#like a singular hour away from me

[rowlfthedog]

My Fraggles ..

[gardenoflupins]

Real picture of me rereading and editing a 10k word chapter

[skrunksthatwunk]

household enemy to the yyh watchthrough number one is the olympics. it's taken us a week to get two episodes into the gamemaster fight

[honey-skulls]

I just loved waiting weeks for an appointment in an official health government center, to get screened for cancers, endometriosis, other seriously physical issues etc

And i leave 3 hours later being told to go play board games at the public library, take walks outside, and a coupon for a teeth check up

[tonycries]

OL-F*CK-TORY ETHICS?!

Synopsis. Pheromone perfume? Should’ve thought about the olfactory ethics of driving him absolutely wiId with them.

Pairings. [SEPARATE] Gojo x Reader, Ino x Reader, Sukuna x Reader, Choso x Reader, Geto x Reader, Nanami x Reader, Toji x Reader

Content. MDNI, fem! reader, pheromone perfume (they’re affected), they go FÉRAL, slight aphrodísiacs, creampíes, dúmbification, tummy buIges, MARATHONS, overstím, really néedy boys, GOJO’S POWERS, full neIsons, making Geto whímper, handcúffs (Geto), rough s, p sIapping, PÚSSYDRÚNK JJK MEN, pet names, swéaring.

A/N. Yes, I think I’m a comedian for that title.

♡ TOJI FUSHIGURO - BREAK HIM!

“P-please-” 

“Hm?”

“Please, doll…”

And it’s the first time in your life that you’ve heard Toji Fushiguro beg - the first ever time in his life that he has. Low, rasping over the deafening snap! of the poor headboard splitting in half, “Mercy- m’begging ya. Mercy.”

It’s hard to think that just a few hours ago, he was trying not to snicker with smugness - pheromone perfume. Really? As if anything in that shiny, half-off bottle could make him lose his composure. 

“Such a silly girl–” Toji had rolled his sage eyes down at you. Tutting at the way you were impatiently sprawled over his lap, waiting for his word. Leisurely, he’d leaned in– well whatever his lady wants. “Told ya already, this stuff isn’t gonna m-make me-”

Oh.

And that was hours ago. Hours. 

But here Toji was bullying his furiously sweat-slicked face into the heady crook of your neck - taking only one singular whiff before he flinches. Hips rutting mindlessly into yours with a smack! “O-oh, we’re not making it hngh! outta this alive, ma.”

It was the fourth time in the past few minutes that he’s babbling those very words into your perspired skin. The fourth time. 

He was broken.

Managing out only a few throaty whimpers when you’re shuffling onto your elbows, all you have to do is give one fluttering squeeze of your gummy walls before something hits your arched spine with a wet splat!

Multiple. Tears. 

“F-fuuuuck–” He’s hissing, sexy baritone thickened with clingy sobs. And the only thing sloppier than Toji’s unsteady tone, was his cock. Ruthless. “Fuck- fuck fuck fuck–”

“Need a lil’ h-help, baby?” You find yourself purring, head tilting ever-so-slightly over your shoulder to bare Toji with even more of your scented throat. Clouded wafts of it puffing over to his darkened features and making him gasp– “Because-”

In only a split-second, you’re not even sure what you were about to say - what happened other than Toji shoving you face-first into the cushy pillow in nanoseconds. 

Staggering strength leaving the bulging biceps on his big, beefy arms flex, and you keening away into your soft landing. Boneless legs stumbling onto the bed once he tilts his bodyweight onto yours and makes you stumble, “T-Tooji—!”

Oh, the sound of his name in your honeyed tone makes Toji’s hulking voice break out in shivers. 

“S-s’it turn you on ta see me like this?” Punctured with solid, pounding plaps! of his bloated tip against your springy cervix, such a staggering size that tenderized every sliver inside your heated cunt without even trying. His massive arms tremble, “To see me a-all pathetic and ngh- weak?”

Weak. 

But the way he was pinning you down onto the creaking bedcoils and slamming jagged bruises onto your mounds of flesh from behind was anything but.

“M-maybe?” Oh, he definitely was fucking you stupid - because you find yourself giggling. Globs of slippery drool overspilling from your slack maw and drenching the puffy pillow underneath you. So wet n’ utterly filthy that it makes your thighs squeeze, “You’re s-so cute, Toji.”

“Don’t- don’t you fuckin’–” Immediately leaving one spank on your puffed-up clit. Two. Three, just for good measure- shit, Toji really can’t help but bring those sappy, glazed-over fingerpads to his mouth and sucking. 

And the sugary sweet taste makes the man moan. 

“Fuck- fuck, did that p-perfume make her taste even sweeter or what?” 

Before you know it, Toji’s hard, Herculean front is sagging downwards into yours - hunching over, collapsing. He can barely keep his eyelids held open, let alone his glissading body. 

Sinking you ever-deeper into the plush mattress, you swear you could count each and every rock-hard ab pressing into you. The curvy massage of Toji’s pecs rendering your mouth to let off a soft mewl.

And he’s rough above you. Still fucking you in a way that makes your sturdy bed splinter. Dark tufts from Toji’s happy trail scratching the very tip-top of your papping ass with every merciless whack.

“Gonna tell ya a s-secret-” He spills in breathy puffs against your ear, nuzzling the pointed tip of his nose against where your perfume was the most potent. Drinking you in. Gasping. “-b-better not tell ngh- anyone- got it, ma?”

And you almost get the urge to tilt your head back and confirm that this was really your Toji.

Because not only were his choked-up words making you dizzy, so was the way that he sounded right about not. Voice numerous octaves higher, cracking. 

You’d have half the mind to tease him about it if the entirety of your fuzzy head wasn’t completely overtaken by simply the thought of Toij Toji Toji-

“Oi- oi!” Three harshly repeated smacks to the side of your cheek wrench you from your little daydream, until you’re being manhandled with a few fingers around your throat to gaze up at the man himself. Growling, “N-no zonin’ out on me just yet- gotta tell ya h-how much it turns me on, too…”

Oh? Oh.

And as soon as he starts, he can’t stop. Can’t slow down the prattling words spat into your mouth - all teeth and something lecherous. 

You’re squealing once one of his splayed-out palms rover to the bumpy outline of him fucking a tummy bulge into you. 

Skimming across until he could practically feel the rapid ba-dump–! ba-dump–! ba-dump–! being crashed into all your magical spots, “L-look at you taking it allll. Look how hard I am- feel how hngh- fucking hard–” 

He doesn’t even have to finish his sentence for you to know. For you to feel.

Another heavy gulp of the thick air surrounding you two - of that familiar candied smell - and he’s like an animal. Swollen cock stretching your goopy walls until they were wiiidely agape, throbbing a few solid centimeters wider in circumference. 

“How fucking big. Yeah? Hngh- t-takin’ it all like a big girl, aren’t ya?” 

Getting harder just from the perfume. From you. 

One hand desperately claws at his own bustling bulge, the other smearing over your overstuffed pussy.

“O-oh, god-” Your eyes sprint needily to the back of your head, head pushing into the soaked pillows. Toji’s ministrations were heavenly, rubbing quick, jerky heart all over your sugar-coated clit. Faster. “K-keep doing that n’ m’gonna c-cum.”

“M’only getting harder. Needier- fuck, I need you-” Swirling his fat thumb in circles right on time with his globular tip, “My big girl- w-with her ngh- big perfumes. Fuck-” You don’t think Toji even registers when he plants a delicate peck where your scent was the strongest. Moaning. Before pressing two more, three, four- “Don’t want- Need you to c-cum f’me. Need to feel that ngh- pretty pussy cum ‘round my big fuckin’ cock.”

You’re raking your nails down his toned forearms, “Close. C-close.”

“Fucking cum.”

And when you so, your silken soft walls are squeezing Toji’s veiny shaft so tight that it takes him everything in him to fuck you through each white-hot peak. Dragging you across your starry high and then some-

Wiping away a trickling spray of his own drool, Toji feels himself laugh - low and humorless. You’ve found his weakness.

♡ NANAMI KENTO - Mr. CEO

Nanami Kento was a gentleman. The perfect sweetheart.

But that was the complete opposite of the way that said Nanami Kento currently had you shoved face-down into his cool mahogany office desk, your delirious tears spilling over in rippling puddles over the expensive wood while he fucked you like he hated you.

“Fuck-” he’s spitting into your open maw, fingers loosening his overpriced tie. Your popped ears ring with a sharp riiiip–! once he tugs your tight satin skirt even higher, rough. “Fuck- not again, darling.”

Before you can even think of gurgling out any coherent syllables, his ragged palm comes striking down on the surface mere inches away from your face with a deafening SLAM!

Meaty thighs rippling with copious shivers from right behind you - Nanami was letting himself heave, he was letting his muscular body pin you down. Sliding the ladder-like ridges of his abs down your arched back.

“Shit. Shit shit shit- not again. M’not supposed ta-” Cutting himself off - gasping - and it’s a sheer miracle that he can even manage to wrench out those growling words at this point. Breath puncturing with a low ah! ah! ah! after every hit of his toned hips against your ass. “I don’t…don’t know why-”

Almost…feral.

You’re both letting your heads drop down at a drunken pace to catch the splat! of those first few ribbons of cum being slipped past your folds. 

Every bludgeoning inch of Nanami’s coral pink crownhead plugs your leaky hole full. He’s fucking in those dewdrops of seed to maze across your gummy walls, leaving sweltering hot geysers pooling on your cervix.

So hot. 

And in the corner of your eye, you’re catching him reel those powerful hips back until only the very tip of his swollen cock was softly pecking your entrance. “Can’t- can’t stop cumming- fuck!”

“Wh-what?” You’re not sure if you heard him right.

“Can’t stop, m’sorry–” He draws a slow five circles around your quivering hole with the very edge. A glossy white lip gloss that cakes over your pussy folds like icing. “Won’t stop cumming. Haaah- your cute cunt…s’drivin’ me mad.”

You feel Nanami’s round-ended thumb plug up the weeping orifice right in the middle of his cockhead, trying- failing to stop his trickling rivulets of creamy seed. Before letting out a pained huff and filling you once more to the very brim–

It was so much. Too much. And it just pained him to not be all sunken inside your hot, pretty pussy.

You whimper at the taut stretch, stumbling onto your unsteady elbows to peek at your husband. “I-is everything alright, Ken?”

Desperate.

You haven’t seen Nanami look this gone - eyes so hooded they were almost shuttered closed, mouth forever parted in awe, cheeks burning with a bright red blush - since the first time he ever fucked you.

So warm and dizzy. 

Your fluttery walls squeeze involuntarily around his puffed-up veins, as if you’re trying to memorize every jagged pattern. Heart racing once leans in with a vulgarly handsome snarl-

“Still here.” He gruffs out a throaty murmur into your rapidly beating pulse, teeth nipping dangerously over the drumming staccato as if to warn look what I can do, my love. And the expression plastered all over his face is nothing if not crazed, “Still there.”

Fuck, that same mantra over n’ over again.

“Wh-what do you mean, Ken?” It takes everything in you to voice out, even the leaking cum that Nanami scoops up dutifully doesn’t compare to just how much wetter your cunt gets at the hoarse baritone of his voice. He was so effortlessly sexy.

“It’s- it’s still there, darling.” And you’ve never heard your stoic husband sound so…ruined. Like he was on the verge of crying - or damn near breaking you in half. Or both.

And how could Nanami Kento have become the boss if he didn’t multitask?  

He was still pounding long, rummaging inches into you after every syllable spoken - hitting the bruised and battered target of your g-spot with a sickly sweet ba-dump! every single time. Not even slowing down to let himself catch his breath after his previous orgasm.

He wouldn’t.

He couldn’t.

Because even though Nanami’s molten eyes were stinging with tears from the utter sensitivity, even though he could feel his hefty balls flinch tenderly every time they thwacked against the front of your cunt - he still found something dark and deep inside of him begging for more more more. 

Body moving before he could even control.

In only nanoseconds, Nanami interlaces a clawed grip around your throat to haul you up like some glamorized doll. Eyes widening, he buries his face into the crook of your neck and gasps.

“Th-this-” And Nanami Kento never stutters, he never lets his statuesque facade crack with the beginnings of something that almost looks shy. Your stomach twists at the way his cerise lower lip wobbles adorably, “-what is this, my love?”

“Hmm–? Oh.” And then it finally hits you. “A n-new perfume?”

Although it looks like it wasn’t just a perfume. Fuck, you should’ve looked at the packaging a little closer. 

But Nanami doesn’t answer. He doesn’t utter a word. Does nothing but let his lungs drag in a generous heaval of your scent.

And it’s enough to send his needy cock crashing into the very bottom of your sloppy pussy. Your hands scramble for anything - and land on the golden name plate emblazoned with CEO NANAMI while he draws up a looong wet glide. Prying apart the papping mounds of your ass to rut into you impossibly deeper. 

Nanami’s vision clouds and he’s not sure if it’s from the force of the countless orgasms or simply you. His gorgeous wife. 

Wait- wife?

Before he knows it - before he can stop himself - he’s babbling away, “Marry me- marry me, my love.”

“But…” You’re reaching over to tangle your fingertips through his dishevelled strands of gold with a smile. Thumbing away that perspired furrow in his brow, “We’re already hah! married, Kento.”

Oh?

And Nanami Kento trusts you above him. Which is why he finds his eyes rovering down to steal a glance at your pretty ring finger and- oh. You were right. 

“Mhm— tha’s me, Kento. Your husband.” He’s breathing out, one hand tracing over the staggeringly large rock homed prettily on your wedding ring. 

And the other- the other was letting his fat fingerpads swipe down your buttery slit, topping itself with sweltering hot ounces of cum. Before promptly pushing past your wobbly lips, “Now suck ‘nless you want the whole office to hear about your ph-pheromone perfume.”

♡ GETO SUGURU - T-take it, dammit-

“You- you bitch.” Geto Suguru looked so pretty like this - amethyst eyes fighting to stay open in anger and need, curtaining inky hair splayed out like a halo underneath him. Each growling snarl of his only growing raspier by the minute, “Fucking knew this would h-happen, didn’t you?”

Did you just hear the oh-so-suave Geto Suguru stutter?

And it’s just about all you can do to keep yourself from snickering, hands planting precariously onto the delicious curve of his deltoids. The bulging flex of his toned muscles makes your mouth water, “Oh? I don’t know what you mean, Sugu—”

Geto’s rolling his eyes - but his hips were speaking a completely different language. Rolling up off of the sticky hold of the bedsheets to give your g-spot a good, lengthy skim of his ruby-red tip.

He’s tugging one shackled wrist, “S’that why ya have me in this, gorgeous?” 

Ah, and how could you forget your favorite part about tonight? 

Those fuzzy pink handcuffs that you’d goaded your dear boyfriend into wearing, all smug smiles and chuckles until you’d leaned down to give him an innocent peck. And then let him smell-

“Sh-shit. Look what you’ve done t’me.” He’s hissing into your loosened mouth, snatching your pouted lips into such a bruising, bruising kiss. Sharpened canines digging into your bottom lip, he practically gulps in the breaths of your special perfume. “You and th-this heavenly pussy and that- godforsaken pheromone perfume.”

You were making a fool out of him - all with a “special perfume” that he’d bought for you at your pleas. Idiot, he didn’t even read the box before gifting it to you.

Geto throws his head back with a drawling grunt when the only reply he gets is your pretty smile. “Fuck- fuck!”

Voice pitching up in volume higher and higher- and he was sure he looked crazed right about now. Hips rutting cleanly off of the mattress to spearhead you with so many copious inches. More. 

It was already hard enough keeping himself smooth n’ composed every time he usually sunk past your velvety walls - you drove him wild without even trying. But now? 

Now this stupid “perfume” of yours was here to do the very same thing, only tenfold because it was his beautiful girl wearing it.

Oh.

Geto thanks he can feel himself going wild.

The extra heavy-duty handcuffs sing out a metallic creak–! once he tugs particularly harshly, trembling fingertips aching to feel every inch of your glissading body. You were riding him at such a maddening tempo. Your hips hitting the very back of his generously curved balls, before gyrating your puffy clit down in a slooow grind up his toned abdomen — but he wanted more.

It wasn’t enough. It would never be enough when Geto was like this.

“When- when I break out of these oh!” With every empty threat puffed out into the heady air, Geto finds his achingly hard cock weeping even more thick rivulets of pre. Lungs filling up with hypnotic volumes and volumes of that scent. He can feel himself fucking tearing up, “F-fuck you.”

He was so sexy like this. 

Trying oh-so-desperately to pretend that those collisions into your gooey depths didn’t have his toes curling, heavy lids falling shut to hide away just how fast Geto’s eyes were sliding to the very back of his head.

You’re arching a brow, “Oh? What was that?”

Lips sleazing backwards into a pussydrunken grin, you had the inkling that Geto didn’t even realize what he was babbling away at this point. He couldn’t even think. “I-I said fuck-” 

Mouth still moving. Soundless.

And all it takes is a mere touch of your sensory fingertips caressing his sweat-lathered temple to render Geto speechless.

“W-wait—” He breathes out, and he sounds hysterical right now. Venomous tone lilting countless octaves higher and wobbling as if he was about to break. His chest caves in with a low please–! once you’re streaking your digits through his silky hair, shivering as if being shocked with a thousand voltages. Pulling. “Not fair. Not fair not- fuck tha’s not fair t’me, gorgeous.”

You already knew that the pheromone perfume had some…aphrodisiacal effects. But it seemed that Geto was extra sensitive to it. Cute. 

“Yes, and?” Just for good measure - oh, you were thoroughly enjoying this - you’re trekking your stray fingertips to latch onto the gleaming curve of his throat. Bringing your scented neck even closer-

“Oh.” Geto’s snarky mouth now floods with a silvery plash of scorching hot saliva, fucked out of him after every resounding slam! of your hips down on his. You watch as his weightily lidded eyes glaze over with a film of something murky.

Continuing to wrench needily at his restraints. Desperately. It was like a second nature for Geto to touch you and right now he was ruined. You can’t help but ogle the rounded flex of his biceps-

“Gonna- fuck.” He whimpers - whimpers - out, nose crinkling. It made you much too drenched when he leans in mindlessly to rub the buttony tip of it against yours in a lazy kiss. Maw slacking every time you pumped his achily swollen cock across your most tender spots, the orifice of your hole massaging his reactive shaft so greedily. “M’close…”

Whispering, right now, as if it was the most dear confession. 

Because Geto Suguru never came before he’d made you reach your orgasm at least five times over.

But right now he was teetering right over the very high edge of it, so close. His thick, sculpted thighs push up from behind your motioning body to urge your bounces vulgarly faster, skin-to-skin. 

“C-close.” And it sounded almost pained if you didn’t feel the way it was accompanied by a hastily slipped spasm of Geto’s ballooned-up crownhead against your cervix. Too close. His beautiful head lolls backwards against the tear-streaked pillows, “M’gonna- m’gonna-”

Before snapping up furiously again when your merciless pace stops.

And all you can get out is a not-so-innocent, “Whoops.”

All you can get out - because it takes Geto exactly two split-seconds to snap! those useless pink handcuffs off of him and flip the two of you over to tower over you in all his glory. Speckles of frustrated sweat slithering between his bulging pecs and down onto your heaving body.

He’d let you have your fun, already.

Geto moves slow. Calculated. 

Leisurely meandering his face all over your thrumming throat, your tits, everywhere and anywhere that godforsaken pheromone perfume was calling to him. Taking in looong languid breaths of it - and each time he did, he’s fucking up into you like he didn’t even realize. 

Pounding you into the drenched silken sheets with all girthy inches of his circumference, branding it into your slippery womb like he didn’t want you to forget. 

You’re hit with the sudden remembrance that there was a reason you had to tie Geto up. 

And that is when you catch his gaze - wide, unfocused. Feral. 

Oh, you were fucked. 

So very fucked. 

“So.” Geto shatters your anticipatory realization with a throaty few syllables, hoarse like he wasn’t even ready for himself to speak at that point. Without a single warning, he spits - right in your mouth once. Then twice onto two slender fingers, before giving your cunt a stinging spank. “Ya gonna beg for mercy now or later, gorgeous?”

♡ CHOSO KAMO - H.O.T.T.O.G.O.

God, if this was any other time then maybe Choso would’ve felt embarrassed about the way he was letting his clammy palms cling onto your waist like he never wanted you to let go. 

Because he didn’t. Would never. 

Huffing and puffing out clouded puffs of air into the sticky valley of your chest, he’s just so drunk on you. Can feel himself veering lazily into the pillow, drenching it with gumdrops of thick saliva. It takes everything in him to lift his head and puff in smoky breaths of your pheromones.  

And it makes him burn. So hot rutting up into you, skin-on-skin. 

Probing veins scouring your every nook and cranny, ruthless shaft the complete opposite of just how delicately he was boring down at you. Choso was nudging his ballooned-up cock past your puffy hole like he was making you melt around him.

Making you break - just as much as he was right now. 

And the only thing hotter is the way the slithering muscle of Choso’s pierced tongue lolls outwards to skim the buttery splotches of cum scattered across your tits from before. Shiny Prince Albert’s cooling you hardened nipples.

Eyes reeling to the very hidden backs of his hooded lids, he’s moaning at the salted caramel taste of himself. “S-so hot. So soft inside, m’ l-losing my mind.”

You’re just soaked skin-deep with him. 

And you’re blaming it all on that strange perfume - a pheromone perfume - that that assistant had dabbed on you at the store. You’d forgotten just how…sensitive curses can be to smells. 

How feral.

Finding your heart racing at the way he was narrating off every single thing, every single twitch inside you that slid across your gluey magical spots. “S’that so, Cho?”

Usually, Choso would nod away deliriously to your every word. Usually, he would prattle on sweet, sweet simperings of his very own.

But right now, you watch in slight awe as the pale skin of his pretty cheekbones scorch over with a brightly blossoming blush. The heat of it so feverishly hot that you can almost feel it, and Choso bucks his hips wildly into you with a low keen at the back of his throat.

“D-don’t call me that.” He’s straining out through a shiver. Lower lip fussed until it was a pouted cherry pink. You swear the moment Choso leans closer you see his long mahogany lashes glisten with tears. His big, beefy arms finding their way around your body, “S’gonna…gonna make me cum. Gonna- fuck!”

As if to prove his point, the perked hill of his fattened cockhead splits with glossy white swabs of pre. Buttering up your deepest insides and promising more. 

You’re tugging him in ever-closer, the look in your glassy eyes so loving that he feels his length pump greedy ounces more and swell. Growing girthier - pushing your glutinous walls further n’ further apart just from the way you’re staring at him. 

How he loved you.

You hum, “But I want you to, Cho. No need to be shy.”

Something in him breaks. And just the thought of it is enough to make the special grade in front of you drool.

Slick rivers of spittle streaming from between his jaw, unhinging when he inches in to gift your surprised tongue with a weighty splat! of webbed spit. He breathes out past the breathless bubble, “No no no no- D-don’t say things like that, baby– I’m not…myself, right now.”

Tasting him. All of him.

The sugary sweet coating lathers your tastebuds and makes you whine, your legs stumbling around Choso’s toned hips. You can feel every tense of his toned core, count all eight of his washboard abs, “S-s’this the ngh! pheromone perfume, baby–? Maybe I should wear it more hck! often-”

“No.”

No?

And Choso can bash himself for interrupting his lovely lady later - but right now, he was frenzied. 

Gulping voluminous lungfuls of that scent - of you. 

Deftly practiced fingers entrap your plummy clit and roll over not circles, not hearts- no, the letters of his name over n’ over. Branding the perked hood of your nub until you could feel your eyes burst with stars, Choso was ravenous. 

“S’because- because it’s you.” He gasps out thickly, smooth baritone unsteady under the weight of all those tears painting smudged eyeliner down his pretty cheeks. “Your scent, n-not that ngh- perfume.” You’re flinching at the looong drag of his scratchy tastebuds dragging over your scented throat. Or, well, previously scented throat. He was addicted to you. “You have me- have me in heat, lil’ human, n’ it’s making me…”

Wild.

If Choso was any lesser man then he would’ve dragged you halfway down the bedcoils and thrown your legs haphazardly over his shoulders. Folding you in half to pound you into the mattress until you were dumb.

But, luckily for your dripping cunt, Choso was that lesser man right now. 

He doesn’t think he feels alive - can’t even register his wheezing breaths once he’s manhandling you into the densest possible mating press. 

Strong biceps rippling, chest heaving-

His fuzzy brain only sparks with recognition when Choso’s heavy breeder balls clench once, twice, thrice at the way your drooling pussy was laminating his rounded curve with a slimy coating of slick. That’s when he can feel himself actually startle, actually see.

And fuck, was it a sight enough to make him cum if he wasn’t so entranced with that prettily awestruck look on your face. 

“Can’t even feel m-my legs, baby-” He’s spitting through clenched teeth, stray strands of coffee brown plastering all across his sweat-slicked forehead. And something in Choso’s voice was…dark. Dangerous. You were in trouble. “-can’t th-think of anything but ngh- breeding this pretty pussy right now.”

Oh.

Oh.

That’s what he meant by a heat.

“Mhm– my clever girl.” Shit- did you say that out loud? Rewarding your cutely spellbound mind with a hefty thud! thud! thud! right onto what feels like your lungs. He had all the time in the world to fuck you stupid, after all. “My mate.”

♡ RYOMEN SUKUNA - Sweetener

“H-heh- say that again, silly human.”

“A pheromone perfume.” You’re squirming impatiently, words sticking to the back of your throat in saccharine gasps. And even the tiniest of gyrations leave Sukuna’s ruby-topped heads kissin’ sultry circles around your weeping hole. 

Leave you wanting more.

Snickering, “A fucking- pheromone- what?” 

The monstrous king of curses displays you with a rugged sneer that makes your folds even more impossibly watery. Just for those stupid words stumbling from your mouth, you’re gifted with one - two - three solid spanks, elongated black nails curling into the stinging mounds of your ass. 

It’s all you can do to grapple on helplessly to the mountain of his toned shoulders, fingers clawing red train tracks that look more like kitten scratches on him. “K-Kuna–!”

“Don’t K-Kuna me, brat.” Raw need coats the scorching innards of your mouth when he only rolls his crimson eyes, burning hot. And out of all four of Sukuna’s beefy arms, it only takes one to latch onto the curve of your hips and hover you unstably over his doubly swollen cocks. Tutting, “What? You think some h-human perfume will control Ryomen Sukuna. I must’ve fucked ya dumb already.”

So mean.

But Sukuna always did have a soft spot for you.

And all is a single criss-cross of your wobbly arms, kiss-bitten lips puckering up into the beginnings of his only weakness – your pout. 

“Fine. Fine, spoiled girl.” It works.

Yet, you’re shivering at the thwack! thwack! thwack! of his doughy-tipped fingers swatting your plump clit. Pecs puffing out with pride and smugness when your eyes glaze over at them and you stare.

It happens all at once. In an instant. 

As soon as both of Sukuna’s round, throbbing cockheads crown the edges of your drooling pussy - he leans sultry inches closer and finally, finally smells it. That. 

That scented perfume you’d found in your king’s centuries-old treasury, untouched and just ripe for your picking. For Sukuna to get hit with a thorough blast of it off of your heated skin, simply taking one whiff to addle his honed senses.

Undoing years upon years of painstaking training to make your great king of curses halt, jagged canines baring you with a predatory snarl. “Th-think this can affect oh-”

Who was he against you? 

Your entire body vibrates when Sukuna’s chest rumbles with something carnal. Bursting from the very depths of his chest and making you shiver.

The thunderous noise has barely even stopped ringing in your ears before he’s latching on two massive hands to your waist and pulling you in. No care, no hesitation - nothing but drooling with the anticipation of being buried inside your slick-flooding pussy.

He needed it.

And he can feel his head fall headily backwards at the shuddering thud! of Sukuna’s two proud tips skimming the ends of your spongy cervix. Hooked fangs snatching onto the jut of his bottom lip at the bouncy recoil- 

Fuck, he didn’t want to separate from your gummy walls for even a split-second. Even if it was to let your hips bounce in lecherous swivels up n’ down up n’ down up n’ down.

