#so everything is just going to sit on my tablet

[shokocide]

POWER PLAY - GOJO SATORU

summary. Gojo Satoru’s used to getting everything he wants—until his company hires you, the shy assistant who’s all glitter, gloss and charm. But the more he tries to stay professional, the harder it gets… in more ways than one.

word count. 9.3k (not 10k wow)

content. mdni fem!bimbo! reader, ceo! gojo, gojo crashing out for multiple reasons, down bad simp gojo, heavy tension, teasing, jealousy, pet names, smut, multiple scenes, fingering, oral (m and f rec.), p in v, office sex, desk sex, praise, creampie, slight overstim, aftercare

author's note. inspired by this by my leslover @deathofacupid i'm sorry this took so long imy hardcore my angel

The wine’s expensive, but not because he’s trying to impress her.

He just likes the taste.

The restaurant is sleek, candlelit, with soft jazz humming in the background. It’s the kind of place that whispers luxury, not screams it — understated elegance, a lot like his watch. Or his suit. Or the car he pulled up in.

The girl across from him is… nice. Pretty in that polished, social-media kind of way. Knows which fork to use, laughs at the right moments, has a thousand-watt smile and legs he noticed the second she slid into the booth.

For the first time in a long time, Gojo thinks: maybe.

Maybe this could go somewhere.

She sips her wine, sets the glass down, and leans in just enough for the scent of vanilla to drift his way. Her voice is smooth, easy. “So, what’s it like, running an empire?”

He smiles, a little self-deprecating. “Exhausting.”

She laughs. “Bet it pays well, though.”

A harmless joke, maybe. But something cold flickers at the edge of his ribs.

He hums, brushing it off.

But then she tilts her head, lashes fluttering just so. “I mean… you must be, like, what? Eight figures? Nine?”

There it is.

His smile doesn’t falter, but something in his chest withers.

He takes a slow sip of his wine. Lets the silence stretch for a beat too long.

Eight figures. Nine.

She’s still looking at him, expectant. Playful.

He should be used to this by now. Hell, he is. But it still stings. Every damn time.

“I stopped counting,” he says lightly, setting his glass down.

She laughs again, tossing her hair over her shoulder. “That’s such a rich guy answer.”

And just like that, the candlelight feels too warm, the wine too bitter. The space between them grows miles wide.

Gojo leans back in his seat, fingers drumming lightly on the tablecloth. He already knows there won’t be a second date. No nightcap. No exchanged texts or cheeky goodnights.

And when he finally slips into the backseat of his car an hour later, staring blankly out the tinted window at the blur of city lights, a single thought loops in his head like a broken record:

Maybe this just isn’t in the cards for me.

Not the connection. Not the late-night calls. Not the stupid domestic shit he secretly wants — tangled legs on a couch, coffee in chipped mugs, someone who sees him.

He huffs a soft laugh, more bitter than amused.

Gojo Satoru has everything.

And somehow, he feels like he has nothing.

-

“What did you just say?”

Gojo doesn’t raise his voice. He doesn’t need to. The sheer weight behind the words is enough to make the room still.

Nanami adjusts his glasses, like he hasn’t just dropped a nuclear bomb in the middle of Gojo’s morning.

“The quarterly reports,” he repeats flatly, “were emailed to Zenin Holdings.”

A pause.

“And the Osaka merger documents,” he adds. “Along with internal notes referring to their CEO as—” he consults his tablet, “—‘an off-brand Ken doll.’”

Gojo presses a hand to his temple, like he’s physically holding in the migraine.

“Who?” he grits out.

Nanami doesn’t blink. “The new recruit.”

Another silence stretches.

Then Gojo lowers his hand. “Bring them to my office.”

Nanami nods once, and without another word, leaves the room.

-

You’re not sure why you were summoned.

You clutch your little pastel folder to your chest like it might protect you, knees squeezed together as you sit—perch, really—on the plush chair outside the glass doors of the executive office.

The receptionist gave you a look. You’re not sure what kind of look. It felt kind of judge-y. Or maybe pitying?

Then, the doors open.

“You can go in,” Nanami says, voice flat as ever.

You blink up at him, eyes wide. “Oh! Okay. Um. Am I—” You pause, then smile nervously. “Am I in trouble?”

He doesn’t answer.

That’s fine. Totally fine.

You step into the office with careful little steps, the kind of walk that says please don’t fire me before I finish paying off my student loans.

Inside, the man behind the desk looks up.

White hair. Stupidly pretty face. Cerulean eyes that flick over you like you’re a puzzle that somehow assembled itself upside-down.

He’s not smiling.

You don’t meet his eyes—not for more than a second—just dip your head as you approach his desk.

“I—um. I was told to… to report here?”

Your voice is so quiet he almost misses it.

He leans back in his chair, elbow on the armrest, thumb brushing his jaw. “You’re the new recruit?”

You nod once, too fast. “Y-Yes. I mean, I think so. That’s what Mr. Nanami said, at least. He said—um, he said this is my new position now.”

You step fully into the office, holding a pink folder like it might bite you. You’re wearing a cream sweater that looks two sizes too soft and a plaid skirt that’s about four inches too short for HR standards. Your ID badge is flipped backward. Your heels click awkwardly against the tile.

And he suddenly understands how people end up doing very, very stupid things for women.

You stand there, shifting your weight from one heel to the other, clutching your folder like it’s a lifeline.

“And you are…?”

You whisper your name so faintly he has to repeat it aloud just to be sure.

“Right.” He pauses. “Well, take a seat.”

You hesitate for a second too long before perching on the very edge of the chair across from him—back stiff, eyes focused on the edge of his desk.

Gojo leans back in his chair. He’s quiet for a beat too long.

Then “So,” he says, tone deceptively mild. “Tell me. Why did Zenin Holdings get our quarterly reports?”

You freeze.

“I—I didn’t know they weren’t supposed to?” you offer, blinking up at him.

He blinks back. Slowly.

You chew your lip in thought. “They were in the CC list… and I thought that meant they were part of the, um… quarterly club?”

“The what.”

“The quarterly club?” you repeat, voice smaller now. “Y’know. People who… get quarter stuff.”

You trail off, wilting under the weight of his silence.

Gojo stares at you. Hard. Trying—trying—to remember that you are a human being. With feelings. With softness. With a little clip shaped like a bunny holding back your hair. His eye twitches.

“And the Osaka merger notes?” he asks slowly, enunciating each word like it might hurt.

Your expression brightens slightly, like you've just remembered something important. “Oh! Yeah, I added a couple of personal notes to that file! Like, color commentary. For context.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Color commentary.”

He almost sighs. This is who HR sent? The one who forwarded classified financial statements to a competitor because their logo “looked kind of familiar”?

But then you shift slightly, fidgeting with the hem of your skirt, and he catches a glimpse of that anxious expression. The way you bite the inside of your cheek. Like you're waiting to be yelled at. Like you already know you’ve messed up and can’t even figure out how to explain yourself.

And, god help him, something about that makes his chest ache.

Gojo closes his eyes briefly. He’s going to need to do breathing exercises. Maybe call Shoko and have her prescribe something illegal.

You smile again. It’s like watching sunlight struggle through a stormcloud. “Was that bad?”

He exhales.

He should fire you. Realistically, that’s the correct response. A sane man would do it.

But when he opens his eyes, you're still standing there—wide-eyed, a little nervous, but so terribly, painfully earnest.

And his heart does that stupid little lurch again.

“No,” he mutters finally. “Not bad.”

You brighten instantly. “Oh, yay! I was worried—”

“But,” he cuts in, holding up a hand, “you’re going to be working directly under me from now on.”

Your brows lift. “Really? Oh my gosh, that sounds so fancy!”

“It’s not,” he lies smoothly.

He’s already planning which desk you’ll sit at in his office. Already making a mental note to have HR triple-check your email access. Already dreading what happens when you accidentally reply-all to a company-wide memo.

You give a delighted little bounce, clearly thrilled by the promotion.

Gojo’s not even mad anymore.

He’s confused. He’s concerned. He’s possibly having a stroke.

And he’s completely, utterly fucked.

-

It starts with the printer.

You stand in front of it for ten minutes straight, staring like it personally wronged you. Gojo passes by, slows, then stops entirely when he sees you poking the touchscreen with a single perfectly-manicured finger.

“…Need help?”

You turn, lip caught between your teeth. “I think it’s jammed.”

He crouches down, opens the tray, and immediately pulls out a crumpled sheet that’s very clearly been inserted upside down.

“Oh,” you murmur, eyes wide with awe. “You’re so smart.”

He straightens slowly. “Right.”

Then there’s the time he catches you on your way to send a very important file.

You wave at him, cheerful. “Hi, Mr. Gojo! I’m going to fax that thing you said.”

“Email,” he corrects gently, already bracing himself.

“Oh—right! Email. I meant that.”

(You did not.)

Still, when you do manage to send the right file—to the correct company this time—he gives you an exaggerated look of impressed approval.

“Nice job,” he says. “Look at you.”

You beam. “Really?”

“Yeah,” he says, completely serious. “You’re crushing it.”

He swears your cheeks actually flush. Like you’re the one who just got complimented for launching a satellite into orbit instead of… attaching a PDF.

Another time, he asks you to bring him a hard copy of the quarterly budget report.

You come back ten minutes later with a full-color printout of a Pinterest banana bread recipe.

You fidget when he just blinks down at the paper, eyes wide. “I, um… I might’ve labeled it wrong on my desktop.”

He hands it back. “Looks delicious.”

Despite everything—everything—he just can’t seem to get frustrated with you. Your voice is always soft when you speak to him, full of tentative politeness like you’re worried he might bite (he won’t—unless asked). You apologize earnestly for every tiny mistake, so genuinely mortified each time that he ends up reassuring you.

And when you do get something right—God help him—he reacts like you’ve cured polio.

“That’s perfect,” he tells you one afternoon, glancing at a neatly stapled stack of documents you’ve triple-checked for typos. “You nailed it.”

You blink up at him, mouth parted just a little. “…Really?”

“Mmhm. Proud of you.”

You go quiet. Blush furiously. Practically flee the room.

Gojo grins at the door after it clicks shut behind you.

He’s doomed.

Absolutely doomed.

-

“Do you need to stand there like that?” the exec snaps, arms crossed. “That machine isn’t rocket science.”

You blink, startled. “O-oh… I’m just— I’m trying to find the—um, the collate button?”

“It’s literally right there,” he scoffs, jabbing a finger at the screen. “God, how did you even get hired?”

You flinch like you’ve been struck. Eyes down, voice small. “I—I’m sorry…”

And that’s exactly when Gojo shows up.

You don’t even see him coming. One second the air is stiff with tension, the next it’s cut clean by the sound of his voice—smooth, pleasant, deceptively light:

“Everything okay over here?”

The exec stiffens. “Sir. I was just—”

“I saw,” Gojo says simply, stepping in beside you. He doesn’t even look at the guy—his gaze is already on you, sharp and assessing.

“You alright?”

You nod quickly. “Mhm. Sorry. I was just confused—”

“No need to apologize,” he says, almost too softly. “That’s what training is for.”

Then he finally looks up—at the exec—and there’s something in his eyes that wipes the smug off the latter’s face immediately.

“Unless,” he adds with a tilted smile, “you’re suggesting I made a mistake hiring her?”

Silence.

The exec stammers. “Of course not, sir. I—”

“Good,” Gojo says. “Then don’t talk to her like that again.”

The exec makes a quick, flustered exit. Gojo turns back to you, and his whole demeanor changes—softening.

“Hey,” he murmurs. “You okay?”

You nod again, a little stunned. “…I didn’t mean to make trouble.”

“You didn’t,” he assures you. “Some people just forget how to be decent.”

And then—because you’re fidgeting and biting your lip and looking far too much like you’re going to cry—he gently takes the stack of papers from your arms.

“C’mere,” he says. “I’ll help you.”

You trail after him, still pink in the cheeks, still utterly confused by the way his hand just barely grazes the small of your back as he guides you to his office.

(You don’t know it yet, but Gojo has already scheduled a little "chat" with HR.)

-

He checks his watch for the third time that morning.

9:47 AM.

You were supposed to be here by 9:00.

Gojo exhales, drumming his fingers against the arm of his chair, irritation simmering just beneath his skin. Meetings have been pushed, calls delayed. He’s not even sure why he’s this impatient—he has other assistants, more capable ones at that. But none of them stumble into his office with sleepy eyes and whispered apologies like you do.

And like clockwork, the door swings open with a quiet creak.

You enter in a flurry—breathless, hair slightly disheveled, cheeks flushed with panic. The top two buttons of your blouse are undone, likely forgotten in the rush, and your skirt is just slightly askew. Your chest rises and falls in frantic rhythm, lips parted as you gasp, “I’m so, so sorry I’m late—”

Satoru turns in his chair, ready to scold. Ready to lecture you into next week.

But the words die in his throat.

His gaze drops.

The loose fabric of your blouse shifts with each heavy breath, revealing just enough skin to make his jaw tighten. The delicate slope of your collarbone, the curve of your breasts pressing faintly against the silk. One deep breath away from completely derailing his morning.

You don’t notice the way his posture stiffens. Or the way his grip on the armrest turns white-knuckled.

He stands slowly.

Silent.

You freeze when he starts walking toward you, every step measured. His voice, when it comes, is quieter than you expect. Lower.

“Why are you late?”

You blink up at him, confused by the shift in tone. The air around him feels… heavier somehow. You fidget, your voice soft, guilty. “I—I overslept. My alarm didn’t go off and then the train was late and I didn’t mean to—”

He stops in front of you, towering over you. Close enough that you can smell his cologne—warm, expensive, intoxicating.

You glance up nervously, throat bobbing.

“I didn’t mean to,” you whisper again, lips trembling in the tiniest pout. You’re not even aware of how you sound, how you look. Not aware of the storm building behind his gaze.

And that is the worst part.

Because you don’t know what you’re doing to him.

You never do.

Gojo inhales sharply, jaw clenched. He watches the way your fingers twist in the hem of your cardigan like you’re expecting to be punished.

But instead of snapping, instead of chastising you like he knows he should, he closes his eyes for a second, forcing down the heat licking at his spine.

“...Don’t let it happen again,” he says at last, voice hoarse.

You nod quickly—eager to please, still breathless, completely unaware that he’s already running through several very unprofessional thoughts involving those undone buttons and his desk.

He turns away before he can say something stupid. Or worse—do something worse.

“Go grab your coffee,” he mutters. “You’ll need it.”

Because he sure as hell does.

-

Gojo thinks he’s composed. Polished. Unshakeable. He built an empire from the ground up, commands boardrooms with a single glance, and has executives stuttering when they see his name on a meeting invite. And yet—you.

You waltz into his office in pink heels, with a notepad that’s more doodles than notes and a voice so breathy it makes his vision blur. You don’t even mean to drive him insane, he knows that. That’s the worst part. You’re just sweet. Oblivious. Soft in ways that make his dick ache.

Like today. You’re sitting on the edge of his desk, babbling on the phone about a nail appointment while absentmindedly reapplying your lip gloss—shiny, sticky, strawberry-scented. He watches the wand glide over your bottom lip like it's a slow-motion scene from a movie no one else gets to see. He’s staring. Unblinking. Dying.

And when you leave, heels clicking, skirt swaying, you forget the gloss. He doesn’t even hesitate. Just picks it up and rolls it between his fingers, stares at it. It smells like strawberries. You smell like strawberries. His head hits the back of his chair. He’s so fucked.

It happens again and again. You lean over his desk to show him your “cute calendar” for the month—full of glittery stickers and hearts—and your cleavage is right there. Right. There. He knocks his coffee into his lap and doesn’t even flinch. Just stares at you while it soaks through his slacks, wondering if this is how men go insane.

And then in the elevator. Five minutes. Just the two of you. You don’t even notice the silence thick with tension. You’re talking about your new lip liner. He’s clutching the railing behind him like it’s keeping him tethered to Earth. If you’d looked at him, you’d have seen the vein in his neck pulsing like a warning sign.

But nothing—nothing—compares to the time you shyly step into his office and whisper, “I finished typing the reports, sir.”

He doesn’t breathe for a full ten seconds. Just stares at you like you just moaned it instead of murmured it. Sir. Sir.

He shifts in his seat. Crosses his legs. Forces a smile. “Good,” he manages to say, voice tight.

You beam, oblivious. “Thank you, sir!”

He books a week off.

For “stress.”

-

His voice is calm. Measured. Smooth as silk over the phone speaker as he discusses quarterly projections with someone powerful on the other end. It should be just another meeting—another conversation where he dazzles and dominates, where the board eats out of the palm of his hand.

But you're sitting beside him. So it’s not just another meeting.

You’re perched on the edge of his long leather couch, notepad in hand, eyes wide and glossy with focus—or something like it. You’re wearing that tight little pastel skirt again, the one that always hikes up when you sit, riding dangerously high on your thighs. He’s not looking. He’s not. He can’t.

You chew on the tip of your pen. Take little notes in bubbly handwriting that looks more like diary scribbles than minutes. Your perfume curls around him like sugar���sweet and sticky and heavy.

He swallows thickly and forces his voice to stay even.

