Certainly not for a black square not even three centimeters wide.

This man is dangerous.

Getting impatient, were you?

"I knew you were going to say something," you grumble as you fight off a sudden wave of embarrassment.

How could I not? You have no idea how lovely this feeling is. It's gratifying to have such a beautiful woman wanting to talk to you.

You lean in close and lower your voice. "In that case, I was very impatient."

Hmm. I'm so very pleased to hear it.

Did you have a productive afternoon?

"I did, actually. I accomplished quite a bit."

Good. And did you have fun shopping?

"You know I did." You give the camera a heated smile. While it wasn't as risque as the lingerie, the clothes you were looking at—low cut silky blouses, high slit skirts, backless tops, skin tight pants—were still sexy, just in a more subtle way.

Do I?

You roll your eyes and ignore the obvious bait—something that would have irritated a response from you just a few days ago. "How was your afternoon?"

Also productive, despite the circumstances.

"Circumstances?" You cock an eyebrow, no longer able to ignore it. He really does know how to push your buttons, after all, much to your chagrin. "Do you mean with your personal matters or do you mean spying on me?"

Both, but I wouldn't call it spying.

"Well, I would! So it serves you right." Despite your fake outrage, you're thrilled he was still paying attention, even when he was busy.

Do you want me to stop?

You pause to consider your answer. You think you should probably be unsettled that he's monitoring all of your activity. If any other man did that, you would be furious and horrified, but he's not any other man. He's also not holding it over you, making you feel bad, or controlling what you're doing. So far—your answer would change if he were. He's simply looking.

And you enjoy knowing that he's looking. In a strange way, it makes you feel connected to him, even when you aren't chatting, as if it's just another aspect of your relationship. It also makes you feel like you're the most important and interesting thing in his life—you'll admit that particular feeling has become quite addictive. You enjoy being able to take advantage of it as well, like you did this afternoon.

However, there may be times when you do want privacy for a specific reason. He certainly doesn't need to know every detail about your hygiene purchases or your embarrassing Google searches. Well, future embarrassing searches, anyway. It also makes it very difficult to surprise him if he can see what you're up to.

"No, I don't want you to stop." Your lips curl into a seductive smile. "I like it quite a bit, in fact. I just have one condition."

What's that?

"If I do ever ask for privacy, you give it to me. No questions asked and no looking."

Of course. Then you'll have it.

"I mean it," you say seriously. "I need to trust you'll respect my wishes."

You have my word that I will give you privacy whenever you request it. You only ever need to ask.

"Alright." You relax in your chair, mollified by his response. Because you believe him. "Thank you, David."

You're welcome.

Now tell me about your productivity.

"That's not a very exciting topic of conversation, I'm afraid. In fact, most of it was quite boring."

Tell me anyway.

"Well, I went through my flat and got rid of everything that felt like it belonged to the person I was pretending to be and not me."

I see. That doesn't sound boring. You shed another one of your layers.

I bet it felt good.

"It did! It felt freeing. I didn't realize before how much my place felt like a stage. As if the performance didn't stop, even when I was alone. And when I had a roommate? God, no wonder I was always so miserable."

It's also probably why you grew to resent every roommate you've ever had, no matter how much you didn't mind or tolerated them when they moved in. It didn't matter if they were quiet or cleaned up after themselves. Their presence meant the only place you could truly let your guard down was your bedroom. It was exhausting.

"But now the set dressings are gone. No more calf length pencil skirts or tacky lingerie. No more gifted kitchen gadgets and holiday candles. No more cheap art prints of pieces that I don't even like.” Then you grumble, “God, I swear I had like, half a dozen versions of Irises.”

No more mask.

"No more mask," you repeat out loud with a sigh of relief. Even saying it feels incredible. "Speaking of, you'll be pleased to hear I've also been doing some reflecting since we talked yesterday." You can't help the smug grin that creeps onto your face.

Oh?

"Yes. I've figured out where my reflex to apologize when I think I've upset or inconvenienced someone comes from."

Have you? Does that mean you're ready to talk about your mother?

You huff out a laugh and shake your head. Of course. You should have seen that coming. "You're frighteningly good at that."

It's a gift.

You can feel his smirk through your screen. "So it is. And I'm glad to know that I'm predictable."

I never used that word.

"It's true, though." You shrug, unbothered by your own statement. "It's a behavior that's usually learned in childhood. In this instance, I'm not particularly unique."

I disagree.

"I just meant that a lot of people have troubled relationships with their parents." A lot of them developed the same issues from it as well, you think to yourself. Granted, the cliche is that women in the sex work industry have daddy issues, not mommy issues. So perhaps you're not entirely predictable.

And yet, they're not you. They didn't become what you are.