“Sh-shit, you’re in so ngh- deep.” 

It’s a slow tempo, but you never got used to the stretch that was Sukuna’s staggering sizes. 

Both aching cocks were so unfairly long and hard that he didn’t even have to try to smear his puffy veins over your awaiting g-spot. You swear both lengths reached well over a foot, and just having him bottom out had you scrambling to caress the inflated tummy bulge he was fucking into you. 

Your jaw hangs open, a syrupy waterfall of saliva dribbling all over your chin. You’re not sure if Sukuna even registers the way he’s tenderly swiping away the overspilling excess with a fat thumb. 

“Kuna?” You have to stop yourself from almost flinching away, feeling oh-so-shy at the burning heart-eyes in his gaze. The way a fourth arm was patting the sinful cylindrical outline leading up from your puffy pussy. Reaching an arm to stroke his sweat-matted pink locks, “A-are you okay?”

The moment your fingers skim any part - any minute millimeter - of Sukuna’s body, he’s whimpering. Whimpering. 

And if that was the worst of it, then maybe he could have gathered up some semblance of his shattered dignity. 

But Sukuna isn’t simply making pretty noises - he’s cumming. 

One touch. And a thousand torrents of cum sugarcoating your claggy walls. 

So much of it. Too much of it - it sweeps through your gluey walls and forms a little puddle ‘round his bulky bases. Creamily filthy mixtures of seed and slick ringing Sukuna’s base, they hit your perked clit with a wet pap! each time you’re milking him through his peaks. 

“D-did you just-”

“Shut up.” He bites back, leaving you no time for the realization to sink in - before curling a vice-like hand around your throat and making you slam down your hips. “Shut up.”

Sudden, striking hits that bruise the curve of your ass just as much as it bruised your battered insides. You were so hot. So soft that it made him dizzy. Melty depths being contracted around thick lengths, the pace at which your greedy pussy was swallowing him up almost made the king want to whine-

“O-oh my god.”

It did make him whine.

With a creaking squeak! of cushion, Sukuna’s sculpted hips lurch off of the decadent royal mattress in repeated ruts. Animalistic.

“Shut up- I s-said ngh- s’not my fault.” He spits out, angry dewdrops of steamy pre being streaked out in twin ribbons into the back of your cunt. “Not my fault you just feel so- so ohhh- f-fuck you, brat. I-if the rest of ‘em found out…”

But Sukuna already knew he was weak for you. He knew.

Just not to this extent. 

Not till just a simple cloud of your scent made his vision swim, a fresh wave of drool slipping n’ sliding from between the traitorous slit of his mouth. Both of them.

“M-mhm–” You find yourself smiling - maybe from his reaction, maybe from the way you were being fucked so thoroughly right. The knobbled tops of your knees skid easily across Sukuna’s drenched lap when you straddle him even even tighter, “S’that why-”

He wanted you to shut up. He needed you to shut up or else he was going to fucking cum again. 

Which is why his second cursed mouth opens wiiiide to puff your cunt with steamily clouded pants. Before rolling out his tongue and dragging up the entirety of your bulging pussy. All overfilled with him.

“A-another word–” Sukuna’s seething through clenched teeth, but it’s no use. None. Not when the way you lean in to listen closer is enough to make the king blush, “-a-and I make you walk a- ngh! around the entire day with my cum all safe n’ sound inside..”

♡ INO TAKUMA - “U-use me?”

“Wh-what?”

And for the first time in hours, Ino manages to meet his hazy chestnut eyes with yours. Shivering. Half-lidded. “Use me.”

Fuck.

You thought your beloved boyfriend would regain his senses by the second round- no, perhaps the third time’s the charm.

Okay, maybe the fourth? The fifth?

But even after six looong rounds, your splintered bedframe was still trilling with shrill creaks; sagging uselessly on one end as strong, tannish arms stick ever-closer to your body like glue. Folding you into the meanest n’ tightest full nelson possible. 

Still scorching. Still needy after getting hit with just a waft of that pheromone your friends bought you as a joke. A joke. 

But this was anything but.

Ino can’t even bring himself to wipe away the wads upon wads of slippery drool leaking from his maw after every mushy thud of his globular cockhead against the very back of your goopy cervix. He can’t even think.

“Puh-please.” He’s hiccuping, soft tipped fingers clawing near the sweaty crown of your head to push you further down. Lapping a lazy stripe up your scented neck, “Just one more– ngh! Need you t-to use me to make yerself cum once more, sweetness.”

“M-more?”

And oh, your voice was warbling with such cute disbelief that it makes Ino groan. “Yes. Yes.”

Planting a few more vicious plunges of his strawberry pink tip into the target of your favorite sweet spots - Ino’s favorites, too. Especially once your puffy pussylips part with numerous geysers of slick, flooding translucent rings at his base. 

All without even looking up from your neck.

He can’t.

Ino’s entire body wracks with tremors when he even tries to pull away a mere inch. Two. All that he can manage before nuzzling back in with heavy repeated pants.

You’re only getting wetter - and that maddening little perfume one you? Only stronger. 

He swears - fuck, maybe he’s going crazy - that he can smell just how close you are, how your tummy’s tightening into wiry knots. 

“But- but are you sure, baby–?” Your fingers scratch at the tawny ends of his damp locks, a primal itch so heavenly that he almost purrs. “M’wondering if you even can-”

“I can-” He’s cutting you off, free fingers straying down to the slightly-softening base of Ino’s furious cock and squeezing. Rutting up into you with wild abandon, “I can. I can- promise, sweetness, I promise.”

“Taku–”

And throughout Ino’s hazy mind, your words ring out like a death sentence. Like a punishment. Causing him to snap open his eyes with a sharp intaking gasp, round-topped curves of his knees manhandling your thighs further n’ further open.

You whine at the burning smear, head throwing backwards in a way that makes his slow rovering over your neck break away-

And if Ino was upset before, then he’s simply devastated now.

Sounding like he’s on the verge of sobbing, “No. No no no no no- don’t run, pretty.” Like catnip. Like a moth drawn to your frame, he’s wrapping his jittery forearms around you until you could count every twitch of his sculptured forearms. Crushing you in close. “Look at yourself- smell yourself. Fuck, I need it. M’not asking, m’b-begging you to use me like a…toy.”

He almost wishes he could bring himself to lurch away from that haven of pheromones dabbed across your skin. 

Almost wishes he could do anything else but swivel a fat thumb across your weepy folds, bringing it allll the way up to his eager nose to steal a long sniff. 

Filthy. 

But it’s exactly what makes Ino’s swollen cock perk up with an animalistic flinch inside of you, probing into the target of your g-spot dead on. 

“Shit- shit— y-you just got so much bigger.” Your vision flashes blissful white when his length stiffens into even longer n’ sold inches, swabbing at your precious cunt with pressurized pounds. And whatever ounces of blood left in his melty mind? Oh, they’re sprinting all the way down Ino’s boiling veins to end up bloating his throbbing cock. 

Getting hard just by the smell of you.

“O-oh.” You’re being bounced on top of his toned pecs when they dip with a sudden hitched breath. “Yes. Yes yes yes, jus’ like that. Love everythin’ about this ngh- pussy, she’s started smelling sweeter e-even here, too. Fuck, you’re a goddess, pretty.”

Sounding as if he was in such heavenly agony - husky voice cracking a few octaves higher. His hold so vice-like on you that you can already feel yourself bruising. 

Sloppier. Needier.

Shit- Ino needed to see that dumbstruck look surely being fucked onto your face. He’s finding himself moving - body before mind - to face that reflective, floor-length mirror propped up at the end of your bed. 

He always knew that thing would come in handy.

You’re croaking out a moan at the wet texture of Ino’s mouth watering, sprinkling your heated skin with spatters of spit.

But who could blame him?

It was such a sultry sight - to watch your bloated lips be pried apart by his reddened circumference, spraying out saturated glazes of your sweet, sweet juices each and every time. 

“See? See?” Ino’s murked puffs tinge with something higher-pitched and wild. Pearly white edges of his teeth sink into your delicate lobe, and make your skin break out in goosebumps. “How fucked you have me. Think m’gonna hngh- die if I don’t fuh-fuck this pretty pussy. If I don’t make you cum-”

Shit, he doesn’t even want to imagine the thought.

Your kiss-bitten mouth slackens into a loose oh! “Wanna- I wanna cum, Taku—” Twisting your head ‘round to face him with a slight pout that makes his entire body jolt.

“Y-yeah?” So, so pretty with a dopey smile being spread all across his face, you’re leaning in to kiss the cratering dimple at the edge of his plump lips. “C’mon. Fuck back into me- ngh- use me ta make yerself cum.”

You’re heading his every word, thighs aching at the fatigued pain of bouncing your hips in a resounding pap! pap! pap! Grinding your treacly slit all the way back into his fattened balls, “L-like this?”

“Atta girl. Harder, now.” His brows furrow. “Harder.”

More more more.

Words petering out halfway into a snarl at this point, you glimpse at the glint of Ino’s sharp canines peeking through the mirror. “Fuck me. Fuck me, pretty.”

“Taku.”

And you’re not sure who wanted you to cum more - you, or your feverish boyfriend. 

But your spellbound self had some semblance of an answer when the sound of his name on your honeyed tongue makes Ino flinch as if hit with a zillion volts of electricity.makes him dart down a hand to grace your neglected clit with an oh-so-rude pinch.

Ino’s fuzzy brain wasn’t even working enough to remember those patterns you loved so much. To remember just how to make his body move.

All he knew was that he needed this.

Needed the way you’re arching your spine into the perfect curvature against his glissading front, head thrown back with a mewl of Taku—! once you finally tip over the edge.

He finds his mouth falling gape, “Y-you’re so fucking hot.” Eyes locked on the trembly image of you in the mirror, he fucks you through every white-hot peak of your high. Babbling away,”Did your dear Taku m-make you cum, sweetness? Does it feel good? 

Oh, the audacity of him to tip a few thick digits underneath your chin and force you to nod. 

Giggling, “Thought so-” And then it happens. Then, he leans in for a sweet, sweet kiss as he usually does - only to be wafted with a murky cloud of pheromone perfume. Again. You watch as Ino blushes a soft pink, “Hey, p-pretty…so…”

♡ GOJO SATORU - Everyday is everyday.

Everyday means everyday - and it still wouldn’t be enough. Not even after so many countless rounds and rounds.

Never, for a Gojo Satoru that has to grit his pearly white teeth viciously to stop himself from using just an ounce too much of his strength on your pliable body and breaking you. 

Snarling canines peeking out just when he nestles your legs over two broad shoulders and bends down, down, down in half. 

“Hngh- please—” Your chin hits the heaving edges of your chest at the burn of the sheer stretch. Gojo’s muscular thighs sticking against your own and pressing into the inflated little pouch he’d made at your tummy. Filled to the brim with his sappy cum-

“Th-that’s all your fault, y’know–” He’s hissing, handsome jaw clenching desperately to stop those tremoring keens from invading his words. He fails. And Gojo can already tell by the smug smile curling your lips, “-all b-because of you and that fuck! damn perfume.”

Nevermind that he was the one that bought it for you in the first place - some niche, overpriced brand dropped straight into your lap. 

Nevermind the fact that he had come up with the idea. 

Oh, you should’ve known that this is what wearing pheromone perfume around the strongest would get you.

Because Gojo Satoru was breaking - shattering. 

Every pressurized thrust of his leaking out a new wave of overstimulated pre frosting up your slicked entrance. Accompanied hand-in-lecherous-hand with shockwaves of cursed energy that make your unbolted furniture drag magnetized centimeters all the way towards the creaking bed. 

“Sh-shit your p-powers—” you’re whining, eyes widening at the hazy sight of blue lightning flickering across Gojo’s sweat-lathered body. 

“My p-p-powers, huh, sweetheart?” He’s leaning in to whisper, eyes wide. Wild. Breath hitching so many octaves higher that it sends your spine arching with a goosebumped chill. All into his awaiting touch, ���And whose- fault- is that—?”

You’re not sure if you’re a genius - or just plain idiotic. Because even feeling the withheld power being those very same soft palms holding your boneless thighs up, you find it in yourself to snark. “Yours.”

And Gojo almost stops. 

If that didn’t torture him just as much as that would torture you, that is. Instead, he’s slowing down to sleazy drags n’ grinds pressing gluey peck after peck on your cervix. 

Such sweet, sweet leisure - yet, his words were tense. He breathes out a shallow cloud of air, “Whose?” 

Gojo’s tone was dangerous. And his battering rams even more so.

“Y-y- ngh!” Saved by a particularly hard slam of all his copious inches digging into your glutinous g-spot, it leaves a bulky circular branding that stings deliciously with every targeted buck.

You can feel yourself slowly being fucked into stupidity with every swash of thickly viscous cum swirling around your insides. And you already know by the buzzing pressure around his cerulean eyes that he was taking unfair advantage of his Six Eyes to make sure his veiny cock reaches each and every single spot inside your pretty pussy.

Locking your dangling ankles with one hand behind his head - the noticeable flex of Gojo’s pale biceps makes you moan. 

Trapped. 

Oh- how pretty you were like this, he muses, eyeing the wobbly quiver of your needy lips. Both of them. And you were so loud, too - your saturated cunt so desperate to chat up at him with ringing squelches that carry over your adorable noises. 

Maybe he should let you hit him with a waft of that special pheromone perfume more often.

His round nostrils flare, hyper-sensitive senses greedily gulping out each ounce and waft you’re letting off. Every repeated pap! of Gojo’s hipbones follows one of his choked-out syllables, “I said- Whose?”

Someone sobs - and only a few sloppy seconds do you realize that it’s you. Words coming out helplessly garbled, “M-mine.”

At that very moment, a dimly-lit lamp across your heady bedroom shatters. 

Sharp shards of glasses bounce off the two of your fervently glissading bodies, limitless. 

But if that was taxing for the strongest - then he doesn’t show it. Not even a sign. Gojo only angles his hip a few degrees to the right to bounce into your spongy cervix even harsher. In rough, jagged strokes as if it was nothing.

In fact, by the filmy glaze overtaking his hooded eyes, you think that it might just be nothing. You think that he might not even have realized what was happening. 

Pressing a drunken trailway of kisses down the helpless curve of your calf, he grins. Toothy. Animalistic. “Atta girl.”

Pulpy soft tips of Gojo’s fingers slide sneakily down to your messy pussy, drivelling up slow slides up and down your teary entrance. Just until you were getting comfortable - just until you were letting your guard down. Silly girl. 

Before slipping past your tight ring of resistance and prying you open doubly. And oh, you should’ve expected that when Gojo gets the job done - he’s going above and beyond to make sure you remember it. 

That you’re his.

Pummeling right into the throbbing bullseye of your g-spot, the edges of his long digits hit that spot so hard that you find yourself bawling. Eyes snapping open- before promptly closing as you cum.

Your high is a shock - a white-hot mess of such euphoria. 

Tipping right over the edge - and it might’ve been a surprise to you, but Gojo saw it coming a mile away with those special eyes of his. Chuckling to himself at the velvety smooch of your sappy walls milking every inch of him.

“There we go- there we g-go, my girl.” He’s pumping you so thoroughly full that you feel your vision blur, the vibrating buzz of Gojo’s cursed energy being fed into you with each strike. “Cum- cum f’me. H-heh, all because- because of me-”

Your tits bump up into his plush pecs, sensitive nubs of your nipples brushing against his rosy pink ones. You’re reaching out a trembling hand to cup Gojo’s pretty face - one he leans into and kisses. “T-Toru—!”

Just about all you can manage out.

And your orgasm might not have been a surprise to him, but Gojo’s own absolutely was.

It happens in a split second - just after that nickname spills from the honeyed tip of your tongue. 

Gojo’s snowy lashes flutter upwards, sweat-slicked brows raising all the way to the edges of his silky fringe. Bubblegum lips parting into an oh! only falling further and further slack with every creamy ribbon shot upwards into you. 

It floods, it pours. And you can feel your flooded pussylips overspilling before he’s even halfway through his orgasm.

Oozing out glutinous wads of cum with every pump - Gojo had no rhythm now, he had no rhyme. Nothing but the carnal need to push every ounce of his fatly beading seed deeper n’ deeper into your pretty pussy, heated pink crownhead swirling out what feels like hearts at the very door to your womb.

You’re so full you could explode-

A hand rovers over that inflationary bulge - bigger now. “Oh, sweetheart…”

Was that really your loving boyfriend? He sounded so ruined right about now, hoarse. You couldn’t even blink your eyes up to make out the expression on his face because the lights had exploded. Possibly in every ward of Tokyo.

You feel it before you see it.

The familiar, shrill puff! of that pheromone perfume being sprayed on you- what? 

With a sharp gasp, you’re looking back n’ forth between the shiny sheen of liquid spritzed once more over your skin and Gojo’s ever-loving smile.

“Oh, whoops.” Soft snickers punctured with a loooong sniff of the air - of you. And Gojo’s eyes take on a predatory glint that makes your entire body wrack with shivers. “Better hope you’re on ngh- b-birth control, girl.”

“...”

A/N. Fun fact, the entirety of Sri Lanka had a six hour power cut while I was writing this because some monkey jumped onto a power line </33

Plagiarism not authorized.

[nishirikies]

(=｀ェ´=) ₊ ⊹ 박셍훈 x f!reader ៸៸ ⩇⩇

✦   ˚     Tags   🗯️ .  ჰ boxer!sunghoon opponent's sister!reader use of baby, beautiful (f rec.) hoon, hoonie (m rec.) degradation praise rough sex victory sex spanking oral (f rec.) teasing hair pulling doggy position descent position catapult position mating press missionary wall sex exhibition public sex (kinda) secret relationship mentions of Jay unprotected p in v unsafe sex creampie Sunghoon throws reader around a bit hinting towards possesive Sunghoon bc... he's so sexy (つ﹏<)･ﾟ｡5.3k words not proof read

Every year, it’s the same fight between the same two people. Your brother, Jay Park, and Sunghoon park. For the past three years in a row, they’ve made it to the finals. It’s currently 2 to 1, Jay taking the advantage.

Not this year, though. This year, Sunghoon has something to look forward to, the sweet taste of your pussy. The pair train in the same gym, and sometimes, you would follow along, Jay forcing you to work on your endurance and strength with him, even if you absolutely hated it. 

Weeks prior to the final fight, in the early hours of the morning, you made your way to the locker rooms to grab your brother a spare water bottle. When suddenly, your back was pushed against the cold metal of the locker, a broad figure pushing against you. 

“Hey!” You shout, hands bracing against the man's shoulders before realising who it was. Your expression became guarded, lips pursing together as your brother's greatest opponent stood before you. “Sunghoon–”

He shushes you, quietly, shaking his head as his hands rub up and down your waist. “I’m not going to do anything,” He murmurs, lifting his hands to grab your wrists, bringing your hands back down to your sides, slowly. “I’m here to make a deal with you.”

Your brows furrowed in confusion, hands flexing against the hold he has on your wrists, pulling his hands away in annoyance and disgust. “I’m not making any deal with you. If you think I’m going to let you rig the fight, then you’re the biggest dickward I’ve ever spoken to,” You shoot back, glaring at him in pure annoyance. 

“I’m not going to ask you to rig the fight,silly,” He muses, one of his large hands coming up to pinch your cheeks together, mocking a pout as he shakes your head from side to side, “I’m just here to ask about when I win.”

“You’re not going to win,” You bite, grabbing at his wrist and pulling him away. 

“Stop talking, gosh, you're a nuisance,” He groans, rolling his eyes, squeezing your cheeks before pulling his hand away. “Look, if I win, which I will… I get to have you. For one night. That’s all. No one needs to know, Jay’s not going to know, the media isn’t going to know, just me and you.”

Your annoyed glare turns into one of confusion and surprise. One night with you. You and Sunghoon are alone together, for a singular night. You feel your cheeks heat up at the thought and you glance away, keeping that guarded and annoyed expression on your features. 

“It’s not a date,” he quickly says, knowing that you’ll definitely say no. His hands come to your waist, cupping your sides perfectly like a puzzle piece and taking a step closer. His head dips down, trailing his lips against the side of your neck and the bare skin of your shoulder. “Just me and you,” he whispers, one of his hands coming up to fiddle with the strap of your sports bra, “And the sweet taste of that pussy. Yeah? How does that sound?”

The proximity and his gravelly voice drives you insane, feeling a heat in your stomach fluttering lower to the fabric of your underwear. Your hands brace against the locker behind you, your breath stuttering quietly as you turn your head to face him. You can’t lie, the idea sounds extremely tempting. And if he won, then it would be a tie between the pair… 

Biting your lower lip, you roll your eyes and look away, “Fine,” you grumble, hands grabbing a hold of his wrists and pulling them away from your body, noticing the way he easily allows you to move, “Only if you win the fight. Other than that, nothing. Don’t ask me again and don’t hit me up after the night.” 

The smirk that forms on his face is one to make your knees weak and you become unsure whether it’s going to be the best or worst decision that you’ve made in your life. 

The night of the fight, you were on the edge of your seat the whole time, watching the way that Jay and Sunghoon present themselves so proudly in the ring. Their skills and their looks caused uproars in the crowd, dividing the large group of people. You could hear the way the different groups of fans chant your brother and his opponents name. At this point of time, you can’t even be bothered to think about Sunghoon, you just want your brother to win. 

An hour later, you're watching the deciding round of the night. Both Jay and Sunghoon have won a round each, now you’re watching the two bloodied men stand face to face for the last time of the night. 3 minutes for Jay to win, 3 minutes for him to hit the final blow but Sunghoon just won't give up. Desperate Asshole. 

After three excruciating minutes of watching the pair fight, the winner was decided. And it was not your brother. 

You sit angrily in your seat, glaring at the man filled with pride as he holds up his winning belt, motioning for the crowd to create more sounds of luxury as he basks in the glory. At some point, while you’re standing with Jay, handing him a towel and a tissue for his nose while his team assesses him out, you glance back at the ring, eye contact being made as he leans cockily against the rope, peering down at you with a determined expression. He points to himself and mouths these six words to you, ‘meet me at my locker room.’ 

His prize awaits.

An hour and a half later, you’re stepping out of Sunghoons car, his hand immediately finding its way to your lower back as he guides you up the steps towards his house, his broad figure crowding your back as he unlocks the door to his penthouse. 

“Make yourself at home, beautiful,” he murmurs in your ear, biting your earlobe as he ushers you inside, closing and locking the door behind him. You stand there dumbfounded as he strips himself of his jacket and shoes, acting like this isn’t an arrangement. When he notices you haven’t moved, he glances over his shoulder with a raised eyebrow. “You’re just going to stand there and do nothing?”

You cross your arms over your chest, leaning on one him and knitting your brows together, your tone full of accusation and confusion. “You said that when you win, you are going to take me. Yet, here you are, acting like we came home from a date. What’s your deal?”

He scoffs, turning to face you, stepping closer and invading your personal space once more. “Oh, I’m sorry, baby,” he teases, cupping your face and towering over you, “I didn’t realise I couldn’t relax after, you know, winning. You should’ve seen the look on your brother’s face when he realised I won, I really hope someone got a photo of it. I think I’m going to frame it up on my wall somewhere.”

“Stop,” you grumble, rolling your eyes as he recalls the memory of your siblings' loss, “I get it, you won. What a great deal for you. Now, hurry up before I call my brother to take me home. I doubt he’s going to be very happy with the arrangement we’ve got.”

You see his eyes narrowing in disdain, the thought of your brother coming to his house and taking you away from him. He shakes his head, letting out a scoff and gripping onto your hips, pulling you closer so your bodies are pressed against each other. You gasp at the sudden roughness, gripping a hold of his shoulders and glaring up at him. “You’re already here, why think about leaving, hm?” He whispers, leaning in and dipping his head into the crook of your neck. Your senses react to the feel of his hot breath against the skin of your neck, his hands digging into your sides, his broad body pushing you against the door. 

He presses his lips against your neck, humming at the sweet scent of your perfume against his nostrils. His hands rub up and down your sides, catching onto the fabric of your jacket, his hands reaching up to pull it off your body. “Get comfortable.” 

“Sunghoon,” you whisper, helping him slide the jacket off your body, slipping your shoes off and kicking them to the side. 

“Yes, baby?” 

“Don’t test me. Hurry up.” 

He lifts his head up, staring down at you, the teasing expression gone from his face as he lifts a hand up to hold onto your chin. He watches you, as if examining you, his body straightening up. “Fine,” he murmurs, pulling you away from the door and roughly turning you to the stairs. “Third room to the left. I want you stripped by the time I get there. Go.” He smacks your ass and pushes you, urging your body to the steps. 

You glance over your shoulders to shoot him a glare but he’s disappeared into the other room. You scoff, heading up the stairs and keeping your features hardened. This definitely could be going better and you pray he’s as good in bed as he is in the ring. 

When you finally reach his bedroom, its features are lit up by the warmth of lights around the space. His bed, crisp white and grey sheets, faces the window where a view of Seoul's skyline can be seen from the balcony. To the left of the space is an extendable tv, a small couch sits across from it. 

You take time to scan the bedroom, staring in awe at how neatly everything is placed, like it’s for show, not lived in. It’s insane. 

You make your way to the front of the bed, staring out at the view for a moment before starting to strip yourself of the clothing that you’ve been wearing all night. You keep your undergarments on, a matching lace set for just in case Sunghoon did win. The base colour was base pink, the thongs and the top lace of the bra a darker pink placed into an array of beautiful flowers. 

You fold the clothes, placing them down on the chair near the tv and moving forward to stare out at the view while waiting for Sunghoon who is still nowhere to be seen. 

After what feels like forever, the door finally opens and Sunghoon walks in, a towel folded over his forearm and two water bottles in his hand. When he lifts his head to see you, his movements slow down, like he’s stuck in time. He shuts the door behind him quietly, a small smirk on his face as he walks towards you. He throws the materials on the bed and stalks over to you, snickering to himself. “Wow, you’ve out done yourself,” He says, voice an octave deeper than before. 

“You needed fifteen minutes to grab a towel and water bottles?” you snarkily reply, turning towards him and allowing him to grab a hold of your waist once more. He walks you backwards till you’re pressed against the glass windows, staring down at you like you’re prey. 

“Don’t worry about it, beautiful, anything that I had in mind has gone out the window after seeing you like this,” he murmurs, dipping down to press a kiss to your neck. His large hand grabs your chin, pushing your head up to gain more access to your skin. His kisses become harsher, starting to bite and lick at your skin as he slowly descends. 

The warmth of his body against the cold window is addicting, the difference in temperature is overpowering and the way his hands roam and grope at your skin has your head tilting back, eyes closing as you feel the way he explores you. Taking in everything about you, your reactions, the softness of your skin, the way the soft scent of vanilla perfume becomes stronger the lower he goes. 

“Fuck” he curses, opening your legs, breathing over your mound and gripping a hold of your leg to throw over his shoulder, gaining better access to your dripping centre. He drags his nose over the inside of your thigh, pressing gentle kisses for it. His hand runs up and down the skin of your thigh, gentle and soft. His other hand reaches behind you to grab onto your ass, squeezing tightly and making you gasp. “You’re addicting.”

Your hand reaches down to rest in his hair, trying to guide him where you need him before he pulls it away, resting it against the class behind you. “Hoon–”

“Don’t. No touching. This isn’t about you.” He gruffs, looking up at you between your legs and you think this has to be the best view of the night, the way he’s on his knees, hair in front of his face and your leg thrown over his shoulder. You hesitate for a moment, taking in a few deep breaths before nodding your head, bracing your hands against the glass and staring down at him with anticipation. 

