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cumironi · 11 days ago

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MAY MY SOUL REST IN PEACE, AMENNN f. toji

☆ sum. ever since his wife divorce him for another man, toji never was with anyone, even in having intimacy, he never had any desire to kiss, touch, even fuck anyone, until he have you on his lap, riding him in one of the stall in the club.

warning. non-sorcerer reader, toji is a mess, p sooo good he almost cries, pu$$y-drunk toji, reader having a tats piercing. rough sex, public sex (bathroom stall), unprotected vaginal sex, size kink, praise kink, dirty talk, power imbalance (older man / younger woman), age gap relationship, orgasm denial / delayed climax, handjob, cumplay (internal ejaculation, cum leaking), pu$$y worship, overstimulation, leg folding position, possessive behavior, pussy drunk characterization, public exposure risk, aftercare / caretaking, mild consensual degradation oral fixation (nipple sucking, biting), references to breeding kink (implied), swearing / explicit language.

the club was called gristle, which already told you everything you needed to know: concrete walls painted matte black and lacquered in the sweat of too many strangers, music that sounded like a blender chewing up chrome, a bar lit up like a failed attempt at divine intervention. sticky floors. bodies everywhere. it was the kind of place that made your soul itch in your ribs and your bones hum. it was hell with a cover charge and you were thriving.

you were two tequila sodas deep, blinking rhinestones stuck to your collarbones like sweat-kissed stars, and dancing like your future career depended on it. maybe it did. shoko was three drinks ahead and exactly zero inhibitions behind. she was the kind of girl who never danced to the beat of the song—just the beat of spite. the kind of sway that said fuck you, yes you, i’m smarter than you, and i’ll outdrink you too. her cigarette was tucked behind one ear. a forgotten white flag.

“gojo’s in the dj booth trying to suck off the strobe light again,” she slurred into your shoulder.

you turned just in time to see gojo doing a very illegal-looking worm across the raised platform, flanked by a gaggle of girls who looked like they were filming a live breakdown for instagram. geto was sitting on the edge of the booth, draped in his coat like a tired mob wife, nodding along to whatever existential crisis the beat was currently having.

you laughed until your mascara creased. and then.

then.

a split-second crack in the atmosphere. a slither in your peripheral. someone watching you—not in the usual way, not the club way, the predatory frat-boy way—but something heavier. older. slower. the weight of it hit you somewhere between your stomach and your spine.

you turned.

and there he was.

he looked out of place in the same way a butcher knife looks out of place in a school lunchroom. not wrong, not technically, just... deeply inappropriate. green jacket, black tank, that wide-built way of holding himself like he didn’t trust the world not to jump him at a red light. a thick scar ran down the corner of his mouth like a cruel afterthought. he had a drink in one hand, pinky ring glinting under the lazy spin of a broken disco ball, and he was sucking a tooth with a mouth made for war crimes.

next to him sat another guy—sleek, fox-faced, gold chain and a tattoo that slithered up his neck like a wine stain—but he wasn’t looking at you.

toji fushiguro was.

not like he was checking you out. not like he was undressing you with his eyes. not like a man drunk on his own age gap perversions. he was looking at you like he recognized you. like you’d been a thorn in his side in another life. like you were the sound of the trigger just before it broke.

he didn’t smile.

he didn’t look away.

and you—because you were drunk and stupid and it was the last week of finals and your body was humming from the low voltage burn of too much bass and not enough shame—you didn’t look away either.

you reached up, swiped a smear of glitter from the hollow of your throat, and licked it off your finger.

toji’s jaw flexed.

“you seeing that?” shoko asked beside you, voice dry and amused like she was watching a nature documentary and you were the gazelle about to get railed.

you didn’t answer.

because his eyes—god, his fucking eyes—they were the kind that said i haven’t had sex in years, and i will wreck you like it's penance. he looked like he hadn’t touched anyone since the divorce. like he hated that he still wanted to. like the wanting itself was its own dirty little sin.

he leaned back in the booth, legs spread obscenely wide, the kind of man who made space by taking it. his hand moved, slow, up to his mouth, dragging a thumb along his lower lip.

you felt it like a bruise blooming.

shoko snorted. “bitch, he’s gonna eat you alive.”

“maybe i wanna be eaten.”

she shoved her drink into your hand. “then go get digested.”

you turned back to him.

he was still watching. still calm. like he had all the time in the world to decide whether or not to ruin yours.

and you?

you smiled.

because sometimes, finals week ends with a degree. and sometimes it ends with a man who hasn’t touched a single soul since his wife left him looking at you like you were the last bad decision he’d ever make. but, you don’t know that yet.

the bass dropped again.

so did your common sense.

toji didn’t blink.

not when the lights strobed red-blue-red like a police raid inside your chest. not when someone spilled a drink too close to his boots. not when the fox-faced man beside him leaned in and said something—low and fast and close to his ear.

toji just nodded. lazy. like the nod was a formality. like whatever was said didn’t need his actual attention. his eyes never left you. not even for a second. he exhaled through his nose. slow. and then, with a flick of his wrist, the friend stood and left, disappearing into the crush of the crowd like he’d never been real. no goodbye, no handshake, no dap, no nothing. the seat was empty. the booth swallowed the vacancy like it was always meant for someone else.

the song changed. again. it had probably changed five times. you didn’t know. didn’t care. toji leaned back just a little further. the way a lion does when it’s already decided to pounce but wants to stretch first. his ring tapped the glass once. then he licked his bottom lip.

and that—

that was your fucking cue.

“he’s alone now,” you said to shoko, eyes still locked on his like they were glued to the roof of your own dumb horny brain. “and i just made a terrible decision in my mind that i would like to make worse in person.”

shoko didn’t even look. she just grabbed your cup and said flatly, “you go, sluts.”

“thanks, sluts.”

“godspeed, sluts.”

toji watched your approach like you were a slow car crash. like he didn’t want to stop it.

and then you were gone, cutting through the crowd like a little dumb thirsty dagger, the kind that didn’t kill, just ruined. your path to him wasn’t straight. it wobbled.

hips out of time with your legs, heartbeat too loud in your ears, glitter smudged down one cheek like a finger had already been there. every single person in the club was suddenly nothing but smoke and background static. the music, a dull throb behind the real percussion of your blood.

and when you stopped at the edge of his booth, one hand on the lip of the velvet seat, mouth parted just enough to be accused of thinking nasty things—

he tilted his head.

he looked down, slow, dragging his gaze over your body like a confession, then back up again.

he still hadn’t smiled.

he didn’t need to.

you were already fucked.

the booth was one of those deep, curved ones, made for mafia deals or the kind of drunk makeouts that ended in pregnancy scares and spiritual awakenings. the leather was the kind of cracked that whispered rumors about what had gone down here over the years—piss, blood, cum, cheap perfume, shame, maybe in that order. red vinyl, sticky in a way that suggested the cleaning crew gave up back in 2019. it curved around the edge of the room like the mouth of something hungry, all teeth and shadow and bad ideas.

toji sat dead center. like a throne. like he knew you’d come.

you hovered at the edge a second too long—long enough to register the way his thighs spread under the table, long enough to see the glass in his hand was more ice than liquor, long enough to feel the bass tremble up your calves and settle right behind your teeth. he didn’t say anything. didn’t lean forward. didn’t offer you a seat. didn’t look away.

so you climbed in.

slow. dramatic. like you’d rehearsed it. thigh first, then the swing of your leg over the lip of the booth, one hand braced on the table, the other catching the hem of your skirt as it threatened to ride too high. you slid in beside him, but not next to him. no. you gave him space. gave yourself room to breathe. gave the night a chance to hesitate. you slid in just far enough that your knee could maybe touch his if you angled wrong, just far enough that your perfume would reach him, but your intentions would still look innocent if someone were watching.

he looked at you then.

not a turn of the head. not a shift of his shoulders. just the eyes—those fucking eyes—cutting sideways like a blade, like a car mirror catching you just before it hits. they dropped again. took in your legs. your stomach. your mouth.

slowly.

like he had time. like he wasn’t planning anything. like he absolutely was. he took a sip from his glass. ice clicked against his teeth. “you here with your little boyfriend?” he asked, voice rough, deep, the kind of voice that sounded like it had gravel for breakfast and a grudge for dessert.

you blinked.

“what?”

toji tilted his chin toward the dance floor. “glitter rat in the booth. blonde. yelling at the DJ.” you glanced back. gojo was on his fourth attempt at beatboxing into a mic that wasn’t even plugged in. “jesus christ,” you muttered, then looked back at toji. “no. he’s just allergic to dignity.”

toji hummed. then his thumb brushed the condensation off the side of his glass, slow, deliberate. you watched the motion, unblinking. he tapped the glass against the table. “what about the girl? the one with the dead fish stare and a vendetta against buttons.” you grinned. “shoko? also not fucking her. though she’d be the one doing the fucking.”

“mm,” he said, not quite smiling, not quite breathing.

your knee brushed his. just barely. enough to count.

“you’re really checking out my whole friend group before you even ask my name?”

toji’s gaze flicked to you, then back to his glass. “don’t need your name,” he said. “i just wanted to make sure no one was gonna cry when i take you into the bathroom.” the air went out of you like someone had lit a match in your lungs. not subtle. not flirty. not pretending.

you swallowed. slowly.

“bold of you to assume i cry after.”

toji smirked then. not wide. not pretty. crooked. mean. like it hurt to do it. like he hadn’t done it in a while and wasn’t sure it was still worth the trouble. but it was a smile. for you. and something about it made your stomach twist like your bones were folding inward.

he reached across the table and stole your drink—no asking, no gesture, just took it from your hand like it already belonged to him—and sipped it. eyes never leaving yours.

“tequila,” he muttered. “figures.”

“and what the fuck does that mean?”

he shrugged. “means you want to do something stupid. something you can’t admit you want. something you’re gonna lie about to your friends in the morning.”

you stared at him.

and hated how right he was.

you leaned in, breath catching just slightly. “okay. and what do you want?” toji leaned back again, arm stretched across the back of the booth. his fingers—long, veined, scarred, absolutely filthy—rested behind your shoulder, not touching, just close enough to feel the heat.

he gave a lazy, brutal smile.

“i want to remember what it feels like to ruin someone.”

instead, you leaned in closer.

your throat went dry. your pulse tried to climb out of your neck.

you swallowed hard. you should’ve left. should’ve said something clever. should’ve laughed and slipped away and found someone safer to flirt with. someone your age. someone with a nice apartment and a philosophy minor.

and whispered, “bathroom’s to the left.”

he didn’t move. not yet. just gave you another look. slow. bottom to top. the kind of look that peeled layers. stripped the glitter off your skin. that set a small, sharp flame behind your belly button and said, “we’re not gonna be gentle. we’re not gonna be kind.”

toji downed the rest of his drink in one go.

and stood.

“don’t fall in love,” he said over his shoulder as he moved toward the hallway.

you followed. because it was already too fucking late.

the hallway to the bathroom was narrow, humid, and alive in the way all bad decisions are—pulsing with leftover bass, lit by flickering red neon that made everything look like it was soaked in blood and bad taste. a warped “EXIT” sign hung above the far end like a lie, like hope, like something god had given up on. the walls were sticky, painted black, smeared with the fingerprints of too many hands that didn’t belong anywhere else. you could hear the music still, like it was coming from inside your chest. or his.

toji walked ahead of you with the kind of gait that didn’t need to check behind him to know you’d follow. wide shoulders, unhurried steps, a slight roll to his hips like he was dragging the entire fucking world behind him and had made peace with it. he didn’t look back. he didn’t say anything.

and you—fucking idiot, slut in progress, full of bad glitter and worse ideas—you followed him like the devil never lied, heels sticking to the floor, chest rising and falling too fast, heat crawling up the backs of your knees like it had teeth.

you passed a couple making out against the wall, faces crushed together like starved dogs. a guy throwing up in a bucket with a girl patting his back like she loved him for it. someone crying into a mirror, mascara smeared down their cheekbones like war paint. all of it faded. all of it backdrop.

your whole body was zeroed in on him.

toji pushed open the bathroom door without ceremony. it creaked. like it had a vendetta.

the club bathroom was exactly what you expected from a place called gristle: a flickering fluorescent above the mirror, one stall door missing entirely, cracked tiles that looked like someone had lost a fight with their reflection. the floor was wet. you didn’t ask with what. the whole place smelled like bleach, piss, and someone’s regretful aftershave.

but the last stall—the farthest one, the only one with a working lock—was open.

he walked straight in.

paused.

turned halfway in the doorway, one hand braced on the chipped frame, and finally looked at you again. like a challenge. like a dare. like he wasn’t gonna pull you in. not unless you stepped forward yourself. “last chance,” he said, voice low, rough, carrying that kind of warmth that only exists inside furnaces and buried trauma. “you got about three seconds to decide whether you’re gonna regret this.”

you laughed.

it came out a little wild. a little cracked.

“bitch, i already regret it.”

and then you stepped in.

he closed the door behind you. it clicked shut like the start of a ritual.

now it was just the two of you, breathing the same stifling, chemical-washed air, shadows cast sharp and ugly across your faces by the single busted light overhead. you could see the sweat beading at his temples, the shine of it along the thick cut of his throat. you could see the scar on his lip, and the deeper one under his jaw, like someone had tried to silence him with a blade and failed. his eyes were even worse up close—mean, ancient, alive in the way fire is alive when it’s out of control. they flicked over you with slow, deliberate weight.

he didn’t touch you.

he didn’t need to.

he just looked.

and it felt like a strip search. like a dissection. like you were standing naked already, ribs cracked open, heart fluttering like it knew what was coming and wanted to hide behind your lungs. “what’s your name?” he asked suddenly, voice pitched like he didn’t care but also like he needed it for something he didn’t want to name.

you hesitated.

then said it.

he rolled it around in his mouth. didn’t repeat it, just tasted it, the way a man might taste a curse or a memory or a prayer he wasn’t allowed to say. “huh,” he said. “too pretty for the kind of shit you’re about to let me do.” you were about to shoot back something equally stupid, something unhinged, something desperate and mean and wet with anticipation—

but he took a step closer.

just one.

and it was enough to send your breath hitching and your back pressing gently against the wall of the stall like you needed to hold the whole building up. you could smell him now—cigarettes, aftershave, sweat, and something else, something feral and tired and male, the kind of scent that made you feel like a house left unlocked.

he raised a hand.

not to grab you. not yet. he just rested it on the wall beside your head, knuckles ghosting the tile, his eyes boring down into yours like he was looking through you. like he was checking for rot.

“you don’t even know how good you look right now,” he murmured, and his voice sounded wrecked—torn at the edges, too old for this, too fucked up to know better, too close to the edge.

you whispered, “then tell me.”

he laughed.

short. breathy. not nice.

“nah,” he said. “gonna show you.”

still—still—he didn’t touch you.

he let the silence wrap around the both of you like plastic, like a vacuum seal, like the breath between the lightning and the thunder. he let you feel the heat crawling up your neck, let your hands twitch at your sides like they wanted something to hold onto before the world caved in.

his eyes didn’t leave yours. not once.

and when he finally, finally leaned in, mouth brushing close enough to yours that you could feel the shape of the words more than you heard them, he said—

“say please.”

you exhaled so sharply it stuttered.

and then—

“no.”

his grin was all teeth. no mirth. no kindness. just hunger dressed up like satisfaction.

“good,” he said. “don’t beg yet.”

and he leaned back.

waited.

waited for you to break first.

and fuck—

you wanted to.

you moved without thinking. or maybe you were thinking too much—just not with the part of your brain responsible for restraint. maybe it was the tequila, or the way his voice slithered under your skin like something hot and reckless, or the way he still hadn’t touched you first, like he was trying to prove a point. you pushed him.

both hands flat against his chest, sudden, hard, more force than you meant but less than he deserved, and he let you, let you shove him back until he stumbled into the closed janitor’s closet behind him. his legs hit the lip of the metal threshold, knees bending with a grunt, and he sank down onto the makeshift seat like he wanted to be there—like he’d planned it all along.

and then his hands—fuck, those hands—were on your thighs.

rough palms, calloused fingers, thick enough to bruise without meaning to. he didn’t trail them up. didn’t tease. he gripped, greedy, dragging you forward like you were already claimed. his touch lit a fuse somewhere behind your sternum. your breath stuttered, caught, and your hips moved before your mind caught up, knees hitting the outside of his legs as you let yourself be pulled between them like gravity was a kink.

your hands landed on his shoulders to steady yourself, fingertips pressing into solid muscle wrapped in cotton and heat. you could feel it—him—beneath the thin fabric of his shirt: the thick slope of his traps, the unforgiving hardness of a man who spent too much time in fights and not enough in therapy.

“jesus,” you breathed, unthinking.

“what?”

your palms slid over the lines of him, feeling the definition like it had something to tell you, like each inch of him was a secret your hands could decode.

“you’re so fucking hot,” you muttered, half to yourself.

toji chuckled. it was low and mean and full of dirt. like he’d heard it before, but it still pleased him in that deeply male, deeply awful way.

“you climbin’ on or just gonna compliment me to death?”

you didn’t answer.

you straddled him.

slow, deliberate, dragging your knees over his thighs until your hips settled down onto his lap, the heat of him pressed tight against the inside of your thighs like a confession he didn’t have to say out loud. you wrapped your arms around his neck, trying not to moan at how fucking big he was—everything about him. wide shoulders. thick neck. those awful, perfect hands still gripping your thighs like he owned them.

your nose brushed against his jaw, and for a second, you didn’t move. didn’t kiss. didn’t speak.

you just inhaled.

his scent hit you in the teeth—spice and sweat and something darker, older, something like woodsmoke and nights without sleep. it wasn’t cologne. it was him. it made your eyes flutter shut for a second longer than you meant to.

then your lips ghosted against the side of his neck, soft, barely there, just enough to taste the salt and heat of him. “what’s your name?” you asked into his skin, voice breathless. he didn’t answer right away. you kissed his neck again, slower this time, tongue just barely tasting him. he exhaled, rough. “toji.”

you hummed like it was a meal, a warm word you could chew on. “toji,” you repeated, testing it, letting it sit on your tongue like liquor.

you kissed just under his jaw. “are you married, toji?”

he huffed. not quite a laugh.

“nah. divorced. long time ago.”

you let your lips linger at his throat, barely touching, feeling his pulse jump just under the skin. “why’d she leave?” his voice was quiet this time. bitter. real. “ran off with some other guy. wanted something better, i guess.” you pulled back a little, just enough to look at him, brushing a stray piece of hair off his forehead with one finger. he was staring at you, eyes darker now, more guarded, but not pulling away.

you tilted your head and said, low and smug and filthy-sweet, “someone’s trash is someone’s treasure, y’know.”

toji snorted. actually snorted, head tilting back slightly, a rough sound in the back of his throat like amusement had caught him off guard. his hands flexed on your thighs, thumbs digging into the meat like he needed an anchor.

“you callin’ me trash, baby?”

you grinned, lips brushing against his cheekbone.

“only if you want me to recycle you.”

his laugh this time was full—short, sharp, almost surprised. you felt it through your whole body, the vibration rolling up his chest into yours. he looked at you like you were an accident he wasn’t sure he regretted yet.

“you’re mouthy,” he muttered.

“you’re old,” you shot back.

“and yet,” his hand slid up, resting heavy against your ass, “you’re in my lap.”

you leaned in again, lips brushing against the shell of his ear.

“so what’re you gonna do about it?”

toji leaned back, just enough to look you in the eyes, a slow, deliberate smirk pulling at the scar on his lip.

“whatever the fuck i want.”

you smiled.

“good.”

your hands started moving before your mouth did—fingers trailing down the slope of his shoulder, slow and shameless, brushing over the tight fabric of his shirt, down across the sharp cut of his chest. you could feel the muscles shift beneath your palms, all dense and unforgiving, like stone that had decided to grow teeth. he wasn’t just strong. he was engineered. like god got horny once and never did it again.

you were still waiting for him to touch you properly.

but you were starting to think the waiting was the whole goddamn point.

you dragged your fingers lower, feeling every groove of him, every inch mapped like sin beneath your hands. his abs were taut, hard, ridiculous—less six-pack, more topographical map of a mountain range you wanted to get lost in. they flexed when you touched them, a subtle twitch under your fingertips like his body was reacting on its own, and it made your thighs clench around his lap.

“jesus christ,” you muttered, reverent and obscene at once. “what the fuck do you do? bench-press small cars? choke people for a living?”

toji smirked without answering. that same little twist of his mouth, one corner pulling up like it wanted to make fun of you, like it knew how dumb you sounded—like he made people talk like that just by existing. you didn’t let him speak. you pushed your palm flat against the cut of his abs, slow circles, down toward his navel, and grinned, breath hot against his jaw.

“i could literally squirt just from humping your stomach,” you said, blunt as a knife. “just grind on these things like a fucking degenerate and ruin your whole shirt.”

toji barked out a short, rough laugh—sharp enough to show teeth, mean enough to make your pulse stutter. “you’re disgusting.”

“and you’re enabling me.”

“you say that like it’s a problem.”

you let your hand drift lower still—not far enough to be a real threat yet, just enough to tease, then slid it back up again, slowly, nails dragging over the ridges of his stomach like you were mapping the way you’d ride him. your other hand stayed locked behind his neck, nails lightly scraping along the curve of his nape, anchoring you there in his lap, where you didn’t belong, where you wanted to live forever.

and then your hand found his chest again.

specifically; his nipple.

you didn’t hesitate. just caught it between your thumb and finger and gave it a little tug.

he flinched.

not big. not obvious. just a twitch—shoulders shifting under your palm, his hips tightening under yours, a low sound catching in his throat like something he hadn’t meant to make. and it lit you up. a flare of heat, sharp and fast, blooming behind your sternum like something you’d swallowed was fighting to get out.

“huh,” you said, grinning like a cat with something twitching between its teeth. “you’re sensitive.”

toji’s eyes flicked up to meet yours, slower than before. darker.

“keep talkin’ like that, baby,” he said, low and warning, “you’re gonna find out how long it’s been since someone made me come.”

your stomach flipped.

not from fear. from anticipation.

you pinched again, slower this time, more curious than cruel, watching the way his chest moved with the pressure, how his breath hitched before he swallowed it down. “i like you like this,” you murmured, leaning in again, lips brushing the underside of his jaw. “all rough and ready to break shit, but twitchy when i touch you just right.”

“nobody touches me like that.”

you kissed just below his ear.

“shame,” you said.

your voice dropped to a whisper, low and mean and sweet at once.

“i’ll fix that.”

he exhaled hard through his nose, chest rising beneath your hand. his fingers dug harder into your thighs, like he wanted to grip bone, like he wanted to see if your skin would remember him tomorrow.

“you’re not scared of me,” he muttered, almost like it was a question.

“should i be?”

his lip twitched. “probably.”

you smiled, letting your lips ghost over the sharp angle of his jaw, thumb brushing lazily across his nipple again, slower now, testing him. “then maybe i want to be a little scared.”

his hands slid higher on your thighs, thumbs pressing in slow circles, rough, patient, menacing, the kind of touch that wasn’t asking for permission—it was letting you pretend you still had a choice.

“you keep teasing like that,” he said, voice lower now, quieter, dead calm, “and i’m gonna stop being polite.” you rolled your hips forward just enough to feel him through his jeans—hot, hard, there. “you’ve been polite?” you said, eyes wide and false, mocking. “this is you being polite?”

he laughed again. slower this time. darker.

“baby,” he said, fingers curling into your skin, “you have no fucking idea.” and still—he hadn’t kissed you. not once. and it was driving you insane.

you were perched in his lap like temptation incarnate, like a sin wrapped in skin and glitter, thighs bracketing his like you were made to ride things that broke people, hands still playing soft and obscene over his chest like you didn’t know what restraint meant, like you were touching something sacred just to see if it bled.

toji hadn’t moved much. not in the obvious way. not in the way most men do when they’ve got someone straddling them, whispering filth into their jaw like a sacrament. no, he was too still, too composed, like a bomb wired too carefully to detonate early. like he wanted to wait. to build it. let it stretch. to hold onto the tension until it snapped in your mouth.

your fingers were still teasing across his chest—idling over the muscle, flicking once more over that sensitive spot just beneath his nipple, watching for the way his stomach flinched or the corners of his mouth twitched. you liked it. you loved it. how it made him twitch, how it made his hands twitch harder against your thighs like they wanted to move but were waiting for your next line, like he wanted to see just how much worse you could get.

you leaned in again, lips hovering by his throat, breath hot and unkind.