"And just what am I?" That's another thing you haven't looked at too closely. You've been so consumed with the "who," you haven't really considered the "what."

You're something entirely different. Something more like me.

"That's not an answer."

I assure you, it is.

"It's not, David," you insist. "I still don't fully know what that means!"

If you're expecting me to pathologize you instead, I'm not going to.

"Why not?" You tilt your head curiously. You weren't actually expecting him to, but now you're intrigued as to why he won't.

Because that's not an answer to your question either. Those terms and labels are just more costumes that don't suit you. You're far more than that.

Before you can object that you disagree and that it might actually help you understand yourself better, he continues on. As if he anticipated what you were going to say.

It would also imply there's something wrong with you. But there's nothing wrong with you, despite what anyone may have told you in the past.

"You really do have me all figured out, don't you?" There's more affection in your voice than you intended.

I told you. I see you.

"You do. And I'm guessing you see my text message history, too." You raise an eyebrow at the camera in challenge, daring him to deny it.

You thought a lot about what else he would have access to after he blindsided you with the knowledge of your side bank account. Reading your texts would be absurdly easy in comparison, so of course he knows about your relationship with your mother. It's also how he knew that threatening to tell her your secret would be so effective.

That as well.

"I think that's the first thing I know you've seen that I feel embarrassed about."

Why?

"Because it means you've seen the worst of my mask," you say quietly.

I wouldn't say that. I saw a daughter desperate for her mother's affection and approval.

"Oh, god," you groan as you rub a hand over your face, completely mortified by his phrasing, but unable to find fault in it. "That's exactly what I mean!"

You're not the one who should be embarrassed by those messages.

"I'm the only one that is. Or will be. Trust me, she thinks everything she's ever said to me was righteous and justified, and you can't get blood from a stone." You flop your hand back onto the desk—a little harder than you meant to—and it makes your webcam shake.

You can already feel that mixture of hurt and anger rising in your throat and threatening to spill out. You quickly swallow it down and take a deep breath to regain control over your emotions. You're not going to have a breakdown on camera because of her. You're done letting her hurt you.

It's not righteous or justified, but I'm guessing you know that already.

"I do, but I appreciate the reassurance anyway." You give him a soft, grateful smile. Then your face falls as you glance back down to your keyboard. "What else did you see?"

Most of your text conversations with her are arguments. I suspect your phone conversations are similar.

"They are," you confirm without hesitation. "I don't think we know how to communicate any other way."

But you're not the instigator, are you?

"No," you sigh heavily. "I do everything I can to avoid an argument because I'm just so tired of it, but it usually doesn't matter. She can always find fault with my tone or something I've said. And of course there's also the fact that I don't go to church, don't have an important career, haven't gotten married, and don't have or want children. You can imagine her disappointment."

I shudder to think.

What an exhausting, horrible woman.

"That she is," you can't help but laugh. Despite the heavy topic of conversation, his irritation on your behalf is endearing. "I hate calling her or answering the phone. And God forbid I need something! You'll note that when I needed money to keep my flat, I became a camgirl before I even thought about asking her for help."

I had noticed you never considered doing anything else. Then I read your messages and it wasn't difficult to understand why.

You try not to feel mortified once again at the reminder that he's seen those. Instead, you tell yourself that he saw them and he kept looking. They didn't disgust him or scare him off—from you anyway. Even after reading them, he still wanted you.

You truly understand now what he's always meant when he says he sees you. It's a very assuring, lovely thought.

"It turned out to be a wonderful decision, at least." You give the camera a coy smile in an attempt to lighten the mood.

I would have to agree. A very wonderful decision.

"She wouldn't have helped me anyway, so I knew it was pointless. The few times she did, she lorded it over me constantly. As if I should be forever in her debt because she paid for my university textbooks years ago."

Is that another reason you were so afraid to take my money? Or why you were worried about feeling as though you owed me?

"Huh…" You lean back in your chair as you mull THAT one over. You hadn't quite connected those dots yet, but now that he's pointed it out, you have always been bad at accepting any help or gifts. Every single one felt like it came with an unspoken expectation or debt of some kind that would be called upon later. Now you know why.

You briefly wonder what other sort of connections you'll make in the future. Because you're starting to realize there are still plenty of them left to be uncovered.

"I think that was part of it, certainly, but you have to admit, the circumstances were also a very big factor as to why I didn't want your money."

Of course. You thought I was trying to buy you.

"I absolutely did! And in a way, you were," you tease. "It was just my attention you were paying for."

I made no attempt to hide that what I wanted was you, but it really was a gift. I knew the money would give you the freedom to think about everything I said, and once you did, you could no longer ignore your mask. Then maybe you would finally rid yourself of it. I wanted that for you.

And I wanted to see what would become of you when your strings were cut.