“Good girl,” he whispers, pressing a kiss to your thigh softly, pressing soft kisses up your thigh and towards the edge of your thong. The hand grasping your behind trails around and gently hooks the bottom of the fabric, moving it to the side and gaining a clear view of your slick ridden pussy. He groans at the sight, eyebrows knitting together as he leans in, his hot breath fanning against your core. “Look at this pussy, so wet… dripping,” he states, eyes drawing upwards towards your face. He watches the way you squirm above him, your stomach twitching as you control your breathing in anticipation, “Is this for me? Wet for me?”

You nod your head, eagerly, praying that it gets him closer to giving you pleasure. Your tone comes out light and breathy, “Yeah… because of you.”

The smirk that forms on his face increases that hot fluttering and you feel your knees go weak. “Yeah, I know, baby,” he whispers, leaning in finally and licking a long strip between your folds. His eyes close at the taste and his arms tighten around your thighs, groaning against your mound and hollowing his lips around your clit. 

You immediately let out a soft whimper of relief, your head hanging down as you watch him before deciding to continue the feeling of him below you. You tilt your head back as he moves closer, kneeling right underneath you and sitting you on top of his face. “Wait,” you breathe, nervous about the position, “Your neck–”

“Don’t worry about it, beautiful,” He grunts, rolling his eyes and fixing the position. Your legs threw over his shoulder and pulled your lower half away from the wall. “I hope you’ve got good core strength.”

He goes back to devouring your cunt, eyes closed as he enjoys the taste of your sweet juice dripping for him. Your eyes roll into the back of your head at his ministrations, the way he immediately has you filled with pleasure is truly something you didn’t expect from the way he was drawing it out earlier. Your moans immediately fill the space, mixing with his as he groans against your pussy. 

“Fuck, Hoon,” you gasp, grinding down against his face, your hands planted against the wall behind you as you try not to go wild, the pleasure becoming stronger as a coil tightens in your lower stomach. 

“Yeah, beautiful,” he groans, flicking his tongue into your dripping hole as he sucks against your clit, the skillful moves making you twitch against him. “Grind against me like that, use my face. Want your juices everywhere.’

The words go straight to your pussy, grinding down harder against him as you feel your hardened nipples scratch against your bra, causing the achiness to grow. Your nails dig into the wall behind you, the pleasure overwhelming. 

You whine his name, face scrunched together as you let the moans spill from your lips freely, fist punching the wall as you gasp. “Cum– fuck, ‘m cumming–!” You moan, feeling the coil snap at an exceptionally hard suck. 

He helps you ride out your orgasm, keeping his tongue flat out for you to use and mumbling incoherent words into your slick pearl. His hands come up, holding onto your waist to stop you from moving and he continues to lap at you for a few more minutes before finally letting his lips go from around your clit. 

“Good girl,” he murmurs, pressing kisses to your thighs and rubbing his hands up and down your torso as you take deep breaths, calming yourself down. “That’s it, calm down,” he whispers, placing your legs back down to the floor and slowly standing, continuing the worship of your body with his plump lips. 

You let your hands drop from the wall, wrapping around his neck to help steady yourself as he wraps his arms around your waist, holding your body close to his. “Wow,” you giggle, smiling as you stare up at him, breathing still heavy, “Didn’t expect you to be that good.”

He raises an eyebrow, humming sarcastically as if he knows that he’s that good. Cocky bastard, you think, watching as he leans in. “You have such low standards if you think that’s good,” he murmurs, pressing his lips against yours softly, continuing to speak against your lips, “I’d hate to know who slept with you prior and couldn’t make you cum.”

“I never said that,” you whisper, shaking your head and leaning in to press another kiss to his lips, pulling back teasingly with a smile, “What else can you do then? Or is it only your tongue that’s got skills?”

He chuckles against your lips, gripping you by your thighs and lifting you up, pressing you further against him. “I guess I’m just going to have to show you, then, huh?” he whispers, grinding your hips down against his, making you feel his bulge straining against his sweats. “Feel that?”

You bite down on your lower lip at the feel of his sweats, staring down at the way a wet patch is left by your slick, furrowing your brows together. “Shit, yeah,” you nod, glancing back up at him. You can’t help but tease him, resting your forehead against his and nudging your nose against his, your lips brushing against his, “Is that for me? Eating me out got you that hard?”

“Fuck, seeing you anywhere got me hard,” He groans, one of his hands slipping down to pull down his sweats and boxers, his straining length hitting against your open cunt. He hisses, furrowing his brows as he grabs at his base, rubbing himself between your folds. “Seeing you in the gym, in those fucking leggings… the way your legs shake everytime you go on the leg press and the weights too heavy, it’s always had my mind going places. The amount of times I’ve wanted to bend you over and fuck you, to claim you, has been way too strong.”

You keep your eyes locked onto him as he rubs himself against you, feeling the way he slickens himself up. He feels fucking huge, and you feel your stomach twist with nerves at the fire burning inside you by his words. “Dirty, dirty boy,” you whisper. 

Before you can say anything else, he thrusts himself up into you, clenching his jaw together at how tight you are. Your mouth drops open at the sudden intrusion, eyes widening and tilting your head back against the wall. 

“Fuck… fuck, your tight,” he grits through teeth, leaning in and hiding his face in your neck. “So tight… so fucking warm too, shit. How aren’t you getting fucked everyday of your life?”

“Fuck, I get it,” you reply, keeping the snarkiness to a T as you tilt your head to face him, pulling his face up, “Maybe you should actually fuck me instead of talking shit–”

Sunghoon cuts you off with a harsh thrust into you, setting a steady pace. His hands grip your waist, bouncing you down onto his cock to meet his hips. “You talk,” he whispers into your ear, biting at your earlobe, “So much shit. I wonder how much you say when I’m not around, huh? I bet you run your mouth like a dirty whore.”

The way his cock slides in and out of you has you becoming light headed, the way his tip presses against your deepest parts has you squeezing your eyes shut and squeezing your walls around him, making you whimper. His hands move down to squeeze at your ass, giving him better leverage to fuck into you. “Yeahhh…” he groans, “That’s it, let yourself get fucked, baby. Let yourself feel it. Feel how deep I am?”

You nod your head, eyes rolling back at the feel of his cock rubbing against your gummy walls. His groans in your ear and the way he holds onto you makes your body allow itself to go limp, knowing that he’s holding your body up, his arm muscles straining against your body. 

“Fuck, like that,” You moan, hiding your face in the crook of his neck and biting down, the sounds of your lewd actions bouncing around the room. The strong movements of his cock pushing your gathered slick out of you, creating wet sounds, the plap plap plap sound filling your ears. Your whines become higher in pitch, fingers digging into his shoulders and potentially breaking skin. 

You feel on cloud 9, your eyes constantly fluttering shut as he continues to pound into you, abusing your cunt, when suddenly, the pleasure stops and he pulls out.

“What, dude?!” You snap, lifting your head up to look at him but he’s already changing your position. He carries you out of the room and onto the balcony, the cool air hitting your body and causing you to hiss. “Sunghoon?”

“Shh,” he shushes, dismissing your words of confusion and rearranging the furniture, pushing the love seat towards the balcony railing with his leg. He pulls you off of him, turning you around and placing your knees against the plush materials, arms braced against the railing. “Open yourself up for me… yeah, like that, arch that back.” He mutters, hand patting at your ass to usher you to move faster. 

His hands brace your hips, aligning himself back up with your entrance and pushing back into the tilt. He bends down, his clothed chest pressed against your back. One of his hands reached to brace against the railing next to yours, his head leaning into your ear. 

“Surprised you’re listening,” he whispers, biting at your neck, licking and kissing the skin, “Just want to be fucked, huh? You going to be nice and loud f’me?”

When you don’t answer, his hand holding your hip moves to the flesh of your ass, a harsh slap meeting your skin. “Answer me.” He grunts, slapping the skin once more. “Are you going to be loud? Let everyone know who’s fucking you so good?”

You whine, head tilting down and pushing back against him, “Yes,” you reply, tilting your head up to look at him over your shoulder, “I’ll be loud.”

That wicked grin greets his lips and he thrusts shallowing into you a few times, watching the way you face immediately retorts, your reaction causing him to chuckle. He straightens up, the warmth hitting your back again and he forces your head forward. “Look at the view, baby, look at how beautiful it is while I fuck you full.”

His hand slides down your back, reaching the clasp of your bra and unclipping it. He helps you take it out, marvelling in your naked arch and the way you gasp as the cold hits your nipples. He gives your ass another spank before starting to thrust, shallowly. 

A small ‘hm’s fall from your lips as he hits deep inside, the pleasure coming in small, short bursts, keeping you on edge. His pace slowly starts to pick up again, wanting to feel the way you clenched around him in wanton, creating a speed as fast as before.

“That’s it, baby,” he murmurs, grabbing onto your hips and starting to thrust into you harder, biting his lip as his thighs meet the back of yours. “Take this dick, like a good girl.”

The way he fucks into you makes your body go limp, the only way to keep yourself up being his balcony railing. Which Sunghoon highly disapproves of.

“Watch the fucking view,” He grunts, grabbing a handful of your hair and pulling your head up. “Do as I say and I’ll let you cum again. I was being generous before, don’t take it for granted.”

His thrusts become more vigorous and he finds himself losing his mind in the deep, wet warmth of your walls. He uses his hold on your hair to help fuck you back into his length, slapping at your ass to encourage you to move you back against him. “That’s it. Listen to Sunghoon, baby.”

The way he spoke in third person pushed you deeper into that submissive state, the snarky comments leaving your mind, only fueled with Sunghoon. SunghoonSunghoonSunghoon. The way his thick tip brushes against your walls, feeling like he’s deeper than before is a whole new feeling of ecstasy. When he feels you becoming slack when bouncing back onto his cock, he spanks your ass, each slap becoming harder throughout time, urging you to continue. 

“Don’t get fucking lazy on me now,” he grunts, draping himself against your back, licking at your ear, laughing at the way you squirm, “Remember, this isn’t about you, is it? It’s about me. I fucking won that fight and you know it–” he punctuates his words with a deep, shallow thrust, “You know it. Bet you were praying that Jay would lose, huh? Just so I can fuck you. That’s why you’re wearing that pretty pink set, hm?”

His grip on your hair leaves, letting your head drop and you manage to find some bite into you despite the stimulated circumstances. “Do you have to mention my fucking brother when your dick is inside of me?

He cackles, right into your ear, making you wince and glare at him over your shoulder, watching the way he presses his forehead against your shoulder. “Damn,” he laughs, sitting up and pulling out, giving you another spank as he feels you gasp. “You’re funny, baby, come on. Wanna see you funny you can be when I’m fucking my cum inside of you.”

You expected him to pick you up this time, but didn’t expect to be thrown over his shoulder, spanking your ass as he walked you back inside. “Fucking love this ass,” he mutters, pressing a slopping kiss to your hip before throwing you down on the bed, “Watching it jiggle as you fucked back into me, jesus, I really wish you could have seen it. It was fucking beautiful. I’ll have to have you ride me next time.” “Next time?” You ask, lifting your body up by propping yourself on your forearms, voluntarily spreading your legs for him to accommodate him in between, wanting that full feeling back. His length was incredibly thick, slightly curved upwards, a pretty flushed colour with the tip of his cock being redder than anything else and god was it veiny. “Thought this was a one time thing?”

He rolls his eyes, grabbing at your ankles and pulling you towards him, resting your legs against his torso as he teases his tip at your entrance, biting his lip and smiling at the way your slick sticks to his length. “Changed my mind,” he breathes, slipping himself inside once more with a groan, “You feel too fucking good to let go. So tight and fuck… feels like heaven.”

He immediately sets a strong pace, bringing your legs together and bringing them to one shoulder, astonished with the way that you get somehow tighter, causing his hips to stutter and his facade to vanish momentarily before he’s leaning down. He bends you like a pretzel, keeping your legs against his shoulder, fists pressed into the mattress beside your head. “Fuck, fuck fuck,” he grunts, thrusting into your hard before pausing for a moment, leaning down and smothering his lips against yours, “If you think I’m letting you go after this, then you’re wrong. God, Jay’s going to be so pissed when he sees you cheering my name and inviting me for thanksgiving dinner, huh?”

“Don’t– fuck, don’t be weird,” you stutter out, his pace quickening once more, your hands reach up to grab ahold of his broad shoulders, knitting your brows at the way his shirt is still on. You know he looks like a greek god under there and there’s no point getting his dick if you can’t see his abs. Your hand trails down from his shoulder to his torso, gripping at the fabric and pulling it up. “Take it off. Off.”

He grunts, lifting back up and taking your legs off of his shoulder, spreading them apart and slapping your inner thigh before reaching his hand up behind him and slipping his shirt over his head. The sight before you has your eyes widening and jaw going slack. 

He’s ripped, absolutely ripped. His arms are even bigger, waist slim and abs defined. His lower abdomen has a few veins that trail down to his v-live and fuck. You have to ride him next time. 

Once the clothing is discarded, he wastes no more time as he grabs your thighs, fucking into you once more at that rapid pace, making you grip the bedsheets below you. God, his languid strokes and the way his hand grips hard onto your legs has your mind wandering. He’s so strong, so fit and the way he throws you around is foreplay itself. 

His cock continues to bully its way inside of you, fucking your womb and the thought itself makes you feral. Like he can read your thoughts, his hands grab your thighs, lifting them over his shoulders and bending down, placing you in a delicious mating press. 

“Oh, fuck-!” You groan, the change of position driving you up the wall and gripping onto his biceps tightly and digging your nails into his skin. Your eyes immediately roll to the back of your head and you’re struggling to stay coherent. “Hoon– Hoonie… Oh, my god, Hoonie!”

“Yeah, baby,” he groans in your ear, leaning down to press his face against your neck, sucking at your skin, “Call my name. Let everyone know who’s fucking you so good. Who is it baby? Tell me.”

“It’s–” you choke out, taking in a deep breath, “It’s you– you, Hoonie! You!”

“That’s right. Good girl. Taking Hoonie’s cock so well, huh?” He coos, nipping at your skin and leaving blemishes across the skin of your neck and collarbone. “All this? Mine. It’s mine now. I deserve this. I won this.”

His words go over your head, reeling in the pleasure when it’s suddenly heightened by the way he sneaks his hand down, pinching at your click before rubbing it roughly, placing an amount of pressure that has you immediately orgasming around his cock. “Oh, fuck!” You moan, back arching at the feel of his tip punching against your womb, the feel of his fingers against your clit has your mind going overboard. “Oh, god! Oh, Sunghoon!”

The feel of your walls spasming around him, causing his orgasm to quickly follow, a few hard, shallow thrusts have him spilling inside, his eyes rolling back as he groans against your neck. 

He prolongs the moment with short thrusts, wanting to keep the feeling of your walls clenched around him forever. He wants it tattooed, a photograph, anything, it just feels so good. Nirvana. Heaven. 

He keeps himself plugged inside you as you both calm down, letting your legs down and running his hands up and down your thighs. “Going to stay the night?” He murmurs, pressing kisses from your neck up to your face, pressing against your cheeks before against his lips. 

“Yeah…” you breathe, nodding your head and leaning into the kiss, “I’ll stay.” 

✶‎ header creds: @cursed-carmine on tumblr ៸៸ ⊹

© nishirikies 2025. all rights reserved ᶻ 𝘇

[phantomrose96]

So my mom's birthday was this week and I flew down with Patches to visit her for a few days. Patches, while a verified hater of the airport, really loves my mom's place because there are so many more closets to explore and birds to watch and cobwebs to dust with her stupid little face.

My mom also goes to bed earlier than anyone I know, so for the evenings it was on me to monitor Patches' activity. And she's very good. She's 99% good. She's 1% "could use improvement" good and the 1%, which I'd forgotten about, is tomatoes.

Patches will leave most things alone. (And by "alone" I mean she'll absolutely bitch slap them onto the floor, but they will leave the ordeal with just as many or few surface punctures as they had before the encounter started.) Not tomatoes. Patches has it the fuck out for tomatoes.

So when I noticed her batting something around on the ground I realized that my mom had left a sole, roma tomato in the fruit basket on the counter and it was now experiencing the life cycle of a pingpong ball between Patches' paws.

I take it away from her, like a fucking evil woman, and now I'm like "okay actually, where do I hide this." See at home I have an anti-Patches cabinet, which is for things that have no business living in a cabinet but which WILL have business dying at Patches' hands if left accessible. And this is WEIRD to have such a cabinet but it's my own home.

I'm scanning my mother's cabinets going "is this weird here? can the tomato go in my mother's dish cabinet?" And I briefly consider sticking it in the fridge, as a normal location, but the audacity of altering this tomato's ripening process is an audacity I do not possess. So I go with cabinet. I go with the first eye-level cabinet, which is the coffee mug cabinet, which is perfect because the tomato will not be lost to cabinet purgatory there, since my mom opens it every morning for her coffee. I will simply tell her in the morning that the tomato is there.

Next morning. Seeing as my mother goes to bed at the butt-crack of dusk she ALSO gets up at the ass-crack of dawn. This means I trail down like 2 hours after her with my work laptop and Patches. This is also now her birthday. I'm sharing the sofa with her for a good 15 minutes when I think to myself I'd like some coffee, and I remember I put a tomato in the cabinet. I tell my mom as much. I put the tomato in her coffee mug cabinet.

And the look I get is one I can't really figure out on spot. But she says "Chrissy this is the best birthday present you could have given me" which is a very weird response to the already weird statement "Oh you probably saw, but I hid the tomato in the coffee mug cabinet because Patches has it out for tomatoes."

So I do not at all know how this makes for a good birthday gift. My mom tells me how a week or two ago, she came home unloading groceries. At the end of putting everything away she could not for the life of her find her phone. Absolutely nowhere. She pinged it from her iPad and it started singing. From the fridge. She opened her fridge. Her phone was in the fridge.

A couple days later she lost Ash's collar. Spent three days looking for it. Couldn't remember where she'd taken it off or what she did with it. Showed up in the grass when she remembered she took it off to let him play fetch in the lake.

And then this morning, her birthday morning, she came into the kitchen, made her pot of coffee, opened the cabinet to fetch her coffee mug, and found... tomato. Singular. Tomato in the cabinet. Tomato she had no memory of placing in a cabinet. Tomato she could not possibly fathom having a reason for being in the cabinet.

She was like Chrissy I cried. She was like this is it, time to send her to pasture. She's a harebrained old lady now and there is no coming back from this. She's the lady who accidentally puts tomatoes in the cabinet. Awake before God, standing in the kitchen, signing her life away over this tiny roma tomato. (Roma tomato with little cat vampire teeth marks in it).

I was like oh. No. I put it there. Because Patches was going to commit war crimes against it. I put it there because I did not stop to consider "Will finding a single tomato in the coffee mug cabinet somehow be the very specific thing that undoes my mother this morning?" I put it there out of careful consideration for the life of this tomato, and with no consideration for the extremely esoteric way that a tomato in the cabinet could be received like a horse head in the bed, Godfather style.

We made a salad with the tomato. Happy birthday Mom.

[byhuenii]

You had me at hello

Pairing Bucky Barnes x F!Reader

Synopsis Bucky retreats to a quiet town. You’re the barista, The first time you meet, he doesn’t know what to order, so he asked you for a recommendation. He’s soft-spoken, but there’s gentleness behind the tired eyes.

He smiles—just barely—and says:

“Hi. I’m Bucky.”

And you’re like: I’m done. That’s it. I’m yours.

Word count 8.8k

Themes + Warnings POST TFATWS!! Barista!reader , Fluff angst but not for long , FLUFF! , Misunderstandings , gentle healing Bucky era , did I mention fluff

— You had me at hello don’t say. Don’t say goodnight you know you had me at hello

M. list | Request (open)

The door creaked open at exactly 7:42 a.m.

You noticed because it was quiet—too quiet for this hour in early fall when regulars shuffled in with tired eyes and worn travel mugs, rustling newspapers and complaining about the cold. But this time, no one said anything. Not a single familiar boot scraped across the tile. No jacket slung onto a stool. Just a hush, like the whole place was waiting for something.

Or someone.

You didn’t look up right away. You were halfway through stacking cinnamon scones in the front display case, half-tuned to the hum of the café’s old indie playlist and half-cursing the crooked chalkboard sign that kept tilting like it had a grudge against gravity.

The bell over the door gave a quiet chime. And then: stillness.

Your eyes flicked up.

He didn’t look at you first. He was reading the chalkboard, lips slightly parted like he wasn’t just scanning for caffeine options—he was reading it like he needed to decipher it. Like he was trying to understand this new terrain: small-town morning rituals written in curly white lettering, soaked in too many exclamation marks and too much optimism.

He wore a leather jacket—worn at the collar, creased at the elbows. One hand in a pocket, the other gloved. The shape of it struck you: not thick winter gloves, but one singular dark glove. The other hand was exposed—metal, black and gold glinting under the weak light as if it breathed differently than the rest of him.

He was too still. Still in a way that told you movement cost him something.

And then he looked at you.

That was it.

That was the moment you felt the pull. The drop.

No romantic swelling music. Just your breath, catching somewhere behind your ribs. And a thought that came uninvited:

He looks like someone who hasn’t been warm in a long time.

His eyes were the kind you don’t expect to find in a sleepy town like this—cool, storm-colored, like they’d seen cities burn and hearts close. But they weren’t cold. That’s what undid you.

There was kindness there.

Tired kindness. Tense kindness. But real.

He stepped forward. Careful steps. Measured. Like every inch of him was trying not to occupy too much space.

“Hi,” he said.

Just one word. One syllable.

Rough-edged, but gentle. Like someone who knew what it meant to be feared and was doing everything not to be.

You blinked. Words escaped you. It was ridiculous—you weren’t the nervous type. But something about the way he looked at you, like you were the one unfamiliar thing in the room, shook your center of gravity.

“Hi,” you said back, trying not to sound like your heart had just tripped over itself. “What can I get you?”

He looked at the pastry display. At the coffee list. Then at you.

“I’m… not sure. Whatever you’d recommend,” he said quietly, voice low like it was half apology, half surrender.

Your chest ached.

You don’t have to try too hard, the song in your head whispered. You already have my heart.

You smiled before you could stop yourself. “Okay. I’ve got you.”

He nodded once. Barely. But you saw it. A flicker of trust. Like maybe the world hadn’t completely shut him out yet.

By 7:48, you’d handed him a mug—something warm, cinnamon-laced, not too sweet—and a cranberry scone still steaming from the oven. He didn’t ask questions. Just gave you a faint thank-you that settled over your skin like a snowfall.

He picked the back corner. Away from the windows. Back to the wall.

You watched him go. How he moved like someone who didn’t want to be seen but didn’t want to be alone either. Like the space between those two things was the only place he knew how to live anymore.

You didn’t stare.

Much.

But you noticed.

The way his eyes scanned the café like a soldier in a new war zone. How he sat with both feet flat on the floor, metal hand resting near his thigh like it was ready to act but didn’t want to be.

How he kept looking at the door.

He wasn’t just new to town.

He was unmoored.

You turned back to the counter. Your hands were warm from the mug, but the rest of you felt cold now—like he’d carried winter in with him, quiet and slow.

Still, beneath it all, you could feel something else stirring. Something not cold.

Hope, maybe.

Or the beginning of something unnamed.

You didn’t know his name. You didn’t know his story.

But when he looked up one last time before leaving, eyes catching yours across the café—

It wasn’t loneliness in them.

It was something older. Something deeper.

Recognition.

Like maybe he’d seen this moment before. In a dream. In a memory he wasn’t sure belonged to him.

And just like that, it happened.

The invisible thread. The quiet click.

The knowledge that this wasn’t just a stranger walking into your café.

He had you at hello.

The next morning, he’s back.

You don’t hear the door open—you feel it. That hush again. Like the café itself inhales when he enters.

You glance up from behind the counter, hand wrapped around a still-warm mug. He’s dressed the same: dark layers, leather jacket zipped halfway up, gloved hand gripping the door handle a moment longer than necessary.

He’s rain-speckled. Drops cling to the ends of his hair, darkened by water. The shoulder of his jacket shines where the drizzle hit hardest. He looks like he’s walked through more than just the rain to get here.

But he’s here.

You don’t speak. Just nod, quiet and knowing. Then you turn and start preparing his order without asking.

He notices. You know he notices—because he hesitates.

You can feel his eyes linger on your hands as you reach for the cinnamon scone. You slice it in half—he always eats half, then carefully wraps the other like he’s saving it for someone who never shows up.

You hand him his mug, same way you did yesterday. Your fingers brush his gloved hand for half a second.

This time, he looks at you when he says, “Thank you.”

Still soft. Still quiet. But this time, there’s weight in it.

Like the word itself has to pass through something dark to reach his mouth.

He chooses the same booth. Back corner. Back to the wall. Eyes on the door.

The second he sits down, a few of the regulars filter in, boots squeaking on the damp floor. You catch Bucky’s jaw clench when one of them—Sammy, old local with no awareness of personal space—steps too close behind him while moving past.

It’s not a dramatic reaction. No sharp movement. Just the subtle tension of someone ready for a fight that won’t come.

You watch him try to relax.

Try to melt into the quiet.

The way he flinches—barely—when a cup falls behind the counter and crashes on the tile.

The way his metal fingers twitch when the wind pushes the door open too hard.

The way he always watches the door—not paranoid, just… prepared.

And the way he says “thank you” like it’s foreign on his tongue. Like it’s something he’s still learning how to mean.

He walks like a man who’s afraid of his own gravity.

Not afraid of hurting someone.

Afraid of being too much.

You don’t speak much. Not yet.

But you bring him a sugar packet without asking. And when he struggles to open it, gloved fingers slipping, you slide a small butter knife across the table without looking directly at him.

He stills.

Looks up, surprised. Maybe even a little…embarrassed.

“You’re okay,” you say, quietly.

And that—that is when it happens again.

He looks at you. Really looks. Something unreadable flickers in those eyes. Something worn and bruised, but curious. Not about the coffee. Not about the weather.

About you.

“You don’t have to try too hard…”

That’s what you think as you meet his gaze.

“You already have my heart.”

On the third morning, you finally ask.

“So,” you say, keeping your tone light as you pour his drink, “are you just passing through, or…?”

He’s quiet for a beat too long. Then:

“Trying to be less haunted,” he says, like it’s the simplest thing.

“Thought a small town might help.”

Your chest tightens—not because it’s dramatic, but because it isn’t.

You nod. Like you understand. Because maybe you do.

You don’t ask what haunts him. You don’t ask his name.

But the next morning, you get it anyway.

“Bucky,” he says softly, when you hand him his coffee with that same tiny smile you’ve started reserving just for him.

You blink. “What?”

“My name,” he says. “You should know it. Since you keep saving my life with these scones.”

Your laugh is soft but genuine.

“Bucky,” you repeat, tasting the name.

It feels right in your mouth. Like it’s meant to be said quietly. Meant to be kept close.

Tuesday morning. It rains again.

The windows fog. The smell of cinnamon, espresso, and wet pavement fills the café.

A tray clatters to the ground near the front. A customer curses. You see Bucky stiffen—his hand shoots halfway toward his hip like it’s habit. Instinct. Then stops.

His eyes go distant.

Like he’s somewhere else entirely.

You act fast.

“Careful with those,” you say with a soft smile, stepping out from behind the counter to help the customer. “We’ve only got most of our mugs left.”

Bucky doesn’t smile. But he does come back. Slowly. And when you bring him a napkin a few minutes later, he murmurs, “Thanks,” with something close to relief in his voice.

That’s when you realize: he’s used to protecting himself.

You want to be the kind of place where he doesn’t have to.

He stands to leave. You hand him his to-go drink, as always. Your fingers brush over the back of his glove. Just lightly. Bare skin to fabric.

He pauses.

And then—

That faintest flicker of a smile.

Not the kind people notice. The kind people feel.

“Don’t say goodnight… You had me at hello.”

You smile back. Not expecting anything. Not asking.

But you realize, watching him step out into the soft drizzle again:

He’s not just staying for the coffee.

He’s staying because for the first time in a long time,

this place doesn’t feel dangerous.

He doesn’t know why he keeps coming back.

It’s not the coffee.

It’s not even the scone.

It’s you.