“you ever had a girl ride your abs?” you asked, voice like melted sugar poured down someone’s back—sweet, but meant to burn. “like, actually just sit on your stomach and get off like it was nothing? bet they haven’t. bet none of them could handle it.”

his breath stuttered.

“jesus,” he muttered.

“nah,” you grinned, dragging your teeth just lightly along his neck, not biting—yet—just there, a whisper of promise. “but you can call me that if it helps.” he growled. actually growled. a sound low in his chest like something cornered and annoyed it liked it.

and finally—finally—his hands left your thighs. not far, just sliding up, rough palms dragging over your skin, slow and heated and full of intent. he cupped your hips like he was trying to feel the bones underneath, thumbs pressing into the meat of you with a bruiser’s patience.

you moved against him—barely, just a roll of your hips, a shift that let your weight settle over the thick press of him under his jeans, and god, fuck, it felt obscene. it made your breath hitch and his jaw clench, and the stall felt too small for what was building, the air too thick, like you were breathing in each other’s heat, each other’s worse instincts.

you whispered, lips against the shell of his ear, “you like this?”

toji didn’t answer right away. just let his hands slide down again, gripping tighter, thumbs dipping under the hem of your skirt like they were testing your limits.

“you know how long it’s been since anyone touched me?” he said, voice low, almost flat, like he wasn’t sure why he was telling you. “since anyone looked at me without seeing a mess, a fuckin’ has-been?”

you pulled back, just a little, enough to look at him, eyes meeting his with something like interest wrapped in something darker. not pity. not sympathy. just hunger. focused and real.

“how long?” you asked softly, fingers still on his chest, dragging down again, slow and hungry. he looked past you for a second. somewhere to the side. not even seeing the busted stall wall anymore. something older, in his voice now. broken-glass honesty.

“eight years. almost nine.”

you stared.

and then, with a wicked little smile curling your lips, you whispered, “someone’s trash…”

toji’s mouth twitched.

“…is someone’s treasure,” you finished, breathless, grin wide and smug and so, so stupid.

he barked a laugh, surprised and feral.

“you really just called me trash again.”

you shrugged. “i mean. recycled goods. eco-conscious dick. saving the planet.”

“you’re fucking insane,” he said, voice pitched like he might start laughing again or snap your waistband with his teeth.

you leaned forward, pressed your forehead against his, your lips barely a breath from his. “and you’re letting me sit on your lap in a bathroom stall. so what does that make you?”

he grinned.

all teeth. all bad decisions.

“about to make the worst choice of my goddamn life.”

“good,” you breathed. “i was worried we were on different pages.”

your arms wrapped tighter around his neck, fingers curling into the hair at his nape. his hands slid back up, under your skirt now, warm palms against your ass, fingers flexing like he needed to touch you everywhere before his brain caught up.

and still.

he hadn’t kissed you.

and you were starting to go crazy with it.

your eyes met again. his were darker now. heavy. hungry.

but he waited.

he wanted you to crack first.

“fucking kiss me,” you hissed, voice wrecked.

he smirked.

“say please,” toji said again, like a fucking ritual, and this time—

this time you almost said it.

you held his stare like a dare, like you were trying to outlast a god, both of you locked in this awful, exquisite standoff of breath and blood and the terrible pressure of almost—his hands hot on your hips, your thighs burning around him, the tension between your bodies so taut it felt like it would hum if someone plucked it. and still, no kiss. not yet. like he needed one more act of worship before he let your mouths meet. like he wanted you naked before he let himself feel anything sweet.

fine. fuck it. you’d do it yourself.

you shifted in his lap, slow and deliberate, dragging your hands back from his shoulders to the hem of your top, fingers curling under the fabric like you were peeling off something sacred. you kept your eyes on his—watching the way his pupils swallowed up the green when he realized what you were doing—lifting your shirt up over your ribs, higher, higher, until the fabric slipped past your chin and you tossed it off to the side without ceremony.

no bra. piercings.

because of course not.

just bare skin and pierced nipples, glinting silver in the dirty fluorescent light like jewelry for the kind of girl who knew she wasn’t soft, who never pretended she was.

you didn’t speak.

you just sat there, half-naked in his lap in a goddamn club bathroom, chest heaving, nipples hard in the cold air, the metal rings catching the light like something dangerous, something mean, something that needed to be touched wrong to be touched right. and you watched him, watched how he breathed—just once, just sharp—and how his hands flexed like they didn’t know whether to grab your waist or punch through the stall wall.

“well, fuck me,” toji muttered, voice thick now, ruined with it. “no wonder you’ve been talking like you wanna go to hell. you’re built like you already run the place.”

you smiled, smug and filthy and lit from within.

“told you,” you whispered. “eco-conscious. sustainable. slutty.”

his mouth twitched. not a full smile—he was too gone for that now, too inside-out with the need to play it cool—but it was there. something dangerous and animal moved across his face, and then he leaned in. you thought he was finally going to kiss you. you felt it. the moment before detonation. but instead— his head dropped.

and he latched onto your nipple.

“fuck—”

your back arched like a whip, hands flying to his shoulders again, nails digging in without thinking, mouth falling open with something more breath than sound. toji sucked, slow and heavy, his tongue sliding over the barbell and pressing into the sensitive flesh around it like he wanted to make you cry. his mouth was hot, his stubble scraped, and when his teeth grazed just a little too sharp you gasped, hips rolling down into his lap like it was reflex.

his hands gripped your ass again, anchoring you, holding you down while he switched sides, mouth closing over your other nipple like he was starving and you were something he’d earned by bleeding for it. his groan vibrated through you, low and primal and filthy, and when he pulled back there was spit on your skin, cooling fast, and his face was flushed in a way that made something deep in your belly twist and spark.

“jesus christ,” he said hoarsely. “you’re unreal.”

“you’re the one with your mouth on my tits,” you shot back, voice too high, too tight, shaking a little, “don’t go blaming me now.”

“not blaming,” he muttered, still staring at your chest like he might bite again. “just... christ. you’re like a fuckin’ problem someone dared me to solve with my mouth.”

and then—finally—he moved.

his hand came up, one big palm on the side of your face, warm and rough and steady, and his thumb brushed over your cheek like he was trying to decide if you were real. your breath caught. your whole body tightened.

and then he kissed you.

hard.

not sweet, not gentle, not even patient. just full, just everything, like he was trying to make up for every minute he hadn’t touched you, every year he hadn’t been touched himself. his mouth crashed into yours with the force of someone who’d been starving for too long and had finally been thrown a pulse, all teeth and tongue and hunger, one hand cradling your head and the other gripping your ass like he wanted to fuse you to him.

you moaned into his mouth, loud and broken, grinding down against his lap because your body didn’t know what else to do, because he tasted like heat and fury and something lost, and you never wanted to stop.

“toji,” you gasped against his lips, not even knowing what you were going to say next.

he pulled back just enough to growl, “yeah?”

and you didn’t say anything.

you just kissed him again, harder, because there was no language for this anymore. just mouths. and need. and heat. and the feeling that if you weren’t careful, this man was going to leave fingerprints on your soul.

the kiss was a full-body event, not just mouths but movement, grip, heat, the wild pressure of skin-on-skin with nowhere to go and too much to say. it didn’t matter that you were half-naked in a club bathroom stall where the floor smelled like a crime scene and the walls were so thin you could hear someone vomiting two doors down—none of that mattered, because toji’s mouth was on yours like he was carving something out of you, like he was writing his name behind your teeth, and you were letting him, eagerly, shamelessly, drunk on it, high on it, completely undone.

his tongue pushed past your lips like he belonged there, slow and deep, not searching—claiming, like he’d waited a decade for a mouth that tasted this wrong and this right all at once. you moaned into it, hands tangling in his hair now, that thick, unruly mess of black you wanted to pull until he begged, your body moving without your consent, grinding against his lap like a goddamn heat-seeking missile. every movement made you more desperate, more soaked, more stupid, and the worst part was he knew it—you could feel it in the way he kissed you, like he was humoring your urgency but didn’t need to rush, because he could have you whenever he wanted.

“fuck,” he muttered against your lips, pulling back just enough to look at you—flushed, breathless, pupils blown wide like a blackout curtain had dropped behind his eyes. “look at you. look at you, fuckin’ shaking just from kissing.”

“you kiss like it’s a crime,” you gasped, but it came out half a whimper, too much pleasure in your voice to be convincing. “like—fuck—like you’re trying to make me come with your mouth alone.”

toji grinned, cocky and dangerous and filthy.

“maybe i am. you wet for me already, sweetheart?”

you didn’t answer, because your hips were doing it for you—rocking down against his jeans with so much friction you wanted to cry, the seam catching you just enough, the pressure building, and his cock so hard beneath you it felt like punishment. you were dripping, underwear soaked through, thighs shaking, and his hands weren’t helping—palms wide on your ass, rocking you down, grinding you into him like he wanted to wear you out before he even got your panties off.

“fuckin’ soaked, aren’t you?” he said, voice a rasp now, low and hot in your ear. “you’re gonna leave a mark on my fuckin’ jeans, baby. ruin me before i even get my dick out.”

“then do it,” you snapped, voice wrecked. “let me. let me ruin you.”

toji groaned, head dropping to your shoulder as he laughed, low and obscene.

“shit. listen to you. needy little brat.”

you tightened your grip on his shoulders, biting down on a gasp as he rocked you harder against him, the rhythm slow but filthy, your clit catching against the fabric with every pass, the wetness between your legs making your thighs slick where they touched his jeans.

“look at you,” he said again, voice softer now but still thick with want. “grinding like a fuckin’ bitch in heat. that what you need, baby? someone to tell you how good you are while you ride his lap in a public bathroom like a fuckin’ slut?”

“yes,” you breathed, and there was no dignity in it, no irony, just raw honesty. “yes, yes, fuck, say it again.”

he sat up straighter, one hand sliding up your back, warm and steady, the other gripping your hip tight enough to leave bruises. his lips were back on your throat now, trailing kisses—no, bites, little sharp things that made you twitch and gasp and roll your hips harder.

“you’re so good,” he growled. “so fuckin’ pretty like this. filthy little thing. bet no one’s ever let you get this messy before.”

“they haven’t,” you whispered, high and wild and broken.

“of course they haven’t,” he muttered, hand sliding between your bodies now, cupping your pussy through your soaked panties. “’cause they’re not me.”

you cried out when his fingers pressed down, through the fabric, right against your clit, and he just held them there, didn’t move yet, just the pressure of it, the presence of it, as if to say i can give you everything, but only if i want to.

“you’re shaking,” he said again, almost in awe. “look at you. fuck. look how bad you want it.”

you nodded, frantic, rolling your hips, chasing the friction.

“please,” you whispered. “please, please—”

toji leaned in, mouth on your jaw, lips dragging across your ear.

“there it is,” he said, dark and triumphant. “that’s what i wanted. beg for it, baby. you want me to make you come like this? just from grinding?”

“yes, yes—i can—i will—”

“fuckin’ right you will,” he growled. “’cause you’re perfect. you’re fuckin’ perfect, and this pussy—fuck, this pussy’s gonna soak me right through, isn’t it?”

you moaned—high and desperate and completely gone—because he was right, he was so right, and your body was already pulling taut, everything tingling, building, the whole world narrowing to the heat between your legs and the sound of his voice and the rock of your hips on his lap, friction blurring into pleasure so loud it drowned out thought.

and still—he hadn’t taken your panties off. still—he hadn’t even kissed your neck where you needed it. still—he wasn’t fucking you. not yet. because this was just the beginning. and he wanted to see how far you’d fall before he even let you come.

your cunt was throbbing. soaked through the sheer cotton of your underwear, the whole front of it stuck tight to your slit like second skin, every slow, cruel grind against the thick bulge in toji’s jeans shooting sparks up your spine, dragging friction across your clit so hot it felt like electricity, like punishment, like prayer—but no salvation was coming. not here. not yet.

toji wasn’t letting you have it easy.

no, he was watching you come apart, eyes hooded, lips parted, one hand on your ass, the other flat against the small of your back like he was holding you in place just to observe the mess you were making of yourself. and you were making a fucking mess—your hips rolling in slow, stuttering circles, breath hitching every time your clit caught just right, every time the angle hit that spot that made your vision spark at the edges. his jeans were dark with your slick now. it had soaked clean through, turned the rough denim into something humid and hot and obscene, and he hadn’t even moved.

he grinned, teeth bared, voice dragging out of his chest like it was dipped in smoke and sin.

“look at you,” he murmured, so low it didn’t sound real. “fuckin’ drooling on my lap. like you don’t even know how to behave.”

you whimpered, not even trying to deny it, not even trying to stop your hips anymore, just grinding down harder, faster, more desperate, using him like he was a thing, like a toy, and he loved it—you could tell, could feel how hard he was under you, thick and unyielding, the heat of him seeping through denim and cotton and skin like he was burning from the inside out.

“you hear that?” he whispered, mouth brushing your ear now, lips hot and damp and cruel. “you’re so wet, baby, i can hear you. hear this pretty pussy workin’ for it. tryin’ so hard to come on me like you need it.”

“i do,” you gasped, voice shaking. “i need it, toji, please—”

“i know you do,” he said, thumb dragging up your spine, slow and firm, like he was petting something wild and ready to snap. “you need it so bad you’d hump my fuckin’ abs if i let you. you’d sit on my chest like a good little toy and make yourself come.”

you whined, high-pitched and helpless, hips stuttering now, every pass over his cock sending your body into convulsions, little aftershocks building toward something brutal. your hands were shaking against his chest, nails digging in, trying to anchor yourself before your own body betrayed you.

“that’s it,” toji growled, voice thick, breath warm on your neck. “grind on me, baby. come for me. come just like this, messy little thing, fuckin’ beautiful.”

and that word—beautiful—punched through you like a nail through soft wood, splitting you open. it was too much. it broke something.

you gasped again, mouth falling open, eyes rolling back just a little, because your orgasm hit you like a freight train, fast and catastrophic and undeniable, hips jerking, thighs shaking around him as your whole body locked up, tight and twitching and slick. your clit pulsed against the rough drag of his jeans, and for a second all you could hear was static, breath and heartbeat and the hot wet sound of your soaked underwear sticking to your cunt like your body wanted to keep the memory.

“fuck,” toji groaned, voice dark and ragged, eyes glued to your face as you came. “that’s it. just like that. god damn, look at you—so good, baby. so fuckin’ good for me.”

you were barely breathing, shaking like a leaf in a storm, your whole body undone on top of him, and still, his hands held you steady, let you ride it out, let you grind through the aftershocks like he wanted to feel every single second of your ruin. his hand came up to your cheek, fingers curling around your jaw, thumb brushing your bottom lip as you gasped, stunned and half-feral.

“you ever come like that before?” he asked, low and smug and so, so filthy.

you shook your head, dazed.

“thought so,” he said. “’cause no one else knows what to do with a pussy like yours, baby. they don’t know how to look at you, let alone fuck you right.”

you whimpered, half-laughing, tears stinging your eyes now, overstimulated and shaking and so full of want it was making you stupid.

“you’re a fuckin’ dream,” he said, quieter now, voice warmer, almost reverent. “you know that? filthy little mouth, perfect tits, pussy that sings for me—you were made for this. for me.”

you nodded, breath catching. “say it again.”

toji smirked, eyes glinting, one hand sliding back down to your waist as he pulled you forward again.

“you were made for me.”

and god help you, you believed him.

your hands were trembling, still shaky from the wreck of that first orgasm, your thighs twitching around his lap, soaked panties clinging to your slit like a brand, like shame, like proof—and toji hadn’t even fucked you yet. he was still fully dressed, his shirt damp with sweat from where your chest had pressed against him, his jeans dark from your slick, and his cock—fuck, you could feel it, all of it—was still locked away like a weapon waiting for deployment.

and it was time. it was fucking time.

you leaned back just enough to give yourself space, your palms still braced on his chest, steadying you as your breath came hot and uneven through your nose, mouth parted, your lips still wet from kissing, from moaning, and you looked down between your bodies like it was something sacred. his belt was half-undone already, buckle hanging open from where your desperate grinding had loosened it—like even the metal couldn’t handle what was coming.

“fuck, baby,” you breathed, fingers fumbling at the leather, dragging it the rest of the way through the loops. “your cock’s been pressing into me like it’s got its own fuckin’ mind.”

toji let out a low chuckle, something dark and frayed around the edges.

“it does,” he said. “it’s been waitin’. patient. even though you’ve been bouncin’ on it like a fuckin’ toy.”

you popped the button, pulled down the zipper with a long, slow zzzzrrk that felt like it echoed in the stall, louder than the bass outside, louder than the sound of your own heart trying to punch through your ribs. your fingers dipped into the waistband of his boxers, dragging them low enough to see the top of it—veins, thick and pulsing, and just so much of him already visible before you’d even freed it. your eyes widened.

“holy shit,” you muttered.

he grinned, teeth flashing under the sick overhead light. “what?”

you didn’t answer right away. your hands moved again, both of them, pushing the waistband down further, and then—

you let him out.

his cock slapped against his lower stomach, heavy, dark and flushed, slick already at the tip, a thick drop of precum glistening like it belonged in your mouth. it was obscene—long, fat, veiny as hell, the kind of dick that looked like it needed its own leash, its own warning label, its own space. the veins ran thick up the shaft, winding under skin pulled tight like leather, like the blood barely fit inside him. his head was broad, a little darker than the rest, flushed near purple, and leaking like it was angry he hadn’t buried it yet.

you stared.

for a long second, you just stared.

then—quiet, reverent, slightly terrified—you said, “i fuckin’ knew it.”

toji raised an eyebrow, cocky, smug, delicious.

“knew what, sweetheart?”

you swallowed, one hand wrapping around the base—your fingers not meeting—and your other sliding up from the middle to the head, both hands now working together to hold him. “you’re built like a fuckin’ war crime,” you said, voice shaking somewhere between awe and horny delirium. “of course your cock’s this big. stupid big. like—jesus—i should call a priest. or a contractor. fuckin’ get structural support.”

toji moaned.

not soft. not gentle. not theatrical.

a real moan—gut-deep, choked out of him, like your words had done something, like the way your hands moved up and down his shaft, slow and reverent, was too much.

“fuck, you’re perfect,” he rasped, hips twitching once into your grip. “both hands and you still can’t hold all of me? fuckin’ look at that. look at how pretty you are, baby. jerkin’ me off like you wanna worship it.”

you grinned, dazed, breath catching as your thumbs swept over the head, spreading the precum, watching the way his abs flexed every time you touched him right. “i do wanna worship it,” you said. “fuckin’ temple-level. build a church around this dick and let me live in it.”

toji laughed again—short, loud, fucked.

“gonna make me come just from talkin’, baby,” he muttered, voice frayed and sharp. “keep goin’. keep fuckin’ sayin’ that shit.”

you stroked him harder now, slow and tight, twisting a little near the head just to hear the way he groaned, to feel the twitch in your hands.

“you know what this looks like?” you whispered, leaning close again, mouth brushing his jaw as your hand kept working. “like something that ruins girls. like something that splits ‘em open, wrecks ‘em, makes ‘em talk in tongues. you ever see a girl cry while sittin’ on your dick, toji?”

“more than once,” he said, hoarse, hips jerking again. “none of ‘em sounded as fuckin’ good as you, though. jesus—your voice, baby—gonna ruin me.”

“i wanna ruin you.”

your thumb brushed the tip again, slow and teasing.

“wanna fuckin’ sit on it till i can’t talk. ride you till my legs give out. wanna let you fuck the brat outta me.” he hissed through his teeth, hips bucking, precum now sliding slick over your hands, warm and messy.

“sayin’ all that while jerkin’ me off in a stall,” he panted, head falling back against the wall. “fuck, you’re filthy. filthy and so fuckin’ good, baby. look at you. makin’ me feel like this without even sittin’ on it yet.”

you leaned in, voice low, breath hot against his ear.

“you’re gonna fuck me with this, toji?”

“yeah,” he growled, breath hot and shaking. “gonna fuck you stupid. gonna split you open nice and slow, make you feel every inch. make you remember it for the rest of your life.”

your cunt clenched so hard your knees almost gave out.

and you were still holding his cock like it was the goddamn holy grail.

and you hadn’t even put it in yet.

your hands kept moving, steady now, smooth and slick and reverent like you’d done this a thousand times in a dream and were only now getting the holy chance to do it for real. both palms wrapped around the base of him, moving slow, tight, twisting slightly as you reached the top, thumbs spreading the precum over the flushed head, watching it glisten like something sacrilegious, like something stolen from a shrine. your fingers couldn’t meet even at the base—he was that thick, obscene, heavy in your hands like a weapon built for ruin, and fuck, you wanted to ruin yourself with it.

toji was watching you with a look that should’ve been illegal. half-lidded eyes dark as molasses, lips parted, panting through his teeth like your touch was pulling him apart vein by vein. his chest was heaving under his shirt, soaked with sweat at the collar, and his hips kept twitching just barely into your grip, like he wanted to fuck your fists but was too caught up in the sight of you doing it so willingly, so hungrily, like you loved it. like you were meant for it.

and you did. you fucking did.

you leaned down, let your mouth hover over his cock, eyes never leaving his, and spat.

a long string of it, wet and glistening, landing right on the swollen tip with a lewd little splat, mixing with the precum already smeared across the head, and your hands caught it, smeared it all over, rubbing it in with a filthy grin like you were lotioning up something that lived in hell.

toji hissed—low and feral and wrecked.

“fuck, baby—”

you giggled, soft and wicked, your voice a little hoarse now from all the moaning, but still steady enough to say the worst thing you’d been thinking since the second you saw his cock, “no offense, toji,” you said sweetly, rubbing both hands up and down his shaft, slow and tight, watching him twitch with every pass, “but your ex-wife’s a stupid cunt.”

his eyes widened a little, surprised, maybe delighted.

you kept going, dragging your fist up to just below the head and twisting it there, circling with your thumb while you talked.

“like—look at this fucking dick. are you serious?” you laughed, breathless, bouncing slightly in his lap as your strokes sped up, hot slick sounds echoing in the tiny, awful stall. “you were sittin’ on this at home, and she cheated? left you for some guy with a fuckin’ linkedin account? is she brain-dead?”

toji let out a choked laugh, a single short bark of disbelief before it collapsed into a groan, head tipping back as his hands flexed hard on your waist.

“you’re gonna kill me,” he muttered, breathless, fucked-out already. “fuckin’ mouth on you—goddamn.”

you leaned in, kissed his throat, then licked a stripe up the side of it just to feel him shudder. “i’m serious,” you whispered, licking the shell of his ear now. “if i had a dick like this at home, i’d quit my job. stop seeing my friends. stop eating solid food. i’d be on it twenty-four seven. dick-drunk. knees sore. brain empty. happy.”

he was groaning now, full-bodied, desperate, the veins on his cock standing out like corded rope, the tip leaking freely, your spit and his precum slicking your hands, dripping down his shaft onto his jeans like a signature.

you pulled back just enough to look him in the eye, still stroking, still rubbing your thumb over the head, still letting him feel how good your hands were, how attentive, like you were worshipping something carved out of divine filth.

“i’m gonna put it in now.”

toji’s eyes snapped to yours, wild and almost scared—not of you, not of the act, but of what it was going to do to him.

“you sure?” he rasped. “you’re still fuckin’—you just came once, you’re already twitchin’, baby—i’m big, you know that. i’ll fuckin’ split you open.”

you smiled, slow and sweet and full of madness.

“i want you to.”

his breath caught. his hips twitched.

“fuck,” he groaned. “you’re gonna make me blow just from that. you’re gonna make me lose my fuckin’ mind.”

you rocked forward in his lap, pressing your soaked panties against the head of his cock, and gasped, because even that—even through cotton—felt like it shouldn’t fit. like your body wasn’t made for this kind of sin. but you were going to do it anyway. you were going to take it.

you reached down, dragged the tip against your slit, up and down through your panties, slow, teasing, not slipping him in yet, just letting him feel how soaked you were, how ready, how stupid you were for him.