"Well, are you pleased with your handiwork?"

Quite pleased. I'm enjoying seeing the real you and how beautifully you've flourished in the light, now that you're no longer hiding.

"I have flourished, haven't I? I feel at home in my own skin for the first time in my life." You arch your shoulders, stretching lazily as if to savor the truth of your statement, before resting your forearms on the desk. You look quite pleased with yourself as well. "For so long I've been afraid to peel back all those layers and confront what's underneath, but now that I'm finally realizing who I am and what I want, I can't stop picking. I like what's underneath."

So do I.

You deserve to be proud. You've been working very hard to find your truth.

A warmth radiates through your chest at his praise.

"I have." Then you smile sadly. "Unfortunately, the truth hasn't always been painless."

No. It's never that.

"But every second has been worth it to have this." You glance up at the camera and let the double meaning hang in the air.

I'm glad. And I would have to agree. Wholeheartedly.

After a hesitation, you say, "One of those painful truths was realizing that my mother probably had a big hand in making me what I am."

Darling, NO.

The only thing she had a hand in was making you feel ashamed of yourself or like you had to hide what you are. She tried to destroy something exquisite and she failed. You are what you are despite her.

Do you know why? It's because you're better than her. You always have been and she knows it. Why do you think she treats you the way she does? That woman is a monster and she doesn't deserve any part of you.

Your eyes immediately fill with tears as you read the chat box. No one's ever told you that before. You may have come to the same conclusion last night, but you had no idea how much you needed to hear it from someone else, so to speak. Now hearing it from him?

"God, David. I've never…" you trail off, your voice choked with emotion. It takes you a second to get control over yourself enough to continue. "Thank you. And you're right." You sniffle and quickly try to blink away the tears. Then with more force, you say, "I've endured her for too long. Thankfully, I never have to again. I blocked her number last night and I'm cutting her out of my life."

You did?

"I did. Once I realized there was nothing good there to hold onto, even the idea of removing her from my life brought me more peace and happiness than having her in it ever did."

Good. I hope it does.

"So far, so good." You give him a teary smile.

I'm sure that couldn't have been easy.

"It wasn't. Or at least the process of coming to that conclusion wasn't, but it was all far more anticlimactic than I thought it would be."

Is that why you sent me that message?

"Oh, god." Your face begins to burn with embarrassment as you remember texting him while more than a little tipsy. "Yes," you finally answer sheepishly while you glance up at the ceiling.

Why are you embarrassed by that?

"Because, if I'm being honest, I was two and a half glasses of wine in when I sent that."

Were you now?

"I was. I knew it was the only way I would be able to cope with that whole process."

And did it help?

"I think it did. I got through it, anyway. I'm just glad that I didn't call or text her. God, that would have been a trainwreck." You glance suggestively up at the camera and lower your voice. "I have far less self-control when it comes to you, apparently."

You have no idea how much I enjoy hearing that.

"But we should both be grateful that I didn't send you anything messier than I already did."

I don't know, sounds intriguing.

"See, you're thinking about me sending you something sexy, but I'm worried about sending you something frantic and emotional," you laugh. "Which would have been far more likely given the circumstances."

Hmm. I see your point.

"So anticlimactic really was for the best all around. And it's done now."

Good riddance.

"Do you want to know the worst part, though?" This time there's a bitterness to your smile, and it doesn't meet your eyes. "Through all of this, I never stopped wanting her to love me. I tried so hard. I never stopped trying, but she did. A long time ago. She'll never be the mom that I want, just like I was never the daughter she wanted. I know that now and I've finally made peace with that reality. Plus, realizing I would never understand or get any sort of closure was another big catalyst for me to finally pull that trigger the way I did." Your face finally softens. "But I never would have confronted any of that if not for you."

You would have gotten there on your own. Eventually.

“Possibly. I was getting exhausted from it. To the point that everytime my phone rang, I considered tossing it out the window rather than answer it.”

I could make her life miserable, you know.

If you asked it of me.

"Tempting." You let out a chuckle and wipe away the remnants of a tear drying on your cheek. "But I'd rather her not be in my life at all, even through you. I'm making a clean cut so she can no longer use me to build herself up, and for her that will be a worse punishment than anything you could think of."

I don't know. I have a very vivid imagination.

But I will leave it be unless you change your mind.

"I do appreciate the offer." You smile gratefully. "That's twice now you've given me the opportunity for vengeance."

It won't be the last, should you ever feel the need for it.

"Is it strange that I find the thought of you wanting to make someone miserable for hurting me sweet and endearing?"

No.

I would hurt anyone you asked me to, even if all they did was annoy you.

"You would?"

I would. Without hesitation. For you.

"Fuck," you gasp as you squirm in your seat, suddenly very turned on. "I really like the thought of that."