The way your voice doesn’t try to fix him. The way you don’t flinch when he walks in. The way your fingers brush his hand like he’s not made of broken pieces.

He doesn’t have the words for it yet.

But if he did, they’d sound like this:

“She looked at me like I wasn’t a weapon.”

“And for a second, I believed her.”

It starts on a Tuesday. The kind of Tuesday that drizzles instead of storms.

The sky is gray, the sidewalks are wet, and you’re wiping down the counter when he walks in.

You don’t look up right away.

You don’t need to.

You feel him before you see him—like gravity shifting in the room.

The quiet kind. Familiar now.

He doesn’t go to his usual booth.

Instead, he chooses a table one seat closer to the counter. Just close enough to be noticed, not close enough to require explanation.

You raise your eyebrows. “Switching it up?”

Bucky—because you know to call him that now—glances toward the old record player in the corner.

“Better view of the playlist.”

He doesn’t look at it.

He looks at you.

You smile without asking more. And you hand him his drink without waiting for him to order it.

Late morning, it starts.

The café’s playlist is always a little bit yours—an eclectic mix of rainy-day indie, old soul, and songs that sound like they’ve been aching in someone’s chest since before they had a name.

And then it happens.

The old speakers crackle gently. Then:

Close your mouth now, baby, don’t say a word…

’Cause you ain’t saying nothin’ I ain’t already heard…

He stills. Subtle, but you know him now.

His grip tightens just slightly on the ceramic mug.

Plus, all them words get buried when the beat’s so loud…

And the speakers blowin’ up to this dance song…

You don’t say anything. You don’t have to.

The way his eyes shift—not away from the sound, but into it—tells you everything.

You’re wiping down a table later when the chorus returns, and without thinking, you hum it.

Just a bar or two. Soft. Absent-minded.

But his head lifts. Eyes locking on yours.

“You know this one?” you ask, casually.

He doesn’t answer right away.

Then, quieter than usual:

“Used to.”

Like it belonged to a version of him that’s buried too deep to reach most days.

You nod. You don’t push.

But something flickers between you—the unspoken understanding of what it means to lose whole decades, and still show up for the morning.

You don’t mean to tell him.

But it’s one of those late afternoons when the rain comes soft against the windows, and the air smells like cinnamon and wet leaves.

It’s quiet. No customers. Just you, a rag in your hand, leaning on the counter as he sits nearby, elbow on the table, thumb grazing the edge of his mug like it’s something to be studied.

“This town helped me breathe again,” you say, almost too low to hear yourself.

His eyes lift. Watching.

“I lost someone,” you say, because you don’t know how else to phrase it. “And after, everything felt like a fire drill. Like I was going through the motions of being alive.”

You exhale, then glance away. “Coming here… I don’t know. Something in the quiet made it feel okay to be sad.”

You risk a look.

He hasn’t moved.

But he’s listening. Like if he shifts, even slightly, he’ll miss something vital.

He doesn’t respond with a story of his own.

But he stays.

You’ll learn that’s how Bucky says the important things: not with words. But with presence.

The door swings open too fast. The bell clangs sharp—louder than it should be.

It startles you, but it stiffens him.

He doesn’t panic. Doesn’t snap. But you see it—the way his whole body locks. The flicker in his eyes like something deep in him is checking exits.

Without thinking, you step around the counter.

Your hand finds his sleeve.

Just a light touch.

A tether.

“Hey,” you say gently, like the sound of your voice can pull him back. “You’re okay.”

He doesn’t pull away.

In fact… for a split second, he leans into the touch.

Then it’s gone.

You both move on like nothing happened.

But it happened.

And the air remembers.

It’s nearing close.

You’re behind the counter, and he’s finishing the last sip of his drink. Neither of you seems eager to move.

Outside, the rain’s eased to mist.

He stands, slowly. Shrugs on his jacket.

You don’t have to try too hard…

You already have my heart…

The song plays again. The line lingers in the room.

And when he heads for the door, something in your chest tightens.

“Don’t say goodnight…” you whisper, more to yourself than to him.

But he hears it.

He turns halfway. Eyes soft.

“What?”

“Nothing,” you say quickly, brushing it off with a small smile. “It’s the lyrics.”

A pause.

“See you tomorrow?”

It’s a question. Not a promise.

But you nod like it’s both.

As he turns again, you catch him watching you—not like a soldier.

Not like someone surveying a room.

Like someone seeing light.

“You’re staring, Barnes,” you tease, grabbing a dish towel.

He smirks. Almost too subtle to catch.

“You know my name.”

“You told me.”

A beat. A breath.

Then—just before he pushes open the door—he says it:

“Sunshine.”

Soft. Almost swallowed by the wind.

“What?”

He shakes his head. “Nothing.”

But he doesn’t take it back.

The apartment is too quiet.

He sets the coffee cup on the small table like it’s breakable.

The song still plays in his head.

Your voice, humming it, somehow louder than the original.

He lowers himself to the couch. Leans back. Stares at the ceiling.

And thinks—

She doesn’t flinch when I go quiet.

She doesn’t push when I pull back.

She makes the silence feel less like punishment.

He closes his eyes.

Lets the quiet wrap around him.

And for the first time in years…

It doesn’t feel like armor.

It feels like breathing.

It happens after midnight.

After the rain has stopped. After the apartment has gone still.

After he’s let himself fall asleep for once without the TV humming low like a safety net.

He dreams in layers.

Not chronological. Not logical.

Just images, sound, sensation.

The dream begins the way most do:

Too loud.

Guns. Screams. Dust in his mouth. He’s running—he’s falling—he’s fighting someone he doesn’t recognize, who wears his face, who calls him asset—

Then—

You don’t have to try too hard…

The song threads in from nowhere.

Like light filtering through broken glass.

The chaos doesn’t stop, but something softens around the edges.

And then it’s your voice—not yelling, not commanding.

Just laughing.

He’s sitting at a booth that doesn’t belong to any place he knows.

Not really.

But there’s coffee in his hand. And you’re behind the counter, humming like the world is simple.

You say something—he can’t make out the words—but your eyes are warm and the light through the window looks like home.

You bring him a scone, set it down gently, brush his fingers when you do.

You don’t got a thing to prove…

I’m already into you…

He opens his mouth to respond, but no sound comes.

That part always breaks the dream.

You’re sitting beside him now.

You’re not saying anything.

Just resting your head on his shoulder. Like it’s allowed. Like it’s safe.

And he doesn’t flinch.

He doesn’t pull away.

He leans into it, just slightly, until—

“Sunshine,” he murmurs.

You look up, smile like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“What?”

He smiles back.

“Nothing.”

But this time in the dream, he doesn’t lose it.

He holds onto the moment just a little longer.

He wakes slowly.

The sheets are tangled. His throat’s dry. The sky outside is still blue-black.

But something’s different.

The weight isn’t gone. But it’s not pressing quite as hard.

And when he turns his head on the pillow, he whispers the word again like a secret:

“Sunshine.”

Not nothing.

This time, he means it.

You’re already behind the counter, sleeves pushed up to your elbows, hair pinned back messily. It’s early enough that the world still feels like it’s exhaling from a bad dream — fog on the windows, street slick with last night’s rain, the air thick with quiet. Your hands are busy, but your heart feels like it’s listening for something.

The bell over the café door chimes.

You don’t look up immediately.

You don’t have to.

His footsteps are heavier in the mornings — not in volume, but in presence. Like he carries gravity in the soles of his boots.

He walks in like he’s still deciding if he’s allowed to.

You glance up as he approaches the counter, his eyes scanning for you — like he doesn’t breathe right until he finds you behind the bar.

You slide his drink across the counter before he can open his mouth.

“Morning,” you say gently.

He looks down at the drink. Then back at you. Something flickers in his expression — not quite a smile, not quite disbelief.

“You remembered.”

He always says it like that. Like remembering him is an act of rebellion against everything he’s known.

“Of course I did.” You tap the lid. “And your scone’s waiting in the warmer. But I left a note.”

You hand it to him on a napkin scrawled with your messy handwriting:

“Wednesdays suck less with pastries.”

His lips twitch. A real smile tries to break through.

He doesn’t comment.

But the corner of his mouth betrays him — and that’s enough.

He moves toward his usual booth, only—

Today, he stops one seat closer to the counter.

“Your usual table’s open,” you say, teasing.

“Better view of the record player,” he mutters.

You catch the faintest flush in his ears.

You don’t point out that the record player is behind him from that seat.

You wipe down the counters. He pretends to read.

He’s brought a book the last few days. You know the title. You know it because he’s had it open to the same page every single time.

Today is no different.

“You know,” you say, tossing a dish towel over your shoulder, “for a guy who keeps coming in with a book, you’re not making much progress.”

He doesn’t look up.

“You timing me?”

“I’m just concerned you might’ve forgotten how to read.”

That gets a snort out of him — low, surprised.

Then, before he can stop it — he laughs.

Not just a breath. Not a polite exhale.

A laugh.

It catches both of you off-guard.

He brings a gloved hand up to his mouth, like it slipped out without permission.

Your chest tightens. Not with worry — with wonder.

“Was that…” You narrow your eyes. “Was that a laugh?”

He mumbles behind his fingers, “Don’t get used to it.”

Too late.

There’s a lull in the rush. You’re both standing behind the counter, pretending not to be watching each other. The song on the record player has faded into some soft acoustic hum.

Out of nowhere, he says, “I used to draw.”

You blink.

You don’t move. Don’t speak.

Just… wait.

“Before everything,” he adds after a beat. “Back when it was just something I did. Before it got… lost.”

“What happened?” you ask, gently.

His jaw tightens. Eyes stay on the wood grain of the counter.

“Forgot how to.”

You consider that. Let the silence stretch long enough that it doesn’t feel like a demand.

“Doesn’t mean it’s gone.”

He looks at you then. Really looks.

And there’s something in his eyes that doesn’t have a name yet.

But it’s starting to grow teeth.

The café playlist shifts. And you feel it before you hear it.

That one track. The one that hit him last time.

And this time, the room seems to still as the lyrics begin.

Close your mouth now, baby, don’t say a word

’Cause you ain’t sayin’ nothin’ I ain’t already heard…

You hum it as you rinse a cup. Barely aware of it.

He’s watching you again.

Not like a soldier scans a threat.

Like a man who’s watching sunlight stretch across floorboards.

You don’t have to try too hard…

You already have my heart…

He closes his eyes.

Not in pain.

Just—like it hurts to be seen this clearly.

You don’t got a thing to prove…

I’m already into you…

And in that moment, something invisible uncoils between you both.

Something heavy and golden and quiet.

You’re both behind the bar again — you asked him to help restock cups, half-joking.

He said, “Bossy,” with a ghost of a smile.

You reach for a ceramic mug at the same time.

Your fingers brush his glove.

And neither of you move.

Not for a second.

Not for two.

His gloved thumb shifts — just barely — over the ridge of your knuckle.

You feel the shape of the moment. Warm and fragile and wanting.

Then—

The bell over the door rings.

You flinch.

He steps back.

But your hand still feels the shape of his.

And for a moment — neither of you say anything.

The mug is in his hands.

The one you let him keep.

Not the chipped ones. Not the plain ones.

The good one.

“It’s just a cup,” you’d said.

But he remembered what he told you in return.

“No one’s ever let me keep the good cup before.”

He didn’t mean to say that out loud.

But it was the truest thing he’d said all day.

He sets the mug on the table, next to the sketchbook.

Open now.

The page is half-filled with a pencil rendering — soft lines, gentle shading.

A face. Not finished. Not labeled.

But it’s you.

Your profile. Your hands. The shape of your jaw when you smile.

The song plays again — on his old speakers. He downloaded the playlist. Needed to keep something from the café with him.

You don’t have to try too hard…

He presses the pencil to the page. Doesn’t draw.

Just holds it there.

You already have my heart…

He whispers it.

Not to the page. Not to the song.

To you.

Wherever you are right now.

He dreams.

For once, it’s not war.

It’s not metal or blood or sirens or glass.

It’s the café.

Afternoon sun warming the floor.

You’re there, behind the counter. Wearing that oversized sweater. Hair up in a clip. Humming. Smiling.

He’s sitting across from you.

No glove.

Your hand is wrapped around his.

You’re calling him something soft.

“James.”

The name sounds safe in your mouth.

He wakes up before he answers you.

As he leaves that night, you pause with the key in your hand, ready to lock the door.

“Same time tomorrow?” you ask.

You’re still facing away from him when he answers.

“Yeah.”

Then—

“I like the quiet here.”

You turn just enough to meet his eyes.

You don’t say it.

But it’s there in your smile.

In the breath between you.

It’s not the quiet.

It’s you.

The morning starts with a missing piece.

No boots at the door. No quiet knock of knuckles against wood. No half-smile from the man who’s come to feel like gravity disguised as routine.

You keep glancing at the entrance anyway, like the bell might ring if you will it hard enough.

It doesn’t.

Still, you make his drink. Just in case. You set it on the warmer, and every few minutes you check it—switching it out for a fresh one before it goes cold.

You tell yourself it’s muscle memory. Not hope.

When he finally walks in—late, soaked in the gray of the day—something in your chest unstitches.

His jacket is damp from the rain. His hair curls slightly at the ends. He looks tired in that way you’ve started to recognize—not from lack of sleep, but from holding back everything he won’t say.

You say nothing about the absence. Nothing about the hour.

Just:

“It’s still hot.”

And when you slide the cup toward him, it feels like offering shelter instead of coffee.

He doesn’t smile, not really, but his eyes soften. And that’s enough.

Outside, the storm hits its stride.

The windows fog at the corners. Rain streaks across the glass like brushstrokes. The world turns watercolor.

Inside, it’s all warm light and the hush of things unspoken.

He stays longer. Doesn’t pretend to read. The book in his hands is open, but the pages don’t turn. Every so often, his gaze finds you like he doesn’t mean it to.

You catch it once. Hold it.

He doesn’t look away.

Later, you say it without planning to.

It slips out soft, like a confession disguised as a comment.

“This place didn’t used to feel like home. Not until recently.”

You don’t say because of you.

You don’t have to.

He stills. Hand around the mug, knuckles pale.

Sets it down.

He looks at you like he wants to say something that would crack his chest open—but instead, he just exhales. Slow. Measured.

His mouth opens.

Closes.

A small shake of the head.

You don’t push.

You just smile.

And something in him shifts at the sight of it—like a fist slowly uncoiling.

Evening falls without fanfare.

The café empties. The storm presses close against the windows.

He’s still there, drying mugs that don’t need drying. Like he belongs behind the counter now. Like he’s forgotten how to leave.

“You know this isn’t your job, right?” you tease.

He shrugs. “I don’t mind.”

You hand him the same mug you let him take last time. No words, no ceremony. Just an understanding.

Then—something different. Something new threads the silence.

You almost say it:

“Wanna come over?”

“Do you want to stay?”

“Walk me home?”

You open your mouth. Close it.

The air between you pulses, like it knows how close you are to saying something that could change everything.

And instead, he says:

“You hum when you’re thinking.”

You blink. Caught.

“I didn’t realize.”

“I like it,” he says. Simply. No pretense.

Like he means it.

The playlist shifts again. A soft beat. Familiar now.

You hum under your breath, not thinking.

You don’t have to try too hard…

You already have my heart…

He hears it. You feel his attention before you look up.

Then—

“You already have my heart.”

It comes so softly, like he’s saying it to the rain. To the empty room. To no one.

But you hear it.

You stop moving. The cloth stills in your hand.

You turn, and he’s standing there, eyes on yours. Unmoving. Unapologetic.

He doesn’t take it back.

And you don’t ask him to.

That night, in a room that’s never felt more hollow, he sketches again.

The mug you gave him rests beside the paper. Still warm from memory.

He draws your laugh—not your face, exactly. Just the shape of your mouth mid-smile. The curve of your eyes when you tease.

He doesn’t show anyone.

He doesn’t need to.

She doesn’t know, he thinks, watching the lines take shape.

She doesn’t know what she’s doing to me.

Then, quieter:

Or maybe she does.

And she’s waiting for me to catch up.

In his sleep, he dreams.

Of you.

Of the café, candlelit and empty. Music curling around the corners.

You’re there—barefoot, swaying. Humming that same song.

He watches from a distance. Doesn’t want to disturb the way you glow in the low light.

Then you turn.

Reach for him.

“You don’t have to try,” you whisper.

And he takes your hand.

Wakes up with his fingers curled into nothing.

The next morning, he opens the to-go bag you packed.

Inside: the spoon. A worn, unassuming one.

There’s a note wrapped around the handle:

“For late-night cereal.

Or ice cream.

Or bad dreams.”

He reads it twice. Once for the words.

Once for what they mean.

Something in his chest cracks open. Quietly.

Like breath through broken ribs.

He walks in earlier than usual the next day.

Doesn’t order right away. Just stands in front of you, eyes full of something steady.

When he reaches for your hand—he doesn’t ask.

He doesn’t need to.

And you let him.

Because this time, you don’t flinch.

Neither does he.

The café hums low, the way it always does after close—like it exhales with you, both of you finally breathing now that the world is gone.

You’re wiping down the counter. It’s habit by now. Not because it needs it. Because it’s how you delay endings.

Bucky reaches for a towel without asking, like he always does now. But today, there’s a quiet about him. Not the guarded kind. The kind that comes from being somewhere you don’t want to leave.

You hand him a fresh cloth. His gloved hand brushes yours as he takes it—leather warm from the air. He starts to wipe the far edge of the counter.

And then it happens.

The glove slips.

Just a bit. Not much. But enough.

The gleam of metal catches in the lamplight—smooth and quiet and unmistakable. Not warlike. Not monstrous. Just… part of him.

His hand stills.

He doesn’t look at you. Doesn’t move to hide it.

He waits.

You don’t gasp. Don’t freeze. You just pick up another rag and start wiping the other end of the counter like nothing’s changed. Because nothing has.

He watches you. Long. Hard. Like he’s reading your silence and doesn’t trust it at first.

Minutes pass.

Then, without looking up, he says—quiet, almost like it’s breaking something in him:

“Most people look.”

You pause. Just for a second.

Then you glance over, soft and unshaken.

“You’re not most people.”

There’s silence. A long, soft, waiting kind.

And then he says, low and steady—

“Neither are you.”

He doesn’t smile. But something in his shoulders loosens. Like you just told him he could stay.

Later, thunder growls low, like the sky is thinking of collapsing.

Rain taps the windows, insistent. The lights flicker twice—nothing dramatic, just enough to draw both your eyes to the ceiling at the same time.

You’re at the register, half-laughing.

“Well. That’s a vibe.”

Bucky shifts his stance. Glances out the window. The street outside is ghosted over—wet and reflective, traffic down to a crawl.

You glance at him—then the rain—then back again.

And you say it. Light, no pressure.

“You can wait it out here. I’ve got tea. A really ugly blanket. Probably some old books I lied about finishing.”

He doesn’t answer at first. His jaw flexes once.

Then:

“You sure?”

You nod.

“Of course.”

And maybe he doesn’t realize it yet, but this is the first time he accepts a kind offer without thinking it’s conditional.

He follows you to the back corner couch. You bring out mismatched mugs, light one small candle—lavender, half-burned. You sit cross-legged with your tea. He lowers himself to the edge of the couch like he’s afraid he’ll break it—or worse, break the moment.

But he stays.

And you don’t ask him to explain why.

“You cook?” you ask, raising an eyebrow.

He gives a noncommittal shrug. “Used to. Not much opportunity now.”

You hold up a dusty box of pasta. “Well. Welcome to culinary mediocrity.”

The kitchen’s small—barely two people wide—but you move around each other like you’ve done this before. Like you’ve been doing this in dreams.

You hand him the wooden spoon. He holds it like it’s a grenade. Squints at the back of the box like it’s written in code.

“What does ‘al dente’ mean?”

You laugh.

“It means ‘not mushy.’ Stir slowly. Pretend you care.”

He stirs like he’s defusing something.

Then, softly:

“I haven’t done this in a long time.”

You don’t press. Just smile and say:

“You’re doing fine.”

And maybe you mean the soup. But maybe you mean more.

He doesn’t answer. But he stirs with more care than before.

Dinner’s done. Dishes are drying in the sink. The rain hasn’t stopped.

You hand him a folded blanket—soft, a little faded. Your favorite one. You don’t say that, but maybe he can tell by the way you pass it over like it matters.

He spreads it out on the couch. Settles in slowly. Like it’s new territory. Like the couch will reject him if he breathes wrong.

You go to switch off the lights.

He watches you the whole time.

And just as you’re turning away, he says—quiet, but not uncertain:

“You make it easy to stay.”

You don’t know what to say.

So you don’t say anything.

But later—when he’s curled under the blanket, half-asleep—you walk over and tuck the edge of it tighter around his shoulders.

You pause there, fingers brushing the fabric.

And he doesn’t open his eyes.

But you feel it—the way he exhales, just a little easier than before.

It’s past midnight. The storm is softer now—like the world is whispering instead of yelling.

You’re washing a mug at the sink when you start to hum.

You don’t realize you’re doing it until the lyrics slip out, barely a whisper:

You don’t have to try too hard…

From the couch, voice rough with sleep, he answers:

“You already have my heart.”

You freeze, fingers still on porcelain.

You turn, slow. His eyes are open now. Watching you in the quiet.

“You keep saying that.”

He shrugs. One shoulder under the blanket.

“Because it keeps being true.”

And the room is silent.

But everything inside you is loud.

Hours pass. Neither of you sleep.

There’s no light except the soft gold from the hallway and the blue-gray shimmer of moonlight against the windows.

You’re curled up in the chair across from him. He’s on his side now, facing you.

And then, not looking at you, he speaks.

Low. Raw.

“I forget how to be around people sometimes.”

You shift. Watch him carefully.

“You don’t have to try around me.”

His eyes flick to you. Almost searching.

He nods. Then—another breath.

“I’m scared of messing this up.”

You smile, small. Sad. True.

“Me too.”

He studies you. Then he says:

“I never thought someone like you would notice someone like me.”

You lean forward, just a little. Just enough.

“It’s all I notice.”

And for once, he doesn’t look away.

Next morning. The rain is gone. A film of light lays over the floorboards.

He sits at the table while you make breakfast. The good mug in front of him.

And in the notebook he never lets anyone see, he writes:

She didn’t ask what I’ve done.

Didn’t ask who I’ve hurt.

Didn’t even ask what this was.

She just asked how I wanted my coffee.

I think that might be the kindest thing anyone’s ever done for me.

Later that afternoon, the café’s empty. The air smells like cinnamon and vanilla and something sweet neither of you can name.

You’re locking the front door.

And he reaches out—slow, but certain.

Fingers curl around yours.

Not by accident. Not because you’re brushing past each other.

On purpose.

You look down.

Then up.

And he says it. Soft. Fragile. Weighted.

“There’s something I need to tell you. About before.”

You nod.

“Okay.”

But he doesn’t say it yet.

He just looks at you like maybe he’s scared this is the last moment before it all changes.

Like you’re the thing holding him still in a world that keeps spinning too fast.

And you squeeze his hand.

You don’t ask him to be brave.

But you stay anyway.

And that? That’s braver than either of you has ever been.

It happens just after midnight.

You’re curled up against him on the couch, the blanket tucked under your chin, the warmth between your bodies soft and steady. Your head rests on his shoulder like it belongs there. His gloved hand is draped over your knee.

The movie’s still playing, but you’re asleep now. He can feel the rhythm of your breathing shift.

And he’s not watching the screen anymore. He’s watching you.

He thinks, quietly: This feels like something real.

He doesn’t realize he’s smiling until he hears the buzzing—

A low, harsh vibration against the wood of your coffee table.

Your phone doesn’t ring. His does.

He shifts slowly, careful not to wake you.

CALLER ID: Sam Wilson

He answers low. Quiet.

“Yeah?”

“Buck. We need you.”

“Now?”

“Now.”

His gut tightens.

“How long?”

“We don’t know. Could be a week. Could be three. It’s bad. It’s not covert. It’s not clean. We go in fast, we end it faster.”

“I can’t— I need to tell—”

“There’s no time. I’m sorry.”

There’s silence.

Then a breath.

Then:

“I’ll be there in twenty.”

He ends the call. Looks back at you.

You’re still asleep. One hand curled under your chin. Lips parted slightly. Trusting.

He wants to wake you.

To say goodbye.

To say I didn’t leave you, not really. I’m coming back.

But you look peaceful. And part of him—selfishly, stupidly—doesn’t want to see that peace turn into panic.

So he doesn’t say anything.

He just kneels beside the couch for one moment longer, brushing a strand of hair from your cheek. He thinks about writing a note. But what would he say?

“I’ll be back.”

“Don’t stop waiting.”

“This was real to me.”

It all sounds like lies when he’s not sure if he’ll survive.

So instead, he kisses the edge of your blanket, whispers:

“Please still be here.”

And walks out the door.

—

You glance at the clock.

9:07.

Nothing unusual.

9:12.

You find yourself checking the door.

9:18.

Still not there.

You make his drink anyway—out of habit, you tell yourself.

You steam the milk exactly how he likes it. You even pick the mug he always pretends not to care about but never fails to use.

It’s warm in your hands. It feels like waiting.

By 10:00, it’s cold.

You throw it out before anyone can ask.

He’s not late anymore.

He’s just not coming.

You still make the drink.

Still pick the mug.

Still set it down in the same spot.

The pastry too.

By the end of the shift, it’s dry. The sugar glaze is hardened and cracked.

You wrap it anyway. Put it in a bag.

You don’t know why.

The coffee smells like memory now.

Somewhere in the Alps, or maybe the Andes. He doesn’t know anymore.

It’s snow. Cold. Gunfire. Broken comms.

He’s crouched behind a ruined truck. Blood on his sleeve—some his, some not.

He should be focused. But instead:

He thinks of your laugh.

The way you hummed around the kitchen.

The softness in your eyes when you told him he didn’t have to try so hard.

The way your hand rested just near his knee, like you belonged there.

And he thinks, too late:

“I should’ve woken her up.”

You don’t want to spiral.

You don’t want to jump to conclusions.

But you’ve never been this wrong about a feeling before.

The look in his eyes when he held your hand.

The way he whispered “you already have my heart.”

None of it felt halfway.

And yet—

Here you are.

No call. No message.

Nothing.

You sit down in the back room of the café, shaking slightly. You don’t know if it’s anger or fear or something worse:

Hope.

Hope that he still might walk in.

Hope that you didn’t just imagine it all.

You bite your lip hard enough to taste copper.

And still—

You make his drink.

He’s back at base. Finally.

Bandaged. Bruised. Bone-weary.

His hands shake as he opens his pack. Amid the gear, the blood, the torn field notes—

The spoon.

Your spoon.

The one you tucked into his bag with that post-it:

“For late-night cereal. Or ice cream. Or bad dreams.”

He presses the note to his forehead.

Fists the spoon in his hand like it’s armor.

“She thinks I left.”

“She thinks I didn’t care.”

“She probably stopped waiting.”

He wants to scream.

Instead, he curls on his side and whispers your name.

You:

Sitting on his windowsill. You came here once, unable to stop yourself.

The place is cold. Impersonal. Like it shut down the second he walked out.

You leave a small mug on his counter.

His favorite one.

Just in case.

Him:

That same night, he stares at a payphone.

Doesn’t dial.

Doesn’t even know what he’d say.

Doesn’t know if you’d pick up.

Doesn’t know if your silence would be worse than the distance.

You:

Lying in bed, the spoon you gave him now curled in your fist. You kept another one. A matching set.

You whisper into your blanket:

“Where are you, Bucky?”

“Why didn’t you say goodbye?”

You stop making his drink.

It feels like letting go of something you didn’t want to admit you were holding.

You tell yourself maybe it wasn’t real. Maybe you read too much into the silences. The glances. The “you already have my heart.”

That one hurts the most.

You tell yourself maybe you dreamed it.

Maybe you wanted something so badly it started to look like love.

The café feels colder now.

You hum less.

The window where he used to sit starts to feel like a bruise.

You sit at his table.

It’s raining again.