“feel that?” you whispered, lips brushing his. “that’s all for you. no one else’s ever made me this wet. not even close.”

toji groaned—loud, desperate, unhinged—and his hands gripped your hips like he was holding back the apocalypse.

“jesus fuckin’ christ,” he muttered.

and you smiled.

because you hadn’t even started.

you were still straddling him, thighs shaking slightly from the aftershocks of your orgasm and from the slow, throbbing ache that had taken root deep between your legs—the kind of ache that didn’t want relief, just more. the kind of ache that whispered take it, take it all, it’s supposed to hurt a little. and now, with your hands trembling where they rested against his stomach, and his cock leaking against the soaked crotch of your panties, thick and flushed and too much, you knew it wasn’t going to be simple. this wasn’t gonna be easy. this wasn’t something you could laugh through.

and still—you pushed your panties aside.

fingers hooking under the soaked elastic, dragging the thin cotton to the side, just enough to expose the wet, swollen mess between your thighs, your lips slick and shining, your hole already fluttering like it knew, like your body was trying to brace for the sheer obscenity of what you were about to force inside it.

“fuck,” toji rasped, eyes dropping like a gravitational pull to your cunt, the way it glistened, twitching right there in front of him. “jesus fucking christ. you’re dripping down your thighs.”

you laughed, high and breathless, reaching down with one hand to angle his cock upright, the other gripping his shoulder so tight your nails left little white crescents in his skin.

“you’ve been talking like you’re a curse, toji,” you whispered, guiding the thick, throbbing head to your entrance. “but i didn’t know you were a goddamn plague.”

he grinned—hungry and crooked and wild—but then his breath caught when the head pressed right up against your pussy, just resting there, the blunt heat of it right there on your soaked little opening.

and even that was too much.

you tried to push down, slowly—just your weight alone, just letting gravity and desperation carry you—and your face immediately twisted, eyes fluttering shut, mouth falling open in a gasp so choked it was almost silent. the stretch was unbearable. hot. wrong. like you were trying to take something not built for human use. like your cunt was clenching out of protest instead of pleasure.

you managed maybe half an inch before your body stopped.

“oh—oh my god,” you whined, already breathless, head tipping forward onto his shoulder. “fuck, fuck, fuck, i didn’t—i didn’t know it would be this hard—”

toji’s hands were on your hips, steadying you, holding you like you were fragile, like you were made of wet glass and sin. he let out a low, strained chuckle, but it wasn’t cruel—it was soft, disbelieving, tender in the kind of filthy way only he could be.

“yeah,” he murmured against your temple, kissing the side of your head as you shuddered, “yeah, baby, i know. it’s a lot. ‘course it’s a lot. fuckin’ told you, didn’t i? said i’d split you open.”

“you are,” you moaned, and your voice cracked near the end, tight with frustration and arousal and the aching urge to take more. “you’re huge, toji, i can’t—fuck, i’m trying—”

his lips brushed your cheekbone, hot and steady.

“you’re doin’ perfect,” he murmured, voice barely a breath. “so good for me. such a good girl. fuckin’ takin’ it, even when it hurts. fuck, you feel how tight you are? grippin’ just the tip, baby—like you don’t wanna let go.”

you whimpered, nails dragging down his chest now, trying to breathe, trying to focus, trying to push through the burn, but your eyes stung and you blinked, and then—

tears spilled.

not sobbing, not dramatic—just the sting of it, the overwhelm, the deep wanting that had nowhere to go but out. “hey,” toji said softly, tilting your face toward him, his thumb brushing the corner of your eye. “what’s this? cryin’ on my cock already?”

he kissed the tear before it could slide down your cheek, then another, his mouth gentle, reverent, filthy in the way it held you. not mocking. not laughing.

just there. with you.

“fuckin’ beautiful,” he whispered, voice hot against your skin. “you’re so pretty when you cry. so perfect when you fall apart for me. you’re takin’ me so good, sweetheart, fuck—look at you. you’re stretchin’ so fuckin’ sweet around me.”

you nodded, teeth clenched, moaning as you lowered yourself another inch, the stretch burning now, unbearable and addictive, your body split wide around the sheer girth of him, your cunt fluttering, clenching, trying to make room where there wasn’t any.

your voice cracked again.

“hurts—fuck—it hurts so good, toji—”

“that’s it,” he breathed, hips shifting just slightly, just enough to make you feel it deeper, wider, more. “that’s what i like. feelin’ you break yourself open for it. god damn, you’re made for this.”

“you keep—keep saying that,” you whimpered, tears slipping down again, dripping onto his shoulder, “like i was built for your dick.”

his grin returned—soft and sharp and filthy.

“you were. this pussy was made to take me. look how tight you are, baby—like you never needed anyone else but me.”

and slowly—inch by agonizing, glorious inch—you sank down further.

and further.

and still—he wasn’t all the way in. not yet. but you were going to take every inch. even if it killed you. especially if it killed you.

your body gave in before your mind did—hips twitching, thighs trembling, breath shuddering out of your lungs as the last brutal stretch of him finally slid in, your cunt choking around the thick base of his cock with a helpless, involuntary clench, like it didn’t want to let him go, like it didn’t know how to survive him.

you gasped—mouth wide, head tipped back, neck exposed like something sacrificial, your whole body tensed and arching, and then relaxing, melting into it, as the blunt weight of him bottomed out inside you, seat to base, thick and pulsing, plugged so deep your belly felt full, your muscles trembling around the stretch like they didn’t believe it was over.

and toji—fucking toji—just exhaled through his teeth, mouth parted in some stunned version of a smile that looked like it might unhinge him, watching your face with something close to awe.

“shit,” he murmured, low and hoarse and broken. “you fuckin’ took it.”

you whined. actually whined, because that fullness, that delicious, unbearable pressure, that raw-cored feeling of being too full and still wanting more had you dizzy and aching and grinding down on him like your body was possessed by the shape of him.

“you’re all the way in,” you whispered, voice thin and stretched out over the edge of a sob, eyes half-lidded, lips swollen. “i feel you—i feel you so fucking deep, toji—”

his hands flexed hard around your waist, dragging your hips flush to his one last time, grinding your cunt against the root of his cock, the pressure unbearable, making you gasp and shudder in his lap.

“yeah, baby,” he said, voice pure filth now, that teasing rasp that lived somewhere between worship and cruelty. “you feel that? that’s my cock in your stomach. you’re so fuckin’ tight around me, it’s like your pussy was starving.”

you moaned again, incoherent, your fingers curling in his shirt like it was the only thing tethering you to gravity.

he rocked his hips.

once.

slow.

and your whole body convulsed.

“fuck—toji—”

“easy, sweetheart,” he muttered, mouth brushing your neck, tongue flicking the sweat from your skin. “gonna take care of you. just breathe. you’re doin’ so fuckin’ good for me.”

and then he did it again.

slower this time. dragging out of you just an inch, then pushing back in, letting you feel every fucking vein, the throb of him inside your walls like a second heartbeat, like a warning.

your moans were high and shaking now, rhythmic, falling apart on each pass of his hips as he built the rhythm slow—careful, almost tender, not out of mercy but because he wanted you to feel every inch, every second, every millimeter of him splitting you open like a promise.

“you like that?” he whispered, lips brushing your jaw, hands cradling your ass now, helping you roll with him, take it better. “like bein’ split slow? like knowin’ you can barely take it, but you’re takin’ it anyway, ‘cause you’re a good fuckin’ girl?”

you nodded so fast you almost lost your balance.

“i love it—fuck, i love it, i can’t—I didn’t know it could feel this good—”

and then his rhythm shifted.

the slow grind turned to a deeper snap, hips punching up into you with just a little more power, and you wailed, your voice bouncing off the cracked tile walls of the stall, your thighs trembling around him, your breath caught in your throat.

“that’s it,” toji growled. “that’s my girl.”

you barely had time to respond—barely had time to process—before he was grabbing you, shifting your weight suddenly, and your hands shot to his shoulders in a panic.

“toji—what—?”

he didn’t answer.

he moved you.

one hand sliding under your thigh, lifting it with the ease of someone used to manhandling, the other bracing your back as he pushed your knee up—higher, higher—until it was resting on his shoulder, bent awkwardly. and then the other leg followed, and before you could blink, both of your legs were slung over his shoulders, your hips tilted back, exposed, cunt stretched wide around him at a new angle, one that made your breath catch and your vision blur.

“fuckin’ hell,” he groaned, staring down at where your bodies met, his cock glistening, half-shiny with slick, with spit, your cunt so wet it sounded indecent.

“you’re flexible, baby,” he purred, eyes glittering with smug, filthy heat. “gonna keep you folded like this all night. good fuckin’ stretch, huh? how’s that feel?”

you cried out as he thrust—deep, sudden, rough, punching the air from your lungs and making your pussy clench so tight he growled.

“toji! oh my god—”

“nah,” he grunted, smirking now, sweat slick at his brow, “just toji, baby.”

and then he started to fuck you.

no more tenderness. no more slow burn.

just pace—hard and deep and ruthless, each stroke shoving you up the stall door, the slap of your slick against his thighs filthy and fast, the sound of his cock wrecking you echoing louder than your breathless little moans, louder than the club outside, louder than the entire goddamn city.

and through it all—through the rhythm, through the overstimulation, through the fucking stretch—

you held onto him like he was the end of the world.

and maybe he was.

you didn’t know where your body ended and his began anymore—your thighs thrown over his broad shoulders, calves hanging limp behind his back, cunt stretched impossibly wide around his cock, and your spine arched into the peeling tile wall like it was the only thing holding you together. everything below your waist was pulsing. drenched. trembling. you were stuffed so full your hips had gone numb and your nerves were lit up like flares, every thrust from toji dragging a sound from you that wasn’t even human anymore. choked sobs, half-screams, shattered moans—nothing made sense but the feeling of being split open and used like your pussy had a goddamn purpose.

and toji—toji was lost in it.

his grip was iron on your hips, pulling you down onto each thrust like he needed to be deeper, like it wasn’t enough to be inside you—he wanted to live there, drown there, die there. his head was dipped low now, dark hair slicked back from sweat, jaw clenched, lips parted like he was drunk off something heavy and pure. but it wasn’t the club. it wasn’t the drink. it was you. it was your pussy, clenching around him with every rough pump, spasming with every moan he dragged out of your throat, and it was making him lose it.

he thrust again—hard, brutal, the head of his cock punching your cervix—and you screamed, nails digging into his shoulders, tears slipping down your cheeks as your legs twitched around his neck.

“f-fuck, toji—”

“shhh, baby,” he muttered, slurring the word like his mouth was broken. “shhh, fuck—you hear that?”

you were crying, gasping, mouth open and useless.

“listen.”

he slammed into you again, and this time he slowed the drag back out, watching your cunt cling to him with a slick, obscene sound that made him moan, deep and raw. “jesus christ, listen to this fuckin’ pussy,” he breathed, almost in awe. “she doesn’t wanna let go. holdin’ on like she needs me.”

you couldn’t speak.

your mouth was open but all you could do was pant and sob and clench and take it.

“so fuckin’ wet,” he groaned, eyes locked to the place where you stretched around him, watching the mess he was making of you, the glossy ring of slick around the base of his cock, the sticky strings clinging to his thighs. “she’s so greedy, baby. you feel that? your cunt wants it. she’s suckin’ me in like she never got dick before.”

you whimpered, head falling back against the wall, voice high and thin and wrecked.

“i haven’t,” you said, and it wasn’t even a lie. not really. “not like this. not—fuck, not like you.”

toji’s face twitched.

something broke behind his eyes.

“yeah?” he rasped, voice dipping into something darker. “no one ever fucked you like this before? no one ever got you cryin’ and twitchin’ and beggin’ on their cock?”

you shook your head, tears streaking down your cheeks, spit slicking your chin. “no, toji, i swear—n-no one’s ever—fuck—”

he growled, hips snapping into you again, rough and greedy, the sound of your skin slapping echoing in the filthy stall, drowning out the throb of music beyond the door.

“fuckin’ right they haven’t,” he spat. “’cause they couldn’t handle you. you needed a real man to wreck this pussy. needed someone who could fill you up proper.”

you sobbed, legs shaking, whole body shuddering under the weight of his cock, the sheer intensity of being used like that, worshipped and ruined at once. “say it,” he snarled, burying himself to the hilt again, hips grinding against you like he was branding you from the inside out. “say whose pussy this is.”

“y-yours,” you gasped, voice cracking into a high, desperate wail. “yours, toji, it’s—fuck—yours, it’s always been—”

he moaned—head tipping back, eyes fluttering shut, cock twitching inside you—and then leaned forward until his face was buried in your neck, licking at your skin like a starving man, teeth scraping over your pulse.

“god damn, baby,” he breathed, hips stuttering, pace breaking down as his body gave in. “you’re squeezin’ me so tight, you’re gonna milk me—you want that? want me to come inside this tight little hole?”

“yes—yes, please—want it—”

“i know you do,” he hissed, voice pure lust, drunk and filthy. “know you want me to fill you up, breed you stupid, fuck this pussy till she knows who she belongs to.”

you were sobbing now, clawing at his shirt, drooling down your chin, mind unraveling with every thick thrust. he didn’t stop. couldn’t. hips pumping faster now, sharper, more erratic, and his mouth was on your chest, your throat, kissing tears off your face like they were his, like your pain made him harder.

“you’re perfect,” he panted, kissing your lips—sloppy, deep, desperate. “my perfect little fucktoy. so pretty, so tight, so good for me. pussy was made for this.” and in the haze of sweat and moans and overstimulation, you felt him twitch inside you, a growl rising from deep in his chest as his thrusts turned jerky, his whole body tensing—

and you knew he was about to come.

and you wanted to feel it. wanted to break with him.

you felt him get close—too close—his rhythm stuttering for just a moment, not quite breaking, not quite giving in, but it was there, coiled tight and twitching in the way his hips bucked just a little harder, how his grip on your hips turned brutal, fingers digging deep into your flesh like he was anchoring himself to something, like if he didn’t hold on, he’d fall apart.

but he didn’t let go.

he didn’t come.

you felt it in the way his whole body tensed, trembling like a held breath, jaw clenched tight against the curve of your throat, a low, ragged growl rumbling up from his chest as he stopped, buried deep, cock throbbing inside your overstretched pussy—but he held it back, kept it leashed like an animal snapping at the edge of a cage.

and it made you insane.

you whimpered—high, desperate, aching—trying to roll your hips, to chase it, to drag him over the edge with you because your walls were clenching around him like a vice, slick and messy and soaked, milking him like your body knew what it needed.

“toji—fuck—please, why’d you stop—?” you gasped, voice breaking, face twisted with the frustration of being right there on the edge with him and feeling him deny it.

he didn’t answer at first.

just breathed through his teeth, his nose pressed to your neck, his body stiff and trembling, cock twitching inside you like it was fighting him, like it was begging to give in. “’cause if i come right now,” he finally gritted, low and dark and wrecked, “i’m not gonna stop.”

your breath hitched.

he pulled back just enough to look at you—his eyes glassy, almost glazed, jaw tight, sweat beading down his temples. his mouth was open like he’d forgotten how to breathe right. he looked completely undone. ruined. like he’d been drinking your pussy down like liquor and now he couldn’t see straight.

“i’ll break you if i let go now, baby,” he whispered, voice hoarse, shaking. “i’ll fuckin’ ruin this little cunt. you feel how close i am? feel it? i’ve never had pussy like this—never—fuck, i can’t even think.”

you moaned, clenching around him again just to feel that twitch, to feel his restraint crack another inch.

“then do it,” you whispered, licking the sweat from his jaw. “ruin it. fuckin’ break me, toji, i want it—i can take it—”

his expression twisted, something feral rising behind his eyes like a wave.

“you sayin’ that now, sweetheart,” he growled, grinding slow and deep just once, making you cry out, “but you’re already twitchin’. already drippin’ down my fuckin’ balls. this tight little pussy can barely handle one load—what’re you gonna do when i keep goin’?”

“i’ll take it,” you gasped, legs tightening around his shoulders, back arching into him like an offering. “you can come when you want—just don’t stop. please. don’t fucking stop—”

he grinned then—barely, teeth bared like something dangerous—but the pride in his eyes was molten.

“fuckin’ perfect, baby,” he whispered. “you’re my perfect little toy, aren’t you? lettin’ me stretch you like this, fold you up like it’s normal—look at these legs, fuck, look at you—you were made for this.”

and then—

he moved again.

slow at first, just the roll of his hips pulling back a few inches and pushing in deep, grinding that thick cock against the spots inside you that made you cry out and grab his shoulders like a lifeline. his eyes stayed on your face, his jaw tight, his mouth parted, and the way he watched you—hungry, worshipful, starved—it made you feel more naked than his cock ever could.

“this pussy’s got me fuckin’ high,” he said, voice rough. “you hear me? fuckin’ drunk on you. i’ve never felt anything like this—like your body’s pullin’ me in, squeezin’ like she knows me.”

you moaned—pitiful and overwhelmed—as his rhythm picked up again, deeper now, harder, dragging slick, filthy sounds out of you both as your bodies collided.

“i could fuck you for hours,” he growled, one hand sliding down to your thigh, gripping tight as he adjusted your position, pulled your hips forward even more, tilting your pelvis just to angle his cock deeper. “i will. i’ll keep you like this all fuckin’ night, split open and twitchin’, until you’re beggin’ me to come just so i’ll stop.”

you tried to speak but nothing came—just another cry, another desperate whimper as your walls fluttered again, soaked and swollen and full of him.

“hold me tighter,” he said suddenly, grabbing behind your knees and pushing your legs up higher, folding you more, pressing your knees toward your chest as he braced his weight over you. “there we go. good girl. stretch just like that—fuckin’ hell, look how deep i am.”

you felt it.

felt the new angle bury him right against something devastating, something that made your entire vision white out for a second, a sob punched out of your lungs.

“toji—fuck—fuck—”

“that’s it,” he groaned, eyes blown wide, pupils shaking. “fuckin’ take it.”

and even then—

even then—

he still didn’t come.

your body was giving out—limbs numb, hands clumsy and damp where they gripped at his sweat-slick shoulders, your nails dragging useless lines down his skin every time his cock punched that devastating spot deep inside you. your thighs burned from the stretch, knees pressed nearly to your chest, ankles hooked around his broad, brutal shoulders as he fucked you like he had something to prove, something to claim, something to bury inside you so deep you'd taste it for days.

and you were taking it. every inch. every slam. every slick, loud, brutal thrust like it was your religion.

your whole body was slick—sweat and spit and tears and the sheer, filthy mess between your thighs, soaking down your ass and his jeans and the stall floor, an unholy tangle of skin and sound and sensation, and through it all, toji kept praising you, whispering filth in your ear, kissing the tears off your cheeks while he broke you in half on his cock.

but something was shifting in him now—his pace stuttered, his thrusts grew frantic, heavier, less rhythm, more desperation, his moans falling lower in his throat, broken and guttural, each one punched out of him like his body couldn’t keep it in anymore.

his head dropped, and your foreheads met—pressed together, sweat mixing, breath shared in the half-inch of air between your open mouths. his eyes were blown wide, glassy with it, lips twitching like he was trying to speak but couldn’t get past the wrecked sound of his own need.

“baby,” he rasped, voice almost too low to hear over the wet slap of his hips against yours. “baby, i’m gonna fuckin’ come.” you whined, mouth open, panting against his lips, your legs trembling where they strained around his shoulders, the muscles twitching every time he sank all the way in.

“toji—fuck—yes, please—”

his mouth was on yours for a second—messy, open, tongues tangling with no direction—before he pulled back just enough to speak, his forehead still pressed to yours. “you on anything?” he asked, breath ragged, voice wild. “you on the pill, baby—tell me now—”

you nodded, fast and desperate, choking on your own moan as his hips slammed forward again, grinding deep.

“y-yeah—fuck—yes—i’m on it, i’m on it—”

his whole body shuddered.

“fuck,” he breathed. “fuck, baby—can i come inside you? gonna come so deep—fuckin’ fill you up—wanna feel it dripping outta you when i pull out, yeah? you gonna let me do that?”

you whimpered, incoherent, grinding against him now, desperate for it, for all of it, for everything.

“yes—yes, yes, toji—inside, please—i want it—wanna feel it—need it—”

he groaned, long and low and destroyed, his whole body tensing like he was fighting it, losing, fighting again—and then giving in completely. “fuck,” he hissed. “you’re so good, baby—so fuckin’ perfect—pussy’s fuckin’ milking me—gonna come—fuck—gonna come inside this pretty fuckin’ cunt—”

and with one final, brutal thrust—

he bottomed out, hips slammed flush to yours, cock buried to the hilt, twitching deep in your heat, and then he broke, coming with a moan so raw and wounded it sounded like worship.

you felt it.

hot and thick and endless, pulse after pulse flooding your cunt, your walls fluttering around him as your body accepted it, welcomed it, every drop, your mouth open in a silent scream, your eyes rolling back as the sheer intensity of it sent you into another trembling orgasm, clenching around him so tight he groaned, pressing his forehead harder to yours.

“fuck—fuck, take it—take it all, baby—look at you—so good—mine,” he growled, voice cracking, “this pussy’s mine now—”

and you believed him.

because you were still shaking. and he was still inside you. and you could feel his come dripping out already. and neither of you could breathe.

but you didn’t want to.

not if it meant letting him go.

he didn’t move—not at first.

toji stayed buried inside you, thick and twitching, still plugged so deep it felt like your cunt was wrapped around the center of him, not just his cock. his head rested against yours, sweat-slick and trembling, breath pouring from his mouth in heavy, broken bursts. the stall felt like it was spinning. the whole world had narrowed to the sound of your breath in sync with his, your pussy fluttering around his softening cock, the hot drip of his come already leaking from where your bodies were still connected.

but your body didn’t stop.

your body wouldn’t stop.

your cunt was clenching, aching, needing, so overstimulated it had gone full circle back into something dangerous—something desperate—your nerves sparking like shorted-out wires, slick leaking down your thighs, the insistent throb of a second orgasm so close it felt like drowning under the weight of not-quite-enough.

you whimpered—your voice soft and high and shaking—and your hips gave a helpless little grind, a roll forward, just enough to make his cock shift inside you.

that made you see stars.

“f-fuck, toji—” your voice cracked, head falling back, mouth open, thighs trembling. “i need—i didn’t—i didn’t come yet—”

that broke through his haze.

his head lifted, barely. just enough to look at you, eyes still dark and dazed but sharpening like a wolf catching the scent of blood. his jaw tightened. his mouth twisted into something that should have been a smirk but was too soft to be cocky. he brought one hand up—palm cupping your face like he needed to hold you there—and pressed his lips to your temple.

“oh, baby,” he rasped, voice torn raw from groaning your name. “you didn’t?” you shook your head, breath hitching, whining as your hips tried again, another roll, another desperate friction, his cock dragging slow inside you and making your whole body spasm.

“’s okay,” you whispered, blinking tears from your lashes. “i just—need a little more—i’m so close, toji, please—”

“shhhh, fuck,” he breathed, kissing your cheek now, your jaw, moving down to your neck, lips hot and open and reverent, “you’ve been so good for me—so perfect—’m gonna get you there, baby, don’t worry—gonna take care of you.”

his hand slid between your bodies, still slick with sweat and the mess between you, until his thumb found your clit—wet and swollen, throbbing with every faint shift of his cock inside you—and he rubbed it, slow and tight, small circles, just enough pressure to make your entire body lock up.

“oh—fuck—” you cried out, hands clawing at his shoulders, clinging to him like he was the only thing anchoring you to your body. “fuck, toji, right there—right there—”

“that’s it,” he murmured, eyes locked on your face, watching you unravel with a look of pure awe. “feel that? how sensitive you are? this pretty little cunt’s so needy, so greedy, just fuckin’ suckin’ me in, beggin’ for it. you’re gonna come for me, yeah? gonna let go?”

“yes, yes—please, don’t stop—don’t stop—”

he shifted his hips again, slow, so slow, pulling back just enough to let you feel the drag of him along your walls, then pushing back in deep, thumb never leaving your clit, just the perfect amount of pressure, the perfect rhythm, your whole body wound so tight you thought your spine might snap.