Do you?

"I do."

How much?

"This much." You bite your lip as you bring your hands to your top. Then you begin to slowly unbutton your blouse. The heat that started between your thighs rises to your belly. This is finally happening.

There's a pause.

You're sure?

"Yes. I'm so sure you didn't even have to ask." Your fingers continue to methodically work each loop as you speak, driven on by determination. "I'm done hesitating. I want this, David. I wanted it last night before I got interrupted, and I wanted it this afternoon."

You’ve found closure for so much of your past—all the ties to your old life, your social media, your friends, your job, your mother—and you're done looking back. All you want now is to move forward. After all the emotional turmoil you went through to get to this point, all you want is to fall into him.

Once you’ve finished, your top spills open, revealing the cups of your bra and your bare stomach on the screen. The chat box sits, unmoving, and you realize he must be watching very carefully. So you slide the fabric down your arms, seductively arching your chest towards the camera to make a show of it, until it comes free. You toss it to the side without looking. Then you're left in nothing but your bra and skirt.

"I want you to see me. All of me. I want to show you what you're missing, hiding from me behind that screen. You could be here with your hands and your mouth on me, instead, you know. I want you to think about that, and I want you to touch yourself while you do." You look directly into the webcam with all of the desire, need, and heat that has been building up inside of you for the past week. "Because I plan to as well. Again."

You have no idea how much I’ve resisted doing all of that. It's taken every ounce of my self-control to resist you.

"Why can't we just give in then?" You beg for the camera. "Why can't we just skip this part? Come here now. Tonight. Touch me instead."

You aren't ready for that yet.

"I strongly disagree!" You scoff, almost offended at the implication that you don't know what you want.

Besides, I get to see you like this first, remember? I get to see you in a way no one else ever has. I've earned it.

"You have," you sigh in acceptance. You knew it was a long shot, but it was worth a try. "Don't worry, I'll give it to you. Not just because I'm too fucking horny to argue with you properly right now, but also because I said I would, and I'm still going to enjoy letting go for you. Just know that it's a poor substitute for you. Because what I really want is to hear your voice as you tell me how good it feels to fuck me. I want to hear the way you moan and gasp when you lose control of yourself inside of me. I want to know your face when you do. Because I want you, David."

It takes a moment for him to reply. You're aware you'll never get to know exactly how he responded to you. You'll never get to see the look on his face or hear the sounds he made as you said those things to him. But, you think with no small amount of smugness, you can take a very good guess.

Then you'll have me. Soon.

Until then, show me what I'll have.

Take off the rest of your clothes. I want to see you.

You stand up from your chair to do as he instructed. The angle of the camera means your face is no longer in view, and it reminds you so much of your streams that it's momentarily jarring. But once you unzip your skirt, you bend forward to push it down your hips, and the sight of your own face brings you back to the moment.

The one where you're stripping for your stalker slash blackmailer, and it's the sexiest, most romantic thing that's ever happened to you.

Your skirt hits the floor with a soft thump, and you step out of it as you nudge it to the side with your foot. If you remove one more thing, it will be the most he's ever seen of you. Now each step forward is not only new, but is one step closer to getting what you really want: Him.

The thought is thrilling.

So thrilling that you waste no time. You hook your thumbs into the thin elastic of your panties and slip them—slowly, inch by inch to continue teasing him—to your knees, baring your lower half to him.

You stand there for a few seconds, letting him take it all in. That's what he wanted, after all. To see all of you. For you to show him all of you. Every moment between you has been leading to this, and you won't deny him now.

When you sit back down, you slide your panties the rest of the way off. They get thoughtlessly added to the growing, scattered pile. Then you stay there on your repurposed dining room chair, bare skin on wood, and you wait.

As you do, you're very careful to keep your legs closed. It wouldn't do to rush this and give everything away all at once. Especially not when you currently hold all of the power. He may have earned this, but so have you. And you’re going to relish it for as long as you can.

Except there's still nothing new in the chat box. You tell yourself he's probably just settling in and enjoying the view, but the silence is unnerving. You have no way of knowing what he's thinking right now, if he's even enjoying it, and that makes you feel exposed. You’ve gotten so comfortable with the back and forth—of getting some feedback—that not getting it is a sobering reminder that you can't read his expressions or hear the tone of his voice. All he really is to you is text on a screen.

“David?” You call out hesitantly.

Another minute passes and you start to wonder if he's intentionally trying to make you squirm. He does enjoy it, after all. Or perhaps he recognizes how the balance of power has shifted, and he's trying to take some back for himself. It does seem like a very David thing to do.

Then, without warning, your mind offers up the possibility that he's disappointed. That you aren't what he was expecting and now he’s—

God, you’re beautiful. I knew you would be.