“Yes, I saw the numbers from Q1. I’m more concerned about the international—”

Your pen clatters to the ground.

You let out a tiny “Oops!” and bend down to retrieve it.

And he sees it.

The hem of your skirt lifts, slow and innocent. And beneath? A delicate peek of pink lace. Just a flash. Barely anything. But enough. Far too much.

His throat goes dry mid-sentence.

“—international… ah—i-interest projections,” he chokes, dragging a hand down his face like that’ll fix the heat flooding it. On the other end of the call, someone asks a question. He doesn’t hear it.

You sit back up like nothing happened. Like you didn’t just flash your lace panties in front of a man on the verge of damnation.

You turn to him with a soft, clueless smile. “Did you want me to jot that last part down, sir?”

He makes a sound. It's somewhere between a sigh and a whimper.

“…Y-Yeah,” he rasps, gripping the edge of the desk so hard his knuckles go white. “Write it down, sweetheart.”

He ends the call early. Tells them he has a migraine.

And when you leave, swaying your hips and humming under your breath, he sits there in silence. Staring at the door.

He needs a second. Maybe a sedative. Maybe a priest.

-

The next few days are… strange.

You don’t do anything differently. Not really. You still show up on time, still take notes in pink ink and heart your i’s. Still trail after him in those little skirts and heels that click sweetly on the marble floors. But now?

Now you catch him looking.

At first, you thought it was your imagination—just a trick of the lights in his big glass-walled office. But then there was that meeting where you leaned over to grab a file from across the table, and his pen slipped right out of his hand.

The way he stared at it on the floor for a solid five seconds before muttering, “I’ll grab it later,” like it had personally wronged him.

Or how his jaw flexes every time you call him “sir.”

And maybe, maybe you're not as airheaded as everyone thinks. Maybe you notice the way his breath stutters when you get a little too close. The way his fingers twitch when yours brush his as you hand him his coffee. The way he clears his throat, sharp and low, whenever you pout a little at the copier machine and ask, “Sir, can you help me? I think I broke it again…”

He’s unraveling. Quietly, pathetically. And now you know it.

So one afternoon, when it’s just you two in the office, you decide to test a theory. You're by his desk, sorting through a stack of documents, when your pen slips from your fingers. Again.

This time, you don't rush to pick it up. This time, you bend at the waist slowly, keeping your knees straight, skirt riding up with every inch.

You hear it—barely—a sharp inhale through his teeth. The creak of leather as he shifts in his chair.

And when you straighten up, all innocent, pen in hand and a small “Got it!” on your lips, you glance back at him.

His eyes are locked on his screen. His jaw is tense. His ears are red.

“Something wrong, sir?” you ask softly.

His hand flexes on the mouse. “No,” he says, too quickly. “Just… keep working.”

You turn back around, letting a little smile play on your lips as you resume sorting. And behind you, you swear you hear him exhale like he’s been holding his breath for hours.

-

The office is quiet. Still.

It’s late—past nine—and everyone’s gone home. The usual buzz of ringing phones and fast-clicking heels has faded into silence, replaced by the distant hum of the city through the tinted glass.

You zip your purse, your reflection faint in the darkened windows, and start toward the elevators when you pass by his office.

There's a light. A thin sliver glowing beneath the heavy door.

You pause. He usually leaves before you—always gone in a blur of cologne and tailored coats, muttering about dinner meetings or conference calls. But tonight?

You don’t even think to knock. You just twist the handle gently and step inside.

He’s on the couch. Jacket off, shirt sleeves rolled to the elbows, tie loosened. His head’s tipped back, long legs spread lazily, one arm resting across the back of the couch. But it’s his face that stops you—brows knit, lips parted slightly, tension carved into every sharp line of his expression.

“Sir?” you ask, voice soft.

His eyes snap open instantly.

He blinks once. Twice. Like he’s still anchoring himself to the present. Then he straightens slightly, clearing his throat. “You’re still here?” His voice is rough—raspy, like he hasn’t spoken in a while. Like maybe he’s been sitting there, alone in the dark, trying to exhale something that refuses to leave his chest.

“I was just leaving,” you say, stepping in hesitantly. “I saw the light. Thought something was wrong…”

His gaze drags over you, slow and unreadable. You’re still in your little work outfit—tight pencil skirt, soft pink cardigan buttoned just enough, gloss fading but still catching the light.

Something shifts behind his eyes. Not predatory, not quite. Just tired. Tightly wound. Like he's been holding his breath for days and didn't realize it until now.

You take another step in, voice gentler. “Are you okay?”

He huffs a laugh under his breath, low and humorless. “That’s a loaded question.”

You offer a tiny smile, unsure. “Can I… get you anything? Water?”

He leans back again, dragging a hand through his already-messy hair. “I’m alright. Just… stressed.”

You take a small step closer. Your heels click against the floor, the sound delicate and deliberate in the thick silence of his office. “Stressed?” you echo, like it’s a foreign concept. “Is it work stuff?”

He chuckles, but there’s no humor in it. “It’s always work stuff.”

You hesitate. Then, softly—“I could help you.”

His head tilts just slightly. “Help me?”

“Mhm,” you nod, all sweet sincerity. “Like, if there’s something that’d make you feel better…” You give him a soft little shrug, voice light. “I’m good at taking direction. And I always try my best. Especially for you, sir.”

It cuts to silence.

Except it isn’t really silent—just muffled. Wet sounds echo low between your bodies, broken only by the soft catch of your breath and the rougher gasps he keeps trying—and failing—to hold in.

You’re on your knees in front of him.

The carpet’s rough under your skin, but you barely notice. All your attention is on him—on the way he looks half-wrecked, head tipped up like he’s praying for strength he doesn’t have.

His shirt’s half-open, wrinkled and clinging to his chest. His tie’s slung loose around his neck. His belt is unbuckled, slacks shoved just low enough to free his cock, flushed and heavy against your tongue. You’ve got one hand wrapped gently around the base, just to keep him steady, and the rest of him is disappearing into your mouth—slow and warm and dripping with spit.

He’s so hard it hurts. His thighs are tensed under your palms, twitching every time you suck just a little deeper, every time you swirl your tongue just right. His knuckles have gone white where he’s gripping the edge of the desk behind him, and the only reason he hasn’t fucked into your throat yet is because he’s too stunned to move.

One hand’s in your hair. Not tight—barely there, fingers trembling where they tangle in your strands. Like he’s scared to hold you too hard. Like he doesn’t trust himself not to snap.

Because you look up at him with those pretty, shiny eyes—sweet and obedient, mouth stretched around his cock like it’s nothing, like you were made to take it. Every time your lips slide down, you hum like it makes you happy. Like you’re just trying to make him feel good. Like you really think this is helping.

But it’s not just good. It’s fucking devastating.

“F-fuck,” he chokes out, voice thick and raw, eyes squeezing shut like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded. His hips twitch and he immediately pulls back, like he’s punishing himself for even thinking about pushing deeper. “You—god, you have no idea what you’re doing to me…”

You pull back with a soft, wet pop. Your lips are swollen and slick, gloss long gone, spit clinging to your chin. And still—you look up at him like you don’t understand why he’s shaking. Why his voice is breaking. Why his jaw’s so tight.

You blink slowly, lashes fluttering. Your voice comes out light. “But… I thought I was helping, sir.”

And that’s it. That’s the moment Gojo knows he’s fucked.

Because you’re too sweet, too soft, too good—kneeling on the floor with your mouth still open like you're waiting for permission to keep going. And he doesn’t want to just ruin you.

He wants to worship you while he does it.

His whole body goes still.

Like that last sentence knocked the breath out of him. Like the sight of you—so sweet, so sincere, kneeling between his spread legs with spit on your lips—is too much.

Gojo’s chest heaves, one hand still barely resting in your hair. The other drapes uselessly over the back of the couch, knuckles twitching like he doesn’t know what to do with himself.

He looks down at you. Really looks—at your flushed cheeks, your glassy eyes, the gloss long gone from your lips. You’re still stroking him, slow and gentle, mouth parted just enough like you’re ready to take him again the second he says so.

“You don’t even know what you’re doing to me,” he mutters, voice rough.

You tilt your head, blinking up at him. “I was just trying to make you feel better…”

And that’s what shatters him.

“Fuck,” he breathes, hand tightening slightly in your hair. Not rough. Just… grounded. Like he needs you now—needs the feel of you to keep from falling apart.

“I’ve dreamed about this,” he admits, eyes fluttering shut for a second. “This exact thing. You. On your knees. Pretty little mouth full of me. Acting like you don’t even realize what it’s doing to me.”

When he opens his eyes again, they’re glassy. Wild.

“I think about it all the time, you know? In meetings. At dinner. Late at night in my apartment—fucking my fist wishing it was you.”

Your breath hitches at that. He notices.

And when he strokes your cheek—soft, reverent, thumb brushing over your spit-slick lower lip—you don’t flinch. You just lean into it, eyes wide, mouth still open a little.

“God, baby…” he whispers. “Look at you. You don’t even realize how fucking perfect you are, do you?”

Then, low and commanding, “C’mon. Open up again for me.”

You do. Instantly. No hesitation.

He groans, head falling back against the couch cushion, hips lifting just slightly as you take him back into your mouth—slow, deliberate, deeper this time.

He’s panting now. One hand in your hair, the other gripping the couch so hard the leather creaks under his fingers.

“Good girl,” he murmurs, voice broken. “Just like that. Let me use your mouth, sweetheart. Let me fuckin’—” He cuts himself off with a ragged gasp when your tongue flicks along the underside of his cock just right.

He tries not to buck his hips.

Tries not to grab your head.

Tries not to lose it completely.

But it’s no use. Not when you look so soft. So obedient. So eager to take everything he gives you.

And somewhere in the back of his mind, he knows this isn’t just a one-time thing. Not after this. He’s never letting you go.

You can feel it in the way his thighs tense under your palms. In how his hand tightens just a little too much in your hair, like he’s trying not to pull you down—trying to be good.

But his self-control’s shot to hell.

You hollow your cheeks and ease forward just an inch more. His head snaps back. A long, broken moan spills out of him, and his other hand—still clinging to the edge of the couch—moves to cradle your cheek, palm shaking.

“Wait—baby, I’m gonna—fuck, I’m gonna—”

You look up at him. Eyes wide. Unfazed. Lips stretched around him, spit running down your chin. You hum softly—sweet and encouraging, like you want it.

That’s what does it.

Gojo groans deep in his chest, hips twitching once before he locks them still, his hand trembling where it cups your face. He comes hard, spilling onto your tongue, body shuddering like he’s been pulled out of orbit. And you don’t move—don’t flinch—just swallow quietly, blinking up at him like you’ve never done anything so natural in your life.

He’s panting when it’s over. Gasping like he ran a mile, chest rising and falling in uneven bursts. His hand slips from your hair and drags gently down the side of your neck, tender and dazed.

“Holy shit,” he breathes. “You’re unreal.”

You pull back slowly, mouth slick, lips swollen and pink. There's still a bit of him clinging to your bottom lip—and when you wipe it away with your thumb and suck it off absentmindedly, he makes a soft, wrecked sound in the back of his throat.

“Did I help?” you ask softly, like you’re not already his religion.

And suddenly he’s moving.

In one smooth, needy motion, Gojo leans forward, grabs you under your arms, and pulls you right into his lap. The whole shift is effortless—like you weigh nothing, like you belong there. Your knees settle on either side of his thighs, your hands instinctively resting on his chest.

He’s still breathing hard. Hair messy, tie hanging askew. But his hands are steady now, warm as they cup your hips and hold you close. His head rests against your shoulder for a second, like he just needs to feel you.

“Too well,” he murmurs. “You helped too fucking well.”

One hand lifts to cup the side of your face again. He strokes your cheek with his thumb, gaze softening like he’s trying to memorize everything—your flushed skin, your shiny lips, the way you’re still straddling him like it’s the most normal thing in the world.

“You’re so good for me,” he says. Quiet. Honest.

You smile, just barely. “I like being good for you.”

And it clicks for him then. That he’s completely gone. That he’d do anything to keep you like this—sweet, soft, his.

“Let me take care of you now,” he murmurs, leaning in. “You were perfect.”

His mouth brushes your jaw, your cheek, your lips—soft, reverent kisses. Nothing rushed. Just quiet, lingering gratitude, like he’s trying to say everything he doesn’t have words for yet.

He holds you there, warm in his lap, and for once in his life, Gojo Satoru feels like he has nothing else to run to.

-

It starts small.

A glance that lingers too long. The way his eyes flick down to your mouth whenever you talk. The way his voice goes soft—low and fond—when he calls you into his office now.

“Got a minute, sweetheart?”

He always says it like it’s nothing. Like his heart isn’t skipping a beat every time you look up at him with wide eyes.

But then there’s the night he catches you frowning at the copier.

Your arms are crossed, bottom lip caught between your teeth, standing in front of the machine like it just insulted your entire bloodline.

He rounds the corner, sees the blinking error light, and immediately slows his steps.

“Need help?” he asks, lips twitching.

You huff. “It keeps saying ‘paper jam,’ but there’s no paper. I looked!”

Gojo steps in without hesitation, one hand brushing your back as he leans close—so close—to peer into the machine with you.

“Let me help you, sweetheart,” he murmurs, voice warm.

You freeze a little when he says it like that. Soft. Patient. Like it’s the most natural thing in the world for him to come untangle your messes.

He opens the side panel, reaches in, and—sure enough—pulls out a crumpled little piece of paper stuck way in the back. You blink.

“Oh.”

He grins, glancing down at you. “You’re cute when you try to problem-solve.”

You open your mouth to protest, but before you can say a word, he leans down and kisses you. Soft, slow, sure. Right there in the hallway, lights buzzing faintly overhead.

It doesn’t last long—just a breathless few seconds—but when he pulls back, he’s smiling like you hung the stars.

“See? You do your best,” he says. “And I take care of the rest.”

Another day, another meeting.

You're seated beside him, nervously flipping through a stack of documents. The printouts don’t make much sense—some budget chart you barely understand—but you try to follow along, nodding like you get it.

Gojo notices. Of course he does.

He leans over, voice low near your ear. “That page’s upside down, baby.”

You blink down. Oh. It is.

Your face goes hot instantly. But he just grins, tugs it gently from your hands, and flips it around before setting it neatly back on the table.

Then he grabs your pen and starts jotting little notes in the margins to help. Bullet points. Simplified terms. Asterisks with arrows pointing to key numbers.

You stare at the page.

He nudges your knee under the table, gentle. “I got you.”

Sometimes he kisses you without warning. When you bring him coffee. When you trip over your words in a meeting and look at him like you’re going to cry. When you smile too hard at something stupid and he just can’t help himself.

There’s a moment in the break room—mid-laugh, holding a napkin in your hand—when he walks in, sees you like that, and kisses you so suddenly the coffee cup almost falls from your fingers.

He just pulls you in. Mouth hot and insistent. One hand curling around your waist like he needs you closer.

You gasp against him, wide-eyed, but don’t pull away. You never do.

When he breaks the kiss, he leans his forehead against yours, breathing hard. Eyes glassy.

“Sorry,” he whispers. “Couldn’t help it.”

But he’s not sorry. Not even a little.

And when he walks you out at the end of the night—past the quiet desks, the dark windows—he always makes sure your purse is zipped, your coat is buttoned, your phone’s in your hand.

“You good?” he asks, gentle. “Need me to call you a car?”

“I’m okay,” you say every time, small and sweet.

But he still walks you to the elevator, still touches your back as the doors close, still watches them until the numbers tick down and you're out of sight.

Because Gojo Satoru is in love. So in love.

And it’s getting harder every day to pretend he’s not.

-

You hand him the report in silence, nervous fingers lingering just a second too long on the paper. He takes it, brows lifted—expecting to have to fix something, as usual.

But he doesn’t say a word. Just scans the first page, then the second.

Then stillness.

He looks up, something unreadable in his eyes. “You did this?”

You nod slowly. “I… think I got it right.”

He flips back to the beginning. Reads again. His lips part, and he exhales a quiet laugh—disbelieving.

“Yeah. You did.” A pause. “You got everything right.”

Your breath catches.

He pushes back from his desk, legs spreading slightly in his chair, eyes still locked on you. “C’mere.”

You walk around the desk slowly. His chair rolls back a little, his hands landing on your hips to guide you between his legs. His voice is low, almost amused.

“You’ve been trying to get this right for weeks.”

“I know,” you say quietly, blinking up at him.

“You’ve been trying so hard,” he murmurs, thumb brushing under your chin. “And I’ve been so fucking patient.”

Before you can ask what that means, he pulls you in, kissing you soft and deep, tongue sliding into your mouth with slow intent. It’s not rushed. It’s not demanding. It’s like he’s savoring you.

Then, a whisper against your lips, “Up on the desk, sweetheart.”

You hesitate. His hands lift you easily, setting you on the polished edge, your skirt already sliding up as he nudges your knees apart.

You breathe his name, quiet. He smiles, eyes flicking to your thighs, then back to your face.

“You always try so hard for me,” he murmurs, fingers brushing up your bare leg. “I should’ve done this sooner.”