“fuckin’ look at you,” he whispered, completely mesmerized. “look how beautiful you are when you’re right at the edge. tears in your eyes, pussy wrapped around me so fuckin’ tight—you were made for this, baby. made for me. you wanna come on this cock, don’t you?”

“yes—yes, toji, please, i need—”

“you wanna soak me?” he growled, hips twitching forward, thumb circling harder, your clit so sensitive now you could barely think. “wanna milk my fuckin’ cock while i’m still inside you, stuffed full’a my come? wanna squeeze every last drop out?”

“please—”

and then it hit.

your orgasm ripped through you like your whole body cracked open from the inside, a molten flood of pleasure spilling out, your legs jerking where they hung over his shoulders, your back arching so violently your vision blacked out for a second, mouth open in a silent scream. your pussy clenched hard, gripping his cock in spasms, walls fluttering around him like they were trying to hold him in forever, to wring every drop from him until your bodies fused together.

toji moaned, loud and fucked and wrecked, like your orgasm broke him—his thumb slowing just enough to let you ride the aftershocks, hips grinding forward to keep himself deep while your body milked him through it.

“that’s it,” he groaned, forehead against yours again, voice thick with pride and filth and something heavier. “fuck, you’re perfect. felt you come, baby—fuckin’ felt it—squeezin’ me so tight like your body knows who it belongs to.”

you were crying again—happy tears this time, oversensitive and overstimulated and shaking, unable to speak, unable to do anything but hold onto him while your body spasmed around him, dripping, soaked, ruined.

“you did so good,” he whispered, kissing your lips now, slow and soft, sweet and filthy. “so fuckin’ good for me. made me feel like a goddamn god.”

you laughed, weak and trembling, smiling against his mouth.

and he was still hard. still inside. still not done.

and neither were you.

your legs were still draped over his shoulders, limp now, twitching occasionally, every muscle in your body melted and buzzing with aftershock, like you’d been electrocuted and reborn inside the same wet, filthy breath. your arms were around his neck, weak and slow and unsure whether they were clinging or collapsing, and your forehead was pressed to his again—both of you panting, sweat-slick, your noses brushing with every unsteady inhale.

your eyes were shut.

your mouth was open.

and everything felt too full—too much—and yet, not nearly enough.

his cock was still inside you, thick and insistent, twitching softly, lazily, nestled as deep as it could go like it had roots, like it had decided to live there, and the slow, endless drip of his cum was already leaking out around him, sliding in warm, lazy trails down the crack of your ass, onto the fucked-sticky seat beneath you, pooling into a ruin only the two of you would remember.

and toji—toji was gone.

his hands were on your hips, not moving, just holding, and his eyes were half-lidded, glassy, dazed, wrecked. mouth slack. chest heaving. his tongue wet his bottom lip once, slow and aimless, like he didn’t even realize he was doing it, and he just stared at you like he’d been hit by a truck and liked the way it felt. no smugness now. no smirk. no edge.

he looked like a man who had just gotten possessed by pussy.

and he was struggling to recover.

“…fuck,” he finally whispered, so hoarse it was almost soundless.

you didn’t move. couldn’t.

your lashes fluttered a little but didn’t open, your mouth hanging open like you were still moaning in your head, like your brain hadn’t caught up to the fact that the orgasm was over.

but his voice pulled something from you.

“you alive?” you whispered, barely, lips brushing his.

he laughed—barely—just a quiet, hot breath through his nose.

“barely.”

you smiled, slow and heavy, head tilting to lean into the side of his face, nuzzling your nose against the damp edge of his jaw. his stubble scraped lightly across your skin, grounding you in the afterglow haze, and it made you whimper—small, involuntary—because you were still too sensitive, and his cock was still so fucking deep, and it felt like it was just there now. permanent.

“toji,” you whispered, and you felt his fingers flex on your hips at the sound of his name.

“mm?”

you finally opened your eyes, half-lidded and glossy, barely able to focus, and looked at him—really looked—and your cunt clenched again because his face was wrecked.

his hair was soaked and sticking to his forehead. sweat dripping down his temples. mouth swollen. pupils blown. cheeks flushed. and the look in his eyes—dazed, unfocused, stunned—wasn’t cocky or in control or smug like before.

he looked fucked. like he’d just gotten his soul pulled out through his dick.

you grinned.

“you okay, old man?” you whispered.

toji let out a low groan and dropped his head to your shoulder, body shaking faintly with exhausted laughter. “fuck off,” he muttered, voice thick and raspy. “you don’t get to clown me right now. not when your pussy’s got me seein’ colors.”

“you look like you just saw god,” you said, teasing, brushing your fingers through the damp hair at his nape.

he grunted against your neck. “that was god.”

he pulled back just slightly, eyes fluttering open again, still dazed but soft now, heavy-lidded and so fucking gone on the feeling of you wrapped around him.

“you don’t even get it, do you?” he muttered, eyes locked on your face like he couldn’t stop looking. “pussy this good should be illegal. should come with a fuckin’ warning label. i’m not even sure i’ll pull out if you ask me to.”

you giggled, warm and slow, breath fogging up his skin.

“good thing i’m on the pill.”

“’cause i’d knock you up just to keep this forever,” he said, and it was so low, so dead serious that it made your breath catch.

you blinked, lips parting, not quite able to speak, and he smirked again—but it was soft. less predator, more man being humbled by what he just lived through.

“look at you,” he murmured. “legs still up. pussy still suckin’ me in like she misses me even though i never left. you were made for this cock, weren’t you?”

you nodded, slow and lazy, lips brushing his again.

“mmhmm,” you hummed, smiling. “knew it the second i saw you.”

toji groaned again, a fucked-out, helpless sound, and leaned into your forehead again.

“i’m not done,” he whispered, almost like a confession.

“good,” you whispered back, pulling him down by the shirt. “don’t stop.”

and neither of you moved yet.

just stayed there.

cock still buried.

hearts hammering.

pussy still clenching.

breath shared.

and toji—still absolutely, totally, unapologetically pussy drunk.

he was the one who moved first—finally—because your legs were still draped over his shoulders, bent and trembling and sore, your knees threatening mutiny with every second they stayed folded in that brutal, gorgeous stretch. you weren’t sure if the muscles were cramping or still orgasming. both, maybe. but toji moved slow, reverent almost, hands sliding down your thighs like he wasn’t ready to let them go, like he wanted to memorize them before he let them fall.

“’m puttin’ your legs down,” he murmured, voice thick and gravel-dragged from groaning, still drunk with it, still halfway buried in that distant fucked-out haze that lived behind his eyes now. “you did so good for me. fuckin’ took it like a champ.”

you whimpered when your legs were finally lowered, a dull ache blooming in your hips, your thighs still twitching, your calves sticky and limp against his sides. you were panting again. dizzy. your cunt throbbed around him when the angle changed, his cock shifting just slightly inside you and hitting something new, some bruised-up spot that sent a fresh wave of aftershock through your spine.

toji groaned softly, and his hand immediately came to your waist, like his body was instinctively trying to soothe you. “easy, baby,” he whispered, palm sliding up and down your side. “fuck—I’ll make it up to you. swear it.”

you blinked, dazed. “…make what up?”

he snorted, pulling back just enough to brush his forehead against yours again, still so close you could feel every word against your mouth.

“comin’ first,” he said. “you deserved another round before I fucking lost it. that pussy’s too good—I got greedy. ‘m not usually like that.” you smiled, breathless, your fingers brushing the sweat-soaked collar of his shirt. “what are you gonna do, hmm? kiss it better?”

toji’s mouth curled at the edge, that cocky little smirk returning but softened now—sweetened, in the worst, most unfair way. “yeah,” he said. “kiss it. lick it. spread you open and make you come with my fuckin’ tongue till you forget what year it is.”

you made a choked little sound, halfway between a laugh and a sob, your brain too fogged up to handle that promise.

but he kept talking—of course he did. because he was still in it, still gone, still wrecked and clinging to the only thing in the world that made sense to him now: you. “nine years,” he murmured, voice lower now, less teasing. Real. “nine years with no pussy. not even a drunk one-night stand. not even fuckin’ myself half the time.”

you blinked, still catching your breath.

“jesus,” you whispered.

he nodded once, breathing hard. “but the first one I get… after all that time… is you.” he paused. looked at you. really looked. “and if I could do it all over again—go nine years with nothin’—just to feel this pussy for the first time again?”

he kissed you.

not deep. not greedy.

just a soft press of spit-slick, swollen lips to your mouth.

“i’d fucking do it.”

you stared at him, wide-eyed.

and then snorted.

because your brain couldn’t decide whether to be flattered or feral.

“you are so pussy drunk right now,�� you said, laughing into his mouth. “like… you’ve got the symptoms. glazed-over stare, can’t finish a sentence without saying ‘this pussy’ like it’s a holy relic—”

“shut up,” he grinned, nose brushing yours.

“you’re gonna start writing poetry,” you said. “i can see it. ‘ode to my girl’s pussy, it cured my chronic pain and made me believe in god again—’”

he growled low in his throat, a filthy little sound that vibrated through your chest as he shifted inside you, cock still thick and hard and present, buried to the base and making you feel every twitch of his frustration.

“keep talkin’ like that and I’m gonna fuckin’ prove it,” he said. “gonna eat you out till you apologize to your pussy for disrespecting her in front of me.” you gasped, breath catching, clenching around him in instinctive anticipation.

he felt it. and smirked.

“there she is,” he murmured, rolling his hips slowly, pressing his forehead to yours again, eyes fluttering shut like he was worshipping the moment. “sweet, tight little thing. even after I filled her up, she’s still clingin’ to me like she wants more.”

you moaned, body arching weakly, still so oversensitive, and yet—

“maybe she does.”

toji’s eyes opened again, and they were darker now, brighter, something burning deep inside them that hadn’t gone out yet.

“you better not be teasing me,” he said softly.

you bit your lip. hard.

and whispered, “then make me sorry.”

and he smiled. slow. wide. unhinged.

“you’re about to be.”

the air inside the stall was dense, humid, too heavy with sex and sweat and that lazy, humming afterglow that only came when both your bodies had been used—worshipped and wrecked in equal measure. your pulse was still erratic, your breath catching on every inhale like your lungs hadn’t figured out how to restart. toji hadn’t moved much since the last thrust, still deep inside you, cock thick and heavy and leaking, his weight pressing you gently into the wall like he didn’t want to let you go just yet. the scent of him was everywhere—on your neck, in your mouth, between your legs—and you could still taste the sound of his voice in your ears, rasping mine like it was something he meant to tattoo into your bones.

eventually, though, he shifted—reluctantly—lifting his forehead from yours, eyes flicking down your body with a reverence that was almost comical given the mess between your legs. he sighed, deep and low, like a man about to walk away from his favorite crime scene.

“alright,” he muttered, finally easing his hands to your hips and taking a single step back, gently slipping out of you with a lewd, wet sound that made both of you twitch. “moment of truth. you still got legs?”

you blinked at him, dazed, and then wobbled as your feet touched the floor, knees buckling under you like a baby deer just born into a post-orgasm world.

you stumbled directly into his chest with a soft little squeak, your palms catching the damp heat of his skin through his shirt, breathless and already flushed again. toji laughed—really laughed this time, head tipping back, teeth showing, full and rich and dangerous in the way only a man freshly pussy-drunk could be.

“fuckin’ hell,” he chuckled, wrapping an arm around your waist to keep you upright, “you nearly took us both out, sweetheart.” you buried your face in his shirt for a second, too embarrassed and too exhausted to do anything but exist. “it’s your fault,” you muttered into the fabric. “you fucked the sense outta me.”

he kissed the side of your head, then leaned you back just slightly and pressed your back to the grimy stall door, holding you there with a hand on your waist while he reached for himself, guiding his cock back into his boxers with a practiced roll of his wrist and a satisfied grunt.

“can’t lie,” he said while zipping up, “she didn’t wanna let me go. took a fuckin’ minute just to get out.”

you gave him a look, somewhere between exhausted and scolding, but the twitch in your lip betrayed the way your thighs clenched again at his voice. he just smirked and hooked his belt back into place, slow and casual like he hadn’t just been balls-deep in you a minute ago.

then he crouched down to grab your shirt from the floor—rumpled, half-dried with sweat, glitter, and maybe a little bit of toji’s spit—and shook it out once before straightening up again, holding it like a gentleman with a gift.

“c’mon, arms up,” he murmured, voice suddenly softer again.

you obeyed without thinking, letting him help you dress like your brain had short-circuited, like you’d handed him the keys to your limbs and were trusting him not to drive you off a cliff. he slid the shirt over your head with practiced ease, tugged it gently down your arms, and just when you thought he was done—when his hands slid past your ribs and down your sides like he was adjusting it—

he bent down and sucked your nipple into his mouth.

you gasped, stumbling back against the door, breath catching in your throat as the sudden wet heat of his tongue flicked over the piercing again, lips wrapping around the cool metal and tugging just slightly.

“toji—”

he groaned low in his chest, then released it with a wet pop, lips brushing over the sensitive skin of your breast before finally tugging your shirt down into place with both hands.

“couldn’t help it,” he said, eyes wicked but half-lidded, dragging over you like a man who already wanted to go back in. “they’re too pretty not to taste again.” you didn’t respond—couldn’t. your brain had short-circuited again, reduced to white noise and heartbeat.

he fixed your hair next. carefully, absurdly gently, fingers brushing back stray strands from your face, pushing it behind your ears like he hadn’t just had you folded in half thirty seconds ago. then he loomed over you, big and warm and grinning like the devil who knew you’d come if he asked again.

“you wanna come back to my place?” he asked, voice low and smooth now. “give your legs a real break. i’ll apologize to your pussy proper for comin’ first. i got a mouth and a lot of guilt.” you let out a weak laugh—giddy and limp and already leaning forward like you might melt if he kissed you again.

“what, you’re feeling guilty now?”

“i’m tryin’ to be a gentleman,” he said, mock-serious. “not every day i meet someone who makes me forget my name and the year.” you raised an eyebrow. “that’s the bar?” he leaned in close again, mouth hovering just beside your ear, breath warm and so fucking good. “no, sweetheart,” he murmured, voice like a knife made of velvet. “you’re the bar now.”

you shivered.

he pulled back just enough to smile again, then glanced toward the door.

“you wanna text your friends? let ‘em know you’re leavin’ with a total stranger?”

“they’ve got my bag,” you said, still dazed, still trying to remember what reality felt like. “they’ll figure it out.”

he stared at you for a second.

then grinned.

“god damn,” he muttered. “you’re perfect.”

and then—toji fushiguro, pussy-drunk, sweat-drenched, still twitching in his jeans with the memory of your cunt—opened the stall door, it creaked open like it, too, had been through something shameful and held it for you, like a man escorting a queen out of her ruined cathedral. the hallway air hit you—cooler, thinner, laced with basslines and spilled drinks and someone screaming off-key to early 2000s pop—and you stepped into it like a newborn deer in heels, thighs slick, hair a little fucked, your shirt tugged low over your hips to hide the fact that your panties were somewhere between ruined and irrelevant.

toji stood beside you, towering and casual, like he hadn’t just rearranged your insides and kissed your nipple before helping you get dressed. his belt was buckled, his shirt clinging damply to his chest, collar pulled slightly off-center from your earlier tugging. his neck was flushed, jaw stubbled, and there were still fresh bite marks trailing along the line of his throat—yours. ownership drawn in tooth and heat.

your heart jumped sideways in your chest. your knees tried to wobble again.

and he felt it.

“there she goes,” he teased, his mouth brushing your temple now, his voice still dipped in that slow-dripping, pussy-drunk molasses tone that made your stomach twist in the most incredible way. “thought I fucked the wobble outta your legs already. guess I gotta go harder next time.”

“if you go harder, I’ll die,” you replied, still grinning, voice raw but teasing, biting down the ridiculous urge to giggle like a schoolgirl on prom night.

toji pulled you closer. you barely reached the height of his shoulder like this, his arm heavy and protective and possessive across your back, his hand idly tracing lazy circles on your side as you walked with him—slow, casual, like he wasn’t still inside you in spirit.

“what a way to go,” he murmured. “split open, stuffed full’a cum, legs over my shoulders while you cry on my cock. shit, if there’s a better death I don’t know it.”

you snorted. “you’re awful.”

“and you’re gorgeous,” he shot back, leaning down to kiss just behind your ear, sending another aftershock rolling through your already wrecked nerves. “tightest pussy I ever felt, baby. no contest. softest moans, sweetest little body—like you were built to break.”

your cheeks burned. your cunt clenched. again.

“you’re obsessed,” you whispered, playful and shaky, tipping your head back to look up at him. “pussy-drunk old man.”

he grinned at that—wide and unrepentant, all teeth and mischief and post-fuck swagger. “damn right. I’ve been starving for nine fuckin’ years and someone just fed me filet mignon soaked in honey. you think I’m gonna be normal after this?”

you laughed, biting your lip, feeling the slow drag of slick between your thighs every time you moved.

he was still talking.

still praising you.

like your pussy had rewired his brain.

“you don’t get it,” he murmured, pressing his mouth to your temple again. “you ruined me. no way I’m goin’ back to jerkin’ off like some lonely divorced fuck with ESPN in the background. I’m gonna be thinkin’ about you next time I close my eyes. about the way you opened up for me. about how you looked when you cried on my cock.”

you whimpered.

out loud.

right there in the hallway.

and toji just chuckled, kissed the corner of your mouth, then pulled you tighter under his arm like he wanted to wear you. “c’mon,” he whispered against your cheek, “let’s get the fuck outta here before I get hard again and we wind up in the janitor’s closet.”

you glanced sideways at him, lips curled up in that smug, fucked-out smirk you couldn’t seem to wipe off your face, and said softly, under your breath—

“may your soul rest in peace.”

he didn’t miss a beat.

“amen,” he muttered with a low snort, before slipping his thick, warm arm around your back, hand resting just above the curve of your ass like he belonged there, like he wanted everyone in this hallway to know that he’d just had you up against a stall door with your legs on his shoulders, crying out his name.

then, like the audacious bastard he was, he leaned in and kissed your cheek. not quick. not pecked. pressed—lingering, hot, lips slightly open, the kind of kiss that said this isn’t over, that said you’re mine now, that said you’re not getting out of my bed without a limp and at least two orgasms on your record.

you didn’t argue after.

you followed.

and you never looked back.

#jjk x reader #toji x reader #toji smut #jujutsu kaisen imagine #jjk smut #jjk x reader smut #fushiguro toji x reader #toji fushiguro smut #toji x y/n #toji x you #toji x reader smut #jjk fic #toji fushiguro #toji x you smut

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daddyjackfrost · 26 days ago

Text

Wanna Be Yours ; B. Barnes

Secrets I have held in my heart are harder to hide than I thought

Pairing: Avengers!Bucky x Avengers!F!Reader

Synopsis: Bucky’s been in love with you for longer than he’ll admit. But when a moment of clarity after a misunderstanding on his part cracks the tension between you wide open, he finally gets to show you just how much.

Warnings: Fluff, minor angst, minor hurt/comfort, bucky yearns like a mf, brief misunderstandings, insecurities, friends to lovers, ft. the avengers & friends, sam being sam, minor jealousy, pining, SMUT, minor romanogers (not sorry), cursing, Bucky’s sort of shy and awkward (at first), praise kink, dirty talk, unprotected sex, MDNI, pussy pronouns, mutual obsession, kissing, switch energy, soft!dom bucky, begging, gentle possessiveness, religious imagery, oral (f and m rec), riding / WC: 7.7k

A/N: Thank you so much for this request! This was meant to be short…a drabble…but then I started to listen to Hozier and well…yeah. Title inspired by I wanna Be Yours by Arctic Monkeys. Reblogs & Comments appreciated!

Bucky doesn’t think he’s ever met someone like you.

He’s told himself it’s because you’re kind. Because you don’t flinch when he walks into a room, because you laugh at all his dry one-liners, because you bring him coffee without asking and leave notes that say “don’t forget to eat after training” like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

But, the truth is, he likes the way you exist. The way you fill space with warmth without trying. The way you somehow make him feel like he’s part of this new world, that he can exist here too.

With you.

He doesn’t know when it started—not exactly.

There wasn’t a single moment where the light shifted or the heavens parted. No slow-motion entrance, no dramatic realization.

But somewhere between your half-sleepy smiles over morning coffee and the way you laugh at his dry sarcasm like it’s the best thing you've heard all day—he fell.

Hard.

Somewhere between the early morning training sessions and the late night chamomile tea, his heart grew, both in size and fonder, and it became an innate feeling—the love—the want. It became embedded into his bones, in his DNA. Like it was the most natural thing in the world.

And maybe it was always going to happen. Maybe it was inevitable. Because you’re the only one who never looked at him like a ghost of something broken, like he still had to search far and wide for the man he became. You don’t flinch when his fingers twitch or treat him like a ticking time bomb, or a relic, or worse—an object of pity.

You treat him like he’s just…Bucky. Someone who deserves kindness, a friend.

You bring his favourite kind of bagels without asking. You mock his grumpy scowls and tease him into smiling. You sit with him in silence and don’t try to fix the quiet. You seem to enjoy it with him—understand.

You once fell asleep with your head on his shoulder during a movie night, and he thought he might die from how carefully he held his breath, afraid of waking you.

He wants you—so badly it aches.

But he’s never said anything, never dared. Not when being your friend already feels like more than he deserves.

He gets to see you every day and that should be enough—it never is.

Tony announces it during a briefing: an Avengers Gala. Hosted at the Tower. Black tie. Heroes and allies from across the globe. Sponsored by Stark Industries and curated, of course, by Pepper.

Bucky half listens, frowning, until you perk up beside him.

“Oh, fancy,” you murmur, nuding him with your elbow, capturing his attention, though it had always been yours. “You gonna wear a tux, Barnes?”

He smirks faintly, something easy and familiar and yours. “Only if it comes with a hidden holster.”

You snort, hiding part of your face when Pepper’s eyes meet yours. “As if you need a hidden holster to hide a gun. Don’t you have three somewhere on you right now?”

Bucky shrugs, lips lifting into something brighter, simply because you’re right. “Guilty.”

You roll your eyes and blink innocently at Pepper, pretending that your attention isn’t on the man beside you. Bucky’s eyes soften into something stupid and he leans further back in the chair, pressing his arm against yours.

You giggle and lean in close to whisper something snarky about Tony’s need for dramatics, and he feels your breath against his neck—he swallows hard.

You turn back to the front, eyes falling on the screen, none the wiser.

Bucky spends the rest of the meeting barely hearing a thing.

Later that night, after you bid him goodnight, he lingers by the window of the communal lounge, half-lost in thought as city lights blur beyond the glass.

Steve finds him like that—arms folded, jaw tense, quiet in the way only Steve knows means he’s thinking about you—something beautiful yet horrid about himself.

“You should ask her,” Steve says softly.

Bucky exhales, having heard Steve’s light footsteps and seeing his reflection. “It’s not that simple.”

Steve shrugs, stepping up beside him. “Sure it is. You like her. She likes you.”

Bucky exhales louder. “She doesn’t—”

“She does,” Steve interrupts, nuding Bucky with his shoulder. “Trust me.”

Bucky huffs a tired laugh. He would trust Steve with his life—with more, but not with this. Not when his blonde friend couldn’t see Natasha’s feelings for him. “And what? Ruin this? She’s the best thing in my life. If she says no—”

“She won’t.” Steve gives him a look, one Bucky thinks he wore many, many years ago, back when he would Steve in alleys. “You think she touches everyone like that? Laughs like that?”

Steve crosses his arms, raises an eyebrow. “Do you honestly think she looks at anyone else the way she looks at you?”

Bucky doesn’t answer, just shoves Steve back with his shoulder lightly. Part of him wants to believe it, like there’s a world where you like him—love him, the way he loves you. Wants to care for him the way he wants to care for you.

But, the other part of him, the one that often wins, is scared—scared he’ll ruin everything, that he might see the flicker of pity in your eyes. The last thing Bucky wants is for you to think that his feelings for you, his honest adoration for you comes from anything except his care, his heart.