The kind of rain he used to linger for.

You make tea just for yourself.

You start to close up for the night when the bell above the door doesn’t ring.

And somehow, that silence feels louder than any goodbye could have.

You look at the empty spot where his cup used to be.

You whisper it, this time, out loud:

“Where the hell did you go?”

You don’t expect an answer.

But you still wait a second longer before turning out the lights.

(Border)

The café is dim. Quiet. Only the hum of the refrigerator and the soft clatter of your nervous hands cleaning cups that are already clean.

You’ve stopped humming.

Stopped looking at the door.

But you haven’t stopped hoping.

That’s the cruelest part.

And then—

The bell chimes.

You freeze. Back turned.

You feel it.

That gravity shift.

That soul-deep awareness that he’s there.

You close your eyes. Grip the edge of the counter so hard your knuckles scream.

Then, a voice. Rough. Ragged. Like it’s clawing its way out of regret.

“…I didn’t know how to come back.”

You turn. Slowly.

And there he is.

Bucky.

Bruised. Dirty. A split lip. A healing gash under one eye. One arm still bandaged.

But it’s him. He’s here.

And he looks like he’s been walking through hell just to reach this moment.

You don’t say anything.

Don’t move.

Your chest rises and falls too fast.

Your throat is tight and your stomach is full of glass.

He takes a shaky step forward.

“I wanted to wake you. I should’ve told you. I—I didn’t think I had the right—”

You hold up a hand.

He goes quiet.

You’re trembling now.

“You left.”

Just two words. But they tear out of you.

“I know.”

“You didn’t say a word.”

“I thought—” he swallows hard, “—it would be easier if I didn’t.”

You shake your head. A harsh, bitter laugh slips out.

“Easier for who?”

And that’s when he sees it.

Not just the anger in your voice—but the hurt behind it. The rawness under the rage.

Your hands are fists. Your chest is heaving. Your mouth quivers.

You want to scream.

You want to collapse.

You want to kiss him until it erases all the missing.

But mostly—

You just want him to hold you like he should have before he walked out that door.

He moves toward you. Slow. Wary.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I’m sorry I made you feel like I didn’t care. I never—”

He reaches for your arm.

You smack his hand away.

Then you grab his collar.

Pull him to you.

And you kiss him.

Hard. Desperate. Furious.

Your teeth clash. Your lip splits.

He gasps into your mouth like he’s drowning and your kiss is oxygen and punishment all at once.

He doesn’t pull away.

He leans into it. Hands flying up—one gripping the counter behind you for balance, the other cradling your face like he can’t believe you’re real.

The kiss slows. Softens.

And then stops.

He pulls back, breathing like he just survived a war.

You won’t look at him. You’re crying now. Quiet, messy tears that drip down your chin like shame.

“I hate that I missed you this much,” you whisper.

He presses his forehead to yours.

“I hate that I made you wait.”

You finally look up at him. Red eyes. Wet lashes.

And he sees everything.

“I didn’t want to need you,” you say. Voice breaking. “But I do.”

His thumb brushes your cheek.

“Then need me.”

“Don’t say good night,” you say—almost a dare.

He breathes out—like a man who’s been holding it in since he left.

And then he says it.

Low. Wrecked. Certain.

It’s quiet when you stir. The kind of quiet that feels sacred.

No café noise. No city hum. Just the soft hush of a world not quite awake yet.

You shift beneath the blanket—his blanket. The one he threw over the two of you sometime around 3am. Your back is to his chest, his arm draped loosely over your waist, fingertips curled in the fabric of your shirt like he’s still trying to anchor himself to you in his sleep.

You can feel his breath, warm and even against the curve of your neck.

He doesn’t twitch. Doesn’t dream.

Just rests.

For maybe the first time in years.

You reach down. Lace your fingers with his. Slowly. Gently.

He stirs, but doesn’t pull away.

Instead, his grip tightens slightly, and his voice—rough with sleep and rasp—comes against your skin like something holy:

“Still here?”

You nod, not trusting your voice yet.

“Good,” he mumbles. “Didn’t want to open my eyes and find out I made you up.”

You feel your chest crack open a little at that.

Because it’s not a line.

It’s not pretty.

It’s just true.

You press your forehead against his arm and whisper:

“You didn’t.”

“I’m here.”

He lets out a shaky exhale, then presses a slow kiss into your shoulder—like it’s a thank you.

The kitchen is small. Sun-washed.

The kind of space made for mugs with chipped handles and sleepy morning songs that hum just beneath conversation.

You hand him a spatula and tell him to flip the eggs.

He stares at the pan like it’s a disarmed landmine.

“It’s not going to explode, Bucky.”

He side-eyes you.

“You don’t know that.”

You laugh. “You’ve survived wars. You can survive breakfast.”

He flips the egg—terribly.

You grin and bump his hip with yours. “Good enough.”

He mutters something under his breath about “civilian combat,” but when you glance at him, he’s smiling. Really smiling. The rare kind. The kind that feels like sunlight.

You eat with your knees touching under the table.

He watches you more than he eats.

Like he’s memorizing you.

You raise your brow at him mid-sip.

“What?”

He just shrugs a little, mouth tilted up.

“You’re the first thing I’ve wanted to wake up to in a long time.”

You freeze for a second, your chest rising slowly.

Then you whisper:

“I’m not going anywhere.”

He reaches across the table.

Takes your hand like he means to keep it.

You end up on the couch after breakfast. He’s sitting back, legs spread, arms along the cushions. You’re curled beside him, knees tucked up, one of his arms around your back. It’s lazy. Comfortable. But there’s a hum beneath it—like something unsaid is pacing the room.

You glance up at him.

He’s already watching you.

That same look in his eyes again—recognition.

Not like you’re perfect. But like you’re his.

You blink. Smile softly.

Then whisper:

“Hey.”

He tilts his head, just a little.

“Hmm?”

“You already had me.”

His brows furrow. He’s not confused in the bad way—just a little lost in how honest it feels.

So you elaborate. Eyes still on him.

“From that first day. The way you said hi. The gloves. The stillness in you. It didn’t scare me.”

“I think… maybe that was the moment. Even if I didn’t know it yet.”

He doesn’t speak.

Just blinks. Slowly.

A long pause.

Then—quiet, like he’s offering it from the deepest part of himself:

“Hi,” he says.

“I’m Bucky.”

And it wrecks you.

That he’s still trying to earn it. Still trying to believe this isn’t just borrowed time.

You crawl into his lap—gently, deliberately.

Straddle him with care, your knees on either side of his hips. You’re not rushing.

He looks up at you. Like you’re the answer to a question he never thought he was allowed to ask.

You whisper:

“That’s it. I’m yours.”

He exhales like he’s been holding his breath for years.

Hands coming to your waist like he’s afraid you’ll disappear.

He doesn’t pull you closer.

You do.

And then—

Not urgent. Not desperate.

Just full.

Of history.

Of hesitation finally released.

Of love that’s been blooming in the shadows, now stepping into the light.

You kiss him like he’s precious. Like you’re learning him. Like your lips are asking “Are you ready?” and his are answering “I’ve always been.”

He deepens it slowly, tilting his head, one hand curling up into your hair, the other pressing flat to your back like he wants to feel every breath you take.

You pull back only when you’re both breathless.

Your foreheads rest together.

And in the silence, you hum the song again.

“Hold, hold, hold, hold me tight now…”

His voice is a whisper, matching yours:

“’Cause I’m so, so good to go…”

You smile. Eyes closed.

He brushes his thumb beneath your lip, voice softer now.

“Don’t say, don’t say good night…”

And together, at the same time, you say:

“You had me at hello.”

(You’ve got mail!) DONT SAY DONT SAY GOODNIGHT YOU KNOWWW! YOU HAAD ME AT HELLOOOOO!!! oh my god this is my favorite dcom song every. WELL ONE and I was thinking about it and was like awww omg Bucky with this would be so cute :((( AND THEN I REMEMBERED I MAKE FICS. I promised 3 fics I just forgot to post it. So here’s 2/3!!

Tag List (For Mr. James Buchanan Barnes is open)

@bbsbrina @herejustforbuckybarnes @barnesandbouquets @winchestert101 @totallyanxiousart @lovinqbella @starstruckfirecat @beestarsuck

[sobbingscripter]

Tags: [mlw][mdni][part 2 of this][fingering][edging][daddy kink][hair pulling][missionary][knees to the chest][passionate][begging][subtle breeding kink][whiny dick][doggy style][pussydrunk man>>][could see him as a girldad][not proofread]

"And— And— I saw a clownfish. Like, like Nemo. And I saw crabs. And— and I saw the big, big fish that's like—" Riot's tiny arms outstretch as far as they can, eyes wide and emphatic, "bigger than this."

He stands in the kitchen, sock-clad feet pittering after Alfred as he continues to break down each and every sighting of the aquarium. The older man stares down at him, grin stretching to no end because it reminds him of when Bruce was no taller than his knee, breaking down each thing he saw at galas and events in the late evening hours when he was supposed to be asleep.

"I thought you were going to the museum." Alfred hums. "Why the change of plans?"

And Riot hums, rocking back and forth on his feet. "We wanted to go, but someone took a painting so we didn't. So we went to see the fishies."

"And what was your favourite part?" Alfred hums softly, weathered eyes crinkling at the corners as he watched the way chubby fingers carefully grab different utensils from the different dish washer compartments, holding them out to for Alfred to pack away in the cupboards far too high.

"The touch tank!" Riot chirps, before letting out an excited gasp. "So many fishies. And—" Tubby hands flail excitedly. "And sharks."

Alfred hums almost thoughtfully.

"And did you get to touch the sharks?" Alfred questions, so animated and inquisitive and the giggle Riot lets out is the most heartwarming sound he's heard in a long while.

The sound of a child being simply what they are;

A child.

Not a vigilante, not a hero.

"No, silly Grampy." Chonky hands cover his mouth as he giggles. "The touch tank had the sea cucumbers, and the starfishies."

Alfred melts. Scooping Riot up in his arms, lithe muscles shifting beneath the flesh as he rests the boy on his hip before moving into the lounge, staring Bruce dead in the eye.

"I am 'Grampy', Master Bruce." Alfred gleams, the apples of his cheeks rising and Bruce simply scowls, before looking down at Riot who watches him with wide eyes. Head tilting before covering his hand with his mouth.

"Daddy?" Riot's voice is tiny as he holds his arms out to Bruce, making grabby hands as his eyes well up.

The room goes dead silent, Duke's hand moves to cover his mouth, eyes darting between Bruce, Riot and Dick. Because the tea is piping right now.

And you let out a snort, raising your glass to your lips. "You can't con these ones, baby, they have the money for DNA tests."

And Riot huffs, tiny fists wiping away fat tears before he hops down from Alfred's hip, giving the older man's hand a sweet, and affectionate squeeze before he moves towards you, soft footsteps carrying him towards you, and he stands between your thighs, hands bracing on your legs and you huff.

"Never let me have anything." You murmur under your breath, before one of your hands rest beneath Riot's chin, while you let him have a sip of your juice. Tiny hands clasp around the cool glass, although your hand remains on it to prevent a little accident.

And Dick's just so... Smitten.

Brilliant blue eyes locked on the way your thumb so carefully brushes away a stray droplet of juice, pretty eyes locked on the chubby features of your baby as he, undoubtedly, judges the Wayne household. All except Alfred, probably.

Dick brushes back long, muscular fingers through his hair, easing back against the backrest before extending his legs, crossing them at the ankles and his tongue runs over his teeth when he watches the way Riot plants himself next to you.

Looking at everyone.

Before zeroing in on Duke.

"Signal."

Riot's singular utter makes the room go silent. Dead silent, and shared glances are shared, before Duke lets out a laugh, elbows braced on his knees and he leans forward.

"What makes you think that, little man?" Duke hums, tone light and easy, despite the fact that his brain is moving at 1 000 000 miles a minute.

"I haven't seen a lot of black people in Gotham."

The words leave the little boy's lips and you nearly spit out your juice before looking at Riot, eyes wide and lips pursed to hide a laugh that you know might be distasteful.

"Riot, baby, no. Don't—you could've mentioned literally anything else. Like the slight glow, or the black and yellow shoes or anything else." You pinch the bridge of your nose when Riot lets out a giggle in response.

"But m'funnier."

ִֶָ𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ❄️་༘࿐

"You should've told me about him." Dick's voice is a quiet murmur and you simply let out a sigh, your fingers deftly folding a tiny pajamas set, as well as several pairs of underwear and socks, stuffing them into a Spiderman backpack.

It's something you've been hearing all day. In the quiet whispers of wind rustling the branches of the trees, the crunch of gravel beneath each of your footsteps as Dick would carry Riot on his hip, watching as the little boy points out the different breeds of dog that were scattered in the park.

Fuck, you even heard it in the bubbles let out by different fish as you walked past tanks because never in a million years, had the thought even crossed your mind, that Dick would be ecstatic to be a dad.

You didn't think of the way a smile would stretch so effortlessly on his stupidly perfect face whenever Riot would point out something, you didn't think of the way he'd be so happy to take pictures of his son in front of different tanks. You didn't think of the way his breath would visibly stutter when Riot would ask for his first family picture, and you didn't think of the way his eyes would meet yours as you both blew raspberries against the giggling and rosy cheeks of your baby.

"I don't know, Ri—" "Don't call me that, please." Dick breathes out softly, blue eyes softening as he looks down at you, taking the balled up socks from your hand and setting them back down, and his hands move to hold your hands. And Dick forces you to look at him, as he guides one of your hands to cup his cheek.

The warmth of his palm isn't something you've forgotten. Just like the length of his fingers. Musician's hands, if anything.

"Don't talk to me like you don't know me."

Dick's voice is soft as he tilts his head, pressing a kiss to your palm. "You know me. You knew me twice on your couch last night." Dick adds, the offhanded comment bringing a reluctant smile to your lips and he hums out a chuckle, before stepping closer to you, forcing you to crane your neck backwards. And Dick cups your face in his hands.

"Don't shut me out." He speaks so softly. "Not again."

The way Dick looks at you nearly makes you melt, all soft eyes and warm palms, cradling your face like you're the most precious thing to walk the Earth.

And Dick swallows.

Long lashes fluttering so prettily, before his tongue darts out, dragging across his pinkened bottom lip.

"Open up to me..." He breathes out, so sweetly. "Please, baby."

ִֶָ𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ❄️་༘࿐

"That's a good girl... There she is, open up for me more, pretty..."

"Dickie...."

Your voice is a hoarse whimper, legs tossed over Dick's broad thighs, your panties and pants abandoned across the surface of whatever furniture was the nearest as dextrous digits continue to push past your gummy walls.

Your nails dig into his thighs, lashes fluttering with each curl of his fingers and moans slip past your lips whenever his lips brush against the curve of your ear. Tracing the shell with his tongue, before pulling your lobe into his mouth, teeth brushing against the sensitive skin.

"Nobody's taken care of this pretty pussy since me, huh?" Dick coos softly, fingers pulling out of you only to give you those delightful, teasing smacks against your neglected clit, watching the way your thighs burn to close. And he does it again.

Light smacks that make your hole clench around nothing, whines slipping past your lips.

And you nod your head weakly, toes curling in your socks and Dick croons to you, so sweet as he presses a kiss against your pulse.

"Shhhh, it's okay, gorgeous. Daddy's home."

His fingers circle your clit so attentively, brilliant blue eyes darkened by lust and want, watching as your face screws up and your hips buck in his lap, pleasure nearly blinding and he's not even making you come yet.

Dick's prolonging it because well, you just look so pretty when slick oozes from you, puffy pussy glossy with your wetness, eyes teary and your bottom lip is wedged between your teeth.

Your face is flushed, rosy cheeks with beads of sweat gathering at your temples and Dick hums softly, pushing his middle finger into your needy cunt. All the way to the knuckle, before pulling out all the way, just to trace your gooey slit with the tips of his fingers.

And you whine.

"Dick, please." The sound of your voice so weak has Dick straining against his boxers, his lashes flutter and he lets himself breathe, just to get a hold of himself.

He's a bit of a people pleaser and God, does he wanna please you.

And Dick swallows, before nodding his head, shifting you off his lap and instead, guiding you to rest against the backrest, thighs spread obscenely wide and your feet resting on the seats on either side of you.

And Dick's head dips low, taking a deep breath of the scent of you. Your slick, your pussy, everything. It all just makes him so dizzy that he leans forward without a second's notice, tongue curling against your clit and Dick moans when your fingers find purchase in his hair.

Lovely digits curl around the thick locks and he hums, nodding his head.

"That's it, baby." He hums. "Pull my hair."

Dick's whimper is hypnotic when you tug on the raven strands, guiding his face back to your pussy where his lips wrap around the sensitive nub, suckling at it so earnestly.

And your hips buck and twitch, hands readjusting their grip and instead, grabbing the back of his head, moving him closer.

"That's it, pretty. Make yourself feel good— Come on my fucking tongue."

Your feet leave the surface of the sofa, knees nearly pulled up all the way and Dick's having the fucking time of his life when you tug him this way and that way by his hair.

Dick's tongue dips into your core, prodding around the gummy insides as the ball of his nose grinds against your clit and you're coming. Clenching around his tongue, tangling your fingers in his hair and wrapping your thighs around his neck.

The sounds you make are melodious, gasps, and breaths leaving you like you ran a marathon, all as he continues to lap at your slick cunt like a fucking animal in heat.

When Dick lifts his head, his pupils are dilated and the lower half of his face is glistening with a sheen that puts dewy makeup to shame.

Dick practically looks like he's glowing from the inside.

And he's definitely glowing when he brings your knees up to your chest, urging you to keep them there while he fumbles with his belt.

"Spread your pretty pussy for me, yeah?" Dick breathes out, eyes locked on where a peace sign has two of your digits tucked on either side of your folds, pushing your pussy lips apart and he groans at the sight of your hole.

Warm, inviting and so, so pretty.

"That's fucking perfect, baby. You're perfect." Dick's breathing heavy as he taps the flushed head of his cock against your clit, watching as your belly flexes and tightens, right before he sticks his tip in.

You're warm. You're gooey. And you're so fucking perfect, wrapping around his cock like the perfect pair of socks. And Dick whines when you squelch around him, each sinking inch making him so much more desperate to feel you come on his cock.

When Dick's balls rest against the curve of your ass, you get a feel of just how fucking heavy they are, muscular hands keep your knees anchored to your chest. And he swallows, panted breaths falling from his lips.

Dick pulls out halfway, and only halfway. Because it's damn near painful to be out of your wet heat and he's pushing back in, grinding against you each time your flesh meets his.

His head dips, long, tongue kisses pressed against your lips while his hips thrust into you, slow and meaningful, and so, sooooo fucking deep. His tongue moves against yours, the only sounds being Dick's breathy groans and the sound of skin hitting skin. Alongside the wet sounds of his tongue, wrapping around yours with the same kind of skill he eats pussy.

You can taste yourself on his tongue. But you're not too focused on that when his prettily curved cock is dragging against that spot that makes your toes curl and your eyes flutter shut, panted breaths leaving you.

"I w'na—... Mm-fuck, you're so tight, oh my god." Dick moans against your lips, pulling away to rest his forehead against yours, hot breaths fanning across your features as he looks down towards where you're split open on his fat cock. Glistening pussy taking him like you were made to.

"I wanna—" Dick swallows, a shaky breath leaving his broad chest before he pushes down on you, forcing you further into the cushions, "—wanna be a f-family."

Your breath stills in your lungs but you don't speak, simply nodding your head, urging Dick to continue as he fucks into you, feeling the way your walls flutter at the trembles that line his voice.

"I wanna— fuck, please." Dick's face presses into the curve of your neck, his arms instead coming to wrap around you, his hips beginning to snap rather quickly into you as he brings you closer. Your thighs remain against your torso, the sting in your hamstrings is apparent but not as apparent as the battering your cervix is taking.

"Please, please, please. Be with me."

Dick begs. His hips fucking into you at an almost inhuman pace, your toes curl and your vision becomes speckled and you whimper, a breathless gasp taking you over as you approach your second orgasm.

And fast.

Your mind hits a blank, your tongue threatening to loll out at the way Dick fucks you brainless, all while begging to be a family. Your belly is in knots and you're making a creamy ring at the base of him, a sight that would have Dick going crazy if he wasn't too busy hiding his rosy face in your neck.

And you nod mindlessly. "Uh huh..." You mumble weakly when you feel the sensation of Dick pulling his cock out of you, still wet with your slick and still so hard as he carefully guides you to instead, go on your hands and knees on the sofa.

Dick's knees dig into the cushions, his cock slowly sliding into you once again as the curve of your back deepens, a downright demonic arch that has him biting down a whimper at the sight alone.

His veiny hand travels down the curve, tracing the dip in your spine before grabbing the hair at the nape of your neck, fisting his fingers and tugging you just a bit back, enough for your head to lift from the cushions and your arch to deepen.

"Really?" Dick chirps so sweetly, his hips rocking into yours and his tip leaks copious amounts of precum that has him wondering if he already came.

And you nod weakly.

And you feel as Dick leans forward, pressing a kiss to the crown of your head before straightening back up, his hands moving to bracket your hips.

And with your bleary ass peripheral vision, you catch a glimpse of Dick steadying himself, planting one foot on the sofa for the stability he needs.

"Now, let's... Expand the family, huh?" Dick mumbles, his voice just a bit slurred from the pussydrunkenness.

"Give me a little girl this time, okay?"

Taglist:

@lucky-beheaded 🌻

@moristhesecond 🍓

@anesthesia-4rizzle 🎀

@bigbodycity 🦋

@feral010 ✨

@mgarcia4130 🐚

@blckbarbiedoll 🌷

@allycat4458 🪻

@jasontoddswhitestreak 🌸

@custardpuddingprincess ⭐

@couldeatthatgirlforlunch 🦄

@theamazkngskye 🍄

@ibreathesmut 🪸

@princesstrunkz ❄️

@h0ngh0ngh0ng 🪿

@titchx0 🦆

@sl4y-s4turn 🪐

@whyiisgamora 👽

@neverendingdream111 🐁

@starski 🌃

@5lxt4u 🎻

@pariahsparadise 🏝️

@ilove-nsfw 🖇️

@milkstrawburie 🥛

@lexetron ⚡

@squigglewigglewoo 🪴

@mcharris747 🌼

@hhjira 🌬️

@magnificentdonutcreation 🍩

[forlix]

𝐝𝐢𝐦𝐩𝐥𝐞・b.c.

— incurable playboy turned doting boyfriend was a character development arc nobody saw coming for christopher bang, including (especially) his frat brothers.

words・2.8k pairing・frat president!chris x gn!reader genres・fluff, humor, hurt/comfort, college!au, fuckboy!chris, boys being boys, kissing, implied sex so mdni warnings・substance use, talk of past heartbreak

a/n・here is "nobody believes you're dating" w/chan, requested by none other than my @rachalixie for my 2k event !! anny, i hope u love this fic as much as i love u; thank you for allowing me to write something so self-indulgent <3

In the deafening throes of one of Phi Mu Alpha’s spring kickbacks, Minho finds Jeongin and Seungmin standing in motionless silence by the kitchen counter. Both boys are gaping at something with an intensity that dips egregiously into the realm of creepy. He moves to pour himself a shot.

“What the fuck are you people looking at?”

Seungmin prods a pointer finger in the relevant direction. It takes a few seconds of scanning the scene for Minho to find what he’s referring to. He digs a knuckle into his eye, instantly confused by what he’s seeing. Maybe the gaping is justified.

The windows and doors have all been thrown open to invite the balmy April weather into the foyer of the frathouse. There’s a large crowd of people huddled around a long, foldable table stationed before the stairs; Jaehyun clutches a ping-pong ball between his fingers, singular eye squinted shut as he takes aim. The number of remaining solo cups dwindles rapidly, as does the players’ sobriety.

Something—someone—is missing.

Not to say “beer pong virtuoso” was one of the reasons Chris was elected frat president, but you’d think the guy had a career path in basketball with how he’s given the entire Greek life community alcohol poisoning by courtesy of two or three plastic balls alone. Minho has never known him to miss a shot, let alone miss out on a game.

Today, however, the reigning champion is only spectating, seated above the ongoing match on one of the steps of the main staircase.

A beautiful stranger is sitting beside him, cheek pressed to his shoulder as you peer at the match through the bannister.

You say something inaudible. The laugh it earns from Chris is bright enough to pick up from a few streets down. He leans in to murmur something in return, and you slide your hand over his nape to pull his mouth onto yours, light blush crawling up and over your ears. The way Chris melts into you can only be described as familiar, his eyes slowly fluttering shut, finger hooking delicately beneath your chin, grin going lopsided as your lips part—

“That’s enough,” Minho hisses, tearing his eyes away with considerable effort. “Aren’t you ashamed? Just fucking ogling.”

Jeongin shakes his head, grinning. “It’s dinner and a show. We’d be idiots not to.”

By dinner, he must mean the gallon of chocolate milk he’s been drinking from for the last hour. He now holds out said gallon with the intent to cheers. Seungmin picks up the entire handle and does the same.

Minho sighs, clinks his glass against theirs, and they throw back their respective refreshments in unison.

“Anywho.” Jeongin swipes the back of his hand over his mouth before going on. “You guys know who that is?”

Minho resurfaces with a wince, relishing in the bitter aftermath, then motions for Seungmin to give the bottle back straightaway. He arrived to the function late and he’s not nearly as drunk as he’d like to be.

Seungmin obliges Minho only after another heady swig. “No clue. Probably just another fling, no?”

“Mmm,” Jeongin hums in assent. “It’s Chris we’re talking about, after all.”

"Agreed. Case closed.”

There’s an air of finality in Seungmin’s voice—but Minho isn’t so sure.

Perhaps because he has never noticed that Chris had dimples until now; or because you fold so naturally into Chris' side after your kiss ends, head nuzzling against the crook of his neck and hand seeking out his to hold in your lap; or, most likely, because Chris' eyes seem to return to you when he looks at you, as if his gaze drifting anywhere else is but a momentary departure from where it really belongs. As if he comes home every time you come into his line of vision.

Whatever the reason, the idea coalesces in Minho’s mind, even as inebriation begins to fall over his cognitive faculties like a curtain, that the boys have got it wrong.

Jeongin utters his name, jolting him out of his trance. There’s another shot lifted halfway to Minho’s lips that hasn’t budged in minutes. “Whatcha thinking about?”

Minho looks at Jeongin first, Seungmin next, then back at Chris and his stunning companion. He’s not inclined to answer the question in full, but he can in truth. A coy smile crosses his face.

“Threesome?”

Jeongin laughs hard enough to collapse onto the kitchen island. Seungmin drags a hand down his face. “Come on, man.”

In the corner of his eye, you’ve gone back to kissing again, slow and sweet and secretive. Chris' gentle hold on your jaw shields you from view but fails to hide his lovesick smile. Dimly, Minho thinks that maybe his friend has met his match.

Then, he takes four shots in rapid succession—and stops thinking altogether.

Christopher Bang’s love life is like a horror movie and romcom spliced together: a fiasco of a film to which his housemates have front row seats.

The frat’s upperclassmen live in sets of four-bed, two-bath suites comprising a small common space with a kitchen and a sitting area, sandwiched by bedrooms on either side. It is in that common space that Changbin, Hyunjin, and Jisung often see or hear Chris stumbling home after a night out, entangled with a different attractive stranger every time—so often, in fact, that they’ve come to believe that he’s deathly allergic to anything bigger than a one-and-done hookup.

They can’t judge. In part because they’d be throwing stones from glass houses, but also because the man’s penchant for empty physicality is far from unfounded. His past self gave pieces of his heart to the wrong people, contracted first-degree burns from the guileless warmth he sought out. Now, his version of “intimacy” is less a connotation of closeness than it is a self-contradiction, for it should be impossible for so much distance to remain between two people in a single bed.

Chris hasn’t vocalized any of this. Nor have his housemates discussed it with each other. The knowledge simply exists in the air between the four of them like something akin to taboo, dipping in and out of acknowledgement depending on the circumstance.