He leans in and kisses your inner thigh. Just once. Then again, higher this time, warm breath brushing close. You’re already squirming when his fingers hook into your underwear, dragging it down slow.

His hands hold your thighs open, firm but not rough. And when he leans in and finally licks—flat and slow, from bottom to top—you gasp.

He hums against you, like you taste better than he imagined.

“You’ve been thinking about this,” he murmurs, mouth brushing your clit as he speaks. “Wearing that little skirt. Acting all innocent.”

His tongue moves again—firmer now, more focused, mouth wet and hot, tongue dragging circles around your clit until your back’s arching off the desk.

One of his hands drifts to your stomach, holding you down gently while he keeps going.

He doesn’t stop. Just sucks your clit slow and deep, then flicks it with the tip of his tongue until your thighs clamp around his shoulders.

“Oh my god—sir—”

He groans at the sound of your voice, fingers digging just slightly into your skin. He licks deeper, messier now, tongue dipping into you before dragging back up, mouth slick with you.

You grip his hair, eyes fluttering. He doesn’t pull away. If anything, he groans when you do it—low and hungry, the vibration shooting straight through your core.

“You taste like heaven,” he murmurs, voice muffled against you.

Every time your hips jerk, he steadies you with a quiet, “Shh, I got you.”

And when you finally come—quiet but shaking, breath punched out of your lungs—he holds you still and keeps licking until your thighs are trembling from the aftershocks.

Only then does he pull back, mouth shiny, pupils blown.

When you finally go still, he stays there a beat longer. Just breathing against your skin. Then he leans up, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, and looks at you.

No smirk. No smug comment.

Just “You did good.”

Then a pause, before he adds, softer—

“So good I might keep you here for a while.”

-

The conference room is all glass and polish, afternoon sunlight spilling over the sleek table, casting reflections on every chrome edge. You’re seated near the far end, soft blouse tucked neatly into your skirt, lips glossed, notebook open—trying to look like you understand the graphs being passed around.

You’re perched between two other departments. People you don’t usually work with.

That’s when one of them—a guy from Finance, tall, tan, and way too smug—leans toward you with a charming little grin.

“I don’t think we’ve met yet,” he says low, like this meeting is a cocktail hour. “You new?”

You glance up, a little startled. “Oh—kinda. I’ve been here a couple months…”

He looks you up and down, eyes lingering a second too long. “They must’ve been keeping you hidden.”

You laugh nervously. Just a tiny sound. Then glance across the table.

Gojo’s already watching you.

Expression unreadable. Elbow propped on the armrest, long fingers brushing his lips, like he’s bored but you know better. His other hand is clenched in his lap, the silver of his ring glinting as it curls tighter.

He says nothing.

Just tracks the way that guy keeps leaning closer. The way his shoulder nearly brushes yours. The way you keep tucking your hair behind your ear.

“You work directly under Gojo?” the guy asks, lips quirking.

“Mhm,” you nod, keeping your tone light. “Just admin stuff.”

“Admin,” he echoes with a smirk. “You sure don’t look like admin.”

Gojo’s head tilts, slowly. “Something you’d like to say about my assistant?” His voice is calm. Light.

But something sharp lives underneath it.

The guy laughs, brushing it off. “Just saying, sir. You’ve got an eye for talent.”

A few people chuckle under their breath.

You swallow hard, eyes flicking back to your notes, burning with embarrassment.

Gojo doesn’t laugh.

He just smiles. That small, dangerous kind of smile. “Mm. That I do.”

The meeting moves on—but he doesn’t.

You can feel the weight of his stare for the rest of it. Every time you fidget, every time you speak up with that soft, hesitant voice of yours, his eyes flick to you like he’s trying to memorize the sound.

It’s late afternoon when your desk phone rings.

You jump a little. The office is quiet now—most people wrapping up their day, the halls thinning out.

You pick it up. “H-Hello?”

“Come to my office.”

That’s all he says. No tone. No explanation. Just that low, clipped command—and then the line clicks dead.

Your heart stutters.

You smooth your skirt nervously, touch up your gloss with shaking fingers, then knock on his office door.

No answer.

So you step inside.

The room’s dim, lit only by the golden wash of the setting sun through the floor-to-ceiling windows. Gojo’s at his desk, sprawled back in his leather chair.

Jacket tossed aside, sleeves rolled. His tie’s hanging loose around his neck, top buttons undone. Hair a little messy like he’s run his hands through it too many times.

He looks you over slowly. Not speaking. Just dragging his gaze down your body and back up again, the tension crawling up your spine with every second of silence.

You shift, swallowing. “You… asked for me, sir?”

A slow smirk touches his lips.

“Mm. I did.”

He doesn’t invite you to sit.

He just watches you stand there—nervous and fidgety, wringing your hands in front of his desk.

“I wanted to ask,” he says lazily, “how that meeting went for you.”

You blink. “It was… okay?”

“‘Okay’,” he echoes, still smirking. “That guy from Finance seemed real interested in you.”

Your stomach flips.

“Oh, um—he was just being friendly—”

Gojo hums. Stands up.

You freeze as he rounds the desk, walking toward you slowly. Unhurried. Like he already knows you won’t run.

“He called you pretty,” he says, voice softer now. “Right in front of me.”

You look down. “I didn’t— I mean, I didn’t flirt back or anything—”

“I know you didn’t, sweetheart,” he murmurs, reaching you at last.

His fingers find your chin, tilting it up gently.

“I saw you. Saw how good you were. All polite and quiet. Just letting him talk like that.”

You nod, lips parted, breath catching.

His thumb strokes along your jaw.

You barely have time to ask what this is about before he crowds in, gently guiding you backward until your hips bump the edge of his desk. He doesn’t push—he never has to. Just waits, hands resting on your waist, thumbs stroking small circles until you sit for him.

The silence stretches as he steps between your legs. He’s still for a moment, eyes drifting down your body—slow and thoughtful, like he’s mentally tracing every place he’s already touched.

“Didn’t like that,” he says quietly.

You blink. “What?”

His hands slide up your thighs. “The way he looked at you.”

You swallow. “I didn’t flirt with him or anything, I swear—”

“I know,” he says simply.

His thumbs reach the edge of your skirt, bunching the fabric higher. The room’s quiet except for the rustle of clothes and the faint hum of the city outside the glass.

“You were good,” he murmurs. “You always are.”

You don’t know what to say. Your heart’s racing. You’re too aware of the warmth of his palms against your skin.

Then he sinks to his knees.

Your breath catches.

“Sir—”

He looks up at you. Calm. Steady. “Just let me, angel.”

You nod.

He leans in, pressing a kiss just above your knee. Then another, higher. His hands slide further up, coaxing your legs open—thumbs stroking the soft skin of your inner thighs like he’s in no rush. Like he’s savoring it.

You try not to squirm.

“Keep your eyes on me,” he murmurs.

He hooks his fingers under your panties and drags them down slow. No fanfare. No teasing smirk. Just quiet focus. When he presses his mouth to you, it’s unhurried. He licks into you like he’s tasting you for the first time—soft, deliberate strokes of his tongue that have your breath stuttering.

You grip the edge of the desk. He hums softly when you twitch under him.

“So sensitive,” he murmurs. “How long have you been like this?”

You shake your head, too breathless to answer.

His thumb strokes your thigh while he eats you out like it’s something to be taken seriously—like he’s tuning the rest of the world out just for this. Just for you.

Every now and then, he pauses. Kisses the inside of your thigh. Lets you breathe.

“Say it.”

You blink, dazed. “Say…?”

“You know what I want.”

Your mouth parts. “I’m yours.”

He groans softly, going right back in—tongue slow, fingers digging into your thighs to hold you open.

“Again.”

You moan, hips jerking. “I’m yours, Gojo—fuck—only yours—”

“Yeah,” he mutters against you, voice low and wrecked. “That’s right.”

He doesn’t stop. Not even when you start trembling, thighs shaking around his head. He keeps working you through it—tongue steady, hands warm, mouth dragging out every pulse of it until you're gasping his name, half-crying into the sleeve of your blouse.

When he finally pulls back, his chin is slick and his breath is shallow. 

You're already wet—he drags his fingers through it once, slow and deliberate, before circling your clit with maddening patience. You try to keep quiet, but the sounds come anyway—tiny, breathy, embarrassing things.

He slips one finger inside, then another. It’s not rushed—it’s focused. Careful. Testing what you can take.

His free hand wraps around the back of your thigh, pulling you a little closer to the edge. His fingers work you open slowly, curling just right, his thumb brushing up top in quiet, steady strokes.

“You can take it,” he murmurs. “I’ve got you.”

You grip the edge of the desk, gasping when he shifts just slightly and hits something deeper.

“There,” he says, like he’s memorizing it. “Right there, huh?”

You nod quickly, eyes fluttering, hips starting to roll with him.

“Yeah… that’s it. Just like that.” He watches you the whole time—so attentive, so fucking into it—like he’s trying to catch every twitch of your mouth, every time your lashes flutter.

“Go ahead,” he whispers. “I want to feel you.”

You come quiet, but it shakes through you all the same—hips jerking, thighs trembling, mouth falling open around a sound you didn’t mean to make. His fingers don’t stop. He fucks you through it—just enough pressure, just enough praise, dragging it out until you're oversensitive and shaking.

When he finally pulls his hand away, he brings it to his mouth, licking his fingers like it’s nothing.

You blink at him, dazed. “Gojo—”

He stands, reaches out, and drags you up to your feet with zero effort.

“We’re not done yet,” he murmurs, already turning you gently around.

And then he presses you forward over the desk—his hand on your back, firm but not rough, guiding you down. You feel the heat of him behind you, his belt already unfastening.

His belt slides open with a quiet snick, slow and deliberate, like he’s giving you time to brace.

But you don’t. Can’t. You’re still bent over his desk, legs trembling from the second orgasm he pulled out of you like it was nothing.

Behind you, you hear the soft zzzp of his zipper, the rustle of fabric as he lowers just enough to free himself. You start to shift—maybe to stand, maybe to turn—but his palm finds the small of your back again, holding you down gently.

“Stay,” he murmurs.

You freeze.

“‘M not done with you yet.”

You gasp when you feel the blunt heat of him, hard and already dripping, sliding between your folds. He’s not pushing in—yet—but he’s there, heavy against you, teasing, dragging slow and wet between your folds while he stares down like he’s watching something sacred.

“Still so fucking warm,” he says under his breath. “You gonna let me fuck you now, sweetheart?”

You nod quickly, the word yes catching in your throat.

“Need you to say it,” he breathes, leaning forward, his chest brushing your back. “C’mon. Tell me.”

“I want you to,” you whisper, voice shaking. “Please—”

He groans, low and ragged, and then—finally—he pushes in.

You gasp—he’s big, thick and slow as he sinks in inch by inch. Your hands scramble for purchase on the desk, gripping the edge as he fills you.

“F-fuck,” he grits out, jaw clenched tight. “You feel—Jesus, precious, you’re perfect.”

He bottoms out with a slow roll of his hips, then stays there. Doesn’t move. Just breathes heavy against your back, like he’s trying to hold himself together.

“I’ve been thinking about this,” he says softly. “So long. Can’t even count how many fucking times I looked at you and wanted this.”

You whimper as he pulls out a little, then thrusts back in—just once, sharp and deep. You jolt against the desk, your cheek pressing to the cool wood.

He sets a pace then—not fast, not rough. Just deep. Controlled. Like every thrust is meant to remind you who you belong to. He fills you so fully, going deeper with every thrust as if trying to rid any thought from your brain that isn’t him.

The rhythm of it—his hips rolling into you, his hand tight on your waist, the obscene sound of skin meeting skin and your own slick soaking every movement—drives you closer and closer until you’re nearly crying with it.

“Satoru—please—” you pant, arching back against him, trying to take more.

“I know, precious. I know,” he murmurs, dragging his hand back to your hip so he can fuck you harder now, a little deeper. “You’re takin’ it so good.”

His thick head kisses your cervix with every relentless snap of his hips and one of his hands reaches down to dip between your thighs, rubbing tight, precise circles onto your clit.

“Mmm—sir,” you whine into the polished mahogany table, fingers digging into the edges of the fine wood. “I’m so—fuck—close!”

“Yeah? You’re gonna come for me, precious?”

Your orgasm builds sharp and fast and you nod, your toes curling, jaw slack, eyes squeezed shut.

“Let go,” he whispers, voice low and frayed. “Wanna feel you come on my cock. Be good for me, yeah?”

You do—god, you do—legs shaking, breath catching, body going tight around him as the orgasm hits, rolling through you in waves.

Gojo swears under his breath, fingers gripping your hips hard enough to bruise as he fucks you through it, chasing his own release. And then he groans deep and spills into you with a shudder.

He stays there for a moment, slumped over you, both of you catching your breath in the heavy silence of the office. Then, slowly, he pulls out, gentle as ever, hands skimming over your hips to smooth your skirt back down.

“You okay?” he murmurs, voice still rough, a rasp of heat and concern wrapped in silk.

You nod, lips parted, lungs trying to catch up. His gaze doesn’t move from your face.

He leans down and presses a kiss to your shoulder then another just beneath your ear. “Breathe, sweetheart,” he coaxes, hands tracing soothing lines down your sides. “You were perfect.”

He shifts, not pulling away from you, but adjusting and cradling you with too much care for a man who had you begging a few minutes ago. He gently flips you over onto your back, strong hands finding your hips and then your thighs, his thumbs kneading slow, soft circles into the sore muscle like he’s memorizing your skin.

A content sigh escapes you, and he smiles, eyes half-lidded and reverent.

“Good girl,” he says lowly, his forehead pressing to yours. “You did so good for me, angel. So fucking good.”

His mouth finds yours, and the kiss he gives you is nothing like the ones before. It’s not rushed, not wild. It’s deep, slow, and indulgent. Like he’s trying to pour all the unspoken things into it.

Your arms loop around his neck, and your fingers find his hair, tugging gently. He groans quietly against your lips, like the sound is meant just for you.

You sigh into his mouth, full, and wrecked in the best way.

He pulls back only slightly, nose brushing yours. 

“Remind me to give you another bonus.”

author's note. yeah i got real lazy at the smut. i'm so done with writing smut i quit icl ts pmo gng

please do not steal, modify or translate my work.

taglist. @raendarkfaerie

[lizziesfirstwife]

A…demon baby?

jinu x pregnant!reader

warnings: mentions of periods & birth & death & blood, worried and clueless jinu, worried reader, mentions of abortion & sex if you squint, curse words

word count: 2577

author’s note: This is the result of a poll I did a few days ago. We need a whole “pregnant with a demon’s baby” guide from Rumi’s mom, with the amount of thirst going on for Jinu. Also, I’ve never been pregnant, so feel free to send me a dm so I can correct any mistakes!

You were terrified. Truly terrified.

It started on Monday. You woke up, head pounding and with a strong urge to pee.

When you were sitting on the toilet and opened the bathroom cabinet to fish out a new roll of toilet paper, you spotted it.

Unopened. Untouched. The pack of tampons you had bought two months ago when your last period had used up your entire supply. You shook your head.

It must be the stress.

Maybe it was work.

You hadn't been eating as much as usual lately, too busy and too tired.

Monday turned into Wednesday. When you woke up that morning, everything was normal until you got out of bed. As soon as your legs touched the floor, you were sprinting to the bathroom.

Thank God he wasn’t here.

You hadn't told Jinu about your ongoing nausea or the headaches that had been plaguing you for two days now.

You hadn't even been together that long.

Two months ago, he had told you about his true self. You didn't want to believe him at first, didn't want to believe that your boyfriend of four months was a demon from hell who had originally planned to sacrifice humanity to an ominous Demon King. Until he showed you his markings.

You sighed and looked out the window of your gynecologist’s office. It was Friday, the weather as gloomy as your mind.

Damn it, you'd only been together for six months. Just half a year. Not married. You haven’t even celebrated your first anniversary together or each other’s birthday. Or any other holiday, for that matter.

How could it even be possible? You were human. He was a demon. Those were stories that all the holy scriptures warned against and told scary tales about.

Humans who became pregnant with the children of demons.

But Jinu wasn't like them. Not anymore.

Since Rumi, a K-pop idol who turned out to be a sixth-generation demon hunter, defeated the Demon King a month ago in the middle of your boyfriend's concert with the help of his power, he has been freed from his demonic self.

Was he now completely human again? You didn't know. Sometimes you felt like he still had his sharp senses, that he had only shed his markings and demon eyes. But you knew that this... baby, this little being, was definitely conceived when he was still a demon.

You were snapped out of your thoughts when your doctor's assistant called out your name and brought you to a room at the end of the hallway.

You never liked gynecologists. Your dislike wasn’t about the doctors themselves or the fact that they had the ability to diagnose and treat all these cruel fates and diseases. Rather, it was your aversion to the environment, the chair, the clinically white walls, and the sterile approach to just everything. Of course you were glad that everything was handled utterly professionally, but it felt so…cold.

As if you were a product.

You forced out a smile when the doctor entered the room and sat down on a stool next to the treatment chair you were lying on.

"How can I help you today?"