He loves you, but you were his friend first. He’ll always be your friend, even if he aches for more.

Steve lays a hand on his shoulder, something warm and solid. “Even if I’m wrong, I don’t think you have anything to worry about, Buck. A few weeks, and it’ll be past you.”

Bucky hums like he agrees, but he’s not sure. He doesn’t want to put you in an uncomfortable position, or feel like you aren’t safe with him. Because he cares—so much. He’d rather live in silence and the brief touches then make you feel like your friendship isn’t enough for him.

Because, God, it is. It’s everything to him, a root in his heart that’s grown into branches and leaves.

Still, that night, he lies awake for hours, hand resting over his chest, heart thudding too loudly.

I’ll ask her tomorrow, he thinks. I will.

He almost does.

He finds you in the lounge the next evening, curled up with a book and a half-drunk coffee. You’re wearing one of those soft hoodies that always make you look impossibly cozy, socked feet tucked beneath you.

He steels himself, breathes in deeply—thinks back to the lines he said over and over to himself in his bedroom.

Then he hears it.

“I don’t even have a date for this thing,” you’re saying to Sam, voice light and faintly exasperated. There’s something there, something familiar, something he hears in his own voice sometimes when he talks about you but he can’t register it, can’t pinpoint it.

You shut your book with a dramatic sigh. “Honestly? I’m kinda glad. No one to impress, no pressure.”

Sam snorts and swats your feet away, pretending to shuffle back when you inch your toes closer to him. “I’ll take you.”

You raise a brow, legs stretched weirdly. “You?”

Sam grins, lets out a quiet laugh. “No need to look so surprised.” He shrugs, “Come on. Low expectations. No romance. Plus, I look good in a suit.”

You tilt your head, hum thoughtfully. Sam spreads his arm, putting himself on display. “Deal. You’re my date.”

You clink mugs, laughing.

Bucky stops in his tracks, his stomach twists and he can’t breathe.

He doesn’t hear the teasing edge, he hasn’t been good at noticing these things. He doesn’t see the subtle glance Sam casts toward the hallway, like he knows Bucky’s there. Doesn’t realize this is Sam’s own way of pushing him.

No—he just hears the words. You’re my date.

And something in him goes quiet.

It’s quick, the way everything inside him shuts down and he almost sags against the wall. Like the wind has been knocked out of him. He’s breathing hard—but at least he’s breathing. He shuffles back, quietly, hiding in the shadows.

He’s fine—he would have been fine if you had said no to him, if you had told him that someone else had asked—but Sam?

Momentarily, very briefly, something akin to anger—jealousy—flickers in his chest, loud and bright and instantly, it's put out, dies quickly until the ashes spread across his chest. He hears you laugh, soft, carefree, and his heart settles.

He’d do anything for you, for that laugh.

Bucky swallows the lump in his throat, the jealousy he’d never admit to and the question on his lips and turns, walks down the hall and tosses the single rose into the trash.

He gets you flowers often, whatever he passes by on his runs that he thinks you would like, might brighten your floor, but he’s never gotten you roses.

It was a line he drew for himself.

He glances at the folded rose and sighs.

The line gets thicker.

The gala is a blur of silk and glass and lights that glitter like champagne bubbles.

Every year, Bucky swears that Pepper has outdone herself. And every year, she proves that she’ll always have more up her sleeve.

Bucky wears a classic black tux. His hairs slicked back, neat, and beard trimmed. He looks sharp, clean, polished. But inside, he feels like he’s unraveling.

Because you walk in and you look—

“Jesus,” he breathes, barely audible.

You’re radiant, glowing and beautiful—perfect. Your dress, a deep purple, hugs you in all the right places, glittering like stardust with every step. He tries to think back to you mentioning the dress at all, but all he can remember is the way you winked at him.

Your smile could bring a man to his knees.

He knows, because he’s halfway there, legs weak. And all he can think is, I was going to ask her.

I could have had this.

He looks away, blinks a few times to remind himself of his place. If he’s caught gawking at you—well, he knows what would happen.

He keeps to the shadows most of the night, nursing a glass of whiskey, tucked into the quiet corners. He mingles briefly, making sure to be polite, to be seen. Tony put a lot of effort into this, made sure that it curated to all of them, the least he could do was make his appreciation shown.

But you? You’re a firecracker on the floor, bright and loud and so fucking radiant. Laughing, twirling, dancing with Clint, with Nat, with whoever grabs your hand. You’re drinking and smiling—magnetic.

But your eyes—they’re fleeting, looking for something, someone.

Bucky can’t look away.

Until you find him.

You corner him outside on the balcony, where the air is cool and quieter and he can breathe.

“There you are,” you say, hand on your hip. “Avoiding me?”

Bucky’s throat goes dry. He’s leaning on the railing and tilts his head towards you, resisting the urge to turn completely. “No. Just needed some air.”

He can’t look at you—not your eyes or your dress or your smile. It’s blinding, too much. He just needs one day—one day and he’ll be fine, one day and his heart will settle, make peace with you and Sam.

You take a step closer, head tilting in that curious way that always makes his heart soften.

His eyes flick up. There it is—that sharp breath he always seems to take when he sees you.

You smile at him softly, lay your hands on the railing next to his. “Dance with me.”

He blinks. Then, slowly, pushes himself off the railing, turns his whole body to face you properly. The muscles in his face smooth out and his shoulders drop, relaxed.

“I should be the one asking you that,” he murmurs, so softly, delicate.

Your grin tugs wider. “So ask me, then.”

He swallows, eyes flickering between yours before he offers his hand. “May I have this dance?”

You take it.

The music is warm, old jazz bleeding through the speakers as bucky pulls you onto the floor. His hand is strong at your back, the other gentle at your waist. He moves like he was born to this—measured, smooth, leading you without hesitation.

You’re laughing, a bright smile on your lips as your eyes shine. You spin, twirl, your head tilts back as he draws you close.

“You’re good at this,” you breathe.

Bucky leans in, lips near your temple. “Used to be the only way to get a girl to notice me.”

You turn into him, mouth brushing his ear. “Now I know you’re lying. Steve told me you were quite the heartthrob.”

Bucky laughs, low and deep. Your eyes flutter shut and you hold onto him tighter. He’s so warm, so solid under your hands. Your eyes meet his and you notice that the smile on his lips—while small—is the most genuine one you’ve seen on him tonight.

“Not anymore,” Bucky says, quietly, his body guiding yours.

“Debatable,” you answer, giving him an exaggerated glance over. “You clean up nice, Buck.”

He tilts his head towards you, almost bashful. You breathe out a quiet laugh, soft, but it awakens something in him and he lifts his eyes to meet yours.

Blue—electric, so deep and filled with so many unspoken things.

“You look beautiful,” he tells you, earnest and soft.

People have been complimenting you all night, but you only really cared about one—his. His words settle something in your chest and you smile, gloss shining under the glittering lights.

“Thank you, Bucky.”

He swallows, steps in line with you. His eyes glance around the room once and he frowns.

“Where’s your date?”

You raise an eyebrow and scrunch up your nose in thought. “Date? What Date—Oh. You mean Sam?”

Bucky’s jaw tightens and he nods, looks away when your eyes search his. You find what you’re looking for and duck your head to hide your smile, biting your bottom lip.

You lift your head and meet his stormy eyes, a gentle smile on your lips. “He wasn’t really my date. We just came together. He immediately disappeared.”

You look away, search the crowd until your eyes land on Sam’s familiar figure and the beautiful woman he’s flirting with. You laugh quietly, shake your head at his antics.

Bucky’s staring at you like you’ve just stabbed him in the back.

You both sway in time, the world shrinking until it’s only the two of you.

You lean in, pressing close. “I wish you’d asked me to the gala.”

Your words were nothing more than a whisper, quiet, melting into the music and noise, but they were honest. As soon as Tony had introduced the idea, your heart had been set on going with Bucky. He looked at you once during the debrief—like he was trying to imprint you into memory—it gave you hope, something light and soft igniting in your chest.

But then hours passed, a day. It was approaching fast and you had slowly made peace with the idea that he wasn’t going to ask, that he didn’t see you the way you saw him—whole, permanent—a part of your DNA.

So, when Sam asked, you said yes. Simply to have someone there, an arm to hold.

But you had looked for Bucky all night, saved the best dance for him.

It didn’t stop the want, though—it burned behind your fingertips, deep behind your eyes. So you let it slip, the quiet admission. “I was hoping you would.”

His heart stops and he tenses—eyes wide.

Before he can respond, someone whisks you away—Steve, grinning as he twirls you into the next number.

Bucky stands there, stunned. He knows how he looks—gaping, eyes wide, heart stuttering wildly. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Peter look over, concerned. He waves away the concern and walks off the dance floor, finds a seat he knows is taken, and readjusts his tie.

Everything inside him feels tight, like his own fist is closing around his organs. Your words ring in his ears and he has half a mind to pour some water in his ear, just to drown out your voice.

He watches as you dance with Steve, bright smile on both your faces. A drink appears in front of his face and he grabs it, mutters a quick thanks and tips it back, enjoying the burn, if just to get his mind off what he could have had if he had just not been a coward.

Sam finds him a few moments later, sipping something sweet with a mint leaf. He takes the seat next to him, leans back.

“You looked good out there,” he says, nodding toward the dance floor.

Bucky glances down at his empty glass before he places it on the table. “Why’d you ask her?”

Sam shrugs, his smirk softening. “Figured if I make you jealous enough, you’d finally make a move.”

Bucky tips his head back and squeezes his eyes shut. Of course, he thinks. It was such a Sam idea, so childish and filmy. Suddenly, Peter’s look makes more sense. He huffs, throws him an annoyed look.

“I was going to. I had it all planned out. Then, well…”

Sam slowly nods, smile twisting into understanding.

“She said yes to me.”

“Yeah.” Bucky doesn’t mean to sound so defeated, he just can’t help it. In the grand scheme of things, it’s not even a big deal. He knows—now—that Sam has no romantic interest in you and you didn’t seem to have any for him.

But, like most things of the heart often do, it felt like the end of the world. Like his life would have been so much better if he had walked in with you, his arm supporting you—his cologne surrounding you.

“Why didn’t you ask her sooner, Buck?” Sam’s voice is quiet as he leans in a bit, wanting to hear the answer over the music.

Bucky almost rolls his eyes but catches himself at the last second. Instead, he twists his fingers together. “We only found out about the gala the day before and it took me hours to build up the nerve.”

Bucky swallows and Sam tries to hide his amusement. He loves seeing ex-assassin Bucky Barnes being bashful, almost shy.

“I like her,” Bucky admits, quietly, like it wasn’t written on his heart and on his fucking sleeve. “So much. I didn’t wanna rush and ruin everything.”

Sam goes quiet, smiling softly. “Is that why I saw a rose in the trash?”

Normally, Bucky would have made some stupid comment about Sam going through the trash, but all he could do was sigh, pinch the bridge of his nose.

Sam’s eyes flick up, behind Bucky, and his smile widens into a grin, eyes bright with something akin to pride and amusement.

“Well, seems like you have a lot going on,” Sam offers, quickly. He pushes himself up, grabs two glasses of champagne from a passing waiter and hands them to Bucky. Bucky stares up at him, half confused and half annoyed—a look Sam is quite familiar with.

“Hi, Y/n.” Sam wiggles his fingers at you and briskly walks away, gets lost in the crowd, leaving Bucky with his spine straight.

Before Bucky can turn around, or book it across the dance floor, you walk from behind him to Sam’s chair and take a seat. Bucky’s staring at you like a deer caught in headlights, eyes wide. A mixture of warmth and love, soft and heavy, fills your body and your lips curl into something secretive.

You gently take the glass from his hands and stare at him, admiring. You let the silence settle between you both, build into something welcoming before you lightly clink your glasses together.

While you bring it to your lips, Bucky simply sets it beside him, staring at you like you might disappear any second and he rather just take you in.

Eyes on him, you place the glass next to his, heart warm and butterflies in your stomach as you slowly stand. Everything inside you almost melts when he instinctively leans closer, hand hovering in case you need him.

You step forward, lean in close, your breath brushing Bucky’s ear. “Can I have one last dance?”

He doesn’t even think, just nods. He stands up slowly, lets you lead him back onto the floor.

This time, the music is slow, intimate. No twirls, just you, in his arms, your cheek against his chest. The hand on his shoulder now rests at his neck and his fingers curl around your waist, his thumb brushing skin.

He feels your lips near his ear, almost collapsing from the sensation alone.

“Do you like me, Bucky?”

Bucky’s throat bobs and his fingers curl into your skin tighter, almost like he could will the answer out of his body. Over your shoulder, Steve and Sam both gave him a thumb’s up before turning.

Bucky clears his throat and pulls you closer. Your eyes lift to meet his and he slowly nods.

“Yes,” he tells you, quietly. “I do.”

It wasn’t just like—it was love. He knew it was. He hadn’t felt it before but he knew it, like a stranger you saw often enough to recognize. But he didn’t want to scare you, push you away.

Bucky was familiar with your smiles, the way you brighten when you’re happy, but it was nothing compared to now—nothing compares to the way you were glowing as he sways you, the way your eyes shine and your smile—oh, your smile, it was so soft and so loving.

“Me too,” you tell him, just as quiet. “So much.”

His heart slams and a shiver runs up his spine. He blinks at you slowly, lips parting. You lean back, eyes shining, wanting to take this moment in its entirety.

Inside, everything is warm and burning. The way he holds you, like you’re something precious has your mind reeling and all you want is to hold him, for him to touch you and smile at you the way you ache for.

Then—he smiles at you.

It’s beautiful. Heart-breaking.

Utterly devastating as it lights up his face, smooths out all the crevices and worries in his face.

He pulls you flush against him and you giggle, something soft and airy but it lights Bucky up in a way you’ve never seen before. Your fingers brush the hair at his nape, nails scratching his skin.

You lean forward, press your lips to the edge of his jaw. His eyes flutter shut and a deep rumble escapes him. The fire in your belly burns brighter and the need inside you cracks alive and all you see is him.

“Take me home.”

You barely recognize your own voice. The want—something you keep hidden, locked away for months or years—you hardly remember—has been pulled to the surface.

Bucky stares, breathless. He doesn’t even know if the music is still playing because all he can see and hear is you. Everything else fades to the back and his neck is warm but he’s so happy—confused, but all warm inside.

Your smile turns slightly wicked, the slight alcohol and confidence burns through your veins.

“You gonna make me beg, Buck?”

Oh, he’s in for it.

His voice is low, a rasp, barely hanging on. “Ask nicely.”

You laugh, bright and beautiful.

The Bucky you know, quiet, warm, confident, is staring back at you with a small smile, heat and want and love dancing in his eyes.

“Please, Bucky,” you whisper, teasing. “Take me home.”

He takes your hand and leads you out, without looking back.

The elevator doors close with a soft chime.

The silence settles—electric.

You’re still holding his hand—the metal one, cool and solid, familiar.

Bucky stands opposite you—broad, strong, flushed from dancing. His chest rises and falls like he’s just run ten blocks, suit tight across his shoulders. You lean back against the mirrored wall, flushed, breathless, heart still pounding from that last dance.

Your eyes lift to meet his.

He’s on you in a second, hands gripping your waist, mouth slanting over yours with desperate, open-mouthed hunger. It’s not gentle, or soft. It’s heat and need and years of unspoken want bursting at the seams.

He kisses like a man who’s been starving for you, like he’s trying to memorize your mouth with his tongue. You moan into him. His tongue slides against yours, and he groans like he’s tasting something forbidden.

He kisses with desperation. With reverence. With a low, guttural sound in the back of his throat as your hips slot against his.

You break the kiss with a gasp. “Bucky—”

He dips to your throat, tongue licking into the space just below your jaw.

“Christ,” he breathes. “You’re killin’ me.”

“Good,” you pant, fingers curling into his jacket. “You deserve it. For making me wait this long.”

Your hands fist in the lapels of his tux, pulling him closer, closer, like there still isn’t enough of him touching you. He groans into your mouth when you bite his lips, his fingers digging into the meat of your thighs.

“Fuck—” he breathes. “You taste so good.”

You gasp as his metal hand slides beneath your dress, gripping your thigh and hoisting you up like you weigh nothing. You wrap your legs around his waist, dress riding high, and thank God for the slit.

“Been wantin’ to do this for so fucking long,” he rasps against your throat, kissing, biting, sucking bruisses into your skin. “Didn’t think I could—didn’t think you’d want me—”

“I do,” you whisper, dazed, fingers in his hair. “God, Bucky, I want you—”

“And you’ll have me,” he kisses your neck, the skin below your ear. “You said please,” he pants, “and I listen when you ask.”

The elevator dings. The doors slide open.

He doesn’t put you down.

Your back hits the wall just outside the elevator, on his floor. He pins you there with his body, mouths at your neck like he hasn’t enough, like he’s been starving.

You drag your fingers through his hair, tugging, pressing your chest flush against his.

“I wanted you,” you whisper, losing your mind. “All night. I kept looking for you—”

His voice is hoarse, Brooklyn accent thick and strong. “I was tryin’ not to fuckin’ look at you. Drove me insane.”

You arch into him, gasping when his hips grind into yours. You can feel the thick press of him through his slacks, rubbing against the soaked lace between your legs.

“Fuck,” you moan. “Bucky—please—”

“I got you, sweetheart,” he whispers, kissing your collarbone as he moves through the space blindly, holding you tight against him. “You’re mine tonight and forever. All fuckin’ mine.”

He lays you down on the couch gently, like you’re something sacred and precious—and you are.

Then he sinks to his knees in front of you, hands warm and pressing into your thighs as he drags them down your legs, eyes aflame.

You barely have time to blink before he’s pulling your legs over his shoulders and pushing your dress higher, higher, until your thighs are bare and open and trembling.

He stares at your panties—dark with wetness, delicate against your skin. His thumb rubs circles into your skin, like he can’t help but touch you, but remind you that you’re safe—loved.

“Pretty little thing,” he murmurs, thumb stroking the damp lace. You gasp, legs trying to shut. His hands, big and warm, hold you open with little force, like he can command your body by sheer will. “Can I take ‘em off?”

You nod, breathlessly. All your dreams, fantasies you’d had but kept to yourself, were coming true. “Yes, Yes—please—”

Bucky slides them down your legs, kissing your skin as he goes. His heart is about to jump out of his fucking chest and go barraling down the tower. He can hardly believe he’s on his knees—nose almost pressing into your cunt—can barely remember the gala itself.

He spreads your thighs wide and groans—low and deep, almost painful.

Bucky tried to be a gentleman, tried to be the good boy his mama raised, but some nights, when his hand wrapped around his cock, all he could picture was your pussy—how soft and beautiful it must have looked, how he’d make her drip for him.

The real thing didn’t even measure. He can’t believe he thought his imagination could do her any justice.

“Fuck me,” he breathes, eyes wide and shiny. “You’re so wet. Fuckin’ dripping, baby.”

“Only for you,” you whisper.

There’s something warm in your voice that makes him look up, into your hooded eyes. You smile, nothing but love and promise on your face. It’s like you're telling him that you know—know he’s thought about you, that you want him as bad as he wants you, that you want everything he has to offer.

His eyes are blazing, chest heaving.

The curve of his smile presses against your skin as he presses soft, open mouthed kisses to your thighs. You barely notice his trailing hand until it lands on your ass and he squeezes hard. You yelp at the feeling and jerk forward, his other hand steadies you easily. There’s laughter in your breath as you breathe out, eyes fluttering shut.

Bucky licks a harsh stripe of your core, holds you down as you writhe under him. He presses his face closer to your cunt as his tongue licks and suckles, laps up all your juices. The sweetness, the unique taste of you has his eyes rolling back and he knows he’ll never taste anything that would compare.

The sounds of slurping and his lips smacking around your clit make your legs shake as you try to breathe. He tilts his head further, pushes his tongue deeper within you and you moan, broken and obscene.

He curls the tip of his tongue upwards and you almost scream, tears falling down your cheeks at the pleasure.

“Yes, yes,” you chant, words falling from your lips like praise.

Lifting his eyes, Bucky hums at the sight of your pleasure, the way the tears fall prettily down your cheeks. One of his hands slides up your body, just to feel you, but before he could bring it back towards him, you grab it with a tight grip and settle it around your throat.

He groans into your folds and your legs shake. Needing more, you begin moving your hips feverishly against his face, grinding down on him. Bucky moans into cunt as you smear all your slick over his face, his chin dripping with drool and arousal.

“Bucky—oh my god—fuck—”

He grunts, and the sound vibrates through you.

“Could do this forever,” he pants.

“You taste so good—so sweet—gonna make you cum on my fuckin’ tongue—”

Your sweet scent and taste overwhelm his mind and he begins losing it, ruts against the edge of the sofa like a schoolboy, his lips latch onto your clit as he pushes himself closer to your dripping cunt, nose rubbing deliciously against your bud as he slides his tongue in and out of you.

“James,” you cry, eyes barely open as you watch him suck you dry. The hand on your throat slides down to yours and he threads your fingers together and squeezes once, twice, thrice, before your legs pulse erratically and your walls clench around his tongue.

“I’m so close, baby.”

Bucky’s brain short-circuits at your words, at the term, and he spreads you open wider and licks at you harsher, licking long strips as he teases your clit with his nose.

“Cum, sweetheart,” he edges, lulling you closer to your orgasm. He needs this as bad as you do. “Cum all over my face, Y/n.”

His words are enough to break you and your vision blurs as you moan, your stomach coils and recoils as your orgasm washes over you like cold water, soaks him completely.

Bucky continues to push his tongue into your gushing pussy, lips coaxing all your juices down his throat, making you throw your head back as you arch into him. He licks and sucks harshly, even as you mumble incoherently about it being too much.

When he pulls away, face covered in your slick, he smiles. Your whole body trembles and you lift your head just in time to watch him coat his fingers in your juices before he plops his fingers into his mouth and sucks.

He looks so pleased, so completely, irrevocably and ardently in love with you.

“Jesus Christ,” you gasp, pussy fluttering. “Where the hell did you learn that?”

He grins—messy, flushed, lips shiny with your cum.

“You think I wasn’t dreamin’ about this? Every fuckin’ night?”

He lifts you easily, arms secure beneath your thighs and back. You melt into him, still dazed, as he carries you into his bedroom.

Just before he lays you down, you grip his shoulders.

“Wait,” you murmur, breath hitching. “Let me.” You unwrap your legs from around him but his hold on you stays tight, keeping you close.

You push him until he stumbles back, landing on the bed with a grunt. He stares up at you, dazed.

You climb into his lap, straddling him. Your dress is in bunches, and you remind yourself to apologize to Nat…she probably won’t want it back.

Bucky tries to touch your hips, tries to breathe, but you grab his wrists and pin them to the bed. You’ve been in this position before, but it was in the training room, briefly, before he flipped you over. Now you know why.

His breath catches when you press down on him, your wet cunt dragging across his hard bulge.

“Hands to yourself,” your words are soft, teasing.

He groans, tips his head back. “You’re killin’ me, sweetheart—”

You push yourself off him and start to strip. The straps of your dress slide off your shoulders slowly. You shimmy it down your body, piece by piece, letting it fall until you’re completely naked in front of him.

He stares like you’ve knocked the breath from his lungs, like he’d follow you anywhere—take a bite of the apple simply because you looked at him.

He’s been cast from heaven but he doesn’t mind, because Eden stands in front of him, beautiful and soft and looking at him—like he’s worthy of it.

“Holy fuck,” he breathes out, groaning at the sight of you.

Grinning, you twirl for him. There’s scars on your skin, burns and patchy stitching, but you don’t care. You never really have and with the way Bucky’s looking at you, like you’re his salvation, you can’t help but move closer.

“You like?”

It’s a bizarre question, because you can see how much he likes it—how beautiful you are to him. But, still, because he’s always been sweet, he smiles something soft and nods, fingers twitching like he might reach out.

“You’re beautiful. Absolutely stunnin’.”

You giggle and slide onto his lap again, kiss his throat and then move lower, kissing down his chest as you begin undoing his shirt. Bucky’s hands stay at his side, curling into fists because all he wants to do is touch.