Relief courses through you, alleviating the weight that was settling in your chest.

Or maybe he was just taking his pants off, too.

I want to see the rest of you.

That's all the reassurance you need to banish that momentary doubt completely.

You reach behind yourself to undo the clasp of your bra. Rather than remove it, you hug the material loosely to your chest and give the camera a coy glance.

“You mean like this?” You tease as your fingers play with the straps.

Yes.

Take it off.

You slowly lower your arms, letting it fall away from your breasts. And just like that, you're naked on screen—something you never thought would happen. Something you swore would never happen. But there you are, running the tips of your fingers enticingly up the tops of your thighs and over your bare hips. For him.

Seeing you like this was worth every second of waiting. You're stunning. Just perfect.

“Thank you, David,” you say softly, touched by his compliments. It’s sweet, but if he keeps this up, you’ll be feeling more affectionate than horny.

You have no idea how much I want to be the one touching you right now.

That's better.

"Oh, but I think I know exactly what it's like to want you to be the one touching me. Do you have any idea how much I've fantasized about your hands on me since you sent me that picture? God, if I hadn't been at work, I would have made myself come so many times."

That's why I didn't want you distracted.

"I wasn't distracted this afternoon," you say in a husky voice.

No you weren't.

Did it feel good to finally give in?

"Yes." You bite your lip as you remember the way that growing tension in your belly finally gave when you moaned his name. "It felt so good to respond to you."

Did you think about me touching you like you wanted?

"God, yes. In every way I could think of."

Where did you imagine me touching you? Show me where you like to be touched.

You run a finger from your jaw, down the column of your neck, and then trace along your collarbone. "If you kiss me here, I'll be weak in your arms. But if I feel your tongue here, you'll have me begging."

Then I'll have you weak and begging.

Is that all?

"I was getting there." You smile playfully. “So impatient.”

You continue to run your fingers down your sternum, letting your knuckles skim against the swell of your breasts. You stop and move to cup the soft flesh with your hands.

“I want your lips and your hands here,” you moan as you start to gently massage yourself. Your nipples harden under your palms as you rub over them, causing a pleasant shiver to snake its way through you. Then you arch into your own hands as you think about what it would be like to have his hands here instead. Whether his touch would be gentle like this, or harsh as he wrenches a shudder from the sensitive peaks.

I'm going to enjoy doing just that. Especially if you'll be this responsive for me.

“More so,” you vow, breathlessly, "because it would be you. Are you touching yourself now?"

Yes.

“Fuck,” you hiss. "Are you imagining that it's me instead?"

You know I am.

"Good because I want it to be me. I'm aching to put my hands on you, too.” Your hands lower from your breasts to brush across your stomach. “Where do you like to be touched, David?"

By you? There's nowhere I wouldn't want your hands.

Intriguing, but you know he can give you more than that. "Then where should I start?"

There’s a brief pause that almost feels like hesitation.

My face.

"Your face?” You blink in mild surprise. You weren't expecting that answer, but now you understand the hesitation. He was preparing to admit something vulnerable to you. “That's very intimate."

Is it? Maybe that's why I've never liked it before, but I think I will if you do it.

Despite how sexy all of this is, your heart flutters at the sweetness of that line. He wants intimacy with you, not just the sex. You're reminded of what he said to you yesterday: ‘I want you to be mine in every way it's possible to want someone.’

“I like the thought of that.” You lean in towards the camera, letting your eyelids go heavy as you lower your voice to something both seductive and tender. "Do you want me to cup your cheeks and stroke my fingers over you as we kiss?"

Yes.

"Then maybe I could…” You drop to a half whisper, “kiss along your jaw as well."

It's like you read my mind.

There's a pleased flush in your chest that creeps onto your face as the hint of a smile. "Do you have facial hair?"

No.

"Good to know." You imagine your lips moving over smooth, tanned skin. You wonder if it will be soft, or a little rough with age.

Do you prefer beards?

"I don't have a preference. What looks good depends on the person." You tilt your head curiously. “Have you ever tried growing a beard?”

Once. It didn't suit me.

“Then I'd prefer you without one.”

You're assembling these new, small pieces together with your existing mental image of him. It's like staring at a magic eye puzzle—if you look hard enough, you can almost swear you see the shape of him. But then you blink and it's gone.

You need more.

“Where would I touch you next?”

My chest.

"Is that so?"

Yes.

"Please tell me you don't shave your chest, too. Promise me you have chest hair."

I promise I have chest hair.

"Oh, thank god,” you sigh with relief. “Because you have hair on the backs of your hands and wrists and it's so fucking sexy. I can only imagine how sexy the rest of it is."

You like that, do you?

“Yes.”

Then I think you’ll be pleased.

"Christ, I like the sound of that.” You squirm a bit in your seat. “Where else do you like to be touched?"