You played with your fingers. You had never been in a situation like this before, never in a situation where you thought you might be pregnant. Until now, you had been happy about that fact, but now that the possibility of carrying a child was there, you didn't know whether to laugh or cry at the thought.

"I think I might be pregnant. I live with my boyfriend, and... we love each other, if you can say it like that."

The doctor nodded, no hint of judgment in her eyes, just the wish to do her job.

She typed something in her tablet as she looked up at you again.

"When was your last period?"

You looked down at your lap. You remembered Monday the moment you saw the unopened pack of tampons in your bathroom cabinet.

"Eight weeks ago."

She nodded and entered something else into her tablet before setting it aside and rolling her stool closer.

"We are going to do an ultrasound to see if I can see anything. The gel might be a little cold, but it will help me see if there's anything there or not. You'll need to bare your stomach for this."

You could only nod and pull up your T-shirt.

She dripped a little gel onto the head of the ultrasound device and began to gently move it around your lower abdomen.

You couldn’t stop staring at the small screen next to the chair, unable to decipher anything but a black and white mass.

She continued to roll the device around until she suddenly stopped.

Nodding, she pressed a button on the ultrasound machine to take a picture of the frame on the screen.

"Do you see this little white mass here? It very certainly looks like a fetus“, the doctor said, pointing her index finger to a small white shape on the screen.

Your heart stayed still. You couldn't look away, couldn't look away as she pointed to the vaguely recognizable shape of a head.

"Yes," she said, “judging by the size, it also matches your last period. It should be just about 8 weeks old."

A small tear rolled down your cheek. Despite the fact that this was definitely not planned, it was not unwanted. You had never planned to have children. But you had never been so devotedly in love with anyone as you were with Jinu, never felt so safe and secure in anyone's arms as you did in his.

"You can't tell yet whether it's a girl or a boy, can you?"

The doctor smiled and took another photo before putting the wand aside and looking at you. She shook her head and pressed a button, making a small photo come out of the device.

"No," she said, handing you the photo and paper towels to dry your belly, "it will take another two months for it to be recognizable."

You nodded, remembering the biology lessons you had in school ages ago.

"To make sure all your vitals are okay and to really confirm that you are pregnant, we need to run a blood test next week to check your pregnancy hormone levels. Even though I could already see that you are pregnant, this is just a matter of procedure.“

The woman threw you a smile and gave you a small appointment note for next week. “Congratulations also to the father-to-be. You will receive your maternity log after we analyze the results of the blood test next week."

You smiled. You were pregnant. And for the first time in five days, you didn't feel like vomiting.

𓂃⋆.˚

It was already dark when you arrived home. You had bought a few things at the convenience store, some sweets you liked that you ate already, and the grape juice packs that Jinu liked so much. You were shopping for far more things than you even needed, and you didn’t know why you were so afraid to come home.

The apartment was quiet, except for the soft hum of the TV, which told you that Jinu was already home from night dance practice.

One habit he had picked up during the months you had been together was watching documentaries about savanna animals. A strange habit, although you usually ended up next to him on the couch anyway, falling asleep on his lap.

"Ji, I'm home!"

You didn't bother to wait for an answer and instead started unpacking the few shopping bags you carried all day. You still couldn't believe it. You were pregnant, pregnant with the child of a demon.

God, it sounded like something out of a teen novel and Twilight combined! Even though the thought hadn't really sunk in yet, you already noticed how your body automatically moved differently, more carefully around the edges in the kitchen, mindful of bumping into strangers on the crowded bus.

Two arms wrapped around your waist, a pair of soft lips pressing against your neck, leaving a few kisses.

You laughed quietly and turned around.

"Hello to you too."

Jinu hummed and rested his arms on either side of you, crooking his head to the side with a small smile.

"Where have you been all day? I postponed dance practice because I thought you'd be off work too."

You sighed. You couldn't tell him. Deep down, you knew he wouldn't be angry, not this documentary-loving, grape juice-drinking idiot.

"I went grocery shopping. I wanted to make apple pie tomorrow. I don't know if you've ever had it before, but so far no one has complained about mine."

You forced a smile onto your lips. You wanted so badly to tell him, but he had already had to deal with enough over the past few months. He shouldn't have to take on the burden of a baby as well, especially since it wasn't certain how likely it was that this child would survive the pregnancy or that you would survive giving birth.

Jinu sighed and turned around to help you unpack the paper bags.

"I was thinking we could fly to Paris for our anniversary."

You laughed and put the apples in the fruit bowl.

"That's still six months away, isn't it? Why Paris all of a sudden?"

Jinu hummed and shrugged his shoulders as he unpacked the bags one by one.

"It's the city of love, isn't it? Besides, I remember you telling me that you flew to Paris with your French class when you were a teenager. So at least one of us can speak French and order our food.”

You bit your lip and raised an eyebrow, holding peppers in one hand and cabbage in the other. "I was glad when I could opt out of that class. And…do we really have to plan so far in advance? We don't know if something will come up before then..."

Jinu frowned and just looked at you.

"Are you okay? When you told me about it a few weeks ago, you were really excited about the possibility of flying there again. I only mean well; we don't lack the money to make it happen after all.”

You just nodded and put the peppers and cabbage in the refrigerator.

"I'm just saying. We don't know if something will come up for you with the next tour or if we'll be busy with other things by then."

"What’s this?"

You didn’t bother turning around as you were putting the milk in the pantry.

"Yeobo (darling)?"

“Hm?”

You bit your lip when the second carton of milk didn't fit in the cupboard and sighed. You needed to clear out some things on the weekend.

"What?"

With the milk carton in your hand, you turned around.

There he stood, frozen in place, holding a small square picture in his hand.

"Jinu?"

He looked up at you, his eyebrows furrowed.

"Did this accidentally end up in the bag? Has it been used by someone else before? The bag, I mean.”

You just stood there and carefully placed the milk carton behind you on the kitchen counter.

"No."

He looked at you with a confused expression, which only made you look away.

"Please look at me. What do you mean, no?"

You slowly looked up at him and played with your fingers.

"It's mine."

Jinu slowly nodded and looked down at the picture.

"And what exactly is this?"

Your eyebrows rose, and you almost had to smile.

"You... never mind. It's an ultrasound picture."

"Okay..."

"I'm pregnant. That white thing," you said, walking gently toward him, "is a baby you see there."

His head snapped up toward you, and his eyes widened.

"What?"

You looked up at him, toes dancing slightly in your socks.

"I'm pregnant, Ji."

His mouth opened, but no sound came out.

"How..."

He shook his head and instead just wrapped his arms around you.

The air escaped from your lungs from the severity of his embrace, and it took you a few seconds to return the gesture.

"Shibal... are you okay? Is everything alright? Is everything okay with the baby?"

You pressed your lips together and nodded. "Yes, yes... I went to the doctor today. Eight weeks."

Jinu frowned and stroked your hair.

“Aren’t you mad?”

Jinu looked at you confused and stopped in his tracks.

“Why would I be mad? This is our baby, made out of our love for each other. This maybe was unplanned, but not unwanted.”

He scanned you with his eyes.

"What's wrong? Don't... do you not want it?"

A small tear ran down your face, and you had to look up and blink so you wouldn't start crying.

"No, of course I want it! But I'd be lying if I said I wasn't scared. How could this even happen?"

Jinu raised an eyebrow, and you could already see the smug sentence forming on his tongue.

You rolled your eyes.

"Of course I know how it happened, but... is that even possible? A demon and a human... a half-blood? That sounds like a bad episode of Harry Potter."

Jinu didn't laugh, and you wanted to slap your forehead when you remembered that you still hadn't gotten around to showing him the movies.

You sighed and laced your hands with his.

"I don't even know if this," you pointed to your stomach, "will work, and whether I or the baby will even..."

Jinu shook his head and put a finger under your chin so you would look up at him.

"Don't even think about it... I know someone whose parents were in exactly the same situation as us now. And she is more than fine, living as healthy and happy as everyone else.”

You frowned. "Who?"

Jinu bit his lip and looked at his feet before he looked at you again.

"Rumi."

Your jaw dropped, and you looked at him in disbelief.

"The Rumi from Huntrix? Your former rival Rumi? The Rumi who is a demon hunter?"

Jinu just nodded.

"Man, you know I love gossip! Why didn't you tell me about this?!”

He laughed and gently stroked your shoulders with his thumbs.

"It wasn't relevant until now. But I just wanted to tell you so you wouldn't panic."

He shook his head and looked deep into your eyes.

"You, I... we'll get through this. I know this wasn't planned, but hey…. We've been through way more stressful things together. We will get through this too. The baby will be fine, you'll be fine, and I'll make sure of that."

You nodded slowly. "Doesn't the baby need souls to survive too, then? It’s half demon, after all."

Jinu laughed and shook his head, clearly amused by your question.

"Rumi eats normal food and lives a normal life. If she now eats normal food, I don’t think she needed souls before being born.”

You nodded again and sighed deeply.

"You're so good at calming me down. I feel like I don't even deserve you most times.”

Jinu shook his head and smiled.

"No, I don't deserve you."

You wanted to say something in response when he silenced you with a kiss.

You didn't know that Jinu had already hidden a ring in his desk drawer when he first saw you.

But soon a beautiful ring would sparkle on your finger, with a baby on the way and a wonderful man by your side.

Oh, and you would have a word with him about gossip.

˖ ݁♬⋆.˚𝄞.

Thank you for reading!

If you liked this piece of fiction in any way, I would appreciate a like, reblog, or comment very much!

۶ৎ tag list: @sunnylyly @kaybugga @lavnderluv @gurllss @montybooks @justanindiangirl12 @ateezswonderland @whodis-26 @witchqueen504 @kyokiveil @selihmvale @redisthenewblue @wyuovvia @bleufu1 @mrs-hwangh @keiko-error @thesimppotato11 @prmaturedeath @stupendousprincessengineer @underthe-northernlight @akeaaan @gina239 @zomqiez @aise-30 @stargirl-lnterlude @iviorienne @loomindoors @motheraiya55 @mysteris-things @auriuswolve @owe-143 @airwolf92 @rubyninja1

.ᐟ>ᴗ<.ᐟ ᢉ𐭩

[sunlightfeeling]

does anyone like the process of creating posts? I don't mean the actual media you're showing off with gifs, artwork, scanning, etc.

I mean, actually drafting up the post to share it?

..Because I'm kind of starting to not like it much

And I lowkey could use help? Its getting more difficult to draft things up and it’s zapping some of my motivation knowing when everything’s ready, I need to now go and queue it up

*Not everything is ready because they're dupes I need to compare or still need editing/deleting, but a good number are “ready”

I've started getting a nice flow with scanning, which is great! But then the idea of making the post pops in my head and I freeze and go "ugh…😞”

Again, its not that I don't want to post. Actually I want to post more (at least for now since I'm at a good scan-pace), but I think I'm annoying enough posting about 4 times a day across two blogs 😂

I just...can't get motivated to upload/manage the pictures, write a caption, write tags...

Usually (practically always, unless it's a clip tbh) I'm not even considering metrics or trying to skew a post a certain way. Some posts are legit just dropping the shoot and captioning with the magazine name but that's still like...too much? right now. I don't want to give you guys crap-effort posts but I also can barely get myself to just add a magazine title and some tags sigh

Basically, I still want the posts going to these blogs, but I'd provide the scans to have the posts queued up? Idk maybe I could open another side-blog (or just use the one I have already?) That's would maybe be easier since it's collaborative......right? lol

Anyway, half rant half actually could use some help? If you want? Idk I really want to share more and I really love scanning and making gifs but…

....also, I kind of would like time to watch things and play Gaiden, while also still rolling out posts

[muchanmocha]

.

[dexaroth]

i cant believe the day but i finally got a full tower pc. bought it already built and at a considerable discount of some 320 dollars off. its fucking huge and theres so many things going on inside... i was initially planning on choosing the parts myself but finding the graphics card was so hard and everyone else convinced me to just buy it built and honestly? good. id probably have fucked this up so badly by myself

i cant use it yet bc i took too long to buy the monitor that was also on sale and now its regular price -_- tho i managed to find a discount used one for now. well see how that goes since ill get it tomorrow. i tested it on out living room tv and it had some kaspersky thingy open and like thats so cute. i hope they left some treats in the browsing history for me to search through before i wipe it clean

[coridallasmultipass]

.

[catchastarorten]

—License and registration, please.

Pairing: Hwang Jun-ho x wife!fem!reader

Summary: Did you pass the speed limit? No. Did Jun-ho pull you over anyways to steal a few moments (and kisses) with you? Yes.

Content: fluff, shared kisses, a girl flirting with him but Jun-ho being very loyal, English isn’t my first language, mistakes should be present, not proofread, sorry!

Word count: ~ 1.1k

The air was cool that afternoon, sunlight glinting off the windshields of passing cars. Traffic duty wasn’t exactly glamorous, but it was steady, and after everything Jun-ho had endured chasing shadows and secrets, it wasn’t so bad. He didn’t mind the transfer. It gave him time to breathe. To be with you.

A motorcycle driving into sight caught his eyes, bringing him out of his thoughts. A man carrying a girl on the back, helmet-less.

Jun-ho approached the two as the motorcycle came to a stop, his partner—a younger, less experienced officer trailed after him.

“You’re not wearing a helmet. Your license, please.” he took out a small tablet as the man cursed, eyes full of impatience and annoyance.

“Isn’t this entrapment? Hiding to catch people is shady. You want to squeeze money out of broke citizens?” the man scoffed.

“Your license, please.” Jun-ho ignored him and extended a hand out, waiting.

The man handed over his license begrudgingly as the girl sitting behind him on the motorcycle hopped down, giving the man a reassuring pat as if saying, “I’ve got this,” before coming closer to Jun-ho.

“Look, can’t you just let us go? I’m wearing one.” she gestured to her own helmet, giving it a steady pat.

“No, ma’am.”

The girl frowned, but took a second look at him and her eyes sparkled, peering at him. “Hey, you’re really handsome!” her voice tuned into a higher pitch at her excitement, as if she found some treasure.

“I could charge you with obstruction.” Jun-ho said dryly, checking the information on the small tablet in his hand.

“You’re a tough cookie,” the girl smiled wider, taking out her phone. She snapped a few pictures, striking different poses as Jun-ho tried to avoid the camera, his head ducked low as he scanned over the information shown on the tablet. The man on the motorcycle narrowed his eyes at the sight.

As the ticket printed out from a machine strapped to Jun-ho’s vest, the girl patted his shoulder. “Come on, get in here!” she leaned closer, but he stepped away to maintain a good distance, before walking over to the man.

Jun-ho handed the ticket to the guy. “The fine for not wearing a helmet is 20,000 won. Pay it on time.”

The man snatched the ticket away as the girl continued fawning.

“What’s your number? Are you single?” she squealed.

Jun-ho blinked, momentarily taken aback, before he smirked softly and raised his hand, the band on his finger glinting in the sunlight. “Happily married,” he said simply, his voice warm.

The girl’s excitement evaporated, replaced by a pout. “Seriously? Who’s the lucky woman?”

Jun-ho didn’t answer, instead he walked back to the squad car.

The man drove off on his motorcycle, a bitterness clinging onto him. The girl was startled and chased after the guy, shouting and exclaiming and throwing her helmet at him but missing while trying to catch up, her loud curses disappearing into the distance along with the motorcycle.

Jun-ho watched the scene unfold with an amused smile, shaking his head before getting back into the squad car. His rookie partner shot him a bewildered look. “Does that happen to you a lot?”

“More than you’d think. Just ignore them,” Jun-ho replied, settling back into his seat, looking down at the band on his ring finger as his eyes softened, already missing you.

They were driving back toward their usual patrol route when Jun-ho caught sight of a familiar car in the distance. It was yours, the unmistakable silhouette of the vehicle and the way it handled the road bringing an instant smile to his face.

“Pulling over for a second,” he told his rookie partner.

“What? Why?”

Without explanation, Jun-ho sped up slightly, falling into step behind your car before flicking on the lights. You weren’t speeding—you rarely did—but you pulled your car to the side of the road obediently anyway, your indicator blinking calmly, putting the car in park.

Jun-ho stepped out of the patrol car, smoothing his uniform. His partner stayed inside, fiddling with the radio.

He walked up to your window, tapping lightly on the glass, then gestured for you to roll it down. When you turned to look at him, he saw the way your eyes flickered in recognition and affectionate annoyance. He could already feel his heart melting.

You raised an eyebrow, playing along as you pressed the button and lowered the window.

“Officer,” you said, your voice laced with playful suspicion. “What’s the problem?”

Jun-ho leaned against the frame, speaking in a serious way, though the corners of his mouth twitched. “License and registration, please.”

You scoffed. “I wasn’t speeding. You know I wasn’t speeding.”

“You were driving suspiciously… within the speed limit,” he replied, his eyes sparkling with amusement. “Very suspicious.”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t suppress a smile. “Am I really getting a ticket for obeying the law?”

“Yes,” he said, dipping his head closer, his voice dropping to a soft murmur. “But you can pay in kisses.”

Before you could respond, he leaned in through the open window, his lips brushing yours in a tender, stolen kiss. It was soft, warm, and lingering—the kind of kiss that reminded you just how much he adored you. When he pulled back, he waited for just a moment before stealing another kiss. And then another.