This might be the circumstance of all time.

At around 11:40 A.M. on a Saturday, three doors in the suite open at once. Hyunjin and Changbin aren’t coincidence—the latter is coercing the former to go to the gym again—but they lift their eyes to the opposite side of the living room, and the slice of milk bread dangling from Hyunjin’s lips very nearly takes a fatal fall. Changbin manages to snatch it up with an extended hand.

Chris has just emerged from his room as well. Your silhouette follows close behind, your mouth stretching into a yawn as you massage the sleep from your eyes. You’re sporting a mesh green sweater identical to one Chris owns. They find Chris' accessories more interesting than his clothes, though: two hickeys peeking out from beneath his jaw and the base of his neck.

Chris sees Hyunjin and Changbin right away, and his expression goes utterly blank, not unlike their faces as they watch you close his door meticulously. You turn around and gasp.

The four of you stare at each other for what feels like multiple business days. At least, Hyunjin, Changbin, and Chris stare at each other; your eyes dart between the men on the other side of the room and the man next to you, silently pleading for him to say something. He does not for a long while.

Then, he lunges for one of the throw pillows on the couch and flings it at Hyunjin like a shot put. It ricochets off his chest and lands on the floor rather anticlimactically.

“Distraction!” Chris yells anyways, grabbing your hand and tearing towards the exit, wild grin on his face. “Go, go, go!”

Your raucous laughter lingers even after you’ve been hauled away, accompanied by an unintelligible, breathless shout of something along the lines of my toothbrush—and then the front door clicks shut, and there are two.

Changbin and Hyunjin lock eyes, struggling to process what just happened. Hyunjin is the first to move, wandering hesitantly into the bathroom that Chris and Jisung share. Nothing about the place looks out of the ordinary.

“Well, shit,” Hyunjin says out loud.

That is, aside from the two toothbrushes slotted in the holder on Chris' side of the counter.

Something moves in the bathroom window, catching his attention. Hyunjin looks over just in time to spot you and Chris dart out onto the lawn two floors below. Chris has his arm draped over your shoulders, yours wrapped around his waist. Your smile is discernible all the way from here, and Hyunjin sees a perfect mirror of it on his friend’s face when Chris glances at the frathouse over his shoulder. 

Has he always had dimples?

Moments later, Changbin joins him in peering out the window. A high-pitched cackle erupts from the older boy’s lips. “Look at that idiot.”

Standing off to the left is a tiny, astonished Han Jisung, his arms full of groceries, jaw sitting squarely the grass and whites of his eyes on full display as he watches you and Chris stroll away.

Hyunjin laughs with his whole fucking body. Changbin whips out his phone and takes a picture.

When you finally breach the topic, it’s because you don’t think you can physically study for another minute—but also because, after multiple long months of fruitless sparring, your curiosity finally wins.

Your boyfriend is seated in your desk chair, feet kicked up onto your mattress with his laptop propped up on his thighs. His features have rearranged themselves into an expression of intense focus as he pores over his production homework. You can hear music blaring through his headphones from all the way here.

You uncross your legs from below you, scootch across your bed, and lift your hands to cradle his cheeks. He startles as if coming out of a trance, then begins to smile when he reads the words hi, Channie off your lips.

His headphones fall around his neck. He sets his laptop down onto your desk with a dull thunk. The next thing to drop is you when Chris seizes you by the waist and tackles you into the mattress. The somber atmosphere of your study session is shattered by your muted laughter and Chris pressing his lips to every inch of your exposed skin he can. He saves your mouth for last.

“Hey, beautiful,” he answers, but only after kissing the living daylights out of you, the syllables soft and silky with adoration. “Missed me?”

You drag your eyes from his brown irises with blown pupils to his sloping nose, from his disheveled dark locks to his cordate lips, so plush and warm against your own that you swear you still feel them there. You brush a hand over the back of his neck, your head now spinning so badly that you barely remember what you wanted to ask him.

“Always,” you say. “I was starting to feel jealous of your homework.”

He chuckles. “Shit, I’ll drop out of college right now, baby. Just say the word.”

“You’re perfect,” you hum.

“Says you,” he murmurs, nudging the tip of his nose against yours.

Your lips find each other’s again—needless to say, your study sessions aren’t known for their productivity. Some time passes before you come up for air. Even afterwards, Chris doesn’t let you go far, pulling you into his chest by the curve of your waist, nuzzling his cheek into your hairline. You only need to whisper for him to hear your question.

“Can I ask you something?”

“'Course,” he returns, and you’re close enough to sense him tighten with apprehension. “Everything okay?”

“Yes, don’t worry.” You print a kiss to the side of his neck for extra reassurance. “It’s just…I’ve been meaning to ask how your friends feel about me.”

He tightens with something else now: surprise, you’re guessing; you’re hoping. You hadn’t seriously considered that the answer could be negative, but it’s dawning on you now that the possibility of that isn’t zero.

“Where’s this coming from?” Chris inquires, his tone opaque.

You hesitate, mentally reviewing your interactions with your boyfriend’s social circle. Hyunjin and Jisung can’t make eye contact with you when they speak to you. Minho does nothing but make eye contact with you whether he’s speaking to you or not. Jeongin and Seungmin can maintain small talk for about ten seconds before they start looking like they’d rather be anywhere else. Changbin is the only one you’ve held a conversation with, and only because you were going up the same stairs at the same time and the alternative would have been mind-numbing silence.

What is the best way for you to say this?

“Well,” you begin, “I can’t help but notice that they act a little—when I’m around, they’re a bit, uh—”

“—crazy,” Chris offers. “Completely fucking bat-shit crazy.”

“Yes. Exactly that.”

Chris threads a hand through your hair, the comforting gesture doing nothing to assuage your worry. It seems there’s some truth behind your impressions. Your next words are tinged with a quiet sadness.

“I’m not imagining things, then?”

“No, angel,” he sighs. “But not for the reasons you think.”

A beat passes. Chris perceives your silence as a chance to backtrack, to opt out of this conversation if it’s one he’s not ready for. He would’ve leapt at the opportunity once.

But he realizes in that moment, with your voice gentle against his ears and your touch so doting upon his skin, how much has changed since he met you: from the color of the sky to the word home and everything in between, including his cynicism towards love and all the iterations of forever it holds. 

With that epiphany comes another, then another: he wants you to know why his friends are acting insane, wants you to know about him and his past and all the wounds of his you never know you healed, wants you to spend the rest of this forever with him.

His pointer finger dusts beneath your chin, a wordless request for you to look at him, and he nearly liquifies when you do and he finds entire constellations in your eyes. 

“It’s a lot,” he mumbles, though he suspects you know that already; he suspects you know about the other stuff, too. 

You bring your hand to the side of his face, bring your forehead to rest upon his. Your closeness washes over him like a low summer tide lapping over sandy shores, a soothing balm spreading over scorched flesh. 

“It’s you,” you breathe. “I will love it just the same.”

Chris' held breath comes out in shudders.

So this is warmth.

Minho and Felix are watching anime on the couch when a knock comes at their door, unfortunately during a pivotal moment of a pivotal episode. 

Minho hits pause with a ghastly groan. Felix laughs and rises to his feet, dashing into his room to grab the two silver necklaces he’ll be loaning out for the evening. “Coming!”

Outside, Chris is standing alone, hips and thighs accentuated by a pair of tight-fitting dress pants, sculpted chest and collarbones framed by a thin, cream-colored shirt with the top three buttons undone. Most of his hair has been pushed off his forehead, leaving a few locks free to fall over his right eyebrow. He’s rolling up his sleeves when Felix opens the door, veined forearms flexing as a result of the effort.

“Well?” He asks. Minho cranes his neck to look past Felix.

Both boys start to holler and whistle like excited macaques.

“What in the Calvin Klein is this?” Felix shouts, spinning Chris around by the shoulders. “You look insane, bro. Holy fuck.”

“What’s the occasion, young man?” Minho inadvertently sounds like a gruff uncle. “Where are you going dressed like that, huh?”

Chris' laugh comes easier nowadays. What’s more, it comes in a way that reaches the rest of him, that ends in a tiny, high squeak that you really have to look for in order to hear.

Felix and Minho can't help but replicate his smile. Those clothes look good on him, yes—but happiness looks better.

“You guys are silly,” Chris giggles. Dimples indent his cheeks as he accepts the necklaces from Felix. “Thanks, man. I’ll give ‘em back tomorrow.”

“No rush,” Felix replies, grinning. “Have fun, yeah?”

“We will.” Chris starts to retreat down the hallway, hands moving to clasp the jewelry around his neck, but not before he blows the both of them a kiss.

“Be back before ten!” Minho hollers; Chris laughs again, turns a corner, and disappears.

Felix closes the door. His smile falters fast. Minho has brought his face mere centimeters away, his expression thoroughly humorless.

“Tell me only the truth, Lee Yongbok,” he deadpans.

“O-okay—”

“Is Chris in a relationship?”

“—oh.” Felix frowns. “Well, yeah.”

Minho blanches. “How—how long?”

“One year, give or take? Anniversary’s today.”

Minho is stunned. Felix is stunned that Minho is stunned.

© 𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐱 (est. 090323) · liked this work? please consider reblogging, commenting, or sending me an ask to let me know; or, read my other writing here. thanks so much for the support ♡

[omgfangirlland]

I'm going to need all of you to hear me out on what I'm about to spew, but I have yandere!batfam brain rot, and I just came across Yan!girldad!nolan grayson.

HEAR ME OUT!

Putting a page break here cuz idk how long this will be-

So- the usual neglected batsis that as a youngster craved the attention of her fam, but after being brushed away, after being ignored, after being straight up forgotten about, says fuck it, y'all aren't worth my love, I'll use the Wayne money to do as I please.

So she does. She uses the monthly allowance that is on auto pay straight to her card to do arts, to paint her heart away, to draw and play video games, to fund and pay off anything from homeless shelters to medical bills, trying to make a dent into the Wayne fortune both in selfish and non-selfish ways. She's basically a petty tween.

But then she wakes up with powers. She thinks she's a meta- batman doesn't like metas, that's what she thinks, she doesn't know Bruce doesn't want metas in Gotham due to Gotham being ground zero for meta trafficking. Boom, panic.

I think she has powers like flying, super strength, and like immediate healing if not "iron skin" like Superman. So she wakes because she hits the ceiling due to flying while asleep. She panics, falls, maybe breaks something, nobody comes to check on her-

Now, she always has toyed with the idea of leaving, but this? THIS? Breaking point, she packs necessities and the Wayne card and says bye-bye Gotham, good morning... Chicago? NYC? Idk, whichever place Omni man lives in ig.

The batfam, of course, doesn't notice. In this universe, I think even Alfred won't have been paying that much attention to batsis, man's too busy. So what if one day he does his rounds, cleaning, opens a door he hasn't been in a while.

The room is dusty. Dusty beyond hell, and one singular photo of batsis at like a kindergarten graduation makes him drop everything, including his heart. Old man goes feral, absolutely crazy, because where the fuck is this kid, this little baby, that he went and picked up because Bruce couldn't be bothered.

The batfam goes crazy too. In the mean time-

Batsis is, surprisingly, living her best life. Initially, she planned on getting an under the table job- clean a bar, babysit, be the errand girl of some shady drag dealer, etc. But Nolan sees her while she tries to get her powers under control, shakily flying, accidentally blowing to pieces a tree as she leans against it.

Omni-man as he lurks in the shadows: Debbie would love a daughter. I would love a daughter.

Batsis would call it kidnapping, Nolan calls it adopting without extra steps. Debbie takes one look at this shaken kid and immediately goes mama mode while reprimanding Nolan about taking a kid off the streets and not warning her so she could prepare better.

Mark? It takes about 2 hours before he realizes that they can be training buddies and that they have similar taste in some things. That's his baby sister. No arguments, just baby sis. Batsis? Much like a hungry, cold cat, she accepts her fate. It does feel nice to finally have some attention on her.

So she trains with Nolan and Mark, gets great, becomes a reluctant superhero, deliberately ignores Nolan's rants about her becoming such a great warrior, his little girl on the way of becoming the greatest conquror. Gothamite batsis just shrugs it off as just a Thursday.

Back with the batfam, pure chaos. Everyone is in shambles. How could they forget about a whole kid? Their siblings, Bruce's youngest daughter. Guilt is slowly turning into madness, and madness is slowly turning into a need to prove they can be better, that they weren't deliberately overlooking an innocent child because of personal pettiness, they were just distracted but now they'll right their wrongs.

Bonus p1:

Superman finally meeting batsis: What do you mean you're Bruce's kid? 😃 What do you mean you're a meta and instead of coming to uncle Clark you go and get adopted by murderous Omni-man? 🙂 What do you mean you kinda approve of him killing his enemies? 🫠

Batsis just wants Joker to die.

Bonus pt2:

Dick: What do you mean she's calling that other Grayson boy big brother? 😀

Damien: What do you mean I have another sibling? What do you mean she's calling that purple alien bastard her little brother?! I blame you, father.

Bonus pt3:

John Constantine: WHAT DO YOU MEAN YOU GAVE ONE OF BATMAN'S KIDS IMMORTALITY AND MAGICAL POWERS?

The deity/entity batsis has been depicting in her paintings for years: *shrugs* I was bored, my little priestess was sad, she's not anymore 🤷

That's the plot twist, batsis is actually magical, but her powers work the way they do because that's the only way she knows how to fight with them. Magic isn't on her thought as a possibility, even if she was into the occult.

Cue John drinking for 3 days straight before having the courage(or will) to go to the Bat.

[cosmicalily]

ʚɞ "can't take my clothes off!" a 𝒔𝒆𝒖𝒏𝒈𝒎𝒊𝒏 oneshot by @cosmicalily ★ view 𝓵𝓲𝓫𝓻𝓪𝓻𝔂 ʚɞ

୨ৎ 𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: anxiety around intimacy and unconditional love from best friend!kim seungmin ♡ 400w | "i just wanna touch you babe but i can't take my clothes off, guess it’s kinda funny, if i think too long, i’ll cry about it." - ‘𝒄𝒍𝒐𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒔 𝒐𝒇𝒇’ by aleksiah

ʚɞ 𝒂𝒖𝒕𝒉𝒐𝒓'𝒔 𝒏𝒐𝒕𝒆: this little drabble is pretty personal to me, something i haven't explored on tumblr before. i have a lot of anxiety around sexual intimacy, which i feel like isn't discussed that much in mainstream media. when the song 'clothes off' by aleksiah was released, i literally cried. i'd never found a song that just summed up all my feelings so perfectly. wanting it but not. feeling guilty. feeling needy. i hope you understand what i'm trying to convey, i love you all xx ʚɞ 𝒘𝒂𝒓𝒏𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒔: insecurities (around sex and sexual intimacy)

You didn’t quite know how you’d ended up making out with your best friend, Seungmin.

Maybe it had been the cup of tea he’d made you, humming softly to himself as he boiled the water, adding exactly a spoonful and a half of honey, just the way he knew you liked it.

Maybe it had been the fact that just yesterday, he’d silently restocked the second drawer in your vanity where you kept your stash of period products that he’d noticed were running low.

Maybe it had been the lyrics that you’d found when you were vacuuming the house, stashed under his bed with your name written in the title.

But you knew it wasn’t a singular event. You’d fallen for him ages ago.

The tea was now cold, sitting to the side of the coffee table, half drunken. You didn’t really feel the need to drink it anymore, not when you could spend hours, hours that you’d longed for since forever, kissing the plump lips that had whispered so many sweet secrets into your ears mere minutes ago.

“I love you.”

“You’re perfect.”

“Do you know how much I’ve wanted this?”

“You’re the prettiest girl, you know that, yeah?”

“Wait,” you blurted, pulling your face away from Seungmin’s, out of breath. “I don’t . . . I don’t think I can. I don’t think I want to.”

Seungmin looked at you worriedly, moving his hands from your waist and sitting up straight. “Did I do something?”

“No, it’s not you. I just . . .”

“It’s okay.”

He reached out for your hand, and you reluctantly gave it to him. He didn’t say anything for a bit, just rubbed soft circles into the back of your palm. Your breathing slowed. So did your heart rate.

“I don’t want you for sex,” he said eventually, staring out the window. The curtains were closed, but the moonlight melted through a little, casting a soft glow across his face. He was like the moon. Permanent and dependable and always there to watch over you.

Especially at night, when your thoughts became too much.

“Of course, if you wanted to have it, I wouldn’t be opposed,” he continued, turning to look at you. His hand shifted to gently brush a tear from your cheek. “But I want you because I want you. And if that means kissing and falling asleep, that’s what I want.”

“You’re not bored?” you mumbled, not quite meeting his eye.

“I could never be.”

taglist: @hyunjiiza @velvetmoonlght @s3ungm1nxxl0ve @btch8008s @heartsbyani @ellemir2404 @bellarellasstuff @starsinagreenskyxx @ashtxrie @pigeonseatmayo @modesttiger @woozarts @zelinkcrossing @urlocalmultigroupfan @shuuporanglinos @lezleeferguson-120 @r1nstaaa - dm, comment or send an ask to be added :)

[nerdlvr]

mr. lee (donghyuck)

(MDNI)

smut , boss hyuck RAHHH , this hyuck , secretary reader , business company stuff idk stock market stuff HE'S A RICH BOSS CEO OKAY , a bunch of shit that is UNETHICAL , jealous hyuck , park jisung cameo yuhh , kissing ofc , a singular pussy lick , insane backshots , clothes sex ig? , creampie woop , unprotected sex (be smart ffs) , hair pulling , hyuck's kinda mean and degrading but in a hot boss way , the real warning is unpaid overtime (paid in dick) , inspo from my situationship and this request !

last time he checked, the intern's desk was on the opposite end of the office, a small dim corner, exactly where he belonged. so could someone please explain why he's been standing at your desk for half an hour talking your ear off?

the worst part is that you seemed to enjoy his company, giggling at his words, even throwing in a couple arm grabs when the joke was just that funny. what does an intern even know about funny? the only thing funny about him was that sad little thing he called his salary.

his tie seemed to suddenly be suffocating him, quick fingers working to loosen the fabric, an intern really y/n? did you have no standards?

your soft giggles were muffled, only your pretty smile being proof of some lame joke mr. park was telling.

he watched you like a hawk through the glass walls of his office, fist balled and leg shaking uncomfortably against his desk.

.

you and jisung jumped at the loud bang of mr. lee's door, your heads quickly turning to where he stood.

"go home."

jisung's eyes widened, his words coming out weak and stuttered,

"s-sorry?"

mr. lee rolled his eyes, his long legs pressing against his suit pants as he strode towards the two of you.

"i said- go. home."

he lifted his finger to point towards the elevator, his head turning slightly to tease jisung.

"you're the last one here, and instead of catching up on work you're deciding to flirt with my secretary who-"

he turned towards you, hands now coming to land at your desk,

"also should be catching up on work. isn't that right ms. l/n"

you bit your lip as you looked towards jisung's tense figure. your eyes only met for a second before mr. lee had lifted a folder in between your faces, a small scoff leaving his lips.

"please, while i'm asking nicely, go home park jisung. or i promise you won't have a job to come back to tomorrow."

jisung didn't even give it a second thought, grabbing his bag from your desk and bowing deeply towards you both before b-lining straight to the staircase.

mr. lee turned to you, a sarcastic smile on his face as he clasped his hands together,

"meet me in my office in 5 minutes."

you peaked from your desk to watch as he walked away, you were in so much trouble.

.

why was 5 minutes taking so long? maybe he should've said come to my office as soon as possible but that was definitely too desperate. not that he has anything to be desperate for... he just wanted to have a little talk on using your work time wisely, instead of flirting with some low grade intern.

he impatiently looked towards you desk, your soft eyes already staring towards his office nervously. he lifted his hand, gesturing for you to come. the scene was almost comedic as you scrambled to line up your paperwork, almost tripping as you rushed into his office.

.

you stood tensely in front of him, chest rising and falling quickly with each hesitant breath. your neat pencil skirt hugged each of your curves, white button down slightly unbuttoned revealing just enough skin to drive him insane.

you followed his gaze, hand coming up to quickly button your shirt.

"i- i have your paperwork mr. lee, i called our contractor but he said that he wanted to wait until mr. zhong approved, but he's on a business trip in-"

he raised his hand, your lips clamping shut,

"did i call you in for paperwork?"

you swallowed hard, fingers playing with the ends of the folders you carried,

"i just figured- since you said i had work to catch up on- i- i've caught up on everything-"

he knew you were competent, probably the most competent secretary he's ever had. he looked up at you, a small smirk playing on his lips,

"i didn't call you in for paperwork ms. l/n. i apologize if it seemed like i was questioning your work ethic earlier."

your shoulders relaxed, a soft sigh leaving your lips,

"i called you in to talk about your lack of professionally in the workplace."

your eyes grew wide as you stared down at him, you relaxed posture now once again tense.

"this is the third day i've seen you blatantly flirt with the intern for longer than half an hour. do you have any shame?"

"i- i- i wasn't flirting with jisu-"

"it's a yes or a no ms. l/n."

"no mr. lee."

his smirk grew, his legs spreading as he relaxed into his chair.

"no? you have no shame? ms. l/n likes flirting with that boy in my face?"

your head hung low as you waited for his next words, folders in your hands now slightly crumpled from your fidgeting. you heard him leave his seat, his black dress shoes coming into view as he stood in front of you.

he brought his hand up to hold your chin, lifting your head to look at him,

"be good and look at me when i'm speaking to you."

you nodded against his palm, his warm fingers burning your skin,

"yes sir."

his free hand moved along your hip and up to your shirt, tugging apart the button you had just fixed. his fingers slipped past you shirt, poking softly at your exposed skin.

"you know how hard it is to watch you flirt with a nobody when i'm right in here waiting for you?"

your eyes widened slightly, your hands now gripping his to stop the light tickling against your breasts.

"for- for me?"

he leaned down towards your ear, his breath hot against your skin,

"why else do you think i call you in here so often? time after time i tell you to come into my office, but the only time you show any interest is when you're talking to some low grade employee."

he released his hand from your grip, bringing it down to hold the back of your waist, pulling you against his chest.

"why are you so stiff with me? am i not worthy of your attention?"

your breath shuddered, hands now gripping the ends of his suit jacket,

"n-no that's not it mr. lee-"

"because you've clearly caught mine, how could i ever ignore this pretty girl, hm? so let me show you i'm worthy of your attention."

this was wrong. so wrong. but as he untucked your shirt, hands finding warmth against your bare skin, you couldn't help the soft sighs that threatened to spill past your lips.

"stop holding it in, let me hear you."

"thi- this is wrong mr. lee, we can't-"

his hands reached up to the back of your bra, fingers skillfully opening one clasp after the other,

"who said we can't? your boss?"

he chuckled into your neck, your body still tense in his grasp,

"come on baby it's just us."

he brought his free hand towards the end of your skirt, pulling it up to reveal your black lace panties. he tutted at you, an unimpressed expression on his face. his hand slid against the fabric, snapping the waist band against your skin,

"wearing this to work? were you expecting mr. park to see you in these?"

your grip on his suit tightened as he ran his hands against your ass, stopping to grab onto the supple skin,

"answer me."

"n-no sir."

he hummed in approval, hand moving past your ass and towards your core, his fingers softly pressing against your soaked panties.

"did you wear these for me then, hm? wanted your boss to see you in these? cause this pretty pussy clearly wants me, so who else would it be for?"

you couldn't help the soft whimpers that left your lips, your hands moving up to hold onto his shoulders, your legs weakening at his touch.

"no-nobody else sir, just- just you."

he chuckled as you melted against him, arms wrapping around your waist to hold you up. he leaned down to plant a kiss on your lips, soft and reassuring,

"you're in control baby, just say no and i'll stop okay?"

you reached your hands up to cup his face, pulling him back down to press your lips against his.

this kiss was different from the one before, your actions giving him the confirmation he needed. his grip against your body was tight, pulling you impossibly closer to him as he licked into your mouth. he pulled away grinning as you chased after him, a small whine leaving your lips,

"so needy baby."

he pulled you towards his desk, quickly pushing away any paperwork that has been splayed on the surface,

"mr. lee!"

he rolled his eyes at your shocked expression,

"you're practically dripping on my floor ms. l/n. there are bigger issues to deal with right now than some- fuck- shut up and turn around."

you listened to his orders, gasping as he pushed you against his desk, his hand firm against your back,

"sorry-"

he rubbed your back soothingly, his clothed length now pressing against your ass, watching as your juices stained his pants,

"shh, it's okay baby, look at you, you're just begging to get fucked."

you winced as you felt a harsh slap land against your ass,

"like that? i can see you squeezing your thighs, don't hide from me."

he slipped his fingers past the waistband of your panties, pulling them down to hang at your ankles. the groan he let out was animalistic, hands immediately spreading your ass to get a better look,

"shit- got the prettiest pussy i've ever seen-"

you lifted your leg slightly, squeezing your thighs together as he got down to lick a stripe up your cunt, savoring the taste of you,

"and so fucking sweet too- jesus."

your turned you head as you heard the buckle of his belt, his fingers quick and impatient as he released himself from his confines, length slapping against his stomach.

"like what you see?"

the smirk on his face was borderline mocking, his hand coming down to pump his length. you bit your lip, wishing it was you wrapped around him instead. his smirk only grew as you pushed you hips back towards him, slightly arching your back.

he pushed his bare length against your heat, leaning down to press his weight against your back. his hand wrapped around your hair, pulling your head to the side so he could get close to your ear,

"didn't think you'd be so desperate ms. l/n. want your boss's cock that bad hm? want me to fuck you? teach you how to behave at work?"

you grunted in response, his hips rocking against your core,

"yes, yes. want you so bad mr. lee, so bad."

you felt his hand move down to grip the base of his length, angling himself to push his swollen tip against your entrance,

"say that again for me, say, 'want your cock so bad mr. lee, need it'"

you could hear the smirk in his tone, the tip of his length already stretching your walls,

"want your cock, mr. lee- fuck- need it so bad."

"close enough."

he filled you up in one swift movement, the stretch making your eyes water. you let out a gasp, hand reaching for the corner of his desk for support. his hips were pressed hard against your ass, hands gripping your waist to keep you in place,

"shittt, got the sweetest little pussy, you're sucking me in so good baby- fuck-"

he pulled his length out of you completely, his tip pressing at your entrance again before he snapped his hips into you. you shook against his desk, strangled moans filling the room as he repeated his movements, over and over.

he ran his hands up your back softly, stopping them to hold onto your shoulders, fingers digging into your skin roughly,

"don't move, be a good girl and take me."

he picked up in pace, the sound of skin slapping growing louder. your eyes were squeezed shut as you gripped onto the desk, his name leaving your lips like a prayer. you grunted as he slammed his hips into you, his body coming down to lay against your back,

"say my name baby, wanna hear you say it, say donghyuck."

he brought his arm down to wrap around your hip, fingers pressing hard against your clit as he rocked his hips against you,

"fuck- fuck, you're so deep donghyuck please, please i'm so close."

"just like that baby, so good, so fucking good for me."

he used his free hand to grab your messy hair, his other still working against your sensitive bud. you were a blabbering mess under him, a mix of curses and his name, his real name, spilling out of your lips, your head was glued to the desk as his hips picked up in pace.