My cock.

You nearly choke on a whimper.

Up till now, this felt like an exploration—or as much as it could be with only you on the screen. You were expecting a buildup of teasing and touching and sharing before you both truly let go. Instead, he sent you reeling. Again. He must be getting impatient.

As you stare at that line, there's a painful ache of arousal between your legs. You unconsciously grind yourself down onto your chair to alleviate some of it. The seat is going to be a mess by the time you're done, you think.

"I plan to touch you there a lot."

Yes you will.

"Are you circumcised?" You can't help the curiosity that seeps into your voice.

I'm not going to describe my cock to you.

"David!" You pout at your screen. "I'm not asking for numbers, here. I just want to know what it would be like to stroke you."

And you'll find out eventually.

“That's not fair.” You are completely naked, after all.

I already told you it's not supposed to be fair.

“Yes, yes, you’re very mysterious,” you huff in disappointment.

Like I said, you’ll find out eventually.

“Soon, I hope.”

Soon.

Now I want you to go back to showing me where you want my hands.

“Do you?” You lean back in your chair. “You want more to think about while you're touching yourself?”

That's exactly what I want.

“Hmm, how can I ever say no to that?” Then you lean even further back so you can caress over the curve of your hips. “You can run your hands along here as you feel your way over my body. It will feel lovely, but I'll enjoy it even more if you grab me instead. Because I want to feel how much you need me.”

That's good because I want to grab you by the hips to hold you still as I slam my cock into you.

“Fuck, David!” You cry out. Your hands reflexively grip and squeeze your own hips at the mental image, your fingers digging almost painfully into the bone. Your sex clenches in anticipation, hoping you’ll get what he said would come next.

If he was there with you and not still on the other end of the call. God, you wish he was there.

After that, you also know the teasing and buildup has come to an end. You can't hold back any longer, and he's made it very clear that neither can he.

"Do you know where else I liked to be touched?" Before he can reply, you finally tilt your hips and spread your legs wide, exposing your sex for the camera. You settle your knees on either side of the seat of the chair with your calves tucked against the wooden legs.

You like to think, if he were there in person, he would have been opening his mouth to answer as the words died on his lips. Instead, you imagine his fingers frozen over his keyboard as he gets to see the part of you he's been waiting for. You're certain he's been going slow—stroking himself enough for it to feel good, but not so much that he loses control. Not until he gets what he wants. Not until he's gotten this.

You end the exploration of your body by reaching between your thighs. Then you cup your mound and begin teasing your fingers along your folds. God, you're already so wet. "Right here. Especially by a hand that knows what I need."

Show me what you need.

You plunge a finger into your entrance and moan at the intrusion. You can't remember the last time you did this. Usually you focus on just your clit with your fingers or your vibrator, eager for the release and not caring much about indulging in the process. You didn't have a reason for it other than getting off to relieve some tension.

Now, as you slide your finger out and draw it over that sensitive nub, you want it back inside of you. You want to be full as you think of him. So you press two inside of you instead.

"I want to know what you look like so badly," you gasp as your fingers begin to work your cunt.

Do you?

"I do. And I want to know what you feel like."

You will, that I promise you.

"God," you whine and slip a third finger into your opening. "This feels so good. I haven't fingered myself in a while."

Why not?

"I haven't wanted to. I just wanted a quick orgasm."

Then I continue to keep my promise, don't I? I made you want to.

"Yes! Christ, I want to," you gasp and rock your hips up to meet your hand. "I want to touch myself like this for you. I love knowing that you're watching me, David, and that you're getting off to it. But more than that, I love pretending that it's you."

If you're pretending that it's me, you need to go deeper because I intend to fuck you properly.

You slam your fingers into yourself as far as they will go, and your head falls back with a cry. “God, I want you to fuck me. Please!”

While I grab your pretty hips and make you take every bit of me?

“Fuck! Yes, exactly like that!” You whine. “I can't believe you're going to make us wait for this! Because you don't have to. You could have me now."

I could.

I could have you however I wanted, couldn't I?

You glance down at the camera, your eyes heavy with lust. "Would you like that?"

You're not answering the question.

"That's because I know better than to say yes," you pant. Your fingers are still working inside of you, stretching you in a way that is both satisfying and not nearly enough. It's driving you crazy.

What does that mean?

"We both know that if I bare my throat to you, you won't be able to resist ripping it out."

I would never hurt you unless you wanted it.

"I believe that you would never want to, but I see you, too. You couldn't help it.” Your hand slows, and you tilt your head as you consider your computer screen. “Could you?"