“Jun-ho,” you mumbled, your voice half-scolding but mostly filled with affection.

“One more,” he murmured, his hand resting lightly on the edge of the window.

You gave in, letting him kiss you again.

“That’ll cover it,” he said, his voice tinged with amusement as he pulled back, his eyes lingering on yours.

Just as he straightened, the passenger door of the squad car opened, and his rookie partner stepped out, looking thoroughly confused. “Uh… everything okay?”

Jun-ho let out a sigh, his expression shifting back to something more professional, though you could still see the softness in his eyes when he glanced at you. “Everything’s fine,” he said. “I’ll be there in a minute, go wait in the car.”

The officer hesitated but nodded, retreating back to the patrol car, leaving the two of you alone again.

“Guess that’s my cue,” Jun-ho said, his voice softening as he looked at you.

You smiled warmly. “I’ll see you at home.”

“I’ll be there,” he promised. “Sharp.”

With one last lingering look, Jun-ho stepped back, letting you drive off. He stood there for a moment, watching your car disappear down the road, his heart full.

As he returned to the squad car, his rookie partner gave him a questioning look, but Jun-ho didn’t offer an explanation. Some things were just for him to cherish.

[loveletterlore]

bucky needs a break ♡ b.b. x reader

pairing: thunderbolts!bucky barnes x thunderbolts!fem!reader THUNDERBOLTS SPOILERS

summary: being a part of the team has had a strange effect on your lives, for you it has allowed you more freedom while for bucky it had given him more work - and the man needs a break.

warnings: 18+ MINORS DNI smut, not an established relationship, use of pet names [doll, darling, babygirl, baby], kissing, touching, fingering, oral [f receiving], penetration [p in v], unprotected sex, cream pie, straight up porn, reader is described to have a vagina, aftercare, subspace if you squint

word count: 5.1k

authors note: i can't believe i just wrote 5k words of smut, strangely proud of myself, hope you enjoy! <3

Family life with the New Avengers wasn’t exactly what you had signed up for when Bucky had called you, asking for your help with investigating Valentina’s dark web goings-on. It was supposed to be a simple recon mission, finding Yelena, Walker and Ava and getting them to testify before the court. If only it had been so simple.

Nowadays, you found yourself amongst a team of misfits, the equivalent of a collage on a schoolgirl’s moodboard. Yelena and Bucky took most of the public facing work, being the two members with the least amount of public disturbances - which in itself is a baffling statement - while Ava and John tended to work background. Alexei, well, Alexei did what Alexei wanted and there wasn’t much any of you could do about that. 

Bob was still largely unaware of what had happened to form the team, appointing himself the New Avengers #1 Cheerleader and Dishwasher. It had taken a couple of months to get over everything the Void had unearthed, a couple of months to stop seeing his eyes glow every time you looked at Bob. 

Since then, daily life had consisted of more media and publicity than missions and saving people, which had taken a while to get used to. Bucky often found himself pacing the tower, already having experienced the world of politics through his time in congress and not wanting to get into it all over again. Yelena, on the other hand, finally felt like she was doing some good, helping people in the way that she had needed in the past.

For you, it was bittersweet. A part of you missed going on missions with the team, missed the moments in between the fighting where someone would tell a joke and nothing else would matter. In comparison, it was lovely not being woken up at 3am by some emergency that needed immediate attention. Some of the day-to-day normalities of modern life had seeped into your routine, making you feel more like a domestic goddess than a kick-ass assassin.

The abundance of free time had allowed you and the team to get to know each other better, beyond the basic questions of “who designed your suit?” and “how much ammo do you carry?”. Genuine friendships had formed as you learned of everyone’s pasts, likes and annoying habits. At least, these friendships had formed with most of the team.

Bucky hadn’t been too keen to join in with the morale building, usually holding back with tablet in hand, focused on the comms that never seemed to stop. 

Sitting in the main room of the tower, the team were dotted across the sofas. Bob sat in a beanbag in the corner, listening in to the ongoing conversation while keeping his eyes on the windows. 

You glanced around, eyes searching for Bucky, but coming up empty. It wasn’t uncommon for him to arrive later or leave earlier, he was never there for a whole conversation.

“But Yelena,” Alexei bellowed, standing with his arms open. “What is so wrong with wanting my name to live on in the world?”

“I don’t think starting a bear fighting show is really the way to go about it,” Yelena rolled her eyes, leaning back in her seat. 

Alexei spun, eyes brushing over the rest of the team, “Bears are strong! Bears are fighters! I know in my soul, I am a bear.”

You just blinked at Alexei, questioning so many of the things he said. 

“I think you’re onto something,” John stated, raising an eyebrow.

“Shut up, Walker,” Ava replied, a bored expression on her face.

The conversation was interrupted by the sound of the doors opening, revealing Bucky in his tactical gear. Your heart jumped at the sight and you shifted in your seat, turning towards him. 

“Ah, Bucky!” Alexei started towards him before Yelena stood, marching towards Bucky.

“Bucky, have you seen this?” she pulled her phone from her pocket, turning him away from the group.

Your heart sank, a part of you hoping that he would have come to join the group. Bucky’s eyes caught yours for a second and you recognised the feelings instantly, the man was exhausted. It all added up - longer hours, being one of the public facing members of the team, constantly on the go - Bucky needed a break.

You began to wrack your brain for ideas on how to help him, knowing all too well the feeling that he was experiencing. The group continued chatting, Alexei louder than the rest, and while you were sure they were distracting each other, you stood from your spot on the sofa and headed towards Bucky and Yelena.

“Hey,” you spoke softly as the two turned to look at you, expressions serious and eyebrows furrowed. “Sorry, I just need Bucky for a moment before I head out.”

Bucky looked at Yelena before looking back to you, Yelena giving a quick nod before going back to the group.

“What’s up?” Bucky asked, hands settling on his hips as he turned his attention to you. 

“Can you help me with something in the training room?” you asked, eliciting a curious expression on his face.

Sighing, he nodded and held out his arm for you to lead the way. Instead of heading to the training room, you took the turn that led you towards the dorms, causing a confused look on Bucky’s face.

“Okay, I lied,” you whispered, leaning in slightly. 

Bucky’s confused expression deepened as he waited for you to continue. You reached the corridor with the doors to everyone’s rooms and stopped in front of yours, Bucky’s just a few steps further down the corridor.

“You’ve been doing so much lately, it kinda seemed like you needed a moment,” you continued, hoping you were on the right track. “I don’t know if saving you from Yelena was the right call or not, but it gives you an out to go and hide in a dark room somewhere.”

After a moment, the corners of Bucky’s mouth twisted upwards. He raised an arm, placing his hand on the wall, leaning his weight against it. He let out a breathy chuckle, running his other hand over his face.

“Was it that obvious?” his voice seemed lighter than usual.

“A lil’ bit,” you chuckled, a grin on your face as you watched his shoulders starting to relax.

“Damn, didn’t realise you could read me so well,” his hand dropped and his eyes focused on your face, studying the expression there.

You felt your cheeks flush under his gaze, hands clasping together in front of you as you leaned back against your door, “I’m just glad I got it right.”

A smirk grew on Bucky’s face as he watched your cheeks tint with a blush, his eyes softening at the sight, “Well, I believe I owe you a ‘thank you’.”

“Don’t worry about it,” you replied with a sweet smile. “Just go take a break, Bucky. You deserve it.”

His heart leapt at your words, he was always a sucker for someone showing him any form of appreciation.

“I don’t really know how,” he admitted, a bashful smile on his face. “Never had too much of a break before.”

Your eyebrows raised as he spoke, “Surely you’ve got some guilty pleasure that you never have time for?”

“Nope, not that springs to mind,” he shook his head, hands returning to their rightful spot on his hips. A cheeky grin grew on his face as he chose his next words carefully, “Why, what’s yours?”

You attempted to stifle the blush that threatened to grow even further on your cheeks, “Um, I don’t know, reality TV? I never get time to catch up with the latest seasons.”

“You wouldn’t happen to have time now, would you?” he grinned, eyes meeting yours again. “I think it’s only fair that since you saved me from work today, I return the favour.”

Your lips parted with surprise, mouth forming an ‘O’ before you realised and clamped it closed again, forming a soft smile, “As it just so happens, I do. I have everything logged in on my TV, I even have a secret snack supply.”

Bucky’s eyebrows raised, “Secret?”

“I wasn’t about to risk all of my snacks being raided by Alexei,” you giggled, a smirk on your face. “Or Walker for that matter.”

Bucky nodded as he stood straight, “Seems like we have everything we need.”

You reached your arm out, still holding Bucky’s gaze as you opened the door behind you, “Come on in.”

Moments later, you found yourself sitting next to Bucky on your sofa, flicking through streaming services to pick the perfect show to watch. While reality TV was a secret love of yours, Bucky had yet to experience the highs and lows of middle aged women fighting each other on national television, so you were trying to pick the perfect show to put on. 

“Okay,” you placed the remote down as an older episode loaded. “There are going to be lots of women shouting at each other, prepare yourself.”

An amused expression grew on Bucky’s face, more at your excitement for the show than the premise, “I don’t know how to prepare for that.”

“You’ll be fine,” you chuckled, settling into the couch and placing a variety of snacks on the table in front of you. “Just get ready to enjoy it.”

The show began to play and your brain finally started to quieten, your body relaxing into the comfort of the sofa beneath you. Throwing a quick glance at Bucky, you noticed how he had stripped off the majority of his tactical gear, left in a tank top and his combat trousers, boots left by the door. Your attention was pulled back to the TV by a shout and a dramatic sound effect, but what followed was even better.

Bucky laughed. Well, it was most of a laugh. Perhaps a sharp exhale from his nose would be a more fitting description, but in your mind it was a full-on belly laugh. Your heart fluttered at the sound and it took all of your effort not to turn and grab his face between your hands, forcing him to do it over and over again. 

Forcing a breath in an attempt to calm your racing heart rate, you leaned further back into the seat, shifting slightly. Bucky reacted, adjusting his position as well, his thigh brushing against yours for a brief moment. You stilled, eyes fixed on the TV as you tried to ignore the rush that went through you at the contact.

Bucky noticed your reaction, of course he did. He also noticed the way that your heart rate had picked up and you had been nibbling on your lower lip for the past few moments. Cautiously, he shifted his seating, pressing his thigh against yours more firmly this time, paying attention to how your body reacted. 

You gulped, eyelids fluttering for a second as a fresh wave of weakness spread through your body, warm and gentle. The communication was completely silent, just a hint of reciprocation as your thigh pressed back against Bucky’s. 

A smirk grew on his face as he felt your body pressing back against his, his hand snaking across to rest just above your knee. His fingers began to draw slow, deliberate circles on the inner side of your thigh, his heightened senses well aware of how your breath hitched as he began. 

If anyone walked in at this point and asked what you were watching, they would have received a garbled mess of sounds in response. Everything in you was focused on Bucky’s hands and how they were resting against your bare skin. Your lower lip was tucked between your teeth, absentmindedly running your tongue back and forth behind your teeth as you attempted to hide any reaction.

Bucky leaned in closer, his shoulder bumping against yours as his hand slid further up your thigh, delicately brushing the skin with his own flesh hand. He let out a quiet groan as electricity buzzed where your bodies met, jaw clenching as he tried to keep his movements controlled and gentle. 

The sound broke any restraint you had left and you turned your head to face him, taking in the blissful expression on his face. The line of his jaw was hard as his teeth clenched together, eyes half closed as his hand caressed the bare skin of your inner thigh.

“Bucky,” you whispered, something between a moan and a whisper. 

His eyes flashed open, immediately finding your gaze with a flash of desire and uncertainty. He pulled his hand from your leg, clearly thinking your voice was some form of denial. Rather than responding with words, you reached out to grasp his hand tightly, bringing it back to your thigh, higher than it had been before. His eyes darkened with desire, jaw still tight as he held himself back from doing anything too intense too quickly.

“Doll,” his voice was gruff with want, husky and hoarse. “We don-”

“I want to,” you whispered, cutting him off before he could continue his sentence. 

He ran his tongue along his lower lip, hand squeezing the pudge of your upper thigh, thumb reaching the soft skin of your hip as he stroked it gently. A whimper escaped your lips, the sight of his tongue immediately sending warmth between your thighs. You pressed them together and Bucky growled at the feeling.

“If we’re going to do this,” he spoke, voice dark and dripping with desire. “We’re going to do it right.”

Excitement rushed through your veins like an icy wave, eyes fluttering closed for a second as your head fell back. Bucky watched this happen, seizing the opportunity and pouncing.

His lips attached to your neck, kissing and licking at the sensitive pulse point as his hand raised to your hip, clutching at you as if you could disappear at any moment. The rough texture of his beard prickled against the delicate skin of your neck, the feeling stimulating every nerve ending in your body as you let out a delicate mewl. 

You lifted a hand to tangle in his hair, leaning your head back to allow him access as he continued to ravish your neck with attention. 

“Buck,” you whimpered, tugging at the ends of his hair. “I can’t-”

“Can’t what?” Bucky teased, nipping at the spot under your ear that made your body melt into his touch.

“Can’t be a one-time thing,” you moaned, a part of you afraid that this would scare him off. The growl that escaped his lips sent arousal directly to the spot between your thighs.

“Who said it was a one-time thing?” he replied, hand lifting to pull the straps of your tank top and bra off your shoulder as his lips trailed down your collarbone. “I certainly didn’t say that.”

You let out a sigh, pulling at his hair to bring his face to yours, “I’m serious, Bucky.”

“So am I,” his eyes searched yours, desperate to show you that he was telling the truth. 

You held his gaze for a moment, eyes darting between his eyes and lips before letting out a breathy chuckle, “I’m gonna hold you to that.”

“I hope you’re gonna hold me to many things,” he teased, nose brushing against yours. 

You rolled your eyes playfully before pressing your lips to his, a moan escaping your throat as you felt his grip on your hip tighten. Lifting your leg, you wrapped it around his waist and pulled him down towards you. His hips slotted between yours as he balanced above you, your back pressed to the seats of the couch. You kept a leg tight around him, holding him in place as your hands dipped under the hem of his shirt.

He whimpered at the feeling of your hands dancing across his skin, your fingertips sending tingles on his skin. His teeth nibbled at your lower lip, tongue swiping against it as a plea for access. You relented, tongues dancing as the kiss deepened. You could feel your arousal pooling between your thighs, hips pressed firmly against Bucky’s as he leaned his weight on top of you.

Bucky’s metal arm rested above your head while his flesh hand pulled the other strap of your shirt down, exposing your shoulders and collarbones to him. Reluctantly, he pulled his lips from yours, trailing them down your neck and along your collarbone. The way he kissed you was wanting but careful, as though he didn’t want to risk shattering you under his grasp. He placed a kiss to the top of your sternum, eyes glancing up to meet yours.

The look on your face was pure bliss and Bucky was completely addicted to the sight. The thought flashed through his mind that the main goal of the rest of his life was to see it as many times as he could before he died. His hands slipped under the hem of your shirt, pulling it up gently before he moved his face away, placing an arm behind your back to lift you in order to remove the shirt completely. 

“Yours too, Buck,” you breathed, face flushed as you attempted to recapture your breathing. 

He flashed a grin at you before pulling his tank top over his head, revealing his muscular chest to you. Your hands immediately lifted, fingertips tracing the scars and marks that dotted his skin, the touches gentle and caring. His smile turned soft at your actions, the realisation that this was something real for you, for both of you. His eyes closed as he enjoyed existing in your touch, letting you explore the parts of his body that had been hidden for so long. 

Your hands drifted down, fingers hooking in the belt loops of his tactical pants before pulling his body back towards yours, lips crashing into his as your bodies collided. Your hips rolled upwards in search of friction, in search of him. He growled against your lips, hips pressing down into yours as his hand slipped beneath your back, arching your back to press your abdomen against his.

“Look at you baby,” he moaned against your lips. “Already so needy.”

“Someone got me all worked up,” you mumbled, hips rolling against his again as you bit your lower lip. 

Bucky chuckled in response, the sound airy and breathless as he nuzzled his nose into your cheek, “Hmm, maybe we should do something about that.”

“Please,” you were well aware of how desperate you sounded, the word like a prayer on your lips. 

Bucky smiled against your cheek as his hand slid beneath the waistband of your shorts, fingers brushing the dainty material of your panties. His movements were delicate, calculated, careful. The dance of his fingertips along your abdomen, inching closer to where you wanted him most, sent shivers through your body as you writhed beneath him. 

The moment his fingers spread your folds you gasped, suddenly aware of just how much you wanted this, just how wet you had become. Bucky bit his lip as his finger slid over your clit and towards your hole, the sensation of your slick sending blood straight to his cock. 

“Shit, doll,” he whimpered, which sent another wave of arousal through your body. “Didn’t realise you needed me this bad.”

Any response died on your tongue as his fingers began to draw sloppy circles over your clit, hips jittering upwards as you searched for more friction. Bucky couldn’t help himself, his clothed crotch rubbing against your inner thigh as you moaned beneath him, lips parted perfectly. 