"shit- how are you getting tighter?"

his dirty words filled your ears, your core squeezing impossible tighter around him as you felt your stomach tighten. you turned to look at him, his suit was a mess, sweat building all over his body, his tie practically falling off of him. his eyebrows were knit together, bottom lip stuck in between his teeth as his eyes focused on where your bodies met. the image of him was more than enough, your thighs squeezed together as your head hit his desk, your mouth hanging open in a silent scream.

his hips never faltered, grip on your hair only tightening as he continued to fuck you, your body grew limp against his desk, his laugh mocking as he watched you twitched under him, his fingers still moving quickly against your clit,

"hyuck- donghyuck- 's too much, please, please."

you squeezed tightly around him, a groan leaving his lips as you moved your hips away from him. he moved his hands to grip tightly at the skirt that was bunched at your waist, keeping you in place,

"don't fucking move- or i swear, fuck."

you whined against his desk, spit dripping from the side of your mouth as he slammed into you, chasing his own high. your whimpers only led him on, your fucked out face making his stomach tighten. his perfect little secretary, laid out on his desk, begging for his cock, what a dream.

you tightened around him, overstimulation making your core ache,

"please hyuck, please, want you to fill me up so bad, cum inside me please, please."

your begging was what finally set him off, his hips stuttering as his cum spilled into you, a strangled groan leaving his lips as he hunched over you, pulling you close.

he laid his forehead on your shoulder blade, his light pants warming your skin,

"fuck-"

he slapped your ass lightly,

"don't do that."

you giggled as he huffed against your back, his length softening inside your pulsing walls. your body was weak against his desk as he slowly pulled out of you, his cum dripping onto his floor. he reached forward to spread you open, watching as you clenched around nothing.

"i'm firing mr. park tomorrow morning for even thinking he could touch you."

you groaned at the feeling of him squeezing your ass, body growing sore.

"mr. park? who even is that?"

you heard him chuckle as he reached for some tissues,

"smart girl."

[snail-day]

Tw: Yandere, Pet Play, Dehumanization, Humilation

Yan! SatoSugu x Reader

Just a thought, a friend of mine is training a new puppy and it got me thinking....

Thinking about poor you, locked in a goddamn dog crate the first night of your captivity. It’s humiliating. Horrifying. You’re curled up on a plush pink dog bed (Satoru had insisted you needed it - “It’s comforting, like enrichment,” he’d chirped) with one singular, thin blanket thrown over you. Suguru had handed it to you with a smirk, saying, “In case you feel like destroying your bed,” like you were some mangy mutt prone to tearing things apart in a tantrum.

Of course you're sobbing by midnight. Quiet at first, then hiccupy and wet, like a puppy left alone for the first time - no mother, no warmth, just the soft rustle of the plush beneath you and the ache of fear in your chest.

Satoru’s been awake for hours. Laying in bed beside Suguru, eyes wide open in the dark. Listening to your sniffles. Frustrated - not with you, no, never with you - but with him.

“Just let her sleep with us,” Satoru whispers, shifting under the sheets.

Suguru sighs in his sleep, already anticipating the argument. “It’s going to create bad habits.”

Bad habits. Satoru was about to argue. Claim that it's unfair for him to have you but not really get to have you, especially when you're so close.

But eventually Satoru gets up anyway. Pads down the hall, ignoring Suguru’s grumbling. The look he shoots back - what are you gonna do, I’m the strongest - shuts him up.

Puppy training does put a strain on most relationships.

When he finds you, your eyes are puffy and wet, face tucked miserably into the crook of the plush. You flinch at the sound of the door creaking open.

Satoru doesn’t open the crate.

No, he just lowers himself to the floor beside it, resting his cheek on the cool tile. Long fingers poke through the bars, stroking your hair gently, attempting to be comforting. Ignoring how you're trying to move away from him.

“Hey, baby,” he murmurs. “You’re okay now. You’re not alone anymore.”

You hiccup.

“We’re gonna take good care of you,” he promises. “We love you so much already.”

You don’t know what shuts off the crying, the soft drag of his fingers through your hair, the edge of mania in his voice, or the tension in his pants pressing into the floor, betraying his kind words. Because something deep inside you is warning you that he likes this.

Or maybe it’s the way Suguru appears in the hallway, sleepy and sharp-eyed, leaning against the doorframe with his arms crossed.

“Satoru,” he calls, voice low. “Back to bed.”

Satoru sighs. Doesn’t move. Will wait there until Suguru drags him back.

Just keeps petting you through the bars, a lovesick smile tugging at his lips as he whispers again, “Everything’s gonna be perfect now, baby. Just wait and see.”

[gyeomsweetgyeom]

[1:47 pm]

(cw: f!reader)

tagged! @bluedbliss

Fratboy!Jaemin did a lot of things in university just for the fun of it. Massage class? Sure, why not. Gymnastics? Again, why not. Join a frat? Only because Jeno did. Working at the on campus daycare? Well, that one was because of his mom. He needed a job and she happened to know the head teacher.

So now he spent three of his days here at the daycare, taking care of the young kids with the help of one main teacher and another aide, you. The kids had named you "Pretty Teacher" and he couldn't agree more. You were a full time aide and he found that he could handle some clingy kids and no sense of personal space for a few hours a day when you were helping out beside him.

Right now, you were both leading the kids through circle time outside while the head teacher took a quick break. After some stretches and some calming exercises for the kids, they focused on building with some blocks.

One of the girls, looked up at you, judgement written clearly on her face as she looked between you and Jaemin. Her little voice rang out, "Pretty teacher, is Teacher Na your boyfriend?"

The other kids looked up then, "oohing" at the word "boyfriend." You shook your head with a soft laugh, prying apart two blocks before handing them to the boy sitting beside you, "no, Teacher Na is not my boyfriend."

The kids pouted and even Jaemin found himself fighting back a pout along with the four and five year-olds. He wanted you to be his girlfriend. He thought he'd made that pretty clear when he insisted that he play the role of 'dad neighbor' when you were given the role of 'mom neighbor' or when he brought you snacks or coffee at the before the kids showed up.

Another girl, this time sitting beside Jaemin, squealed with excitement, "he's your husband then! You're married!"

Jaemin coughed awkwardly, "we're not married."

"But you like her?" The girl asks as she cocks her head to the side.

"Yes," Jaemin answers, immediately drawing sounds of excitement from the kids. He even finds that your eyes flicker to meet his gaze before he adds quickly, "because she's my friend."

"My mommy said her and my daddy were friends before they got married!" A boy adds, "my daddy was my mommy's sister's boyfriend! That's why they don't talk no more!"

You bite back a look of shock as you try to guide the conversation away from marriage and parents, or any other topics these kids might have overheard at home. They're stubborn though, insisting that the two of you get married because that's what adult boys and girls do, "duh, teachers!"

You're given a bundle of flower weeds and pushed until you and Jaemin are sitting side by side on the bench. The oldest of the bunch, a five year-old, grins widely and begins the 'vows' going on about love and happiness. She claps her hands, "now you're married! Kiss!"

The kids sound out in a mix of cheers and boos. You laugh softly, choosing instead to hug your coworker swiftly to give into the requests of the students. It's basically nothing, you can barely call it a hug since it's more like two bodies just pressed against each other for a second. Jaemin thinks he just saw heaven. It's the best hug he's ever had and it lasted a full, singular second. It was great.

Somehow that's the only thing on his mind as he finishes off his work day. He grabs his stuff after everything has been wiped down and disinfected, lingering around the gate as you walk toward him.

"Hey, Pretty," he greets you, watching as you laugh softly.

"Hi, Nana, you waiting for me?" You ask as you close the gate behind yourself.

"A good husband waits for his wife doesn't he?" He asks with a gentle smile.

You giggle softly, knocking his elbow with your own, "oh, did we go straight from coworkers to husband and wife?"

He shrugs with an easy smile, "gotta start somewhere, right?"

You shrug, staying silent as you both walk across campus. He comes to a stop, drawing your attention, "actually, I did really want to ask you... do you want to go out some time?"

"Ooh, first date as husband and wife?" You laugh with a wiggle of your brows.

"We have to start somewhere don't we?" Jaemin asks as his smile turns nervous.

You turn to him and notice how he seems less confident, nervous as he waits for her to answer. You reach for his hand and give it a reassuring squeeze, "a date sounds really nice."

"Perfect, I'll text you, Pretty."

[tonycries]

STICKYYY

Synopsis. His new year’s resolution? To knock you up!

Pairings. [SEPARATE] Higuruma x Reader, Gojo x Reader, Ino x Reader, Sukuna x Reader, Choso x Reader, Geto x Reader, Nanami x Reader, Toji x Reader

Content. MDNI, fem! reader, babyféver, BRÉEDING, creampíes, buIges, mentions of kíds, cervíx kíssing, full neIsons, GOJO’S POWERS, ínnapropriate use of jujutsu, PÚSSYDRÚNK JJK MEN, marathons, true form Sukuna, dp, Sukuna’s second mouth, p talking, cúmplay, spítting, making it fit, use of “ma’am”, pet names, swéaring.

A/N. Be honest can y’all tell that I’m ovuIating…

♡ TOJI FUSHIGURO - FEVER!

“T-Tooooji-”

You’re being oh-so-easily shut up with just three stinging slaps! of Toji’s hefty, swollen tip. Strawberry-red, and just as angrily plump. Making such a mess when he’s smearing between your treacly walls in a gluey kiss - like he never wanted to let go. 

And you never wanted him to.

Not even when he’s rolling his eyes with a mean titter, “Don’t remember my heh- birthday gift includin’ this chatty mouth of yours, doll.” A singular, masculine palm sheaths over your deliriously slack maw - rough. “S’even more talkative than her-”

But it was impossible not to be after these hours upon hours.

Impossible for your sloppy entrance to not drawl out resoundingly filthy slurps every time Toji’s scooping his buttery seed back in with his vicious fingers.

“Ya realize that’s supposed to stay ah- inside, ma?” Wrangling your legs open into a rude full-nelson to leave a sappy smack! at that gooey heaven right between. Toji sounds so utterly sullen at the waste, “How m’I gonna get myself a daughter if ya can’t keep it in, hm?”

It was a rhetorical question - and Toji was fucking you like it was.

Sculptured, beefy biceps barely even flexing at the practically non-existent struggle to manhandle your thighs open. It gave you both such a perfect view - of your saturatedly glossy pussy folds being constricted around his lazily sinking size. Struggling. Goopy masses of Toji’s honeyed cum from just prior being drooled out after every syrupy squelch-

“Mouthy fuckin’ cunt.”’ You’re hearing him whisper from right behind you, puffs of condensed air hitting the tender spots on your neck and making you keen. “Makes me wonder- heh- who the babyfever got talkin’ more. You or her.”

He was babbling nonsense - and you were, too.

The raw ruptures of his bloated head making your jaw droop stupidly open, lashing around your heated insides to probe up rigorously against those sweet spots. Toji Fushiguro had no relent - he had no mercy. 

Because he was promised another damn brat for his birthday, and he wanted one now. 

“N-now?” Your heart-eyes are bulging out, the trembly waver in your voice shrilling upwards after every drag of his balloony tip down the span of your elastic cervix. Oh, shit, did he say that out loud? Whoops. “Toji wh-what if it hasn’t ngh- taken yet-”

Toji’s cutting you off - urgent. Spitting, as if those mere words shouldn’t be spoken out loud. “Move that hand f’me-�� Couldn’t even wait the few split-seconds it takes for you to shuffle your carefulling covering hand away before flinging it off with a rude swat. “-touch that lil’ bulge- ngh- wh-where I am. Feel me.”

Your fingerpads are shaky - unstable. Caressingly feeling for that riotous smooch of Toji’s bawling fat tip peppering tiny kisses onto your cervix. Your womb. 

The blood in your veins boil with sheer need at the rounded globular edge, pressing down hard in just the way you knew that would drive Toji wild. Making his weighty breeder balls flinch with a harsh thwack! “See? Feel that? How m’alllll up in that cute womb? Bold of you to think that you’ll fuuuuck- walk outta this bedroom not pregnant, mama.”

He was determined. Feral.

Every puncturing rut had your spine arching into the most perfect curvature on top of him. Your back pressing heatedly in a lecherous massage against his heated skin, so bumpy with every flexing ab and muscle. 

You couldn’t help but feel so…ruined. In the best way.

“I-is that a promise?” You’re craning your head over your shoulder, batting those tear-clung lashes in a way that makes Toji’s willowy eyes widen. Tongue pinpointing his sinful scar once his mouth waters. What a dangerous little thing you were. “Wan’ you allll inside, Toji—”

Yeah, dangerous alright.

“Can’t have it alllll inside if yer hngh- lettin’ this cunt drool.” You’re squealing when a few calloused pads of his strongly thick digits pry open your slobbering mouth agape. Letting your tongue loll out lazily for him to splatter a honeyed wad of saliva, “Tha’s what that hngh- filthy mouth gets.”

Before in the blink of an eye, he’s bullying a few free fingers between the pursed pucker of your sensitive folds until he was knuckle-deep. Rummaging out into the geysering orifices hidden against your melty walls, he’s knotting up the ribbony ropes of his creamy seed from trickling out. 

Can’t have his pretty girl wasting a single ounce, now. How could he?

“And for my cutely ovulating wife…” You could barely even hear him above the thundering plap! plap! plap! of skin-on-skin, in such a cottony state of mind that you just register when you’re being gifted with another quick stream of spit lacquering your tongue. “-ya get- this.”

And it wasn’t just the slewing volumes of spittle that your open jaw was being splattered with.

It was the way you were cumming - without even realizing. Without even registering the uncountable heaps upon heaps of edging whines that flood your mouth, vision sparking white hot.

“M’cumming-” you’re gasping out. One limping hand bravely rovering to clutch onto Toji’s sweat-slicked locks and pull, “M’cumming m’cumming- ah! Toji–”

“Yeah yeah, e-easy on the merchandise, doll.” He’s groaning, but you can almost catch the way that he swallows. The way that his heavy balls shift with purpose underneath that girthy base to squeeze. Pulling taut. “Jus’ s-sit still n’ let me breed this ngh! goooood fuckin’ pussy like the good girl ya are.”

With a shudder, you feel like you’re being split-apart - more so than you already were.

Head buzzing with fuzzy little explosions at the thudding splatter! of just about the nth glaze of his seed scouring your deepest gooping insides. You’re being covered over and over in every tiny ridge and sweet spot with whipped icings of his potent cum.

And you can feel it almost knocking at your womb, creamed globs of it sliiiiding all the way down your walls with a promise.

“God…” You feel so full. Like your rubbery cunt was inflated widely enough that you think you might just burst. 

He’s scoffing, “Toji works jus’ fine.” 

“S-so cocky-” Head swimming cockdrunkenly with every jerking grind up into you, he’s slinging out the filthiest driveling squelches! that halfway drown out your pretty noises. What a shame.

“Oi oi, shut up-” But not to you. Toji simply can’t help but laugh - and if you were in any better state of mind, you’d have huffed at the sheer audacity. Gleaming ivory teeth snagging down onto your tender earlobe, “-the h-heh…mother of my kids is talkin’.”

♡ NANAMI KENTO - Hubby material.

“Hands on the wall now, darling.” Nanami’s throaty order is spoken gently. Lovingly. But you knew better than to not listen - hastily planting your splayed-out hands onto the cool kitchen wall. “Good girl. Now gimme a little show.”

“Kentoooo-” That slutty arch of your back was almost embarrassing, and you’re sure that if it hadn’t been for the strong arm circled underneath your hips then you’d have been weakly collapsed on the floor. “J-jus’ put it in- already-”

“Shhhh- patience, my love.” Your dear husband is rewarding your pitiful whines with a sudden swat! right onto the jiggling mound of your ass. Tutting with every soothing squeeze of his massive palms, that glinting wedding ring cold against your stinging flesh. “Patience s’the number one trait a good parent should have.”

And he’s so proper. 

Or…at least it seems. 

Because those cracking whimpers spilling their way between your lips only make Nanami greedier. The slight tremble of your thighs when your teary slit douses the tile below with a sticky puddle of slick driving him wilder-

“I- I know-” you’re huffing, head craned with an oh-so-irresistible pout. “B-but a good parent should also be ngh- punctual.” 

Punctual? Nanami Kento was always punctual. 

To every date, every meeting, every appointment - everything but right now when he feels his swollen pink tip twitch at your smart little backtalk. Biting down on the hollowish insides of his cheek to keep that dark chuckling from slipping through.

“Hmmm…” Nanami’s letting his rich baritone drawl, perfectly knowing the way that it was enough to make your thighs squeeze together needily. He’s tapping a soft massage down your curved spine, “Let me think…you really think a good- hah- parent should be punctual, darlin’?”

“Mhm–”

“Y’know I always trust your judgement…”

And it’s so cute the way you can only nod and nod, babbling. “Y-yes. Please- Ken, need it- want it-”

Well then, if his wife says so. Right? 

You’re barely even given the time to fucking breathe in a steadying gulp of the heady air before whatever remnants of it are being fucked out of your lungs. 

Oh…this was a change.

Because there was something about the way that Nanami was shoveling all his long, solid inches into you with almost-reckless abandon. Something rough, something…carnal. 

Like every heaving breath had his poor sanity fraying. Guiding one hand to wrap around his hefting hilt and smear away your adhesive-like folds with the globular mountain of his mushroom tip, the other steadied at the bottom of your back to angle you bent even deeper-

The stretch.

Fuck, the stretch - Nanami was so big. His incredible girth bullying past that taut first ring of muscle and peaking up into those spots without even trying. So fully encompassing each and every hidden nook inside your gooey walls that you always end it wanting more more more- 

“Momma’s always gonna ngh- know best, hm?” Nanami’s hiccuping into your ear, flecks of golden blond sticking to his prespired skin and yours once he kisses away your cockdrunk splatters of dribble. “Awww, n-none of that hngh! drooling now, s’gonna make ya dehydrated n’ that’s not good for the baby, darlin’.”

You’re feeling a softened thumb glide along your lips to tenderly clean off the messy streaks of spittle. “Th-thank you, Ken-” Looking up at him with literal hearts for eyes, “-gonna be the best daddy.”

He was. He was going to make sure of it.

But hearing that from you? 

Shit, Nanami has to sneak down a pinch at the side of his muscular leg just to make sure he wasn’t dreaming or in heaven right this very moment. 

Pulpy surfaces of his toned thighs smushing up against your own, he’s finding himself bending ever-so-slightly a few degrees at the knee to lessen the burden on his poor wife’s legs. Making your ears ring with the filthy paps of his hip-bones ploughing vigorously into your ass. 

Bruising your skin, your cervix, your hips once one of his free hands scurry underneath you to take the pressure off of your ever-weakening hips. Crushing your back tightly against the rippling planes of his sculptured front.

And Nanami’s cooing gruffs come out scorching against the sensitive side of your ear, “C-can’t put too much ah- strain. S’not good for the b-baby…for my girls.”

Girls - not just one.

Nanami wanted two lil’ daughters that looked exactly like you, and loved you exactly as much as him. A blissful image of his little family drawing itself clearer and clearer with every smack! against the fat of your cervix. Tight. Close. 

“Gonna take c-care of ya-” He’s inching his bludgeoning tip to slobber a fat stripe down the door to your womb, accompanied by an innocently tender peck against the side of your forehead. “Reeeal good care. A-and then…”

“And then, Ken?” 

“Then- m’gonna-” You can only gasp when Nanami cranes his neck over to where your open palms are still positioned on the smooth wall. Glassy eyes ogling the twitch of the veins running down his throat when he’s placing a soft smooch right on your wedding ring, “-m’gonna marry ya all over again.”

Nanami Kento is sure that he’ll be renewing your vows every year. Every single week. Every single day - even after your daughters are born - perhaps if only you’d let him. If only you’d keep singing out his name in a sultry whine exactly the way you always do when you cum.

Head tumbling backwards with the sheer power of it, body wracking with boiling peaks of your high. Again and again and again-

“There we go, there- hngh- ready, my love.” He sounds so proud. So fucked. And you know you’re not imagining it when the rugged callouses of Nanami’s fingers dart around your throat to drag you into a steaming hot French kiss. One that left his weighty balls squeezing dangerously- “S’about to get…messy.”

♡ GETO SUGURU - Baby SHOWER

“Oh shiiiiit, girl.” Geto’s rolling his eyes, softly rounded fingertips rovering down from its second-favorite position around your neck all the way down to his most favorite - smearing open your thoroughly stuffed pussy lips to pinch your puckering clit. Glazing his long five-inch digits with a treacly lamination of your translucent squirts. “Didn’t think you’d be so ngh- messy. S’this all f’me?”

Yes. yes, yes yes it was.

But you couldn’t mangle out the syllables right now - don’t think you had it in you to even try. Not with the way that he’s planting three sappy smacks! down your slobbering cunt. Snickering at the throaty little S-Suguruuu letting off from your lips-

“Ah ah- needy. Can’t even t-talk properly, huh?” And, fuck, was Suguru Geto ever-so-grateful that your copious amounts of orgasms tonight left you already fucked stupid. Because your saturated mind isn’t catching onto the way his rumbling baritone wobbles, the way he has to gulp before muttering. “Now, gimme a kiss. Heh, gimme a ngh- kiss n’ I might just cum inside to give you a little…daughter.” 

The only thing you’ve wanted for so long now. 

But Geto always did find you the cutest when you were teased. When you were split-open on his mean cock and whining for him to fill you up with each deeply vulgar stroke. It made him only want more. 

Made his palms stretch your jittery thighs even wider in his filthy little mating press, like a gooey little banquet for him. Pearly canines showing off in such a snarl when you’re lolling your head upwards to press a few drawling smooches against the corner of his pretty lips, “O-oops. I missed, Suguru.”

“Try again.” Well, he has to build up the patience for raising his future daughter somehow, right? 

Locking your ankles around that neck of his with only one strong arm, and the other grappling dexterously around your throat to drag you down. You’re being manhandled - unapologetically.

“But-”

“Again.”

“W-wan’ it insideee- wan’ a baby.” you’re squealing when his plummy cockhead spatters a few steaming hot dewdrops of pre against your poor cervix. Rutting out solid pound after pound. Each one making you desperately catch his chin, his jaw, his lips in a few drunken kisses. “Please, Sugu?”

Damn.

Damn that evil, evil nickname of yours. 

And he really can’t help but steal a greedy peak down at your drooling cunt, scoffing at the way he feels his parted maw slip through a few rivulets of drool at the fucking sinful sight. 

Your gummy pussy being molded wiiiidely open around his rummaging cock. Glossy rings upon rings of your sugary slick and his creamy pre being drenched upon every single inch that was bullied inside. Even more so when those bumpily inflated veins of his graze right against your forbidden sweet spots. 

And Geto couldn’t stop his light-headed bout of laughter, teasing. “Second opinion?”

It’s almost as if every battering ram had your overfilled pussy talking back to him. 

“C’mon- speak up.” He’s hastily swiping away the curtains of his silky black tresses sticking to his clammy forehead, yearning to hear those lecherous noises from below better. Before curling his engulfing palm once more around your delicate throat, “Not you- Oh? Mmmm-”  he’s huffing out, ears craning. “If you say so, girl.”

Not to mention that you hadn’t uttered a single word. 

But to Geto that didn’t matter, to him it was all he could do to nod along sappily as if having the most intriguing of conversations with your bulging cunt.

Nuzzling into the treasure trove of the crook of your neck, he’s gulping in your pheromones. Shuttering out hot puffs of words between every bludgeoning thrust, “Aren’t I so nice? Listenin’ ta what she says. Yer real lucky s’me fillin’ up this pretty ngh- pussy, gorgeous. Real lucky- because…”

“B-because- what?” You’re hissing, eyes decorating with puddles of oversensitive tears. They trek down your cheeks and make Geto groan once his ravenous tongue laps up every salty ounce. 

“Because when I breed you, m’gonna do it right.”

A promise. 

One he was already halfway through fulfilling if the way that Geto’s staggeringly full breeder balls were twitching against your slamming mounds of flesh told you anything. Urged you. Pushed and pulled with every mounted pump-

“G-gonna be all round and full, arent’cha, ngh- my gorgeous baby? Glowing?” And he was ruining the both of you. Brows marrying closer and closer with every cozy sheath, your clingy walls made his thickly swollen shaft just flood your spongy pulpy cervix with wiry ropes of precum. “Heavily pregnant?”

“Y-yeees-” Gaze heart-eyed and crossing diagonally together, you’re barely even noticing it when your dear lover rests his damp forehead against yours to pucker his lips and grace your tongue with a heavy wad of saliva. “Want it all, Suguru– a-all ngh- deep inside.”

“All?” He’s echoing, and something in his pupils amethyst pupils darken. Something in his voice hardens. Movements jittery and coated in a shimmer of awe when he strays one of your hands down to soothe over your tummy, “Sure ya e-even have the space? M’right-” Pressing down - hard - on that plump rotund tip of his driveling deeply down inside. “-here, y’know? Where our h-heh, daughter’s gonna be.”

Oh. Motioning out a lethargic nod, “All.”

Because Geto only lets his mind shatter for a split-second, his entire muscular body jolting. Fuck. You were going to be the fucking death of him.

Before giggling. Giggling. All drunk on your pussy and you, “Th-then- then, say it with me. Ngh- t-tell me you’re ready for the hah- biiiig stretch, gorgeous.”

“M-M’ready for-” Shit, so embarrassing even despite your barely-lucid state right now. “-the big stretch-”

“Uh uh- the biiiig stretch. Say it with me-”

Practically sobbing with need now - and your poor cunt wasn’t any different. You swear you could feel a sloshing pool of lewd juices forming right below you. “Fuck! Sugu- Suguru, m’ready for th-the ngh- biiig stretch.”

“Then…” he’s practically purring with delight. Ah, finally. “-fucking cum f’me, pretty momma.”

And when you do it’s riding upon the waves of his, too. 

Seeing white, the peaks of your now-fragile high being ruptured and dragged out with every sticky waterfall of Geto’s aqueous seed. 

Treacling into the narrow orifice of your sloppy hole, you could feel every swabbing ribbon slip and slide its way inside. Deeper and deeper every time Geto was fucking each voluminous ounce back in, in, in-

“Now now, what did I s-say…” Splattering out another sugarcoated douse of streaming spit onto your tongue, Geto is in no way shy about punishing your sopping wet slit with a resounding thwack! Tutting at the buttery white lipstain seeping from the corners of your puffed-up pussy and making such a filthy mess at his thickened base. “Look at all that ah- wasted. Mouthy pussy o’ yours said you could hah- take it all, but s’ like a shower.”

Your lips part when he’s pumping you doubly full with his relentless digits, shovelling back the velveteen slathers of his own seed back in. “Suguru…”

“Guess I jus’ hafta fuck ya full all over again.”

♡ CHOSO KAMO - Boys boys boys

“C-can you ah- hold my hand for this ngh! first time, baby?” He’s hiccuping out like a mantra - a prayer - after every sloppy peck of his ruddied tip onto your adhesive-like folds. Choso’s poor heart barely working up enough courage to dab a slow circle around your quivering entrance. 

And he didn’t know what to do. What to expect but…the only thing that mattered was that he had you.

“Awww, of course, Cho—” It makes him so fucking shy how your warmly cooing tone is all it takes for his achingly hard cock to twitch. Mind shattering into a zillion shards as one hand of yours sweetly laces with his, “No need to be- ah- nervous.”

It was unfair - it was so fucking unfair. 

You were driving Choso wild - absolutely feral with just a singular plap! of your rounded ass ricocheting down to ride your dear boyfriend free of his fucking soul. So tight. And…heavenly. 

He didn’t read anywhere online that it was supposed to feel this good. Curving your sultry birthing hips in lecherous little circular motions that have his dewey eyes battered in tears-

And that was the fucking problem. Your hips. Your cute cunt. You. 

“Fuh-fuck. So soft and warm…” Making him curdle out a few whining whimpers from between his plumped lips, puckering into an oh-so-cute pout as Choso bats his long lashes up at you. “Didn’t ah- didn’t know a p-pussy could feel so ah- good.”

He didn’t know what to do but let his slagging maw drool around where he was lathering the fleshy mounds of your tits with his syrupy saliva. Sucking. 

Neat brows knitting at the way there was no milk - didn’t that manual say humans produced- ah, not yet. Not unless…He could faintly feel something in the very back of his melty mind sparking. “B-baby…”

“Mhm?” And oh, you could get used to that tone. Seeping out into Choso’s prettily rumbling voice whenever he got just a tinge too pussydrunk. Babbling. “Cho– what h-have I ah! said about talking with your mouth full?”