There's a moment of stillness from the chat box, and you briefly wonder if you've upset him, even though you know you're right. You know there's something about him that’s dangerous and predatory. He admitted as much himself. And it’s not like you feel the need to be overly careful or afraid of him. The thought doesn't bother you. You simply know that you can never tempt him by actually offering yourself up as helpless prey. Or he might just get a taste for it.

Because you can love a predator as long as you never forget, for even a second, that it's still a predator—no matter how much it shows you its belly and loves you back.

You know all of that. Instinctively. Logically.

And yet.

You do so love being his favorite little prey.

"It doesn't scare me, David," you say quietly to break the silence.

No?

"No. Quite the opposite." You draw your fingers out of yourself to rub over your clit with a moan. "It intrigues me."

I know it does.

Why do you think I’ve done all of this? I knew, from the moment I saw you, that you could want what I am.

“And what are you, David?”

Darling, did you really think I would answer that question? Where's the fun in that?

“But I want to know.” Your fingers speed back up against your bundle of nerves. “I want to know everything about you.”

You will.

“And I want to know every secret you keep from the rest of the world.”

Don't worry, you’ll know me completely.

Eventually.

His words feel like a promise and a threat. You shiver with pleasure.

You shift down far enough in your chair to get a better angle. Then you bring your knees up and plant your feet wide against the edge of your desk. You know this has the added bonus of giving him an even better view of your opening. It also gives him a hint of what it might look like when you finally lay back and spread your legs for him.

"Can you see how wet I am?" You drag your fingers over your clit with a gasp. “Can you see how much I want you?”

Yes. I can see exactly how eager you are.

"Good. As you're stroking yourself, I want you to think about burying your cock right here.” You move your other hand between your thighs. Without hesitation, you plunge your fingers into your entrance again. Now you’re pleasuring your clit while also getting that enticing fullness you ache for, and it feels fucking incredible. The sight of both of your hands moving on your screen only adds to the indulgence.

As if I could think about anything else.

"I wish I was watching you right now instead of myself."

You want to watch me stroke my cock to you?

Your whole body shudders, and you bite your lip to stifle a whimper. "Yes! I want to watch the way your hand slides over your cock and how it throbs and twitches in your fist. I want to see what I do to you."

What you do to me…

You drive me insane. I've never needed to fuck someone like I need to fuck you.

"Jesus!" You wail as your hips jerk forward, and your knees start to shake. “David!”

That's right. I'm going to make you sob my name.

"If you keep talking like that, I'm not going to last long,” you pant.

Good. I want to see you let go for me.

“But I want you to enjoy this!”

You think I'm not enjoying this?

I finally got to see how responsive you are to my words and hear the sounds you make when you're like this. This is everything I wanted. Better, even. Now I can't imagine how much better it will be in person.

When you're full of my cock instead of your fingers.

“Fuck!” You’re driving those fingers in and out of your cunt with purpose now. You're no longer giving him a show. This is you feeling your orgasm closing in on you and scrambling for it, desperate and needy.

Fuck, that's good. Look at you. You're so god-damned beautiful as you fuck yourself for me.

"God, yes!" You gasp as you arch in your chair. "For you."

Only me. Only I can see you like this.

Say it.

"Only you, David."

That's my girl.

Now you're going to come for me.

“I'm so close,” you whine.

And I'm going to come as I imagine your tight little cunt.

“David,” you gasp, barely able to speak now through your ragged breathing. “Please.”

It's all I've been able to think about for months. It's going to feel so fucking good to finally get to fuck you and come with my cock buried inside of you. And I'm going to do it over and over again until I physically can't anymore.

Do you understand? I NEED you. Fuck!

“Yes,” you barely whisper. You're not even sure the microphone picked it up, but you have nothing more to give. The tension building inside of you is becoming nearly suffocating as you read every word. You feel you might drown in it before you ever find release.

As you continue seeking your own satisfaction, a photo pops up in the chat.

At the top of the photo, there’s the edge of a laptop keyboard, which is sat on top of a very ornate and expensive looking wooden desk. But that's not the point of the photo. No. That's not what strangles your breath in your throat or sets a flame in your chest that licks at your cheeks.

The polished surface of the desk is streaked and splattered with come. His come.

You imagine him standing in front of his computer, urgently stroking himself until he's shuddering out his orgasm and spending himself across the surface. All while his eyes never leave you on the screen.

You made him do that.

Your hand speeds up—the circles your fingers are rubbing over your clit are becoming almost brutal and painful, even as pleasure rakes up your belly and your whole body starts to tense. You're so close. So fucking close. You didn't know it was possible to balance on that edge for so long without falling in either direction.

You can't tear your eyes away from that ruined surface or get the thought of him fucking his own fist out of your head as you keep chasing oblivion and—

This is what you do to me.

Oh.

You bury your fingers into your cunt just as your walls clench down around them, and you come undone for the second time that day. To him.