You pull off his tie, undo the buttons slowly—torturously—and push the fabric open to reveal his bare chest. You’ve seen him shirtless a few times but every time, it knocks the wind out of you.

Broad, defined, and hard.

You kiss every inch.

His abs flex as you drag your mouth down to his waistband, slowly getting to your knees. You undo his belt and pants slowly, hand grazing his cock through the fabric.

He’s so hard—big—straining, leaking.

You free him and his cock slaps against his stomach, thick and heavy and beautiful. It’s everything you thought it would be and more.

“My God,” you almost whine. “No wonder you’ve got such an ego.”

He laughs—then gasps when you kiss his inner thigh—close, so close.

You kiss and bite his skin, etching your name into his skin so the ghost of your lips can live on. Once you’re satisfied, you lift your eyes and almost gasp at the way his cock was leaking, his tip red and veiny. Mesmerized, you lean forward and shift your eyes to his, finding nothing but darkness staring back at you. His blue eyes, the ones you love so dearly, have been replaced by something predatory, almost possessive.

Still, you could see the softness threaded into the crinkles of his skin, the way he refuses to move, to touch you, until you make it clear that you want him to. You rest your cheek against his inner thigh and smile up at him.

“I like you, Bucky.” Your voice is low, a mere brush of air against his skin, but he hears you. You need him to know—that this is more than lust for you, that it’s for life. “You gonna let me show you how much?”

Not trusting his voice, he simply nods. You blink up at him, unmoving. Swallowing the lust that claws in his throat, Bucky tilts his head forward. “Yes,” he breathes out. “Whatever you want.”

Bucky barely had enough time to cry out your name before you lick a long stripe from his base to his tip, circling your tongue around him once before you repeat the action once more. All his empty words die in his throat as he releases a shaky breath at the feeling of your warm mouth taking him in completely.

Pressing your tongue flat against the underside of his cock, you taste the salty taste of his sweat and precum. It takes over your senses and you shift forward, circling your tongue around his tip. Pooling some spit on your tongue, you let it drip down his length as you wrap your hand around him, pressing soft kisses to his tip.

Bucky groans, breathing heavier as his legs spasm around you. He moans out your name and you look up to the sight of his eyes screwed shut, head thrown back. His chest rises rapidly and he looks so beautiful, a thin layer of sweat glistening on his forehead, hair brushed back and unruly.

“Oh, fuck,” he moans, his voice cracking as you push him further down your throat, ignoring the burn because he tastes addictive, sounds sweeter than anything you’ve ever heard.

You hollow your cheeks, spit dripping down your throat as you work him with your mouth, humming when he hits the back of your throat.

“Fuck—baby—” His voice breaks, raspy. “That’s it—that’s so fuckin’ good—” His thighs tremble and his abs clench.

He twitches in your mouth and you push him deeper, practically begging. Before he can cum—

He pulls you off, voice and body wrecked. He pants, cock standing straight and leaking and harder than it’s ever been.

“Wanna cum inside you,” he whimpers, pulling you off the floor and into his arms. “Wanna feel you, Y/n, baby—please.”

You’re nodding, still reeling from the emptiness in your mouth. You straddle him again and he surges forward, captures your lips in a hot, messy kiss. It’s all teeth and lips and his hands are everywhere on you.

As he kisses you senseless, you reach between your legs and guide him to your entrance, hissing into his mouth when his tip drags between your folds.

The satisfying tightening and burn of his veins against your gummy walls make you both moan in unison, your body falling limp into his as you sink down completely, the base of his cock hitting your core. The stretch feels amazing, so good, and all you can do is tuck your face into the crook of his neck, biting back a sob.

His hands grip your hips, jaw slack. He can’t breathe—can barely think with your pussy wrapped around him, warm and tight and so perfect.

“Fuck—you feel so fuckin’ good—so tight—”

He nips at your jaw, tongue dragging across your skin as you roll your hips, bracing your hands on his chest. You feel so full, leaking all over his lap. You press a soft kiss to his neck and his hips jerks upwards, filling you to the brim, his tip reaching parts of you only he could.

You part your lips to say something, anything, but he interrupts you by crashing his lips against yours, swallowing your gasp greedily. His lips move roughly against yours, so perfect, as one of his hands slide down to your ass, gripping tightly as he moves his hips against yours.

He kisses down your body, pressing wet, open mouth kisses to the skin between your breasts, licking and sucking, tongue brushing against your nipples.

You were a mess above him, head thrown back and eyes sewn shut, incoherent mumbles and whimpers leaving your lips as you pull and scrape his hair and the nape of his neck.

He twitches inside you, against your sensitive walls and you almost cry out. As if sensing your distraught, one of his hands grip your waist protectively and he presses a soft kiss to the side of your head.

You slowly move, sliding him in and out of your pussy. His hold on your waist helps lift you up and down, guiding you to a delicious pace. His hands slide from your waist to your ass, resting there.

Bucky throws his head back when you begin jumping on his cock, his balls slapping against your cunt. You grip his shoulders and he can feel his skin break as you dig your nails into his skin, the creak of his bed loud as the room fills with your mixed moans.

You slow down, press down on his length to catch your breath. Grinding on his laps, his cock brushes against all your sweet spots, stretches your walls with a delicious burn. You wiggle around on his cock and Bucky’s eyes fly open and he stares at you with a heavy gaze.

He sits up straighter, wraps his arms around you and kisses your throat. “Can’t—fuck.” He thrusts his hips up, almost animally. “Gotta have you—”

Holding you close, he flips you onto your back and thrusts.

You gasp as he drives into you, pressing you into the mattress. He grips onto your hips and pulls you towards him, flush against his pelvis as he rocks his hips forward, fucking his cock into you.

Back arched, you moan when his hand travels to your throat and he holds you firmly beneath him, tilting your head backwards as he applies just the right amount of pressure to your jugular veins, making you lightheaded as he slides in and out of you at a bruising pace.

He smiles when you whimper, teeth grazing the side of your throat as he bites down, pressing your hips flush against his pelvis, the tip of his cock brushing against your cervix, making you see stars.

His hand cups your jaw and his mouth claims yours, softer, despite the rough and messy pace of his hips. He kisses you slowly, traces his devotion into your gums.

“I love you,” he whispers, like he couldn’t help it. “I love you.”

Your heart stutters and you wrap your arms around his neck—tighter. You kiss his nose, the edge of his lips, before his lips.

“I love you too.”

It was inevitable, you think. You were always going to fall in love with him. There was so much to love.

He groans like he’s about to lose it, like your words have single-handedly freed him from all of his crimes and sins.

“Gonna cum,” he rasps.

“Inside,” you whine, begging. “Cum inside me—please, Buck.”

His hips stutter and he practically growls. “Fuck—my pretty girl. Gonna cum inside you,” he moans. “Fill you up—want it to stay—wanna make you—”

“Yes, yes,” you pant, his cock filling you to the brim.

You clench around him, vision going white as you gush around him and he shudders, hips stuttering as he spills inside you with a broken moan of your name.

He thrusts through it, panting, pressing kisses to your cheek, your neck, your lips.

Once he’s sure he’s emptied himself completely inside you, he slows his pace and presses kisses all over your face, slowly halting the movement of his hips. You fall into a slump underneath him and he wraps his arms around you tightly, body pressing against yours, mumbling quietly to you.

“Sweetheart,” he whispered after a moment.

You hum, eyes too tired and droopy to open. He rubs your stomach soothingly, tries to ground you before he moves. “Are you okay, Y/n? Do you need anything?”

Slowly, you shake your head and open your eyes. He’s staring back at you with so much love in his eyes, nothing but softness and concern bright in his eyes. He nudges his nose against yours and you smile, cracking his chest open.

“Just you,” you whisper, finger curling into his dog tags as you pull him in for a kiss.

He laughs into your mouth but kisses you with the same fervor you kiss him with. Gently, Bucky pulls out of your sopping cunt and you both bite back a hiss. He shifts his weight and maneuvers his body until you’re laying in his arms, your chest pressing against his, legs intertwined.

He knows he has to clean you up, get you a glass of water and maybe something to eat, but your eyes flutter shut and your hand rests on his heart so he puts it off, knows you need him more.

He runs his hands along your arms and then your shoulders, pressing into your skin occasionally to remind you that he’s right here—for good. You snuggle into him, press a kiss to a scar above his heart.

He strokes your spine with trembling fingers, his heart full and warm and content.

“You’re mine now,” he whispers, voice rough and soft and questioning.

You lift your eyes to meet his and kiss his jaw. “Was always yours.”

He smiles—small, awestruck.

“You’re still my best friend,” he says, quietly. Like he needs you to know.

“And you’re mine,” you respond, just as quiet.

He presses his lips to your forehead, holds you tight against him.

It’s all he’s ever wanted—to be yours. In every way.

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skullcrusher-mountainn · 11 months ago

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guys it is time to grieve what happened to me and my siblings in our infancy to jonathan coulton's when you go .

specifically this version, I LOVE THIS VERSION . o ugh

youtube

#goes insane goes insane.#fellas do you ever just realize that the abuse someone endured fundamentally changed them #and that you will never get to see what they couldve achieved if they had not been shaken and abused and had their bones broken.#she didnt deserve any of it. she deserves the world. fuck.#and its not that i wish she wasnt her!!!! i love her disability or not!!!! shes so cool and i love talking to her even if she cant speak-#back but .#loss.#its just loss. i lost a level of safety. i lost so fucking much. so did all my siblings and its just SO fucking evil.#babies dont deserve to get shaken man.#and shes SO sweet and shes SUCH an angel but. sometimes i just sit and stare at her and go.#who would she be if they had gotten to her sooner.#my birth parents already shook me and broke my bones. they should have fucking known better #ill never forgive the government for letting her stay with them.#vent #tw vent #tw child abuse #Youtube

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theonewiththefanfics · 3 months ago

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An Itch You Can't Scratch (one-shot)

Synopsis: After taking a bad fall, Y/N gets rushed to the ED of Pittsburg Trauma Medical Hospital only to come face to face with a man she had a one-night stand with, and who ghosted her that same morning without a word - Dr. Michael "Robby" Robinavitch. As if her bad day couldn't get any worse than it was...

Pairing: Dr. Michael "Robby" Robinavitch x fem!Reader (age-gap relationship (Reader is 26, Robby is implied 46-48))

Genre: angst, fluff, SMUT

Warnings: descriptions of wounds (open breaks), puke, swearing, etc., SMUT

Word count: 13,319 (yeah, this sort of started out like a cute little chaotic story and became... this. I might make more parts to these two, people like it enough, because I already have some ideas, and ideas for other stories too also, let's please pretend like Robby didn't have the worst shift of his life and everyone is happy and alive :) )

Please don't copy my work or repost it onto other platforms. all of the characters belong to HBO Max.

Catch Pt 2 here :)

In all honesty, Y/N thought Sara was overreacting. There was no need to be hauled to the ER on a Monday morning, at seven AM. So, what if she’d slipped in the shower? So, what if she’d hit her head against the towel rack? So, what if she’d sprained her ankle? Y/N could just pop a couple of Tylenol and be on her merry way, but no.

When Sara had heard the thud and the subsequent crash of shampoo and conditioner bottles, she’d rushed inside the bathroom only to find Y/N sprawled out in all her naked glory. She cursed the stupid bathroom latch their landlord refused to change.

After Sara had had her fill of laughter, she helped Y/N stand, get somewhat dressed (a loose cotton shirt and some shorts), and helped her hobble down the stairs of their apartment, her leg in a make-shift splint of dishtowels and left-over wood paneling from an IKEA dresser.

A groan of protest escaped her as Sara parked in the hospital parking lot and rushed to the passenger door, opening it for Y/N and helping her get out.

“You are worse than my mother,” she huffed as she leaned her weight onto her good leg. “I am completely fine.”

Sara sighed, and Y/N rolled her eyes, knowing what was coming. “My love,” she said. “My other half. The Yin to my Yang, the milk to my matcha. My partner in crime for whom I would kill and/or dispose of a body. I can quite literally see the fucking bone sticking out of your lower leg.”

“It’s a sprain,” Y/N gritted through clenched teeth.

“It’s an open fucking break and the fact that you refused to have an ambulance called, boggles my fucking mind, yet here we are.”

To that, Y/N had nothing to say, but still, she thought Sara was being way too overdramatic. And honestly, if she kept mentioning the real situation of her sprain, making her remember the sound of the snap, how it had been the worst sound she’d ever heard, and Y/N had spent more than twenty years listening to her brother singing in the shower, before she moved to Pittsburg for her job, she would put Sara in a hospital bed herself. And then they could be the ED besties.

But the worst was the pain that came when Sara reminded Y/N of why she had to go to the hospital.

It had been a miracle no neighbor had called the cops or the EMTs themselves, though it didn’t necessarily comfort Y/N either. If she could scream bloody murder like that and nobody batted an eye, it didn’t say anything good about the complex they lived in.

One look down had confirmed Y/N’s worst fears – she had, in fact, broken her leg. Not only that, it was an open break where part of her bone was sticking right out of the meat of her calf. For the first few moments, she’d been in such a shock, that the only thought running through her head was – I look like a poor man’s version of a Disney turkey leg. Then she’d started screaming. And that had made her puke.

Right then and there, still lying half out of the shower, half on the floor, she’d emptied her stomach. There hadn’t been much in it, just the cup of water she’d drank when she’d awoken, but still. At least Y/N had been in the bathroom when it had happened. Tiles were easier to clean up than carpet, and she already felt bad enough Sara would have to wash the floor.

But now, as some form of punishment, no doubt, Sara was helping Y/N hobble towards the emergency department of Pittsburg Trauma Medical Hospital, when a sad-looking man noticed them and rushed inside, grabbing a wheelchair, and getting by Y/N’s side in a matter of a second.

“Here, sit down.” The man, Dennis Whitaker he introduced himself, took hold of her other bicep and moved the wheelchair behind her.

“I’m fine,” she groaned. “I’m not an invalid. I can make it inside on my own. Besides, that wheelchair could be used for someone that actually needs it.”

“You actually need it.” Sara levelled a gaze at her. “And I will make you a fucking invalid because I will clock you so hard in the head, you will have a concussion, if you don’t have one from the fall.”

For a tense second, Y/N stood (or wobbled) her ground, Y/E/C eyes locked onto Sara’s hazel ones which were slowly narrowing with each passing moment until she cursed and said, “Alright fine.” Together Whitaker and Sara lowered the injured woman into the wheelchair. “God, I hate your mom-stares.”

“It’s the only way to get you to do anything in terms of taking care of yourself.”

“It’s not!” Y/N protested. “I’ll have you know, I made myself an omelet yesterday for breakfast. Veggies and all.”

“Yeah, after I berated you that a stale Coke from three days ago, isn’t actual breakfast.” Sara walked side by side as Whitaker pushed the wheelchair into the madhouse that was the emergency department.

It was fascinating to observe the situation as an outsider – nurses and doctors were like level-headed owls, their heads swiveling this way and that way, as they assessed the patients and their statuses, while the residents and patients themselves, not all, but quite a bunch, were like headless chickens, rushing around and trying to prioritize afflictions or become a priority to the doctors.

Codes were called left and right, people moved from one side to the other, snapping on gloves and donning protective gear, and in the center of it all, was the command post – the nurse’s station which Whitaker had wheeled her to.

“Dana, is there a room available?” he addressed a slim, blonde woman, probably the one in charge.

“Room six is available, what’s the, oh,” she stopped mid-sentence as she noticed Y/N and the bone sticking out of her leg.

“I don’t mind waiting,” she gave her a sheepish smile. “There’s probably loads of people before me. Besides, it’s just a sprain.”

“Well, that’s probably one of the worst sprains I’ve ever seen,” Dana deadpanned as she motioned with her head towards someone behind them.

Y/N shrugged. “Well, I am just special like that.”

“Yeah, maybe in the head,” Sara grumbled as she gave the charge nurse all the necessary info for the moment. “Speaking of which – she also hit her head when she went down with her… sprain.”

Dana’s lips quirked up as she hummed and tapped something on her iPad, weaving around the table, leaving Whitaker to follow her like a lost puppy as they moved to the room Y/N was now assigned to. “We’ll schedule you a CT ASAP.”

Y/N turned her head to look at her best friend. “Given how this little trip was your idea, you’re paying off my medical debt.”

“Just let these nice doctors and nurses take care of you.” Sara pinched the bridge of her nose. “Because quite honestly, I’m not too into the idea of searching for a new roommate. Do you know how many creeps I’d have to go through? And what if the one normal one I find has a fatal flaw?”

“Such as?”

“I dunno. What if they hate musicals?”

“Oh, the tragedy.” Y/N pressed a hand against her chest as they wheeled her inside the room.

There was another presence there, a young doctor, probably late twenties or early thirties. A cute little dimple on his chin, dark hair, and blue eyes. Reminded her a bit of the guy from Air Bud, if she squinted a bit.

“My name’s Dr. Langdon,” he introduced himself, giving Y/N a reassuring smile. “And this is Dennis Whitaker, our fourth-year medical student. Would it be alright, if he and another one of our residents observed the situation today? This is a teaching hospital, but it is well within your rights to refuse.”

She shook her head. “Observe away. Not much I can hide.”

“Alright, thank you.” He ventured out for a quick second only to come back with a young woman who introduced herself as Dr. Mel King, a second-year resident. “Okay,” Dr. Langdon said. “Let’s get you onto the bed and see what we’re working with.”

The three medical professionals surrounded her and helped Y/N move from the wheelchair on the paper-covered bed, without jostling her leg too much, but it was enough.

So far, she’d been able to take her mind off the pain by distracting herself – she bickered with Sara, recited the script of The Hunger Games movie in her head while fantasising about a blond Josh Hutcherson, because Peeta was just elite like that. She’d even gone so far as to go over the division table, but now, as more attention was being placed on the broken leg, it started to hurt more and more. It was like Y/N mind-over-mattered an itching spot left by a mosquito by chanting “It’s not itchy” over and over in her head, but the second she stopped, the itching came back in full force.

“So,” Dr. Dimple, she nicknamed him in her head, started. “What happened?”

Y/N sighed, looking at the ceiling. “Can I just give you the not-humiliating version and say I’m a klutz?”

He gave her a charming smile as a nurse prepped an IV line. “Unfortunately, we need to know beyond “clumsy”. The environment where this accident happened is important.”

"It could introduce pathogens into the wound," Mel, as Dr. King had requested to be called, said.

Y/N chewed on her bottom lip before muttering, “I slipped in the shower and sprained my leg. And then got assaulted by some shampoo and conditioner bottles… and then I threw up.”

“And don’t forget the head!” Sara said from the door where she still stood, observing the work happening.

Y/N threw her a knowing smirk. “Never do. And I haven’t had any complaints yet.”

“The throwing up could indicate a concussion,” Whitaker said. “Dana’s already scheduled a CT. And in terms of the leg, you actually have an open fra-,”

Y/N took hold of Whitaker’s bicep like he’d done so for her when he’d helped wheel her inside the emergency department. “Please listen to me when I say this – unless you want me to hurl all over you, and trust me, I can aim, the only thing I have, is a sprain. Got it?”

He gulped and nodded, stepping away from Y/N like a man who’d gotten sprayed by too many fluids in one day and didn’t want to be anywhere near the danger zone. “Loud and clear Miss Sprained-Ankle-Woman.”

“Good.” The nausea that’d started creeping up her belly subsided. “Because I can deal with you people having to do things, but if I have to actually listen to any of it, or think about it, I will be sick.”

“We can give you some anti-nausea medication for that,” Dr. Dimple soothed. “But first, we’ll get you a CT, and then we’ll have a surgery room prepped for you because you need to get this reset as quickly as possible. You will probably have some metal plates and screws to hold the uh… sprain together, and then a cast for about six to eight weeks.”

“Great,” Y/N grumbled. “This is just fucking great. This is exactly how I wanted to spend my vacation, before, oh… oh, absolutely not.” Y/N’s eyes widened to a comically large size as she looked past her room and into the waiting area. “Sara, you need to get me out of here right the fuck now.”

“Hey, woah, what is going on?” Dr. Langdon rushed to where Y/N was trying to get the IV line out. “Please don't do that, you'll only hurt yourself more.”

“Y/N, what’s going on?” Sara’s brows were pulled tight in a frown, as she tried to help Dr. King get the oxygen monitor back onto her finger. “You need surgery, for fuck’s sake.”

“It’s him,” she hissed, not taking her gaze away from where it’d locked on. “And I don’t want to spend a second anywhere near the dick.”

“Who?” Sara swiveled her head to look beyond the glass separating them from the chaos beyond. “Who’s the dick?”

“Him.”

And then four pairs of eyes locked onto the man standing and talking with the charge nurse at The Hub, Y/N was glaring at.

“Do – do you two know each other?” Dr. Dimple asked. “Do you feel unsafe with him around?”

“Yeah, you could say we know one another,” she scowled and crossed her arms as Mel managed to finally reattach the oxygen monitor, all of their attention onto her. “That’s the dude I hooked up with two weeks ago, and completely ghosted me that same morning.”

Every single head snapped to look back at Dr. Michael “Robby” Robinavitch, who’d also finally noticed Y/N was at his workplace, as a patient no less. His eyebrows were right up to his hairline, brown eyes wide with disbelief and mouth agape as she glowered at the older man.

It was quite a surreal moment – all of these capable doctors and residents and nurses, stunned by the information so bad, that they almost seemed to forget Y/N was there. She wondered what was going through their heads, as this seemed like it wasn’t a regular occurrence. Which stung even more – if Michael had been a fuckboy, she could take it, but it didn’t seem so. So, what was wrong with Y/N that had made him run away after the night they’d spent together?

When they’d met at the bar, he had told her he was an emergency department attending. The big boss of his little duckling residents, dutifully running the hospital department with the help of the nurses.

Why, when Sara had finally managed to get Y/N inside the car, it hadn’t occurred to her, he would work in this particular hospital. Just why?

Y/N couldn’t say. Maybe she’d hoped he worked the night shifts. Maybe she’d hoped, he worked somewhere else, or even out of town, but, of course, for whatever sins she’d committed, karma couldn’t do her a solid one.

Sara gasped, rushing by her side as Y/N watched Michael flounder and try and decide what to do – whether to interfere and face the music or run away from the hospital. He apparently chose the latter as he twisted on his heel and high-tailed it to the other end of the department, leaving a cackling Dana behind.

“That’s him?” Sara strained her neck. “That’s the hot doctor?”

Y/N scoffed. “The one and only. Couldn’t even leave a fucking note or something. Like I can take a hint a one-night-stand is a one-night-stand, alright? But don’t just fucking bolt out of the door like your ass is on fire before the other party wakes up. Fucking dickhead.”

“Well, maybe it wasn’t as fun of a night for him, as you thought, and he didn’t want to hurt your feelings.” Sara raised a brow.

“Oh, trust me,” Y/N smirked. “It was a very fun night for him. I would know. I was there, and you can’t fake the kind of shaking. Four hours will do that to a guy,” she winked and touched the tips of her pointer finger and thumb in an A-Okay sign.

“Yeah,” it was Dr. Dimple smiling at her, the grin on his face almost wolfish in nature. “Yeah, you are absolutely my new favorite person in the world.”

However, whatever he wanted to say or ask, was cut short when Dana returned to inform that her CT slot was coming up, and so Y/N was wheeled away, not daring to look at Michael as they passed one another in the hallway.

As the results came back for a minor concussion, the anesthesiologist informed, that they recommended a spinal for the surgery, while the team prepper, but Y/N shot it down immediately.

“Absolutely not. Look, I know it’s not safe to go to sleep after a concussion, but I will not be listening to the sounds of some bone-carpenter crunching on my leg. Put me under,” she gave him her most pathetic look. “Please.”

The specialist still tried to argue, but he couldn’t do it much longer, as Y/N needed surgery as soon as possible, so after five minutes of strongly recommending the spinal, he relented and in half an hour, Y/N had managed to get hers – she was out like a light, without a sound in her ears.

It was the best sleep she’d ever had in her life. Like floating on a cloud, surrounded by doves and angels singing her lullabies. She never wanted to wake up, but something was rousing her out of the blissful state.

A large warm hand around her palm, thumb rubbing the top of it, was soothing her senses. It was like hot chocolate after being out in the sow. Or sitting by a fireplace with a blanket wrapped around your shoulders.