“Need you,” you breathed, forcing your eyes open to watch as Bucky’s blissed out eyes found yours. 

“Use your words, baby,” he whispered, pressing a gentle kiss to your cheek, a wild juxtaposition to the insatiable movements his fingers were currently working on your clit.

“Need your fingers,” you groaned, lips pressed against his jawline. “Please.”

“Good girl,” Bucky praised, leaving a trail of kisses along your cheekbone before yanking your shorts down your legs.

You gasped at the sudden cold air on your folds, instinctively squeezing your thighs together. Bucky placed a hand on each knee, forcing your legs apart with a gentle tut.

“Princess, if you do that again we’re going to have an issue,” his eyes were serious before turning soft as you let your legs drop wider. “That’s better.”

You flushed at the praise, hips grinding against nothing as you gazed up at Bucky’s face. Shuffling down your body, Bucky lay flat until his eyeline was directly facing your panties. He took in a deep breath, pressing his nose to the dainty fabric before licking a stripe directly over your desperate hole. Your back arched at the feeling, causing Bucky to reach up with his metal arm, pressing your back down against the bed. 

Nuzzling his nose against you, he nudged your panties out of the way before pouncing, pressing a chaste kiss to your clit. A moan echoed in your chest, guttural and raw, as Bucky began to lick at your delicate folds, slurping like a man starved. The sounds coming from the pair of you were borderline pornographic, all moans and gasps and squelches. 

“Fuck, can’t believe you’ve been keeping this from me,” Bucky muttered into your clit, unable to tear his lips from your taste.

Bucky teased your hole with two fingers, sliding them in as your walls fluttered around him. 

“Shit Bucky,” you exhaled, hips grinding against his face. 

“Tell me doll,” he groaned against you, his hips thrusting wildly at the sound of your voice. “Tell me how good I’m makin’ you feel.”

“So good, Bucky,” you rasped, eyebrows furrowed as your eyes squeezed shut. “Feels so fuckin’ good.”

Bucky hummed in response, tongue lapping at your clit as his fingers curled inside of you. Your eyes rolled to the back of your head, jaw going slack as you felt the familiar burning in the pit of your stomach. Unconsciously, you clenched around Bucky as he nibbled at your clit, following it up with a sloppy kiss. 

“Can feel you’re close, princess,” Bucky teased, unrelenting with that tongue of his. “Show me, wanna see you fall apart on my mouth.”

The words were enough to send you over the edge, hips shaking as your thighs tightened around his head. Your walls fluttered around Bucky’s fingers as your orgasm washed over you. Your breath hitched in your chest as your entire body tensed, brain unable to comprehend the pleasure that overtook your senses. 

Bucky began to press kisses to your thighs and hips as he let you ride out your orgasm on his fingers. Once your body began to still he lifted his fingers to his mouth, tongue poking out to lick your slick off of his digits with a groan. His eyes rolled to the back of his head as he leaned down, his dog tags resting on your bare chest.

Your hands lifted to feel his chest, his heart racing beneath his warm skin, prickled with sweat. A finger wrapped around the chain of his tags, pulling him down to meet your lips as you pressed your faces together. Your other hand slid down his chest, teasing at the waistband of his tactical pants. It didn’t take long for Bucky to have them off, throwing them across the room before immediately returning to your lips.

You pressed your palm to his erection over his boxers, whimpering into the kiss as you felt the size of him. Pulling away from his lips, you glanced down to see him held in your hand, the girth sending a shockwave through your body. A wet patch had begun to form on his boxers as precum leaked from his tip, no doubt related to the way his hips had been rutting against the arm of the couch as he ate you out. 

He hissed at your touch, evidently sensitive from the night's events. He nuzzled into the crook of your neck as you began to stroke him gently, pressing kisses to his hair. He thrust his hips into your touch, needing you just as bad as you had been needing him.

“Doll, as much as I love you touching me,” he moaned, pressing a kiss to the corner of your jaw. “I fuckin’ need to be inside you.”

You didn’t take any further convincing, pushing down his boxers to free his rock hard cock. He leaned back for a moment, studying the view before him as he stroked himself a couple of times. He lined himself up with you, one hand gripping your hip tight as the other came up to stroke your cheek as he eased himself into you.

Your eyes immediately fluttered closed, jaw dropping at the sheer size of him. Garbled sounds fell from your lips, it sounded like you were casting a spell in some long-forgotten language. Bucky stifled a deep growl as he felt your walls tightening around him.

“So fuckin’ tight,” he mewled, pressing a desperate kiss to your lips. 

Any type of control Bucky had had before, the precision he had displayed while working on your pleasure, disappeared the second he felt your pussy clenching around his cock. He continued to enter you until he was fully sheathed, jaw clenched as he held himself back from immediately slamming his hips into yours. 

He watched your face carefully for any hint of pain as he began to withdraw, gently sliding into your tight hole again. Your face contorted with pleasure, unable to force any words from your mouth as you succumbed to the pleasure radiating through your body. Bucky took that as a sign to continue, hips rolling back and forward as his cock pounded deeper and deeper into you. 

Your fingers grasped at Bucky’s shoulders, searching for stability as your bodies moved together. Words defeated you, only lewd sounds falling from your lips as your forms united. The sound of wet slaps echoed around the room, punctuated by the deep groans elicited from Bucky’s chest as he felt the warmth of your body around him.

““Fuck,” Bucky hissed through his teeth, punctuated by the harsh slamming of his hips into yours. 

Your entire body vibrated with desire as you heard just how bad Bucky needed you, just how bad he needed to fuck you. You reached up to place a hand on his chest, the other on his shoulder as you pushed against him, flipping him onto his back. You saw a flash of surprise on his face as you threw a leg over him, the look immediately replaced with one of desire and want. 

Leaning down to kiss him, you pressed your lips against his before trailing kisses down his throat, tongue poking out to lick over his Adam’s apple. He growled at the feeling, hands clutching and squeezing at your hips. You felt his hips buck upwards against you, the head of his cock brushing against your clit as you let out a needy whine.

The sound broke something in Bucky and he grabbed your hips, pulling you down on his cock. He slid inside of you easily, even deeper than before as your eyes rolled back in ecstasy. You leaned back as you rolled your hips against his, grinding your pussy against him and hands resting on his muscular thighs.

Bucky thrust his body upwards, his balls slapping against you as the head of his cock hit the perfect spot inside of you, turning your body to jelly.

“Fuck-,” you moaned, the tip of your tongue poking out over your bottom lip as you focused all of your energy on staying upright. 

Bucky sensed your weakness, bending his knees to plant his feet in the bed as he fucked up into you relentlessly. 

“Shit, can feel you getting close babygirl,” he grunted, movements becoming sloppy as he felt his own high building in his abdomen. 

You whined in response, hand drifting down to stroke desperate circles around your clit, “So close, so fucking close.”

“Where’d you want me to finish, doll?” Bucky said, movements beginning to stutter.

“Inside, please,” you moaned, eyes opening to look down at him. “Wanna feel you.”

The words sent Bucky over the edge as he leaned up, wrapping his arms tightly around your abdomen as he slammed his hips into yours over and over. Your orgasm washed over you, body tensing as you crumbled into his embrace. Bucky’s arms were the only thing keeping you from falling on your face as he bit down on your collarbone, stifling a scream as he shot hot ropes of cum deep inside of you.

His hips didn’t stop, fucking his seed deeper and deeper inside of you as you garbled nonsense into his scalp. After a few moments, his movements became languid before stopping entirely, his arms still embracing you tightly as your chests heaved with breaths. His lips placed gentle, sloppy kisses along your shoulder as Bucky turned your bodies to lay you on the bed. You whined as his softening cock slipped out of you.

“I know baby, I know,” he whispered, continuing to place kisses along your jaw as he laid you down. 

Your eyes were still closed, lungs struggling to recover after the rigorous events that had just occurred. Letting out a gentle moan, you reached your arms out for him.

“One second doll, gotta get you cleaned up,” he spoke gently as he stood, moving to the bathroom to grab a washcloth and returning to the bed. 

Carefully, tenderly, he wiped at your sensitive folds, eradicating any proof of your joint activities. He threw the washcloth to the end of the bed, then brought the blanket up to cover your bodies as he wrapped an arm over your midsection.

“You back with me?” he asked, stroking gentle circles against your delicate skin.

“Yeah,” you hummed in response. “Holy shit.”

Bucky chuckled, the sound chesty and real.

“I think you should take a break more often,” you pressed your lips to his chest as you snuggled in closer. His arm wrapped tighter around you as you did, kissing your hair and inhaling your scent. 

“If it involved this every time,” he grinned. “I don’t think I’d ever do any damn work.”

“I’ll make you a deal,” you pulled away to look up at him. “Anytime you need a break, you come find me. I’ll be your perfect excuse.”

Bucky smiled down at you, realising just how much you truly cared for him. He hadn’t thought anyone had noticed how tired he was or how desperate he was for a break, but you had. 

“You got yourself a deal, sweetheart, but for now, I’m not goin’ anywhere.”

a/n: i'm a slut for bucky in thunderbolts

ever wish your favourite character could send you a personalised letter? now they can via my Etsy store <3

masterlist for more of my work <3

[rafesbimbo]

Hi my love, could you do a gynecologist!rafe but with sex toys??

warnings: pt.2, age gap, medical kink, doctor/patient power dynamic, vibrator use, unprotected vaginal sex, overstimulation, orgasm control, creampie, praise + degradation, explicit language, breeding talk, not proofread!

pairing: gynecologist!rafe x reader

you don’t even ask why the room looks different today.

there’s no paper sheet this time, no stirrups either. just a soft leather bench—low, cushioned—and a warm towel already laid out for you to sit on.

rafe closes the door gently behind you, locks it, then turns.

“i’m trying a new setup,” he says casually, like it’s nothing. “just you and me. and a few pieces of equipment.”

you blink at the black cloth he’s unfolding. laid out inside: a sleek silver bullet vibrator, a thicker pink wand, a long toy that curves upward, and… a pair of wireless earbuds?

your mouth opens. “what’s that for?”

he smiles, calm and professional. “this is a focused stimulation protocol. we’ll be testing internal and external response patterns. i’ll be tracking your body’s reactions—tightness, temperature, muscle tension, vocalization. if you follow direction, we’ll finish with penetration.”

you swallow hard. “oh—okay.."

he helps you out of your clothes slowly. he deliberately folds them, setting them aside.

he has you lie back, legs open, hands relaxed at your sides.

“deep breath for me,” he says, voice low as he clicks the wand on. “and keep your eyes on me.”

the wand touches your clit and your hips jerk. it’s too much—you’re already sensitive from just being there, bare and watched under his gaze.

he hums in approval.

“good. you're very responsive. now don’t move.”

he keeps it there. doesn’t push, doesn’t thrust, just holds it steady while his other hand gently strokes your inner thigh. you’re panting, thighs already shaking. when you moan, he shushes you softly.

“quiet. you’ll distract the data.”

your orgasm hits like a wave—slow, rolling, overwhelming. you cry out without meaning to, clutching at the edge of the bench.

“mhm,” he says, making a little note in the tablet beside him. “that’s one.”

you barely recover before he’s sliding the curved toy inside you—warm, lube-slicked, angled perfectly—and turning that on too.

you feel it immediately, deep pressure that makes your toes curl.

rafe watches your face closely. “g-spot stimulation,” he murmurs. “let’s see if it triggers another release.”

you whimper, eyes glassy. “dr. cameron—feels so full—”

“you’re doing so well,” he murmurs, pressing the wand back to your clit at the same time. “just one more.”

you scream into your arm as you come again, harder this time.

wetter.

you don’t even realize you’re crying until his thumb wipes your cheek.

“beautiful baby. perfect reactions.” his voice is quieter now. “you’re ready.”

he sets the toys aside, wipes you down with something warm and gentle. then unbuckles his belt.

his cock is thick, flushed, leaking at the tip as he strokes it once.

“last part of the exam,” he says, voice rough.

“i need to feel you around me. just to confirm everything’s working the way it should.”

you nod, dazed. “yes… please. i want it.”

he sinks into you slow—slow enough to feel every inch.

you moan, eyes rolling back.

“fuck,” he groans. “tightest little cunt i’ve ever felt. all that prep and you’re still squeezing me."

you are, though. you’re so ready it hurts.

he moves with purpose. slow and deep, hitting the same spot the toy had touched. your whole body is electric—every nerve edge-sharp.

“you gonna come on my cock now?” he pants.

“gonna let me fuck another one out of you?”

you nod desperately, nails digging into the bench. “yes—yes, i’m coming—!”

he doesn’t stop. he fucks you through it, keeps going until your moans fall apart and your thighs shake uncontrollably.

“gonna fill this little pussy up,” he grits, breath stuttering. “need to see how your body reacts to cum. medical necessity, baby.”

you cry out as he finishes inside you, hips pressed deep, holding you full.

he stays there for a long moment. breathing with you. keeping you close.

“we’ll run a follow-up in seventy-two hours. i’ll want another sample then.”

[dolcekissy]

disclaimer // 18+ content. this story includes oral sex, and a lot of spit ;)

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you were bored ─ thumbs scrolling as you skipped through videos on tiktok. rafe invited you over just to chill in his bed and spend the night together, you loved spending time with rafe but you were fucking bored.

rafe laying down in his bed next to you, mindlessly scrolling through instagram ─ stopping to watch different reels and like pictures people posted. he stopped ─ his head snapping over to you and your phone when you gasped.

"oh my god! rafe look at this!" you shoved your phone in his face, showing him a video of a girl laughing with wide eyes ─ her mouth opened as saliva poured out of her mouth. "ew, what the fuck." he groaned out, his brows furrowing as he looked away.

"no way that shits real!" you laughed, clicking on the link to look at the little mints and reading the description. "we have to try these, that's so funny." you giggled, immediately adding it to your cart and purchasing it.

rafe scoffed and continued scrolling through his phone, "that shits not real ─ bet it's a scam or some shit."

─────────────────────────

a few days passed and your package came in the mail, you excitedly opened it and texted rafe to pick you up. you were going to surprise him and try to get him to try them with you.

rafe had totally forgotten about them, so when you pulled out a little bright package he furrowed his brows at you ─ asking you what that is.

"it's those mint tablet things i showed you ─ the ones that make you drool a lot, told you we were trying them." you giggle, opening the package and popping one in your mouth.

"you've gotta be kidding me." rafe scoffed, he looked at the little package and read the strength ─ not even a minute later you're opening the car door and laughing as saliva starts dripping down your chin and onto the ground.

"rafe! oh my god look!" you step out of his car, holding your hair back with your hands as your mouth drips and pours. rafe shakes his head and gets out of the car, walking over to you as you look up at him with a laugh.

you stick your tongue out and watch your spit pour down onto the ground with wide eyes. his eyes widened and his dick is immediately hardening when your wide eyes meet his.

"how long does that last." he asked, trying to adjust his pants as you looked down at the ground glistening in your spit. you shrug with a laugh, "i dunno ─ they said people use this for cotton mouth but i bet people use it to suck dick."

he shook his head ─ watching you close your mouth for a moment before opening it again, spit pouring down your lips and chin. you look up at him with raised eyebrows, his eyebrows raising too as he waits for you to say something.

"wanna try it?"

─────────────────────────

you're on your knees in the back of rafe's car ─ holding all the saliva that's been begging to come out as rafe eagerly pulls his sweatpants and underwear down. you quickly grab his cock with one hand and open your mouth, letting everything drip on him.

he groans at the feeling of your warm spit and the sight of you in front of him. his hands pulling your hair into a makeshift ponytail as you wrap your lips around his cock ─ your dripping tongue twirling around his pink tip.

"shittt." he groans. you begin bopping your head on his cock, feeling your spit run down and your chin and drip onto the floor of his car. he grabs his phone sitting next to him, pulling the camera app up and turning the flash on while he records you.

your eyes meet the camera lens as you let his cock hit the back of your throat ─ his groans going straight to your needy pussy. after a few moments of literally slurping on his dick, he guides your head up and down his cock before pulling your head back.

"fuckkk, m'gonna cum ─ stick your tongue out, doll."

you stick your tongue out, letting the camera watch your saliva and his warm seed drip off your tongue and onto his cock ─ the seat below him glistening and his thick cock shining.

"mmm, 's your turn rafey." you lean over, grabbing the pack and popping one into his mouth ─ immediately switching positions with him and pulling your lace panties down, your ass laying flat against the puddle of spit as you wait for him to create an even bigger puddle while he drools over your sopping pussy.

─────────────────────────

[revolutionsingingintherainnn]

that type of dad .𖥔 ݁ ˖ ✦ ‧₊˚ ⋅

Summary: sometimes, dads just aren't present enough. y/n would rather kill lando than let him become that kind of dad.

˙ᵕ˙ ln x reader ꨄ︎

˙ᵕ˙ flulff ꨄ︎

masterlist ☾☼

the plane shuddered as they boarded, economy seats seeming just a tad too intimate after the first class lounge. y/n settled into the window seat, lando clumsily into the middle, a dad already outstretched in the aisle seat. across the thin gulf, a mom was attempting to calm two toddlers, a battle she was very much losing.

y/n sat by, watching it play out. one of the toddlers wanted a treat, the other a toy. both demanded mother's attention, pronto. meanwhile, the father snored on, a travel pillow draped round his neck.