You open your mouth to cry out, to wail his name as part of your release, but it gets choked to nothing more than a thought as your climax slams into you so hard that it knocks the wind out of you. You throw your head back from the force of it. As you try to ride each pulse of ecstasy out against your fingers, the muscles in your legs tense. Then you're involuntarily pushing against your desk with your feet.

The front two legs of the chair lift off the floor.

For a brief moment, your stomach lurches and you think you're going to topple backwards. Instead, you stay like that, hovering between stability and free fall, letting a wave of fear and adrenaline wash over you. Perhaps that should have ruined this, but the additional sensations only heighten and sharpen every breathless shudder until all of your nerve endings thrum. You’ve never felt so painfully, blissfully, alive.

Once you're fully spent, you carefully let the chair fall forward, returning to its proper position on all four legs. Then you bring one of your own legs down to plant a foot onto the carpet to ground yourself and stop that feeling of weightlessness still lingering within you.

God, you're stunning. The most exquisite thing I've ever seen. You were wonderful for me.

You sit there, bonelessly draped back in your seat, sweaty, your arms hanging at your sides, with your chest heaving as you struggle to catch your breath. And you try to smile for him anyway because, between his praise and your orgasm, you swear you’re glowing.

But you didn't scream my name.

You let out a breathless sound of protest. “Couldn't. I tried. Seeing what I do to you…it was too good, holy shit." You swallow hard and shift forward into a more comfortable position in the chair. "But I thought it, David. You were the only thing I knew while I came for you."

Mmmm, that's very good. But you're still going to do better next time. I’ll make sure of it.

"With you?" You ask hopefully.

With me.

FOR me.

Your face burns, and there's a weak twinge of arousal between your legs. Even though it's a mere shadow of what you’ve already experienced today, you’re amazed it's even possible after that.

…You still don't even know what he looks like, you think.

God, he's dangerous.

Won't you?

"Yes," you moan. "I promise I will scream your name until my voice gives out, as long as you're the one coaxing it out of me."

Yes you will.

You whimper. "When?"

Soon.

There are some things I need to take care of first. Then I will send for you.

Your heart begins to pound with nerves and anticipation. This is really happening. "How long?"

Only a few days.

A grunt of shock is ripped from your throat. "Days?!"

Now who's eager?

"I can't help it," you purr, softening at his teasing as you run your hand along your still trembling inner thigh. "I want to see you. And I want you inside of me."

You'll have that.

I'LL have that.

"How many days?" You're almost afraid to ask.

I'll have a car pick you up Monday evening.

There's a heavy drop of disappointment in your stomach. "That's three days…"

Enough time to have all of my obligations done and taken care of. I want to be able to focus entirely on you once I have you. Like you deserve.

“But that's so long!” It's taking everything in you not to pout. You realize now you’ve been interpreting “soon” to mean you might finally get to see him, say, tomorrow. Or maybe even still tonight. It never occurred to you that it might be longer and that you’d have to wait for him.

I know, darling. I don't like it anymore than you do. And I would never make you wait if it wasn't important, but I have promises to keep.

“Alright,” you sigh. You find that you're, once again, reminding yourself that you're an adult. You can be patient.

And now that you're thinking about it, this gives you plenty of time to prepare as well. You don't have promises to keep, but you can certainly think of a few appointments you should make. When the time comes, you want everything to be perfect.

Besides, after that you’ll never have to wait again. Will you?

“No, David.” You lean forward as you stare into the camera. “Once I have you, I intend to never wait again. Because once I have you, you’re mine.”

That's my girl.

Later that night, when you go to sleep, you take your laptop with you and leave it open on your dresser, facing the bed. On your side table, you prop your phone up into its charging stand and make sure it's positioned just right as well. You want to give him two angles to enjoy this time. Then you sprawl out on top of your covers, still completely naked.

On your phone, you carefully type out, “I hope you didn't think the show was over. Because I still have more I can give you, and it would be such a shame to waste it. Enjoy, David. X”

As you hit send, you reach into the top drawer of your nightstand and pull out your vibrator. Then you settle back, and—with a desire that feels nearly insatiable now—you work several more orgasms from your clit while you gasp and moan and scream his name.

All while you know he's watching.

A/N: See? Who needs therapy when you have fanfiction?? 😌 (Christine please ignore the 🚩💕) I debated about whether or not to write a phone call with her mom, but I realized I don't actually want to give her a voice. Because this story isn't about her or even the reader's past. It's about healing from trauma, moving forward as the worst version of yourself, and falling in fucked up love with a stalker/serial killer. 😌

#tara! 🧡#needing that stalker/serial killer in a way that is concerning to feminism #he's so terrible i want him #david robey #david robey x reader #the devil makes us sin #fic rec #andy serkis

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