“Good afternoon, Miss Sprained-Ankle,” a low, rumbly voice greeted Y/N as she floated back into consciousness. Her eyes locked onto two gentle, brown ones, and despite the medication, she knew she wasn’t hallucinating him.

Michael’s face was beard-covered like it had been when they’d met. He still had the same worry lines on his forehead and the crow’s feet around his eyes. Y/N had said she liked those the best.

“It shows you’ve smiled and laughed despite everything else,” she’d informed him over the rim of her Pornstar Martini.

She couldn’t truly imagine just how draining his line of work was, both physically and mentally, but the laugh lines she could see hiding under the beard, harmonizing with those around his eyes, was a feature Y/N had noticed first.

“So,” she slurred her tongue a swollen mass of sandpaper in her mouth, and Michael noticed that, holding a cup of water against her lips until she’d had her fill. “Do I have to keep breaking bones to wake up with you next to me?”

“I hope not.” With gentleness Y/N knew he possessed, yet didn’t expect, he brushed away a droplet that’d slipped past her mouth, and onto her cheek. “I hope this is the only time I ever have to see you in such a state.”

“Can’t promise that,” she shook her head. “I do have a reputation to uphold.”

“Yeah?” amusement was evident on his weary face. “And what kind of reputation is that?”

“When I was in first grade, on the first day of school, I broke my arm. And then like a few months later, I smashed my face against a radiator and split my lip open. Still have a scar,” she pointed right below her right nostril where a sliver of lighter skin was. “And then, but that was like third grade or something, I smashed my head against a metal railing and split my head open. I could even push my fingers inside and scrape my -,”

“Okay, I understand,” Michael interrupted her and pulled the hand that was tapping against the hairline on her forehead. “You are an ED connoisseur, but please, don’t make this a habit.”

�� “Damn, straight I am.” Y/N gave a confident nod, but before Michael could ask anything else, she said, “You know what I don’t get? Like why did my leg bone hurt while sticking out of my body, but my teeth that are sticking out right now, don’t?” She clacked them for emphasis. “They’re outside bones.”

A soft smile bloomed on Michael’s face as he brushed a strand of hair away from her forehead. She could feel someone had put her hair in a protective style and had to wonder if it had been the man beside her. But that wouldn’t make any sense. Why would he care like that for her?

“For one,” he muttered. “You broke your fibula – the smaller bone in your lower leg, and in doing so, hurt the surrounding things like muscles and skin. That is one reason why you felt such pain. And two – if you broke a tooth, it would hurt too. Your cavities hurt, don’t they?”

“Mmm,” a self-satisfied smile bloomed on Y/N’s face. “I wouldn’t know. I’ve never had a cavity.”

“That’s good. Dentists aren’t cheap.” As a response she just clacked her teeth again, making Michael laugh. “How are you feeling? Any pain? Nausea?”

“Nope, I am A-Okay. Honestly, that was like the best sleep of my life. Well…” Y/N pouted, taking her gaze away from Michael’s. “That night when I fell asleep with you is also up in the Top 5, but then I woke up and… you know… you weren’t there.”

She was obviously delirious from the medication being pumped through her veins, but much like when Y/N was drunk, she was a throw-up-remember-everything kind of a girl, instead of a black-out-drunk. Besides, it wasn’t like she could run anywhere. Quite literally.

Michael sighed, dragging a hand down his face, visibly cringing at her words. “About that… I – yeah, I think the only thing I can say is I’m sorry. For, you know, ghosting, as you youngsters say.”

“ ‘S alright.” Y/N shrugged, trying to act nonchalant, as if the second she’d seen him, she hadn’t been ready to bolt. “I’m over it.”

“No, no it’s not okay. I shouldn’t have done that. Because that night was… great. It was amazing, actually. And everything leading up to the uh, you… you know, the...” he cleared his throat, and a smirk pulled up on Y/N’s lips.

“The sex? Come on, you can say it in your big old man age. It’s just three letters.”

“Jesus Christ.” Michael rubbed his neck as a slight pink shade crawled up his neck, which made Y/N let out a chuckle at how uncomfortable he looked talking about this. Maybe it was time to let this go, for his sake and her own sanity.

“Look, if it makes you feel any better,” Y/N shifted to the edge of the mattress and patted the side of her bed, so he could sit down. After asking if she was sure, he did take the offered space. “I – I’ve been treating you a bit unfairly with this. I think my ego was a bit crushed after waking up and not having you there, but, umm… you’re off the hook. Besides, I think I’m in your debt with all of this. Your team is amazing.”

“They’re pretty great, aren’t they?” he mumbled, one of his hands having moved to toy with the wristband the hospital had assigned to Y/N. “But still, how I reacted then, and even earlier in the morning… it wasn’t right. I mean, I’m pushing fifty for fuck’s sake. That’s not what someone my age does.”

“So what?” she raised a brow. “The issue is you think you’re a cradle-robber? Because you’re no more that than I am a grave robber. I’m twenty-six, Michael,” she turned her palm up hoping he’d accept it and slide his hand in hers. After a moment of hesitancy, he did, and Y/N squeezed it in reassurance. “I mean, if you think you’re doing something bad, by having slept with someone two decades younger than you, I’ll have you know, according to regency times, as a woman who’ll be turning twenty-seven this year, I’m pretty much a decrepit old spinster.”

Michael let out a soft laugh as his fingers trailed the lines on Y/N’s palm. “You have your whole life ahead of you. Me? I’m your probably dad’s age.”

“And looking hotter than ever, if you ask me.”

“Yeah? You think so?” He asked as Y/N hummed in affirmation. “Well then, for a decrepit old spinster, you are beautiful. And acting with much more grace than I deserved or deserve.”

Something in the way he said those last few words made her heart squeeze. “Michael… of course you deserve grace.”

“You’re being far too good to me… you’re far too good for me…”

Y/N’s brows furrowed at that. Slowly, she attempted to rise in a sitting position, but she didn’t get far before Michael had his arms around her waist, like they’d been two weeks ago, pushing a pillow to stabilize the small of her back. Once he was sure she was comfortable, he opened an apple juice box and handed it to her.

“To get your sugar up.”

But she just stared at him, only reaching for the little carton after he’d resumed his previous sitting position. “Is that what this is about?” she asked. “Some insecurity you think I deserve better than you? Because I can decide those things for myself. I am an adult. With a fully-developed frontal lobe, mind you.”

He took in a deep breath, held it for a second, then released it, and Y/N watched that whatever kind of decision he’d come to, had released a certain tension that’d been accumulating in his body. “Kind of, I guess. But mostly…” he swallowed, then nodded to himself, eyes trained on her wristband. “Mostly I got scared.”

“Of what?” Y/N tilted her head. “I mean, I know my morning breath probably isn’t that attractive, and the smeared makeup made me look like a coked-out raccoon, but -,”

“No,” Michael shook his head, chuckling. His cheeks were reddish at her words, but as he lifted his eyes to hers, there was a grateful look to them. Like he was thankful she wasn’t making fun of him even in his ripe old age. “You,” he stumbled over his words a bit, “when I saw you there, sleeping by my side like you belonged… I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything more beautiful than that. And that’s when I thought to myself – if I worked up the courage, could there be more mornings like that? Could I make you breakfast and coffee one day? Maybe I’d get the privilege of falling asleep next to you as we watch movies at night. And that scared me.”

“The possible future?”

“Wanting that possible future, because that feeling, the one that started to grow right here,” he tapped the center of his chest. “I couldn’t think straight. So, I had to go.”

“I mean,” Y/N swallowed hard. “That is a lot to imagine after only a few hours together.”

“Does that… creep you out? ‘Cause it’s totally understandable if it does. I mean Jesus, I’m old… and you’re so young.”

“No, it doesn’t.” And she meant it when she said it. “I find it actually quite endearing, but you can stop being so hung-up on the age difference. If you think there might be some daddy issues on my side, I can assure you – there’s none. I quite like my dad, and I definitely don’t see you as such a figure. Not after the things you did to me. ‘Cause, quite honestly, sex with you was probably the best dicking-down I’ve had in a year.”

If Michael had been drinking anything, Y/N was sure he would have choked with how he sputtered at her words. “Well, uh, yeah, I uh… I’m glad you… enjoyed it.”

“I did. And I know you enjoyed it too,” her smile was nothing short of wicked.

“Yeah, and apparently now the rest of the residents and nurses and doctors know it too?” Michael raised his brows at her.

It took Y/N a while to realize he was talking about when she’d gotten admitted and spilt the beans on their night together, implying their copious amount of copulation. “Hey, don’t shoot the messenger, but I’d like to think your reputation has now gone sky-high between the female nurses and doctors. Maybe the guys and theys as well. But I do apologize for talking about your private life while at your work. In my defense, until that very moment, I didn’t know you worked here. And well, I was pissed.”

“You and your mouth will get you in trouble one day,” Michael pointed at her.

“Yeah? Would you like to put something in it, to shut me up? Last time, you really liked it when I -,”

“Okay, trouble, that’s enough.” Even though his words had a finality to them, humor glowed on his features. He seemed relaxed. Content even, as he took the now empty apple juice box Y/N had been sipping on this whole time.

“You on a break?” She started scooting down the bed once more, and Michael instantly helped her get situated.

“Want to get rid of me so quickly?”

“No. It’s just you’re spending an awfully long time with me. Don’t you have other patients to check in on? I don’t want you to waste your time if you need to get to someone else. Or maybe grab a bite to eat? I’m fairly sure doctors don’t know how to have a good work-life balance, despite continuously recommending it to us, mere mortals.”

“Time with you isn’t a waste.”

Oh.

Oh, how badly did Y/N want to rip off the little wires connecting her to the heart monitor, because had Michael not turned the sound off, she was sure the whole hospital would be hearing it go nuts at his words, the squiggling beat of it a treat for only Michael this time, because when he noticed it, a smirk bloomed on his mouth. He didn’t say anything, but he didn’t need to, not when he murmured, twining their fingers together, “I want to kiss you so bad.”

“I definitely won’t be opposed to that.” Y/N’s answer might have come way too quickly, but she was beyond feeling embarrassed about wanting him. “You have permission to kiss away. For as long as possible. All day, every day, whenever you want to.”

“Well, thank you for that,” Michael chuckled, cupping her cheek, and she leaned into the touch. “But… not right now. Let me take you out on a proper date. Let me do this right.”

“Oh my God, seriously?” Y/N whined throwing her head back. “You’re gonna make me wait? Especially after that whole speech and whatnot? You are a cruel, cruel man Dr. Michael Robinavitch.”

Slowly, without breaking eye contact, he leaned to hover over Y/N, a golden necklace slipping from the inside of his shirt and dangling before her. She wanted to pull it between her teeth like she’d done so during their one night together. It took every dwindling ounce of willpower not to.

“Maybe, I just want you aching. And yearning. You were the one who said men don’t yearn enough nowadays. But I have. For you, for two whole god-damned weeks. Now it’s your turn.”

It was pathetic how Y/N wanted to cry and whimper. “But I didn’t even do anything! You were the one that ran out! Why am I being punished for your actions?”

“Do you – do you not want to go on a date with me?”

“I do, but I’d rather you rail me as soon as possible.”

“Well, for one,” Michael tried to continue on as if Y/N’s words hadn’t made heat creep up his face, but he could only do so much. He was a human, after all. “You’re not allowed any strenuous activities until you’ve got a clean bill of health. And two, all teasing aside, I want to do this properly. I want to do right by you this time.”

“Why would you?” she exasperated. “I wasn’t complaining when you didn’t do it right by me, and I’m certainly not going to if you suddenly decide to stop being chivalrous. Maybe even right here. We could recreate some scene from Grey’s Anatomy?” Y/N wiggled her brows at him, eliciting a deep rumble of a chuckle.

“Grey’s is just a malpractice lawsuit after a malpractice lawsuit, and I, unlike the characters there, don’t want my medical license to be revoked. Until you get discharged, I’m one of your doctors.”

“My hot doctor, you mean.”

The sigh that left Michael was not weary or a worn-out kind of noise. Rather it was a resigned I-guess-this-is-my-life-now kind of a sigh, especially combined with the endearing look on his face, it made Y/N feel warm all over.

Slowly, as they talked a bit more, her eyes began to droop, exhaustion from the morning, from the surgery and the subsequent consequences settling in once more. “Will you stay?” she asked as Michael brushed a knuckle along her jaw. “Just until I fall asleep?”

“Of course,” Michael took her hand in his, sitting down by her side again, as he pressed a kiss to her wrist. “And I… I wish I could promise I’ll be here when you wake up, but I, -”

“I know,” Y/N interrupted him with a soft and understating smile. “By that point, you’ll probably be off saving lives. It’s why I’m not asking you to.”

“I’ll try though.” He promised.

“Okay.”

And with her hand still in Michael’s, Y/N drifted off once again without even realizing it was pitch-black outside, and Michael hadn’t been wearing his shift scrubs. He should have long been home resting, and yet, he hadn’t been able to leave her. Not like he did before.

By the time she awoke early the next morning, Y/N was clearheaded, and yet all her thoughts mulled over the conversation she’d had with Michael the previous night. Would he go back on his word? Had he only talked with her like that because she was high on pain meds, and maybe thought she wouldn’t remember their discussions?

She knew he hadn’t promised to be there when she awoke, so Y/N didn’t hold it against him, but she couldn’t deny the sting. But that was immediately soothed by the hoodie that’d been laid over the back of a chair.

His hoodie.

A promise he would at least have a reason to come back and check in on her. It was Dana, the charge nurse, peeking her head inside that pulled Y/N back into the present. “How are we feeling today? Ready to be discharged? Dr. Langdon will be with you shortly for a follow-up.”

The woman in the hospital bed groaned. “Can’t I just stay here? Like you people – you are normal. Sara will be a mother hen on crack. I am willing to brave hospital food, as long as I don’t have to go home to all that fussing. She’s probably already bullied our landlord into installing a lift or something.”

“She cares for you,” it was Dr. Langdon piping in, as he entered her room, pulling on a pair of gloves and nodding to Dana in thanks. “You’re pretty lucky to have a friend like her.”

“Yeah, I know,” Y/N sighed as Dr. Langdon looked over her leg, asked some questions about pain levels and talked her through the post-op care. “But in my defense, she has a tendency to overreact.”

“I’d say you have a tendency to underreact, but that’s just my professional opinion.”

She rolled her eyes as Dr. Langdon finished his assessment and handed off her chart to Dana, so they could start the discharge process. “God forbid a girl has hobbies.”

“In any case, I do think the whole ED is in debt to Sara.”

To that she raised a brow.

“Well, had she not made you come in, I don’t know if Dr. Robby would have had a chance of seeing you again. Because, if I have to be honest, we’ve all been scratching our heads the past couple of weeks trying to figure out why he’s been in such a mood. Now we know why.”

“You two shit-talking me?” Michael’s soft tone interrupted the conversation, as he crossed his arms and leaned against the entryway. “How are you feeling?”

She tried and failed to hide the heat creeping up her veins. Even if Y/N had succeeded, that damned monitor, the sound no doubt having been turned back on by Michael before he left, to make sure if anything went awry at night, someone was there for her, betrayed her anyway. God, she wanted to punch the smile off both the men's faces.

“Fine.” She turned her head to look at the wall, as a nurse stepped in and removed the IV catheter and wrapped her hand in gauze. “Not looking forward to the itching that will appear, in what? Three days?”

“No scratching,” Dr. Dimple pointed at her with a pen. “You could injure yourself and cause a serious infection. No rulers, no knitting needles, no crochet needles, no twigs or branches, no nothing.”

“But what about -,”

“No nothing,” he emphasized. “Or I will have to recommend Dr. Robby make a house call on you. Though that isn’t much of a threat for you two, is it?”

“Okay, Frank? Scram. Now. There’re patients that need checking on. I can take care of Y/N.”

“Yeah, I bet you can,” Dr. Langdon let out a laugh but was out of the room before either she or Michael could say anything.

The only thing Y/N was happy about, was that the comment had made not only her flustered, but Michael as well, as he shifted on his feet and rubbed the back of his neck in a nervous tick. In the end, he gave her a smile that said “Sorry about him” and padded over to where he’d left his hoodie.

And that only made her even more flustered, because seeing a man like him, so level-headed and sure, get visibly nervous over her, did things to Y/N. Which made her want to do things to Michael, but then Dana returned, two crutches in hand, Whitaker wheeling a wheelchair once more, and all passion slipped away.

“Right, thanks.” She eyed the crutches like they were cow-eating pythons. “I fucking hate my life.”

Low, warm laughter filtered through the room as Dana helped Y/N get redressed and situated her in the wheelchair, crutches placed over her knees as she was rolled to the nurse’s station.

“I uh, took the liberty of calling Sara for you,” Michael said as he leaned against the table. When Y/N raised a brow in question, he elaborated, “She’s in your emergency contacts. Should be here in fifteen or so.”

“Thank you. You didn’t have to do that, you know.”

“I know,” he smiled. “But I wanted to.”

And there it was again, that warmth that blossomed in her chest, only this time she let it spread, let it wrap around her heart and wash away that bitterness, that’d been there since the morning Y/N had woken up cold and alone.

It hadn’t been just the sex, though that night Michael had given her some of the most earth-shattering orgasms she’d ever had (thankfully, Sara had been away with her girlfriend, so she didn’t have to suffer through the teasing).

It was the conversations leading up to it, the sense of ease Y/N felt around Michael. He was witty and sarcastic, his humor dry, but not at the expense of others while being engaging and thought-provoking at the same time. What had sealed the deal for her though was when he actually engaged in the debate, she presented him – if he had to kiss a fish-spider hybrid, what would he choose – fish head, spider body or fish body, spider head?

He’d made her laugh so hard she cried, and when Y/N had deemed it was time to call an Uber and go home, she’d taken the risk and asked if he wanted to come to her place. And after a few moments where she wanted the earth to open and swallow her whole, he’d nodded.

Together they waited for the cab, standing side by side, yet not touching. He’d opened the car door for her, before slipping in himself.

The tension could be cut with a knife, and afterwards, Y/N had given the driver five stars for enduring it, while the whole way, one of Michael’s palms had slowly moved to rest against her thigh, and she’d had to clench them together because if she didn’t, there would be a noticeable wet spot underneath.

After an agonizing half an hour's drive, they finally got to her place. Michael held the door open for her, and insisted on paying for the Uber, no matter how much Y/N protested.

Every step towards the apartment she was renting on the fourth floor of the complex, was agony. As she fumbled for her keys, Michael’s fingers were slowly skimming the side of her dress where the zipper rested.

Y/N’s whole body was a live-wire, and she wondered how in the world had the lock not melted from the heat, as it slid in place and she unlocked the door, the motion now forever having a sexual connotation, for in that moment Michael was the key that would unlock her desires.

Together, they stepped beyond the threshold, and yet still, he never once removed his touch from her body. From that damned little black number. She’d only worn it because she’d been set up on a blind date. They were supposed to meet up at the bar for a drink before going to a play, but as it turns out, even guys who like theatre can ghost.

When Y/N realized the situation, she wanted to go home, as her date was the one who had the tickets, pull this thing off and drink the already opened bottle of wine that was in the fridge, but she could have at least one good cocktail before that.

That’s when Dr. Robby, or as he’d asked her to call him by his first name, Michael, slid into the seat next to her. They didn’t talk for the first five minutes, not until she’d been scrolling through Instagram and some post had caught her eye. Something about green tea enemas and glowing skin, and the man beside had released a heavy-duty sigh, accompanied by “fucking Dr. Google.”

It’s when slowly but surely, they’d struck up a conversation, which had now resulted in Y/N having Michael towering over her, his beard scratching against the crook of her neck where he’d placed his chin.

When his hands wove and settled against her stomach, any sort of resolve she’d had, snapped. Instantly, she turned, weaving her arms around his neck and pulling his mouth to hers in a bruising kind of kiss. The kind that left you breathless and dizzy and wanting more.

She felt an insatiable thrill rush down her spine as Michael responded with just as much vigor, the pads of his fingers digging deep into her hips and pulling her to be flush against his chest, so much so, that Y/N could feel his own desire growing in his groin.

“I’ve never hated clothes more than I do right now,” she giggled as Michael grappled with the door handle and pushed it close without disconnecting from one another.

“Then let’s get them off, shall we?”

The way he dragged the side zipper open, was almost reverent, worshipping even. Like he wanted to prolong the build-up between them, and Y/N couldn’t lie – she was loving it, even if she was losing her mind. So many times, when she’d had hook-ups, guys tended to just get her naked as fast as possible, which was fine. She was down for it, but there was something indescribable about how Michael reveled in feeling her slowly start to tremble, in how he kissed up and down her neck, while his fingers took their sweet time. It drove her insane with want, in an amount she’d never felt before.

His pointer finger dragged its way up Y/N’s bicep, making goosebumps erupt all over before he slowly slid a strap down. Then the other, until the dress was pooling around her waist, and still, where usually she’d be helping the guy shimmy herself out of the dress, Michael didn’t rush. He simply allowed his hands to explore her body, skimming along her ribs and up to the black lacy number she’d worn, then right back down.

“You counting if I have all my ribs in place, Dr. Robby?” Y/N let out a shaky breath, trying to alleviate the gathered tension, for she was just about to combust, but all she got was a soft smile as he leaned down and pressed a kiss to her neck where her pulse was visibly thrumming.

“I don’t have much time in my day to stop and admire art. So please, indulge me. And art, which I’m allowed to touch, should be revered even more so.”

Her eyes may or may not have rolled to the back of her head at his words, and he hadn’t even gotten his head between her legs yet. Yeah, Dr. Michael “Robby” Robinavitch, the attending of a trauma centre, would be the death of her.

Name of the deceased - Y/N Y/L/N. Date of death - 4th of April, 2025. Cause of death – self-combustion. Reason for self-combustion – a sexy as fuck doctor.

Quite honestly, if that was how she was going to go, so be it.

Finally, though, after what felt like ages, her dress was shed, leaving her only in her underwear and strappy high-heels she’d worn.

“If there is one thing I hate, it’s not having a photographic memory,” Michael grumbled as his hands skimmed along the waistband of her panties. “But trust me when I say this, I will be picturing this moment for decades to come.”

“You are more than welcome to have a look at what’s hiding underneath,” Y/N said. Or that is what she would have said, had she not simply whimpered in response. Not very sexy of her, but the feeling of his chest rumbling with a laugh, totally made up for it.

She gathered enough of her bearings to step out of the fabric around her feet and move them along to her room. Never did his eyes leave her, never did his gaze waver or wander as they faced one another, her queen-sized bed behind her.

“You are awfully overdressed,” Y/N mumbled, allowing herself the luxury of running her palms along the still-covered planed of his chest. His breathing was steady, but to feel the erratic thumping of his heart excited her beyond measure. It meant all that composure was just an act, and she was thrilled she’d be the one to crack it.

She was just about to move her fingers to the buttons of his shirt when Michael slid down to his knees. If his hands hadn’t been resting against her thighs, she was sure she would’ve buckled and crashed. And Michael, damn the man to hell and back, knew it, if only by the smirk that stretched his face as he unlaced the strappy heels she had on and helped her stand on her feet.

Y/N covered her face and groaned, throwing her head back. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you? Torturing me?”

“Torturing you?” A kiss against her navel. “The only person being tortured tonight has been me. At the bar. In the car. Even now, you’re driving me crazy. So, if this is torture, simply consider it payback.”

With the gentlest of touches, only a doctor could manage, Michael skimmed over Y/N’s stretchmarks, scars and blemishes – pieces of herself she didn’t particularly like, but the way he touched her… it was like he was mapping out the carve-marks of a Michelangelo statue. She was Venus and those – the history of her life.

By the time he got back up to her mouth, she was a trembling mess, her nails digging into the muscles of his back, as finally, to her relief, he allowed her to rid him of the shirt.

Much like he’d done to her, Y/N allowed herself the pleasure of exploring his body, mapping out the ridges and slopes of his chest and abdomen, before moving around to his back, and once they made their way to the small of it, she dug her nails against the skin there. The groan she was rewarded with, was sweeter than the cocktail he’d bought her.