Fuck- Choso didn’t even register what he was doing - register what you were saying. Roughened pads of his tastebuds gleaming down your nipples for a solid few seconds before he’s gurgling out, “I- I want…”

You’re humming. God, he was so pretty like this. Handsome features blushing strawberry red at your half-lidded gaze and the way your clingy walls were smooching his bloated, mushroomy tip so tight. You had no mercy. “Yeeees?”

“I want a son.”

Oh.

Oh.

And just as soon as that sodden little confession is spilling from his lips - tumbling out like he didn’t even mean to formulate the words - Choso sees white. And he feels it, too.

Feels himself lathering your gooey cunt in heaps upon heaps of his torrential cum. Dousing thick, creamy swabs that pinpoint all your most tender orifices for him to dig into. So hot. Heavy. Swashing around in slight treacles at your thoroughly opened insides like a gluey second skin. And the rut of his hips is so animalistic - up, up, up with every ounce of cursed power he has. 

Part of him knows he’s fucking pathetic to be cumming so early from just that - even if it was his first time.

But he doesn’t give a fuck.

Not when your pretty pussy had him seeing his future with you. Seeing stars - and you right there in the middle, holding onto a giggling bundle with his hair, and your eyes. 

Not when his calloused fingers are latching onto your waist like he was planning on never letting go. And Choso’s jaw simply drops at those velvety ribbons of milky white spattering from your drooly cunt and sliding down the ladder of washboard abs. 

You were clenching around him so cozily. So hypnotizingly. Perfect enough that…

Something snaps. 

“Oh god-” he’s gasping, eyes wide - wild. Slender digits carving out neat crescents so harshly against your perspiration-simmered skin. Entire body hunching to French kiss the valley between your tits, “Oh god oh god oh…god…s-s’not enough. It’s not- I-I don’t think it took. Need to- to get you pregnant, baby.”

Sounding so genuinely devastated. You’re shivering at the warm splat! of his big, pearly tears between your bodies - lower lip wobbling at that heavenly slight right in front of him.

Of course it wasn’t enough. And, right now, Choso thinks it never will be.

His pretty lips are just letting out intoxicated nonsense by now. And during times like this, you really forget just how strong your beloved boy is. 

How…greedy he is.

Because those electric aftershocks of his syrupy high had barely even passed. Barely even started to bate before he’s leveraging his superhuman strength to easily flip the two of you over. 

You’re being crushed pliantly and helplessly in half between those drenched navy bedsheets and his flexing muscles. 

Choso was just melting into you; saliva-glossed mouth slacking into a condensed kiss against your own, forehead desperate and feverishly hot resting against yours, big, beefy arms caging you in. 

You could feel that sappy thwack! of his tight, globular balls smearing against your ass once more. That split, peachy cockhead of his skates right down your headily sweltering walls to gift a puckered snog against your cervix. And another. And one more. And just one more-

“H-hey…come back t’me.” He’s huffing out in lethargic little pants, palms clasping onto the crown of your head and pushing you down. Down. Down. Filling you up with his girthy cylindrical shaft until you were fucked stupid. He’s begging, “Hear me out- no zoning out, m’kay? Need you ta g–give me a baby, m’kay, baby?”

And despite the broken pleas that were flooding into his mouth, you couldn’t do anything against the way that Choso’s body was pinning yours down with hungry pound after pound. Fuck- is this what they say? About losing control? About…baby fever?

God, the thought is enough for him to curl his hips sleazily backwards until you’re squirming. Letting the fountain of opaquely milky seed gush! down your inner thighs with the wettest of squelches. They ring saturatedly in Choso’s ears like his favorite song-

Well, it was his favorite song now. 

“Your hah- lil’ human womb s’gonna be so full- s-so cute.” Taking his time filling you back inch by inch. Choso’s button nose crinkles at the sight bouncy recoil against the spongy ends of your pussy. He can’t part from you - not even that. Doesn’t want to. Leaving kiss after kiss on your jiggling tits, sucking. “Need these f-filled. Need a son- m-my son. Gonna be the beeeest momma mhm- with the sweetest milk.”

A few sneaky set of his lips droop to your puffed-up nipples and bite almost mindlessly. Lacquering a heavy layer of spittle as Choso sucks like his favorite gummy candy.

And the way you arch your back into a perfectly slutty curvature to glissade your fatigued body against his sculpted front has Choso gaping. Has his eyes spying down at the bloated outline of himself inside you, nuzzling one mountainous palm. “A-and…ngh- daughter s’good too actually…maybe both. Maybe- maybe I just- jus’ really wan- need you.”

An uncharacteristically smug grin plasters all over his face at the way your mouth pouts, “B-boy or girl, Cho?”

Choso’s shivering. Aching with that red-hot depravation coiling at the bottom of his stomach to fill you up more and more and more- “Five boys- n’ one ngh- girl- all of ‘em with your pretty smile. You…you’re gonna g-give me that, right, ma’am?” 

♡ RYOMEN SUKUNA - 1000 Yr. DILF?!

“Cummin’ on my cock again? Makin’ such a damn mess.” And anyone would recognize that disapproving tut wafting sternly from between the King of Curses’ lips, anyone would fall completely to their knees. “This yer hah- first time bein’ bred or what, girl?”

Except for you.

You’re not sure you could even if you wanted to.

Because Ryomen Sukuna had you all over him like his absolute favorite doll - your boneless limbs hanging on for dear life in this rude standing nelson he’d manhandled you into. His favorite. 

One out of four of his massive palms splay out greedily onto the crown of your head, teasingly indenting the sharp corners of his black fingernails into your scalp. Dragging you to bear your droopy eyes into that cracked floor-length mirror at the very ends of his royal chamber. 

“Oh riiight-” He’s rolling his eyes, hips bucking up to overstuff you full of his bloated shafts. And through the ever-so-slightly cracked lids of your own, you can spy his sleazing grin. “-it is.”

“K-Kuna Kunaaa-” Your mouth just can’t stop squealing it out like your own personal mantra, limp legs dangling in midair with every sloppy slap! of his dual lengths. You’ve never felt so…blissfully helpless. “I-inside. I need you inside-”

“M’already inside, woman.” Fuck- you were so cute when you got all stupidly cockdrunk like this. But it’s not like Sukuna was going to admit that, instead covering up for the roughened hitch of his breath with a snicker. Second free hand gifting a punishing swat! onto your clit. One. Two. Three. “Only thing tha’s not inside ya yet is my heir. Yet. Seriously- that fuckin’ ngh- greedy for me t-ta fill ya up till yer overspillin’ or what?”

And you can only nod. Nod and nod and nod while buttery scoops of his glossy pre sprayed all over your g-spot, your cervix, everywhere and anywhere. 

Sukuna was leaving no crevice and sweet-spot unturned, the matchingly staggering sizes snugly barreling inside you until you were spellbound. And it really didn’t make him soothe his pace to be even just a bit more merciful the way those near-thirteen inches made your tummy swell. 

Bloated up with such mouth-watering abandon. Just like it would if you were…

“...pregnant.” Oh, that word is leaving Sukuna with more of a whine than he intended. Hips snagging upwards to peak the lightning bolts of his thumping veins salaciously down the side of your g-spot. “A c-cute lil’ cunt like this is how yer gonna end up ngh- pregnant.”

Listen, he’s not one to get all stupidly sentimental.

But your heavenly pussy was just plaguing him with rosy visions of you and a lil’ gremlin to call your own. With pink hair and that stupid, stupid smug grin that was stolen undeniably from his genes. Dammit. 

Who said you could make him feel all…mushy. He should have you charged with treason for this.

And, well, of course this was Ryomen Sukuna’s favorite position.

Of course, he’s taking that absolutely blasphemous advantage to let the second oversized tongue split apart his abs slosh outwards. 

Slithering muscle careening its snailing pathway down your teary pussylips, lapping up ounces upon ounces of syrupy slick. Before twirling around and around that plump button of your clit. And it was so…filthy, it made you squirm. 

“S-s’dirty…” You’re throwing your head back into the cushiony valley of his toned pecs in a frenzy, electric bolts of pleasure sprinting down your spine with every wet thwack! emanating from down below. Though, you weren’t complaining. You really, really weren’t complaining. “Kuna…”

And- fuck. You should’ve known.

Should’ve realized that letting your mouth smear dangerously open to echo out your whines would result in the devilish curse spitting a wet splatter right at the corner of your pouty lips.

And Ryomen Sukuna had perfect aim - he had the perfect ability to make this ordeal as neat as possible. 

But where was the fun in that?

You were just so adorable with your saliva-slicked lips wobbling open, jolting at the terrorizing scrape of his overgrown nails smearing away the pools of delirious dribble. Gently. 

“Dirty? Hah! Wha’s real hngh- dirty s’this pretty pussy in ovulation. Look.” He’s grunting out, and before you know it you’re being nudged even closer towards that ancient mirror. Fully drinking in the way that Sukuna was filling you up, the way that you were taking him. Chest heaving you up and down as he swallows in a deep inhale, “Can fuckin’ smell it on you- heh, my favorite time of the month. Has you beggin’ f’me to fuck you full with my seed? To give you an heir, huh?”

You were.

Throat scratching out the tiniest of pleas that you don’t even register slipping through your lips - but Sukuna could. He yearns for them. 

Feels them stir up the heated depths of his rounded breeder balls when they stick against your ass after every tireless pap! Your hands crane around to claw useless into those bulging deltoids of his-

“Oi, where’d ya think yer scratchin’? Trynna run?” Preposterous. As if you could ever run away from him - from the bruising smooches that Sukuna was leaving down every elastic inch inside your goopy depths. Sopping. Sodden French kisses. “Or…” Tongue gliding down his bared canines, other tongue leaving a sappy plap! of a touch onto your peaked clit. “...or is it that momma here is gonna heh- cum?”

“C-cum-” Fighting to strangle out - as if you needed to, in the first place. You didn’t, but you were just so endearing like this. “-gonna cum- ngh- gonna- gonna-”

“A-after that, ya better fuckin’ make me a daddy.” 

And if this was any other time then Sukuna would have mocked your pitchy whines. Lilted his growling baritone to taunt you as you fell apart. 

But he couldn’t - because he wasn’t doing any better. 

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck, so fucking embarrassing how the clingy embrace of your sopping walls clamping around his bloated lengths was enough to make him cum. Him. The all-powerful King of Curses at your utter mercy. 

Those split, bawling divots of his splurging out seedy strings of pearly white, decorating your sloshing insides until it felt too heavy. Too tight. 

Voluminous masses of his cum settling deep at the goopy depths of your pussy - and Sukuna always had so much to give. A smirk plastering all over his face once the sensitive undersides of his cocks brush up against one another. 

Twitching to pry your gluey walls wide open enough to let a few thickly viscous dollops of seed frost your puffed-up pussy lips. Lips that his second mouth can’t help but kiss to clean up-

“Tch…such a damn mess.” You’re hearing ring inside our cottony brain from somewhere above, still short-circuiting blissfully. “But yer my mess, huh, Queen of Curses?”

♡ INO TAKUMA - “W-woah…”

Ino can’t stop himself - he can’t fucking shut up.

Pathetically drawling words tumbling out with every slight translucent sliver of fucking drool. With every pussydrunkenly content sigh that escapes him once he’s sinking back and forth past your tender entrance. “Atttta girl, th-this is the life…”

And, in fact, Ino can see his life with you when you’re on all fours and milking him so prettily like this. Especially when you’re like this.

He can see just how much prettier you’d look round and glowing and round- Filled to the brim with all of him until you pop out a cute lil’ boy with his eyes and your smile…or two boys…or three.

Ino can’t help but flex his wracking body forwards until you’re being absolutely crushed with the weight of all his slender muscles. Every plunging bump of his ruddy pink cockhead swirling into your most precious treasure trove of sweet spots. And the way your dewy eyes veer crossed with every one of his bludgeoning rams is so cute-

“P-pretty…” And he doesn’t mean it just as that cute lil’ nickname for you. Plumply puckered lips punching sweet little pecks down the pearlescent beads of perspiration at your forehead, “Wh-what do you think about taking ngh- us to the h-heh..next step.”

And, fuck- that should’ve been an inside thought.

That was supposed to have been something he kept to the confines of his sugarcoated brain. 

But when you’re flashing a simpering curl of your lips like that, then he can’t stop himself from letting his angry cock twitch. Bursting with spattering showers of his scorching pre that make an easy trailway for Ino’s bulging shaft to slip and slide easily deeper. “N-next step?”

“Mhm–” Fuck it. He spits onto the curvaceous pads of his fingertips, gliding to nuzzle your swollen clit. Tugging on the hood of that sensitive nub in a way that makes you see stars. “The next step.”

“Engagement?”

“Nuh uh-”

“Marriage?”

“No, silly girl.” Letting off a few sickly sweet swats at your buzzing clit, he’s snickering at the way that makes your spine arch. Lips sleazing up a few kisses right down the middle, “M’talkin’ kids. M’sayin’ I wanna breed ya- knock ya up f-fuck I need to-”

And you’re so addicted to just how needy he is. 

A bout of light-headed giggles making its way from between your slackened lips, that sound enough to make him huff out a pout and shovel a few solid inches even meaner. You’re mumbling out, “Th-that pussydrunk, Taku—?”

“Sh-shut up.” He’s grumbling, dousing his dextrous digits with a few candied slathers - for only a split-second before stuffing them into the slobbering orifice of your mouth. Making you taste yourself. Taste him. “Shut up when I’ve- ngh! g-got my cock kissin’ yer pretty cervix, sweetness.”

And it was true. 

As if to make sure you don’t underestimate how serious he is - how ready he was right now - Ino’s trekking up one of his feet to plant right on the top of your head. 

Pressurizing with that strengthened weight to shovel your face deeper and deeper into the pillowcase. Completely soaked with waterfalling layers of your saliva, only growing more drenched with every battered ram of his pulpy peach crownhead into that g-spot.

“Ngh- Taku-” Your fingers grapple hastily towards the creakily singing mahogany headboard, clenching. Moaning wantonly, “Taku- baby– fuck! Jus’ like that.” 

“I know I know.” And he honestly doesn’t know how he finds it in himself to fucking roll his half-lidded eyes, all pretty white teeth bared in such a snarl. “Wanna milk me, huh? Take me fuckin’ cock n’ f-fuuuck gimme a ngh- son or two…” Mumbling, “...or three.”

Three. 

Three. 

Fuck.

It’s just about all you can do to weakly buck your hips in an attempt - an attempt - to meet his sloppy cadence. Nudging your hips up in sultry little gyrations that Ino is sure hypnotizes him.

And you can’t even blame him because you’re much the same-

“Wan’ it-” you’re muffling out into the silken fabrics, that awestruck expression on Ino’s face so cute that you’re gifting him with a long few sucks on his greedy tongue. Tasting him like your very favorite lolly, “O-one or two- ah! Want you to f-fill me up-” And he’s so tender interlacing his fingers with your own, letting you guide them up to your still-empty tummy and press. “-right here.”

You didn’t have to tell Ino Takuma twice. 

“Shit- shit.” He’s gruffing out, mere moments before you feel his sharpened canines dig into the delicate crook of your neck. Hard enough to break skin-

Nothing more until he’s letting his sobbing divot burst out in stealthy ribbons upon ribbons of cum - already. Drawing out his initials into your rubbery cervix as much as he can over and over. 

Ragged moans tearing into whines at just how blissful it felt, how embarrassing it was that he’s reaching his high just from a few of your words. 

“M’sorry I-I-” Ino nuzzles the neat circle of his teethmarks, smearing the roughened pads of his tastebuds along those oversensitive indentations. That slight tinge of pleasurable pain making your gripping walls squeeze, and Ino hisses. “-actually- fuck! M’not sorry ngh- not sorry ta breed this ngh tiiiight cunt.”

You’re humming once one set of fingers loop your neck to drag you into every shuddering grind. Pumping your tight channel fuller and fuller with creamy swashes of cum, “G-gettin’ really cocky, aren’tcha, baby?”

“Only for you.” He tuts, “Gotta h-hope our ah- two sons don’t get my personality, huh?”

“Three, remember?”

Oh.

Oh? 

“Can you…” Ino’s whispering, throat ragged and raw. Gazing droopily gluing together with tears and utter heart-eyes when he’s babbling onwards, “...can you marry me, pretty?”

♡ GOJO SATORU - SIX EYES

“Sweetheart…sweetheart-” Gojo’s voice comes out in more of a rasping growl than anything else, and it’s just as fitting that he’s latching his pearly whites onto your throat to help drag you down, down, down. “Dammit…you’ve gotta s-stop movin’ around so much n’ just ngh- Take it take it take it take- it-” 

Take it you were - for the past few hours now, in fact.

And the electricity was already out in every ward of Tokyo, your bed was already splintered and useless. 

But Gojo’s heavy cock was still sputtering out rummaging swab after swab into you right then and there on your bedroom floor. Leaving creamy remnants of cum glissading down your insides everywhere. Anywhere.

Fuck - he came again.

Gojo can barely blink his eyes open to admire the traces of gooey white that made their home inside your sweltering hot pussy. Good, he’s stuffing back that soppy puddles forming at the ends of your puckered crease, very good.

“W-was told m’Christmas gift would be ngh- you all round n’ pregnant-” he’s whining in a sickly syrupy tone against your ear. And you’re catching the way that Gojo’s gummy pink lips curl into a pout, “So we’ve gotta start early.”

Shit- you didn’t know what to expect telling Gojo that you were…ready. 

But it certainly wasn’t for the famed strongest to lose his goddamn mind, for him to lock one beefy bicep around the small of your middle and drag you like some glorified ragdoll to meet his determined mating press. 

“T-talk t’me pretty momma–” He’s plastering his body all over yours, greedily sucking up every ounce of space you own. It was his space now. Just like this was his pretty pussy that he was breeding.

“Satoru—” Your fatigued fingers cradle the side of his handsome face, motioning to scrape across Gojo’s cloudy tufts of white in a way that makes him purr. That makes his overworked cockhead douse your heated cunt with copiously thick dredges of pre. Perhaps even tiny wisping ribbons of cum. Just from that. “H-how are you still…”

Honestly, you didn’t even have to ask.

Because even through your bleary heart-eyes, you’re catching the way that his narrowed eyes bolt with miniscule flickers of bright blue lightning. Zapping with cursed energy as they droop drunkenly half-lidded, “H-heh…perks of bein’ ngh- fucked by the honored one, girlie.”

But the one ruined here was him.

Every warm lacquer of his own treacly seed swirling and sloshing against his shaft with every jittery rut. The weepy swipe of his peach-pink tip has Gojo’s fuzzy mind blanking. Feverish ounces of blood making his bludgeoning cock swell fatter and fatter-

“Sh-shit…” Gojo’s maw spills open, watery eyes of sapphire sprinting all the way to the very back of his lid. Only to be greeted with visions of stars and you, you you - all round and…pregnant. Fuck, he needed this bad. “Dammit dammit- dammit! Think m’gonna cum–”

You’re nodding, “Cum f’me, Toru– D-don’t miss.”

As if he would ever miss.

“Damn- how filthy.” He’s grinning, “Could cum from j-just that, y’know?”

But if you noticed the urging tease in his words then you don’t snap back - you can’t. Making the towering man himself let out a low whistle, “Oh? No mockin’? Shiiit- that fucked dumb, huh?”

And you really shouldn’t be surprised when the stilted atoms in the air seem to freeze around you two. Everything tight and stuffy with the use of cursed energy as Gojo’s activating his six eyes, glowing eyes eagerly feeding down upon- oh.

You can’t help but let out little whimpers at the bzzzzz–! of jujutsu when he’s skimming a few six-inch fingers down your tummy. Down, down, down like he could see through-

“Hmmm, right on time-” Gojo’s chuckling - and there’s something else that’s utterly dark tinting his sing-song voice. Something…dangerous. This really was the strongest. “-yer ovulatin’ right now heh- this one’s gonna be th-the ngh! one.”

“Wh-what?”

“My daughter and my son- duh, my silly girl.”

Fuck, what?

Only being able to gape at the lustrous sheen of drool flooding from between his grinning lips. Snowy brows raising the longer Gojo’s gaze locked right where your womb was. He was so fucking eager. 

Barely even realizing what he’s doing - whether he’s even using his powers - when resting your boneless legs on top of two strong forearms. You could feel the flex of his muscles underneath your flesh as Gojo unabashedly and unapologetically cracks your legs even further open.

His own personal buffet. 

Vicious thrusts ruining the syrupy harmony inside, “Not gonna miss- never g-gonna miss f’it’s ta ngh- make my cute lil’ twins, m’kay, my girl?” Patting at your inflationary cylindrical outline, “Gotta s-safe space riiiight here s-so just-”And you keen when a fat fingerpad lathered in vibrating jujutsu thumbs over your clit. “-cum.”

And you were more than happy to.

To let that tautly pulled string of yours burst to fall right over the edge. You’re cumming with Gojo’s mouth on yours and his swollen tip French kissing your bruised and battered g-spot. Marking out permanent indentations of his girthy circumference. 

“Thereeee we go-” He’s giggling - giggling. Limitless long since flickered off to let your nails drag their red, red patterns down his Herculean back muscles. “Mhm- Toru’s here. Tha’s right, h-hngh! hold on wh-when ah, fuck- Toru here fills ya up…”

And it was much more than just filling you up. 

Because it’s like Gojo was trying to flood your poor insides, his cock hitting in a sappy thwack! against the rubbery end of your cervix to glaze out thick wiry bursts of cum. Again. And again. And again and again and again- because he couldn’t stop. Didn’t want to.

“Take it- oh, take it.” He’s breathing out, heaving right into your open mouth. Perhaps if you were in any better state of mind you’d have noticed the way the furniture jitters, moves. Reeling into the magnetic field that was Gojo Satoru and his six eyes bumping into overdrive. “Can see it- hehhhh– My good fuckin’ girl milkin’ every inch of me. Just look at h-how you have the ngh- strongest. On his fucking knees…”

But Gojo didn’t mind - not one bit as his creamy dabs slipped and slided to stain your pussylips a glossy white. Pretty pinkish balls squeezing out a weighty few wads of sap before he’s whimpering. Yes, whimpering, “Ngh- I c-can tell the ah- first s’gonna be a girl…my cute daughter- gonna be as ah- pretty as her momma. And my son- heh, total momma’s boy.”

Just babbling right now - begging and begging for you to take even more with his hips fucking you powerfully full. 

“Sweetheart…” Gojo’s eventually piping up over those ringing squelches, oversensitive eyes fluttered firmly shut. 

“Hm?”

“Yer gonna be such a fuckin’ MILF.”

♡ HIGURUMA HIROMI - Pony.

“Ride it, angel-” Higuruma knows he should let his poor girl take it easy, he knows he should wipe that filthily sleazy grin off of his face when your hips stutter even harder down all of his mean inches. “-I said ride it- ride me. P-put those hips to work now like a good girl f’me.”

And you were.

You couldn’t stop - not when your babyfever was at an all time high. 

Barely even letting your poor husband walk two steps past the front door from work, barely even letting him take off his sexy office suit before burying his swollen cockhead deep past your sappy folds. Needing him. 

You were leaving needy smooch after smooch of your glossy folds on the neatly trimmed happy trail down his washboard abs for what seemed like hours now. 

But it still wasn’t enough. Still. Your mouth aching for the same kiss-

You’re wrapping your fingers around the silken fabric of his tie to haul him even closer. “Wan’ a k-kiss, Hiromi–” His pretty first name dripping from your tongue like a prayer, and the way that only makes him gulp has your velvety orifice spraying out a sodden rivulet of treacly slick. 

“A kiss?” Higuruma’s batting his dark lashes teasingly, the corners of his mouth turning upwards into a simpering smile that only you had the privilege of ever seeing. Your glissading body gets easily pulled into his with a hefty arm wrapping around your waist, head tilting upwards. Close. “Really think ya deserve a hah- kiss, my slutty girl?”

“Y-yes–” Your hips are swerving in languid gyrations to swallow everything that Higuruma has to offer. To let your depraved walls cling onto the heated girth of him tight enough that it’s almost as if you were trying to permanently imprint every one of his bloated ridges, every vein, every thwack! against your plush walls. “W-won’t you give the ah- mother of your kids a k-kiss, Hiro?”

Oh.

Oh…

Higuruma’s dewy eyes are snapping open, jaw loosening with raw shock and something…carnal. You really were made for him - you clever, clever woman.

“So…” He’s quirking up a stern dark brow, and suddenly you’re reminded why so many find your attractive husband so intimidating. “A kiss, huh?”

Clasping one of your wrists to place a long peck against the back of your hand - it’s so gentlemanly. So tender. “How about this for a hah- kiss? Or…” The complete opposite of the way that Higuruma’s hips were bucking uncontrollably up, up, up - breaking through your steady tempo to plant a thorough clash of his mushroomed tip against your cervix. Sneaking in a loooong drag right down the middle to make sure that you’ll feel him puckering up there for days. Weeks. “-how about this?”

Fuck.

He was so mean.

Cackling out at your huffing and puffing, “S-so rude- Ngh- I take it back, don’t want ya to b-breed-”

“Awww, don’ say that my pretty lil’ wife-” The mahogany bedframe sings out protesting creaks when he plants his feet onto the cushiony mattress, driving his scouring crownhead into you lazily. Mazing through those gluey walls of yours to wrench out tiny squeals as he easily takes over. “Don’tcha know how hck! badly I wan’ my own lil’ family. A lil’ daughter.” One hand tugging on the tie that was still dangling haphazardly from his neck, “You jus’ hafta- hah- sit there all p-pretty and take it. Let me fuck ya full, tha’s all…”

That’s all but it felt like anything but. 

Because Higuruma was no stranger to letting his speed pick up as dirtily as he wished, pounding into the tight crevices of your gummy hole until you felt like you were molding to his exact circumference. 

“H-hate how you always know what to- ah!” He doesn’t even let you finish your half-heated sentence, letting your hands rest precariously on the broad deltoids of his shoulders. Because you felt so weak.

“Mhmm— love you, too, angel.”

He knew exactly how to ruin you.

Tweaking a few fingers over to rub that silvery sheen of your sweet, sweet juices taking over the sensitive nub of your clit. Flicking at where you were the most tender with one index, he mutters, “Heh- cute.” Before tap! tap! tapping your gorgeous tummy - oh, how he loved every part of you. Every part of here that he’d make sure grows full…glowing with his kid. “S’bout time I ngh- filled ya riiiight here. Must be feelin’ awful empty, huh?”

Glazed eyes of yours latching onto his, “Yes- fuck- f-feels so lonely without ya.” Shit, those babbles were affecting Higuruma more than he’d like to admit. More than he wanted but- really, he couldn’t complain. He was addicted. “Want you to c-cum in me. Okay, Hiromi?”

Higuruma can only titter, “Yes, ma’am.”

And when he does - when he finally, finally does with a few vicious strokes plummeting against your most mushy spots - it’s so much that whatever shredded rationality left in you seriously wonders about your little request.

“G-gonna gimme a ngh- daughter, right?” Feeling the hot trickle of Higuruma’s cum showering your inner thighs, buttery globs of pearlescent white drooling from your pussy lips. “Lemme p-play hah- barbies with her. Lemme teach her to have one h-hell of a smart mouth like her parents.” Talking up to him in saturated squelches with every drilling plap! up into your overspilling pussy. “Teach her ta be as sweet as her momma.”

He was daydreaming. Eyes slipping dangerously closed with each stubborn dab of seed pushed into your womb. 

And you’re running your fingers through his now-disheveled slick-back, “S-sounds amazing, baby–”

“Yeah?  This ‘nough?” He’s groaning against your jaw, your throat. Needy and clingy - just the way that he can’t help getting at the honeyed slosh of his seed inside you. “Take it- take it, okay? Shiiit ya got even tighter- S’allll yours ta milk and…and…” 

“And- ah! what, baby?”

Peck after peck until, finally, against your lips, you hear- “And, if ya take it all like a good girl n’ I’ll let ya hngh! ride my nose next, angel.”

A/N. Hope y’all have a lovely week!!

Plagiarism not authorized.