"seriously?" y/n murmured under her breath to lando rather than to herself. "what an asshole."

lando, eyes wide with watchfulness, nodded.

as soon as the plane departed, the chorus of baby screams ensued. one yelled because his brother stole his blanket. the other bawled because he was supposed to have the window seat. the mother attempted to manage with snacks, toys, and pacifiers but to no avail. the father, bless him, slept undisturbed, now watching a film on his tablet.

y/n's muttering grew into full-fledged rant. "i swear, if we ever get kids, i am never letting you be that guy. never. one kid, one parent. that's the rule. no exceptions."

lando, who was imagining miniature versions of y/n and himself, just blinked. "yes, dear," he said quietly, a goofy smile spreading across his face.

the flight kept going, and so did the toddler chaos. one required a diaper change, the other became instantly hungry. the mom, frazzled, attempted to make her way through the miniature airplane restroom with a wiggling toddler clutched in her arms. the dad? he was now munching on a huge bag of chips, completely unaware of the chaos that was erupting around him.

y/n was seething. "i mean, come on! how can he just sit there? does he not hear the screaming? does he not see his wife struggling? if i didn't know better, i'd think he was a cardboard cutout of a dad."

lando, now picturing y/n as a mother, a small human between them, simply nodded again. "yes, dear," he echoed, his eyes twinkling.

y/n continued ranting the remainder of the flight. "and don't even get me started on sleeping arrangements. if we have two children, one sleeps with me, one sleeps with you. no discussion. i am not handling two toddlers alone. no way."

lando, lost in a daydream of y/n, a warm house, and two small ones, simply smiled. "yes, dear," he breathed, his heart full.

as the plane touched down, the mom was tired but relieved. the dad, well-rested and well-fed, stretched and took his bag. y/n glared at him as they disembarked.

"i mean it, lando," she told him, as they strode through the airport. "if you ever behave like that guy, i'm gone. i swear it."

lando, who was starting to plot their wedding in his mind, nodded simply. "yes, dear," he replied, holding out his hand to her. "i promise."

y/n rolled her eyes, but couldn't help grinning. she knew he'd never be that type of dad. but it felt good to complain, to just get it all out. and lando? he didn't care. he was too busy being joyful that she was already making plans for their future, their kids. even if it meant a lot of "yes, dears" and an official split of childcare responsibilities. he could deal with that. he was a formula 1 driver, for crying out loud. pressure was his middle name. and y/n? she was his everything. even when she was yelling about bad dads on planes. especially then.

☾⋆｡𖦹 °✩⋆

yes, i know i was supposed to add y/n and lando helping the mom, but i forgot about it until after i wrote it. sorry. anyways, dee, this is for you. i hope you enjoy this! this is my prompt list, so y'all can select a number, give me a driver and i will write it as soon as possible! i also have a google form for a taglist if anyone's interested! you can sent in your requests here :)

taglist: @maketheshadowsfearyou ; @anamiad00msday ; @imlonelydontsendhelp ; @peterholland04 ; @justaf1girl ; @greantii ; @nocturnalherb16 ; @phobiccneel ; @winkev1 ; @alexxavicry ; @hiireadstuff ; @opastries81

i'd love your support! https://ko-fi.com/kavi2305

[velvetvisionsaurora]

Alpha ATEEZ x Assistant Omega Reader

Warnings: omega reader, alpha ateez, scenting, heats, ruts, slow burn, eventual smut, forced command, more to come!

When Y/n accepts a position as assistant to alpha K-pop group ATEEZ, she's prepared with professional skills and scent blockers to hide her omega status. What she's not prepared for is the immediate, inexplicable connection she feels with all eight members—a resonance that defies her careful boundaries.

As Y/n becomes eerily attuned to their needs, her suppressed omega nature begins to emerge: purring for the first time in years, responding to alpha growls, feeling safe in ways she never has before. When a protective incident reveals the depth of the members' attachment to her, Y/n must confront the possibility that what binds them together is something ancient and profound.

Authors note: Double post because I missed yesterday! If you haven’t read Compass of the Heart, you may not know but I have twin toddlers, and with preschool ending, summer things and my full time job it’s going to take me a minute to adjust to finding writing time. So if things do get wacky please don’t worry, if I’m taking a longer break I will always let you know!

<<Previous Next>>

Masterlist Ko-Fi☕️

Chapter 12: Awakening

There was something about Yunho’s easy energy that had always put you at ease, and today especially. 

After finishing breakfast, you both moved to the living room. You settled onto the couch with your tablet, still hoping to get some work done despite Hongjoong's orders, while Yunho sprawled on the floor with his gaming controller.

"You know," he said, pausing his game setup to look at you, "you don't have to pretend to work just because I'm here. It's supposed to be a rest day."

"I'm not pretending," you protested, though the way you were aimlessly scrolling through the same schedule you'd already memorized suggested otherwise.

Yunho grinned, setting down his controller and moving to sit beside you on the couch. "Come on, when's the last time you just... relaxed? No schedules, no coordinating, no making sure eight chaotic alphas don't burn the house down?"

You considered his question seriously. "I... honestly can't remember."

"Exactly," he said, gently taking the tablet from your hands and setting it aside. "So today, we're going to practice the art of doing absolutely nothing productive."

"I don't know how to do nothing," you admitted, feeling oddly lost without your usual tasks to focus on.

"Lucky for you, I'm an excellent teacher," Yunho replied with that bright smile that never failed to make you feel lighter. "Step one: forget about work. Step two: find something that makes you happy. Step three: do that thing."

"And what if work makes me happy?" you challenged playfully.

"Then you need better hobbies," he shot back, his eyes twinkling with mischief. "What did you like to do before you became our incredibly efficient but slightly workaholic assistant?"

The question made you pause. It had been so long since you'd thought about leisure activities that weren't somehow connected to your job. "I used to read a lot. And I liked cooking, though I never had much time for elaborate meals."

"See? We can work with that," Yunho said enthusiastically. "Reading and cooking. Both perfectly valid ways to spend a forced day off."

"You make it sound so simple," you said, though you were smiling despite yourself.

"It is simple. You're the one making it complicated," he replied, then reached over to gently poke your nose. "Stop overthinking everything, Tulip."

The casual use of Wooyoung's nickname for you, delivered with such fond affection, made your heart flutter unexpectedly. "Did you just—"

"What? Call you Tulip?" Yunho's grin widened at your flustered expression. "I like it. It suits you. Sweet and beautiful, but stronger than people expect."

Heat rose to your cheeks at the compliment. "You can't just say things like that."

"Why not? It's true," he said simply, his expression growing more serious. "You are beautiful, Y/n. Inside and out. And stronger than you give yourself credit for."

The sincere way he spoke, the gentle intensity in his eyes, made your breath catch. "Yunho..."

"What?" he asked softly, leaning slightly closer. "Is it wrong of me to want you to see yourself the way we see you?"

The space between you seemed to shrink without either of you consciously moving. You could see the golden flecks in his brown eyes. 

"How do you see me?" you whispered, the question escaping before you could stop it.

"Like you're precious," he replied without hesitation, his hand coming up to gently cup your cheek. "Like you're exactly what we've all been missing without knowing it. Like you're home."

Your heart hammered against your ribs as his thumb traced across your cheekbone with reverent gentleness. "Yunho, I—"

"Can I kiss you?" he interrupted softly, his gaze dropping briefly to your lips before meeting your eyes again. "Please?"

The simple request, asked with such tender hope, made your omega purr with satisfaction even as your rational mind tried to catch up with what was happening. Instead of answering with words, you found yourself nodding, leaning into his touch.

When his lips met yours, the kiss was different from the passionate encounters you'd shared with Hongjoong, Wooyoung and Seonghwa. This was soft, sweet, almost tentative—like Yunho was savoring every second, memorizing the feel of you against him.

When you finally broke apart, both breathing slightly harder, Yunho rested his forehead against yours with a contented sigh.

"I've wanted to do that for so long," he admitted quietly.

"Really?" you asked, still feeling slightly dazed from the kiss.

"Really," he confirmed, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead. "Now, how about we find you a good book while I set up my game? We can be unproductive together."

You laughed softly, the sound making Yunho's smile brighten even further. "That sounds perfect."

As he settled back onto the floor with his controller and you curled up on the couch with a book from their impressive collection, you couldn't help but marvel at how right this felt—spending a quiet morning with Yunho, no schedules or responsibilities, just the two of you existing in comfortable companionship.

---

Yunho had retreated to his room after lunch, the sounds of his gaming session drifting down the hallway—enthusiastic exclamations punctuated by the rapid clicking of his controller. You'd assured him multiple times that you were fine, that he didn't need to hover, and eventually he'd relented enough to give you some space while still remaining within earshot.

Now you found yourself sprawled on the living room couch, staring at the ceiling and trying to understand what was happening to your body. The restless energy that had started this morning was only getting stronger, making it impossible to sit still or focus on anything for more than a few minutes.

Your omega felt... different. More aware, more attuned to the house around you. Ever since yesterday's revelation, since the members had begun openly acknowledging what you were and responding to you with increased affection and protectiveness, something fundamental had shifted in your nature.

It was as if spending months surrounded by eight alphas while suppressing your omega instincts had created a dam that was now beginning to crack. Their casual touches, their protective hovering, their unguarded affection—it was awakening parts of your omega that you'd kept carefully dormant.

After twenty minutes of fruitless lounging, the restless energy won out. You pushed yourself off the couch and began moving through the house, drawn by an inexplicable need to... what? Clean? Organize? Care for the space that housed your alphas?

The thought should have startled you—your alphas—but instead it felt natural, right in a way that made your omega purr with satisfaction.

You started in the living room, straightening throw pillows and folding the blankets that had been left draped over chairs. The simple acts of bringing order to their space felt surprisingly fulfilling, each small task soothing the restless itch beneath your skin.

Moving to the kitchen, you found dishes from breakfast still waiting in the sink. Without thinking, you rolled up your sleeves and began washing them, the warm water and routine motions helping to calm your agitated omega. As you worked, you found yourself humming softly—another omega behavior you'd suppressed for so long it felt strange and wonderful to let it emerge naturally.

The laundry was next. Following your nose to the utility room, you discovered several loads of clothes waiting to be sorted and washed. As you began separating dark from light, your hands stilled suddenly on a particular shirt.

You lifted the garment to your face before you could stop yourself, breathing in deeply. The scent that filled your senses was unmistakably Hongjoong's—sandalwood and ocean breeze, rich and masculine and completely intoxicating. Your omega responded immediately, a soft whine escaping your throat at the pure rightness of his scent.

Confused, you checked your scent blocker patch with one hand. It was still firmly in place, still functioning. So why could you suddenly smell...?

Curious now, you rifled through the pile of clothes, bringing different items to your nose. A soft sweater that smelled like vanilla and cedarwood—Seonghwa's scent, warm and comforting and safe. A dance practice shirt that carried the bright, energizing scent of citrus and clean linen that could only be Yunho's.

A black t-shirt that made your knees weak with its potent combination of cinnamon and dark chocolate—San's scent, spicy and tempting and utterly masculine. Your omega practically purred at the intensity of it, your body responding with a heat that had nothing to do with the temperature of the room.

Another shirt, this one carrying the rich, earthy combination of soil and pine that belonged to Mingi. The scent brought memories of his protective presence, his gentle touches, the way he'd looked at you with such fierce care. Your omega whined again, a soft sound of longing that you couldn't suppress.

What was happening to you? How were you suddenly able to detect their scents through your blocker? You touched the patch again, pressing on it to make sure it was properly adhered, but it seemed to be working normally.

Yet here you were, surrounded by the distinct scents of your alphas, your omega responding to each one with increasing desperation. When you encountered a hoodie that carried the light, alluring scent of musk and cherry blossoms—Yeosang's scent, subtle but unmistakable—you actually had to grip the edge of the washing machine to steady yourself.

The lively, invigorating scent of bergamot and ginger from one of Wooyoung's shirts made your omega keen with want. Even the crisp, refreshing scent of apples and mint from Jongho's workout clothes affected you, despite him being the youngest of the pack.

By the time you'd loaded the first batch of clothes into the washing machine, you were practically trembling with need. Your omega was in overdrive, responding to the concentrated scents of eight different alphas with an intensity that left you breathless and confused.

The overwhelming intensity of their scents was becoming too much to bear. With shaking hands, you made your way to the guesthouse, your omega whining softly at leaving the den that smelled so perfectly of your alphas. You needed to change your scent blocker—maybe the current one was malfunctioning, allowing their scents to break through when it shouldn't.

In your bathroom, you carefully removed the patch behind your ear and replaced it with a fresh one from your supply. The relief was immediate but incomplete—the scents around you dulled to manageable levels, but your omega seemed to grow even more anxious in response.

It was as if blocking their scents again had triggered something deeper, a desperate need to care for the alphas who had protected you, who had shown you such fierce loyalty and affection. Not in the way omega stereotypes suggested—submissive and mindless—but in the way you naturally wanted to care for people who mattered to you.

Your hands moved without conscious thought as you returned to the kitchen, mixing ingredients for cookies you didn't remember deciding to make. The motions felt automatic, instinctual, your omega driving you to provide comfort and nourishment for your pack.

While the cookies baked and dinner continued to simmer, you found yourself climbing the stairs to Yunho's room with a plate of the fresh-baked treats. You knocked softly on his door before entering, finding him absorbed in what appeared to be an intense battle sequence.

"I brought you some cookies," you said softly, not wanting to startle him during what looked like a crucial moment.

Yunho paused his game immediately, turning to look at you with an expression of pure wonder. His eyes tracked your movements as you set the plate beside his setup, then noticed his empty water glass.

"Let me refill this for you," you murmured, already reaching for the cup.

"You don't have to—" he started, but you were already heading back downstairs.

When you returned with his freshly filled glass, setting it carefully within reach, Yunho's smile was radiant—that beautiful, sunshine expression that never failed to make your heart flutter.

"Thank you Tulip," he said, his voice warm with genuine appreciation and something deeper, something that made your omega practically glow with satisfaction.

The praise, the gratitude, the sheer happiness in his expression triggered something primal in your omega. Before you could stop yourself, a soft purr rumbled from your chest, followed by a delighted chirp that sounded foreign to your own ears but felt completely natural.

You fled the room immediately, embarrassed by the omega sounds you couldn't control, but not before you caught the way Yunho's eyes widened and his mouth fell slightly open.

Back in the kitchen, you threw yourself into finishing dinner preparations, trying to ignore the way your omega continued to purr softly with contentment at having pleased one of your alphas.

---

In his room, Yunho sat frozen, staring at his game screen where his character had been brutally defeated while he'd been distracted. But he couldn't bring himself to care about the loss, not when the most beautiful sound he'd ever heard was still echoing in his ears.

That purr. That soft, musical chirp.

His omega had made those sounds for him, because of him, in response to his simple gratitude. The realization sent a wave of alpha satisfaction through him so intense it was almost overwhelming.

He'd heard omega sounds before, of course—in videos, in passing—but nothing had prepared him for the effect of hearing them from you. Your omega expressing contentment and pleasure at caring for him, at receiving his praise.

His hands moved automatically to restart the level, but his mind was entirely focused on one desperate thought: he needed to hear those sounds again.

The cookies you'd brought him sat forgotten on the plate as Yunho tried to process what had just happened. Your omega was awakening, responding to them with increasing openness, and the sounds you were making were the most perfect thing he'd ever experienced.

His alpha was practically vibrating with the need to find you, to praise you more, to coax more of those incredible sounds from your omega. But he forced himself to stay put, knowing that crowding you right now might scare your newly awakening omega back into hiding.

Still, as he attempted to refocus on his game, Yunho couldn't stop the smile that spread across his face. Your omega had purred for him. Had chirped with happiness at his simple thanks.

And he was absolutely determined to make it happen again.

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[peanutpinet]

Under My Care - Sylus x Innocent Fem Reader

Random Blurb Idea: When Sylus was taking his innocent, clueless girlfriend out for a date only to be interrupted by his business partners who just happened to be at the bar Sylus owned in Linkon

Prompt Sentence: No, it’s alright, come here

Disclaimer: I do not own the images nor the characters or you (the MC). All images were taken from Pinterest.

When I mentioned “innocent”, it’s more so clueless and not really understanding the danger of the world type and not so much in a negative form like being “dumb” or anything like that.

Also I’d like to mention that I don’t know what currency they use in the game but assuming since the game is from China, I’ll be using Chinese money aka Chinese Yuan

And I want to point out the reader (aka you) is not the MC (Miss Hunter)

Warnings: fluff, slightly aggressive Sylus (not towards you, his men lmao), possessive and protective Slyus (not in a bad way), cursing and sexual names (not from Sylus)

“Luke, Kieran, see it that all schedule for the day is cleared out” Sylus mentioned, putting on his coat over his sweater

“Right away boss!” both Luke and Kieran exclaimed as Mephisto eyed the situation from the window. “Are you visiting her?” Luke asked, making Sylus chuckle

“Yes. And I hope that I won’t be disturbed by anything. I trust you both will take care of everything until I come back later on” Sylus mentioned and the twins hummed, taking notice how their boss looked much more appealing and approachable in his outfit compared to his regular attire in the N109 zone.