“Is it okay, if I touch you here?” Michael’s fingers slipped along the tops of her breasts before they moved to her back where they toyed with the clasp of the garment.

“More than,” Y/N’s words were a breathless whisper by that point, and her inhale stuttered in her chest as she deftly snapped it open.

It was clear he had experience, and not just because he was two decades her senior, but probably also because he’d done so in the trauma center, he worked at. For a brief, stupid second, she wondered how he could still find such acts pleasurable when he’d no doubt had to have done it during horrendous emergencies, yet all that was wiped away when Michael lowered his head and his teeth grazed a nipple.

Her sharp gasp echoed around them, and Y/N weaved her fingers through his hair, pushing his face closer, as he lavished at her chest. The next day, she was sure, there would be bruises and love bites blooming like flowers across her chest and sternum, not to mention the delicious beard burn.

Y/N moaned as he pulled the peak into his mouth, but when an uninhibited thought entered, it made her throw it back in a deep groan.

“That feel good?”

“So fucking good, but also, so yeah, I,” she stammered trying to get her brain to cooperate and create a coherent sentence. “Okay, so I just imagined you in glasses, and this got like ten times hotter.”

“Glasses?” Michael chuckled, pulling slightly back and looking up at her. “That’s what does it for you?”

“Correction – you in glasses. Though you right now are so doing it for me too. But that image just… yeah… kinda glad you don’t have any on. I’d probably be a pile of ash by this point.”

“Now that would be a shame, wouldn’t it?” He said, slowly moving to her other breast, but not neglecting the one he’d already loved on, by cupping it in his large palm. “I mean, I’m just getting started.”

Yeah, Y/N was dead and done for.

As he continued licking at her chest, the hand that’d been fondling one of them, slid down her front and tentatively brushed against her clothed core. It was a single knuckle right against where her clit was, but it was enough for her to jolt in his grasp. Michael just steadied her and held tighter around her waist.

Once he deemed Y/N’s breasts worshipped enough, he trailed back up between them and covered her mouth with his, yet the knuckle, that damned fucking knuckle, still slid against her pussy. He could no doubt feel how wet she was, the material, though there wasn’t much of it anyway, soaked through so bad, her thighs were already sticky.

“Michael please,” Y/N was now openly begging. She was way beyond feeling embarrassed for such a move when in the span of half an hour, he’d reduced her to liquid fire. No one had ever made her feel this wanted. This needed. And she desperately wanted and needed him too.

“Tell me what you want,” he murmured, as he pushed his thumbs beyond the waistband of her panties and started to lower them down. The cool air hit her exposed core, and Y/N released a breathless moan. “You gotta tell me what you want and don’t want. I’m not gonna go any further until you do.”

“I want you to touch me.”

“I am touching you.”

She could feel him smirk as his hands took hold of the globes of her ass and squeezed.

“No, I want you to touch me there,” Y/N whined and tried to chase his mouth with hers, but Michael pulled back, shaking his head.

“Gotta be more specific than that, sweetheart.”

She debated on pulling away completely, on not giving him what he wanted either, but she was pathetic for this man. So, instead, she took one of his hands and guided it from where it rested against her ass, towards the front, sighing in relief as he let her do so. With her fingers guiding his, they slid to rest between her legs as Michael slowly, ever so exploratory, found her clit. She pressed her hand harder against his, so he could match the pressure on her core, and when he did so, overwhelming pleasure flooded her veins.

“There,” Y/N breathed. “I want you to touch me there. And then,” she moved his hand deeper, by the wrist, until she could feel the pads of his fingers nudging against her entrance. “I want you to put three of your fingers inside me, while you suck on my clit, until I’m a crying mess.”

As Y/N lifted her head back to look at him, there was absolutely no sign of the warm brown irises that’d looked at her so gently at the bar. Sure, it was dark in the apartment, yet even in bright daylight, she’d bet all her student loans, only two black abysses would be staring back at her, especially with how fast his chest was rising and falling.

“And then?”

God, had his voice dropped even lower? How did he manage to make it so gravelly, yet smooth as the darkest, most succulent chocolate?

“And then…” Her fingers trembled as she moved her hands to the front of his pants, undoing the buckle and flipping open the button, lowering the zipper as she went. All the while, Michael applied steady pressure on her clit, circling the bundle of nerves just enough to drive her towards the edge, but not enough for release to come. “And uhm, then…” She pushed his pants down as far as they would go, letting them bunch around his knees.

It took barely a moment for him to step out of them completely, kicking them to some forgotten corner of her room, leaving him in only his boxers. Somewhere along the way he’d lost the shoes and socks, but Y/N wasn’t about to go and hunt for them. Not with how he still circled her clit with those experienced appendages.

“Yes?” He raised a brow and pressed harder against her clit, making her pull in a sharp breath.

“And then,” Y/N trailed a teasing finger along the band of his boxers, for once delighting in how his abdomen muscles went taut, and his obviously hard dick twitched inside the confines. “And then I want you to fuck me. However, you want to. As long as by the end of it, neither of us know up from down and left from right.”

When she cupped him over the clothes he still had left on, it seemed like it snapped something in Michael, some taut, already fragile wire, that’d begun fraying ever since she’d invited him back to her place. Because this time when he kissed Y/N, it was a hungry kiss. A man starved being served the most lavish meal of all.

She was on the mattress in a matter of seconds, body covered by his towering frame. They molded perfectly together, Y/N thought. When she rolled her hips up to get at least some form of friction, he responded in kind, clearly searching to satiate his own desire.

Michael’s hands slid from her shoulders down the length of her arms before intertwining their fingers and bringing them up and over Y/N’s head, not once disconnecting from the kiss.

“You keep them there,” he instructed, breathing the words into her mouth. “And when I’m done with my appetizer, we’ll move on to the first of the main courses.”

“Appetizer?” Y/N squeaked out. A good hook-up in her books was at least two orgasms, usually only having one. But calling eating her out an appetizer, and then having a numbered list of courses, was something else completely.

Michael’s only response was that same damned smirk she’d learned could only mean torture, as he made his way between her legs, and without wasting another second, diving in between them.

The first lick of his tongue was a broad, all-encompassing one. And Y/N could only hope her neighbors had some good noise-cancelling headphones at the ready.

His forearms had settled against her hips and palms splayed themselves over her stomach to push her down against the bed, as she tried to chase his mouth.

And what a mouth it was.

Who knew the soft-spoken trauma doctor she’d met on a random Friday night at a bar while waiting for a date that never came, would be the creation of the Devil himself?

But when he pushed two thick fingers inside, shortly followed by a third, just like Y/N had asked, all thoughts flew out of the window. The way he curled them in an attempt at finding that spot that made her gasp and choke on air, the way he scissored them, stretching her, preparing her for the first course he had in mind, was diabolical.

Her first orgasm came unexpectedly. She could feel it like a wave – pushing and pulling – but she hadn’t expected the moment it crested and shattered against the rocks, swift and sharp, coming without a warning, all due to the teasing that’d happened before, no doubt.

Michael rode it out with Y/N, until her hips stopped grinding against his mouth, and he could gently remove his fingers from her pussy.

He placed a soft kiss against the inside of her thigh, the skin raw and tender from his beard, that now glistened with her juices.

“ ‘M sorry,” Y/N mumbled, an arm thrown over her eyes as she came down from her high and tears streamed down to her temples, just like she’d requested.

“Whatever for?”

“Didn’t warn you I was coming.”

As the aftershocks receded, and she removed her arm, she found Michael looking up at her completely puzzled. “And why would I need a warning? I could tell, you know.” He rose to hover over her. “The way you were clenching. Fucking proud of it too.”

“No, I mean,” she huffed, trailing a hand down his chest. “Sometimes guys don’t want to… you know… have that in their mouth. They’d rather finish a girl off with their fingers and not have to… taste it.”

Now that was one way to kill a mood, but Y/N had already opened her big mouth and the words were out.

“And why wouldn’t I want to taste it, hmm?” Michael tilted his head at her, as his hands drifted up and down her sides, over her breasts and clavicles, to skim along her neck and finally settle on the pillow beside her head. “Why wouldn’t I want that, when it’s the end goal? You got your tears,” he kissed the corners of her eyes where the salt still lingered. “And I got my wine.”

Her gaze drifted to the beard, the one she would be feeling for days to come, as she went about her life. The one that was glistening with the remnants of her orgasm even in the dark, and Y/N wondered, what it would be like to sit atop it. To have him pull her down by the waist as she claimed his mouth for her throne. They were such salacious thoughts, for a moment, embarrassment flushed through her, but come on! After such an eating out, Y/N was allowed to fantasize.

“And by the end of this, if you let me,” Michael mumbled, a golden chain dangling in between them. Quickly she snatched it between her teeth and pulled, making him come closer. “I’d like to do so at least once more.”

“You are absolutely welcome to it. Morning, noon and night.”

But at that moment, Y/N had no intentions of allowing him to go for another round, as when he leaned down for a kiss, she lifted a leg over his hip and twisted, throwing Michael off his balance and onto his back, with her now on top.

“But right now… you had your starter.” She gave him a wicked grin. “And I’ve yet to still have mine.”

“Fuck me,” was all he managed to groan out as he threaded a hand through his hair, head pressed tight against her silk-covered pillows while Y/N rid him of his boxers.

His length sprang free, thick and aching. It slapped against his abdomen and her hand curled around it immediately to give him some sort of relief, precum dripping from the tip. Or maybe, she intended to do quite the opposite.

He’d taken his sweet fucking time riling her up. She could take hers. But it was the way he let out the smallest of “please”, the way his eyes locked onto hers, practically begging to put him out of his misery, that did her in. She’d tease him come morning. For now, she was way too aroused herself to deprive her body of his any longer.

Y/N gathered a bit of saliva in her mouth and let it drip down onto his length, before dragging her tongue along the vein at the base of it, her lips wrapping around the tip as she made her way up and giving it a gentle, yet firm, suck.

Michael’s hips jolted, and a hand grasped onto her head. He didn’t push it down or pull her hair in any way, more so it seemed he needed something solid to hold onto as she pulled his length into her mouth, until it hit the back of her throat, making both of them choke.

“You don’t need to do that,” Michael started, ready to pull Y/N away if it became too much for her, but she stayed there, relaxing her muscles bit by bit, until he was so deep down her throat, her nose brushed against the hairs of his pelvis.

“Fucking. Hell.” Those were the only two words he managed to express before Y/N trailed her mouth up and started to really suck him off. After that, it was just grunts and groans, his hand tightening and then unclenching in her hair, but never pressing, never pushing her to take more than she wanted to. Michael was completely immersed with her pace, and ready to take whatever she gave him.

That sort of power could make anyone lightheaded, and when Y/N started to feel him twitch in her mouth, she pulled completely off.

Instantly, his eyes snapped open, head rising to look at how she climbed his body and settled her knees around his hips, pressing her core down against his length. She was just about ready to let it slide inside when Michael’s hands closed around her waist and stopped her.

“Condom,” he breathed out, chest rising and falling rapidly, probably the only word he could manage, which was great, because at least one of them still had some thinking skills left.

“Shit. Fuck. Right, yeah.”

Leaning over to her nightstand, Y/N half-fell over the bed to open the lowest drawer. In between her panties and vibrator, was a little foil packet which she fished out. She was glad of Michael’s unwavering hold, because the way she was precariously dangling over the edge, could end badly and with a stupidly gotten concussion.

When she was back to straddling him, opening the packet and rolling the condom on his length, their eyes met.

Michael rubbed his thumb in a circle on her hip. “We can always stop if you don’t want to go any further.”

“I’m not a quitter,” Y/N scoffed, yet it didn’t elicit the smile she was aiming for, as he rose into a sitting position, wrapping his arms around her, hers resting onto his shoulders.

“And this isn’t some race or competition. You can revoke consent anytime you want. And so can I.”

“I know that,” Y/N nodded, her gaze softening at his words. He could easily create a power imbalance between them. With double the decades of age and experience on her, Michael could be pushing at her limits, trying to twist things into teaching her how to properly please a guy and so on, yet throughout all of it, his focus had been zeroed in on her wants and needs. She shifted a bit in her lap at the thought that she hadn’t checked in with him. “Do you want to stop?”

“No.” His voice was soft but sure, and then, after a moment of him searching her eyes, the smile she’d hoped for, formed on his face. “But uh, and that is obviously if you are alright with it, I wouldn’t be opposed to adding your… friend… to our activities sometime later.”

“My friend?” Y/N tilted her head in confusion. “Oh…” A furious heat exploded through her body, and not because of the fact Michael’s cock was slowly rubbing against her clit, the head nudging just right for pleasure to zing through her.

He’d obviously noticed her vibrator, though the bright purple shade would be hard to miss. “You’re not turned off by it?”

“Why would I be? You’re a woman who has needs. And if that’s how you take care of them, it’s completely fine. I mean, as long as you’re being hygienic and safe about it. Besides,” Michael breathed against her neck, as his hand slid between their bodies and he grasped himself, lining the tip up with Y/N’s entrance. “Real men see them as tools to use to their advantage, not competition. And well, not to stroke my own ego,” he smirked, “but I don’t think I have any competition here.”

Y/N wanted to call him out for that statement, but he wasn’t lying. Not with the way his length stretched her out as he pushed inside. The fingering beforehand was incomparable to the feel of Michael sliding inside at a slow and agonizing pace, but one she desperately needed and welcomed.

He was thick and veiny, all ridges and girth, and so, so perfect for her.

It took a minute for him to be fully sheathed, and a minute more for Y/N to adjust, her forehead pressed against his, while he rubbed his hands up and down her back while she settled.

This wasn’t fucking. This was sex. This was intimate, and it was something she hadn’t known she’d wanted from a partner. Usually, it was fast and hard, leaving both her and the guy she was with, panting against the sheets. Satisfied in the sense that both (hopefully) had had orgasms, but something was always missing. Now, Y/N knew it was this – time.

Time spent exploring one another, time spent learning and teaching, and time spent simply enjoying each other’s bodies.

“You good?” Michael muttered, shifting ever so slightly and making the tip catch a spot inside of her, Y/N had only reached with her purple “friend”.

“Yeah,” she nodded. “You?”

“Yeah.” Michael kissed her. Whether as an affirmation of his words or simply because he could, she didn’t know. But neither did she care. He was the best kisser she’d had the opportunity to enjoy, so she’d take it.

While they kissed, Michael started moving. At first, it was slow rolls of hips, figuring out what movements made both of their breaths hitch and hearts pound, but it wasn’t long before Michael was on his back, knees bent as Y/N bounced up and down, his thumb pressed against her clit the whole time.

Her second orgasm of the night was a more controlled approach. She could feel the coil tightening in her abdomen, and when Michael started lifting his hips up to meet hers, Y/N listed forward, balancing herself against his chest.

“You gonna come?” he breathed against her ear as she pressed her chest against his, Michael’s hands wrapping along the small of her back and holding onto it, so he could fuck up into her pussy. “I can feel you clenching around me. Fuck, you feel good.”

“Michael,” Y/N moaned his name. Not Dr. Robby or Robby how he’d explained the people in his life called him, but the name he’d asked her to call him. His real name.

One snap, two, three. That was all it took for heat to explode. The only grounding thing in the world was his scent – some form of cheap cologne, antiseptic and sweat, but she knew she still had a long way before she came down, with how he was drilling up inside of her, chasing his own release.

It elicited another, albeit smaller orgasm, but the most pleasure she got was when she realized he’d come with her as his palms grabbed onto her ass and pulled her sharply down, her name a sweet grunt on his lips against her ear.

Yeah. Y/N needed to go out with more doctors. At least they knew where to find the clit and not neglect it once they had.

He brought a hand up to her face and pulled her by the cheek to meet his mouth, a satisfied sigh leaving her as he did so.

“That was the best one yet,” Y/N mumbled against his lips.

“And the night’s still young.”

They went three more rounds after that (because she only had three more condoms, and she’d rather use them on one man who knew how to make her come three more times, than three men, who would have trouble getting one out of her).

Michael was also a man of his word, as he had her vibrator join in on the fun. Y/N had her ass up in the air while he railed her from behind, an arm wrapped around her middle, pressing the toy to her clit, the vibrations sending pleasure unlike any other through her.

His front was flush to her back, beard having left delicious burns down her spine, as he’d kissed her there, before eating her out once more in between the rounds and pushing his again-hard cock inside.

That was the final orgasm she could manage, and it seemed Michael knew it. It was the kind that not only made her legs, but her whole body shake, leaving Y/N a trembling mess against the sheets, while he soothed her through the aftershocks.

“You with me, sweetheart?” he mumbled against her temple as he gathered her in his arms and laid them side by side.

“Jus’ give me a momen’,” Y/N slurred while Michael brushed a finger from her cheek to her jaw and back. “I think I’m a medical fucking miracle with how you just fucked my brains out, and yet, I can still function. Barely though.”

Michael’s chuckle reverberated through her body, as after she’d recovered slightly, he gathered her up and moved them to where she instructed the bathroom was, to make sure she peed and didn’t get a UTI. If these had been normal circumstances, she would have never let a guy see her peeing, but quite honestly, Y/N wasn’t sure she’d be able to get back from the toilet seat on her own.

“You’re more than welcome to have a shower if you want. Of course, only if you’re down with smelling like peaches or passion fruit.” Y/N nudged her chin towards the shower gels lining the floor, one hers, the other Sara’s.

“I wouldn’t be opposed to, but only if you join me.”

She hissed, biting her lip. “I don’t have any condoms left. Besides, from what I’ve heard and read, shower sex can be quite precarious. I’m surprised that you as a trauma doctor would risk such a thing.”

“I’m not asking to have sex,” Michale laughed and helped her stand on her still wobbly legs after she flushed. “I’m asking for you to shower with me. Nothing more, nothing less.”

And that’s what they actually did. They simply had a shower. Michael washed her back and she washed his, along with his hair. When she did so, the blissful look on his face, the way he allowed himself to melt against her touch, sent a new kind of thrill through her. But it also made her wonder – when was the last time he allowed someone to take care of him?

By the time they got out from under the water, it was close to four in the morning, so they dried themselves down and went to bed. Y/N’s down duvet was a warm and fluffy cloud around them. Sure, she could have asked him to leave, but why would she, when he seemed so content to be there? Whether anything came from it once they awoke, didn’t matter. If he didn’t want to leave at that moment, Y/N would be the last person to push him to.

She drifted off almost instantly, warm and safe in Michael’s hold, but when the real morning came and she rubbed the sleep from her eyes, body sore and satiated, she was met with a cold spot next to her.

There was no fucking sign on Michael, and judging by how she’d been tucked in, he’d left a while back.

Her dress and underwear had been neatly laid out on the chair in her room, heels tucked beneath it. As she ventured into the apartment, there were absolutely no signs of him, except for a cup of tea on the kitchenette. She knew it’d been made for her – it was filled to the brim, but much like the sheets, it was also already cold.

Sourness settled in her mouth as she poured the liquid down the drain. Not even a single fucking note. It was like they’d never even met.

Y/N hadn’t expected him to leave his phone number, God forbid, his address, what with how he’d laughed when she’d told him she was twenty-six, and he’d responded that he could be her father with that age gap. She knew she was some kind of spur-of-the-moment mistake he’d made. A weakness in his judgement, but fucking hell, she at least deserved an “it was great meeting you, wish you all the best,” note. Especially because he knew the only reason she’d gone to the bar was because she’d been ghosted by a date.

And now – now Michael was also a ghost, an unscratchable, unreachable itch under her skin she couldn’t get to.

That was the real reason Y/N’d felt so bitter for the past two weeks. If he’d been a bad lay, or maybe she’d been the bad party, she would understand the one-and-done-dump, but something about falling asleep while being wrapped up in one another, and then just leaving without so much as a goodbye, was crueler than if he’d left while she was still coming down from her release.

Now though, as she watched him while they waited at the nurse’s station, she noted how his fingers twitched by his side. She wondered whether he wanted to touch her as badly as she wanted to touch him, but then horrible reality kicked in – there wouldn’t be any sort of touching for a while.

She was stuck with her leg in a cast, and a scheduled check-up with Dr. Langdon in a week to take it off and remove the stitches, before it would get swaddled again for a month or more.

Y/N cursed the day she’d met Dr. Michael Robinavitch, for he’d released a monster of carnal urges, she didn’t even really know resided in her. And he was the only one who knew how to properly tame it because even in his scrubs and hoodie, surrounded by the smell of antiseptic and all sorts of bodily fluids she didn’t want to think about, all she wanted to do was grab him by the neck and get him to some supply closet to have her way with him like they were actually in Grey’s Anatomy.

“Michael, I,” Y/N started but got cut off by Sara waltzing into the emergency department.

“How’s my pirate doing?” She threw her arms around her shoulders and squeezed. “They assign you a parrot yet?”

“I don’t have a fucking peg-leg.” Y/N rolled her eyes as she signed a final form. With that, Sara took the wheelchair handles, gave Dana a salute and wheeled her out of the hospital, making Y/N crane her neck back and shout a final thank you to the nurse.

She was just about to ask Sara to slow down as she needed to talk to Michael, when she felt his presence moving with them, silent, steady and strong, his hands taking hold of the crutches as the automatic doors opened.

He followed them out and once they got to Sara’s car, helped Y/N settle in the front seat.

“You good?” He tucked a strand behind her ear.

“Yeah.” She gave him a genuine smile, and her heart pounded in her chest as his eyes trailed to trace her lips. “I am. Thank you. For taking care of me in there.”

“Honestly, I can’t believe I’m saying this, but the only time I’d like to see you back here is for your check-ups.”

Y/N nodded, suppressing a smile. “Duly noted. No shower karaoke for me.”

“I’m serious. You have an appointment with Frank in a week, but other than that, please take care of yourself, alright?”

“You don’t have to worry about that.” She nudged her head towards Sara who was wrangling the crutches inside the boot of the car. “Mother hen is on the job.”

“Good.” Michael nodded and before Y/N could properly prepare herself, he’d leaned down, cupping her jaw in his hands and kissed her.

Her brain short-circuited at that, but when his tongue probed against the seal of her lips, she had to start wondering if she’d actually died when she’d hit her head in the shower. It didn’t take more than that though for her to open up, for her arms to brush against his scrubs and weave into the salt-and-pepper hair.

By the time Michael pulled back, both their lips were kiss-swollen.

“Let me take you out on a date.”

Y/N let out a breathless laugh, scratching the back of his neck. “What happened to the doctor-patient thing?”

Michael only smirked. “You’ve been discharged. You’re no longer a patient of mine.”

“Okay, but even so – what would we do? My leg’s in a cast, and I can barely hobble around with the crutches.”

“I can carry you. I don’t mind.”

“And throw out your back, old man?”

“Hey, I’m not that old!” Michael protested, and when he noted the smile on her mouth, he pressed his against it once more.

“How about this,” Y/N proposed, “when you’re done with your shift, you could come over to my place, and -,”

“Our place,” Sara butted in, sliding into the driver’s seat. “So, whatever you have in mind – no hanky-panky with me next door.”

If Y/N rolled her eyes any harder they would get stuck in the back of her head, but she returned her attention to the awaiting attendant. “And we order some take-out. We watch a movie and then just… go to sleep?”

“It might be very late by the time I’m off.”

When she raised her hand and cupped his rugged cheek, it took him no time at all to lean into her touch. “I can wait.” She pecked his lips. “I’m in no rush.” She could only hope he understood the double meaning behind what she meant with it.

Later that night as Y/N sat by the TV, the glow of the screen illuminating her face, she fell asleep with her head against Michael’s chest.

And when she awoke, her sheets were warm with the remnants of his body, even if he wasn't there anymore.

She was alone, yes, but atop the pillow rested a note:

Shift started at 8. Sorry, I can’t be there to wake up with you. I’ll be home by 9.

It was almost impossible to wipe the smile off her face for the rest of the day.

Even as the itching under the cast started.

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Tags: are open :) if you wish to be tagged in further fics, please drop a comment under the fic or message me or leave me an ask :)

A/N: I have arisen

if you wish to know how this man makes me feel, please listen to Slutty by The Scarlet Opera.

I am FERAL.

P.S. I hope you enjoyed it :) feedback/constructive criticism is always appreciated :)

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