Once he finished getting ready, Sylus went to use one of his most lavish car instead of his motorcycle to blend in with the people in Linkon and to not draw much attention.

It was a short trip and right before noon, Sylus had already parked his car in front of your house, waiting for you as he leaned on his car, ignoring all the passerby who were shocked to see such a tall muscular yet lavish man in a regular neighbourhood.

“You’re here already?!” Sylus immediately looked up to see you standing by the door, you had already done your makeup and hair but was still in your loungewear.

A smirk went onto his face as Sylus walked up towards your door and greeted you with a kiss on your forehead. “I thought I’d come earlier so I can enjoy moments like this with you. Will you let me in?”

You nodded and opened the door, letting your tall scary looking boyfriend into the cozy small home you have. “Do you want something to eat while I change?”

Shaking his head, Sylus opted to just sit by the couch. “I’m alright, sweetie. I had something before coming here. You go on and change then. Take your time. I can wait”

You nodded and peck your boyfriend’s cheek before walking back up to your room and finished getting change while Sylus was mindlessly scrolling his phone; ignoring all the incoming messages from business colleagues both in the N109 zone and in Linkon but Sylus could care less about all of them.

Today was about you and him. He won’t let anything get in the way of a whole day ahead of him spending time with you. His loving, caring, adorable girlfriend.

“Sylus, I’m done!! Let’s go!!” you exclaimed as Sylus put his phone away and smiled when he saw you jogging down the stairs wearing a simple white sweater, long flowy skirt, the branded shoulder bag Sylus gifted, and oxford shoes.

“Shall we, sweetie?” Sylus extended his arm as you latched onto it, giggling, making Sylus smile

Sylus then led you to his car, being the gentlemen he is, he opened the door for you, closed it. He even put on your seatbelt as he settled in the driver's seat.

The whole day, Sylus took you to places you want to go. Sylus knew your wishlist as your shopping account is linked to his phone. Several new books just released? Sylus would bring you to the bookstore, pay for it, and take it out of the shop. Don’t want to bother flipping the pages? Sylus bought a tablet and downloaded every book you’ve owned and on your TBR.

You wanted to try a new cafe? Sylus wouldn’t hesitate to bring you no matter how far it was at the moment. He would go as far as to look up the recommendations and order practically everything on the menu much to your complaint. You’re too full? He’ll pack it to go for you. You want to have dessert almost immediately? Sylus would tease you before giving in to your wants.

You wanted to go around the mall, play the claw machines, kitty cards, go to the arcade? He’ll do it all. You want to buy new makeup and clothes? Anything you see or touch, Sylus instantly gets it without caring about your whining about it being expensive.

The whole entire day, Sylus is practically your sugar daddy. Anything you want, anywhere you want to go, he’ll do it all for you. He even carried all the plush and things he bought for you despite your complaints about everything being expensive or too heavy.

Sylus didn’t once complain about anything and just smiled at your secretly sparkly eyes when he paid for your wishlist items. By the end of the night, Sylus decided to bring you to one of your wishlist restaurants which just happens to be the restaurant that he owns in Linkon.

Once you both entered the restaurant, Sylus confidently brought the two of you towards the front of the waiting line, ignoring all the stares that where directed towards the two of you until the waiter at the front realised who had just come and immediately, the manager of the restaurant immediately came to greet Sylus and it was then did everyone realised that Sylus was the owner of the restaurant.

Sylus held your waist tightly as he brought you with him, following the manager who led the two of you to the exclusive VIP room which confused you but made Sylus smirk with pride. “Just a little something I pull for you today. But you’re welcome to come here whenever you want”

Sylus helped you sit down as the waiter came and asked Sylus for his usual order but this time Sylus just told the waiter, “It’s up to the lady tonight. I’ll have anything she orders and make sure that it reaches the minimum spending”

You looked in shock when Sylus said there was a minimum spending and Sylus chuckled at your shocked expression. “Don’t worry sweetie. You won’t know the exact number. Only I do. But I’ll give you a hint. You have to order at least an equivalent of 5 tomahawk steaks”

You looked at Sylus as if he was crazy but you tried to order several menus that you thought weren’t as expensive. Sylus chuckled at the several orders you made and asked the waiter to bring it out as soon as possible.

Once the food and drinks came out, Sylus had you try everything first and let him know your opinion about the food before eating them himself. As the night goes on, the two of you continued eating together, occasionally talking and updating about each other’s life. Sylus was sipping on his wine while you were drinking your fresh lemon tea. Though the two of you are a contrast to one another, neither of you mind. In fact, both of you enjoyed the contrast and see it as complementing each other.

Sometime when dessert was just about to come, you decided to excuse yourself to the restroom, saying how you were quite full to the point your stomach had to lose some of the food you just ate to save room for dessert.

“Alright, sweetie. Don’t take too long. Your dessert will melt later” Sylus teased as you stuck your tongue out as a reply, making Sylus chuckle at your slightly childish behavior

In the midst of waiting for you, Sylus felt another presence and the door to his private VIP room was opened to reveal some of his business partners barging into his private room where he was waiting for you, his beloved.

The bouncer who tried to stop the men came in went to Sylus. “I apologise sir, I tried my best to keep them away but they threatened and…” Sylus raised his hand indicating the bouncer to stop talking. “Leave us”

The bouncer immediately nodded and left the room while Sylus’ business “partners” were standing across him. “Tell me what updates you have or shall I put a bullet in your tongue for every miscellaneous reason for coming here, into my private dining area and disturbing my dinner”

Sylus felt his men were lucky for they provided him with some useful information regarding the updates of his businesses however some were testing his patience and got on his nerves when they were asking if they were going to get paid more or if there were going to be a promotion to be part of his field men. Sylus was ready to end the conversation when there was a soft knock on the door and the bouncer opened it with you peeking in.

“I’m sorry, am I disturbing your sudden meeting?” you asked in a soft tone and before Sylus could answer, one of his men decided to try and act all tough, not knowing you were Sylus’ beloved girlfriend

“Yes you are, you slut. Can’t you see that Sylus doesn’t have time to deal with you attention-seeking girls?” one of the men scoffed as the others were agreeing but also looking at you as if you were a treat

Hearing the comments and stares, you felt small and somehow, tears were building up in your eyes. “I, I’m sorry. I, I’ll go…” you stuttered until Sylus’ strong voice echoed the room

“No, it’s alright, come here sweetie” Sylus reassured you and even motioned you to come back into the room where he used his evol to pull a chair next to him

You were still unsure and fidgeted with your fingers. It didn’t help that the men in the room were still eyeing you but Sylus made his statement loud and clear. “Stop fucking looking at her as if she’s a piece of meat or I’ll gauge your eyes out one at a time”

Though the statement was meant for his men, you can’t help but be scared of Sylus’ loud and commanding voice which he never uses when he’s with you. Once his men looked down, Sylus took it as his chance to use his evol and gently dragged you so that you were now on his lap.

“I’m sorry I raised my voice with you in the room, sweetheart. Are you alright?” Sylus asked, his hold around your waist was gentle and loving; contrasting to his voice and actions towards his men who were shivering at Sylus’ commanding tone

You were still shaken up at what happened but tried to tell Sylus how you felt. “I, I thought I came into the wrong room…”

Sylus shook his head and brought one of his hands to your cheek, gently brushing your hair back. “It wasn’t your fault, sweetie. They came here unnoticed even though…” Sylus looked at his men, gently pushing your head to his chest, ensuring your vision was not towards his men. “I’ve made it fucking clear that no one is to disturb me today”

Sylus leaned back on his chair with you in his arms as he slowly lulled you to sleep. His touch might be gentle but his eyes were ready to kill anyone who so much looked at you the wrong way. “Not only did you all carelessly walk through that door and interrupt my day off but you all just had to eye my beloved as if she was some kind of girl you can pay your way. In addition to that, you dared to call her by an absurd name? Looks like you all need some lesson about respect because no one” Sylus’ hold on you looks more possessive but caring at the same time

“No fucking one, eyes, touches, or even talks about my beloved in a disgusting, animalistic way and gets away with it. She is my lover and specifically under my care. And I’d be dammed to let anyone who mistreats her in any way shape or form get away with it without some kind of lesson”

A/N: I have a confession. I have been trying out c.ai and honestly, it gives me some story ideas for Sylus but I'm not sure if anyone will be interested. I read on Tumblr someone mentioned what if the MC is the 'I don't believe in love anymore' type of girl and Sylus is the 'I can show you what real love is' and I'm just like T^T gosh, that would be so me. Anyways, just a lil fic I decided to pull up before I slowly descend back to the real world since I've been busy :')

If anyone would like to request me anything of Sylus or LADS, do send me a request and I will try to get to it. Otherwise, I hope this fic brightens up your day and take care xoxo peanutwott

[writingslob]

(Part 2) Lin Ling's guide to becoming an emotional support civilian [YANDERE EDITION]

[TO BE HERO X] x [LIN LING] [Part 1; Part 3 can be found here!]

Context warning: Cursing

Author's note: Finally! I'm finished! This took a hot second, but I hope you guys enjoy this as much as the 1st one!

Once again, thank you @kiraisrika for the idea! [ Also, @izarosf1833, you now owe me your firstborn. I'll be expecting it by mail on Wednesday >: ) ]

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Lin Ling was having one hell of a weird day.

Not a bad day, not a good day. 

Just a weird day. 

Following Miss Juan and her crew into the lobby of Hero’s Tower. (His heart was beating frantically in his chest. He can feel his inner child fist-bumping the air because he’s finally here! After all these years, he’s here-!) He can’t help but try to get out of Nice’s grasp, his white hair tickling his jaw. “Man, can you like” —stop clinging to me like a koala— “not?” No matter how hard he tugged, Nice’s grasp was as hard as steel. 

“Nope!”

And that was that. 

The elevator ride was an equally awkward affair—the only sounds being the dull music, tapping of nails on tablet, and the light breaths of everyone in the elevator. The only one who wasn’t awkward was Nice, but Lin Ling, drunk off of hysteria and exhaustion, suspected that he had taken something and was high off his rocker, if only to make sense of this nonsensical situation. 

Like he knew he had ‘relaxation powers,’ but his number wasn’t nearly high enough for this! Hell, it wasn’t even affecting Miss Juan and the other men who were standing at arm’s length of him! Really, the only thing his powers should be doing is offering the same calming effects as lavender, not acting like…like-like catnip to drug-addicted cats! 

‘Holy shit, I compared Nice to a drug-addicted cat. What is my life?’ 

“We’re here,” Miss Juan announced, breaking him out of his thoughts before they could spiral even further. Stepping out into the apartment, he looks around, and he has to admit.

It sucks. 

Now, when he imagined a superhero’s apartment, and one belonging to the 15th hero at that, he imagined something grand, with white walls lined with gold and classical elements strung around to give it a real luxurious, Victorian feel. But even without those expectations, this is just a sad apartment. What with its barren walls devoid of life, not a single small plant to liven the space, and the less said about the gaudy, grandiose statue in the middle, the better. 

“Do you like it?” Nice ask, turning to look at him. Lin Ling doesn’t know what face he is making, but it must have shown his true feeling as Nice barks out a laugh. “Yeah, me neither.” He perks up. “But! Since you’ll be living here from now on, you can redecorate all you want! No budget! Here, let me give you a tour.” Detaching himself only to immediately grab onto his hand, Nice floats into the sky and begins to tug him when-

“Not so fast.” A hand shot out and grabbed onto Nice’s cape, yanking him back down to the ground. “We don’t have time for house tours. You two are coming with me and are going to sign enough papers to make your hands bleed, do you understand?” All Lin Ling can do is nod. Nice rolls his eyes, but they both dutifully follow Miss Juan as she leads them to the office. 

The office was just as sparsely decorated as the rest of the house, with only two white couches facing each other, a long glass table in between, and bookshelves sandwiching everything together. The only good part was the window wall, letting in enough light that they didn’t need to turn on the lights if they wanted to. 

Sitting stiffly on one couch with Nice and Miss Juan on the other, what ensued was a full hour and a half of back and forth between Nice and Miss Juan that was one blow away from a full-blown fistfight. He also had to sign enough papers to—like she said—make his hands bleed. 

His vision started blurring around the fifth paper, and by the 20th, his eyes were gorilla-glued together. It took all his strength not to faceplant into the stack of papers and sleep away the next year and then some.

“- He will not be joining you in your stunts with Wreck. How many times do I have to tell you before you get it through your thick skull?! “And how many times do I have to tell you that if he’s not joining me, I’m out! Permanently! What? Do you want me to spell it in blood? I’ll do it!” “Oh, for the love of God, you are acting like a child!” “And you’re acting like a bitch!” “You-!”

Okay, that’s it. “Can I go to the bathroom?” He asked quietly and flinched slightly as both snapped their heads at him. “Fine. Be quick.” “I’ll go with you!” They both said simultaneously. Miss Juan intensified her glare at Nice, but he was already getting up from the couch to follow him. 

“Huh? What? No! I- Thank you, but I really don’t want you following me to the bathroom.” Realizing a beat too late that it sounded a tad too rude, he awkwardly tacked on “Besides, you two still need to finish up...whatever you guys were talking about! Don’t worry! I’ll be back in a flash!” 

Nice narrows his eyes, looking like he wants to argue further. After a second and a half of silence, Nice sighs.

“Promise?” Lin Ling nodded in rapid succession, “Promise!”

He jogged out of the office. The door clicks softly behind him. Not looking back, he runs.

He didn’t know where he was headed, and frankly didn’t care. This wasn’t how his day was supposed to turn out. He was supposed to be at work, hunched over his computer as he edited frame by frame, or he was supposed to be in his boss's office, getting yelled at over his promo videos. Or, he was suppose to be at the ledge, looking death in the face before chickening out and going back to his shitty one bedroom apartment to enjoy another cup noodle dinner.

He wasn’t supposed to be here—why was he even still here in the first place? He should just take the elevator down and go back home. Leave this all behind him and—

“Hey! Cheer up!”

The elevator was in sight; just a few more steps to get there. But, even if deaf and blind, he would recognize that voice anywhere. Turning his head, he saw a blimp outside, displaying. 

“....Moon?”

“Being alive means experiencing many challenges, but please, don’t lose faith!”

Moon voices wash over him, and he can’t help but remember the long nights spent at his desk—the only light coming from the bright LED monitor in front of him, burning his eyes with its glow, and how the only thing that kept him going was her encouragement.

Does he want to leave Nice?

Sure, the last few hours were the most overwhelmed he has ever felt and sure, Nice was- well pushy was to put it mildly. But, does he really want to leave? Leave Nice and go back home to no one?  Continue his life like this never happened?

You don’t have a responsibility to Nice.

No, he doesn’t; he knows that. But… Nice’s mental state is clearly in tatters, and if his presence—if his ability—can bring him some peace, then he’ll stay. He may not be a hero, but if he can help one person, then that’ll be enough. 

If Lin Ling can be a hero to one person, that’ll be enough.

.

.

.

Stepping back into the room (he did genuinely need that bathroom break), he was surprised to find the place as neat as when he first walked in. Honestly, he was expecting a war zone. 

Miss Juan looked like someone had pulled multiple teeth out of her—scowling and rapidly typing something away on her table. Meanwhile, Nice looked like he just caught the canary. His smile was wide, smug, and real. (Looking at it, he can’t help but compare it to all the others he's seen before- plastered on billboards and ads. He never noticed how fake they were before.) “You came back.” Nice tilts his head to look at him, his smile softening. 

Lin Ling tilted his head back at him. Of course he did. “Of course I did,” he answers simply, taking a seat back on the couch. Nice wastes no time in scooting over until their bodies touch. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Nice’s tense body relaxing, his shoulder slumping, and his perfect posture faltering just a bit. 

“Ehm,” Miss Juan cleared her throat, breaking Lin Ling out of his train of thought. He turns back to her, “We finally managed to draft up a final contract for your—” Wait, what? “Hold on, what were the ten million other papers I signed before for then?” She raises an unimpressed eyebrow. “NDAs, of course. Since you will be living here, you are bound to see other superheroes and their teams. So, you have to sign an NDA for every single one of them.”

“Now this—” She waves a single white paper up in the air before placing it on the table. Nice reaches out to straighten it out while she continues, “—is an offer of employment to join Treeman Corp as Nice’s emotional support civilian. Inside, I have outlined all of the benefits you will receive when you join us.”

Yeah, that makes sense- Hold on. Snatching the paper off the table, his eyes skimmed to- Holy shit, there it is. Written in bold black ink. 

“EMOTIONAL SUPPORT HUMAN!? Why is that the name!?” He stares up incredulously at Miss Juan, only for Nice to reply.

“It fits, no?” He cocks his head as he skims the contract. “Originally she wanted your title and job to be one of a personal assistant, but!” His smile widened, bordering on blinding. “You will not have to lift a single finger as long as you stay by my side! So, we changed it to this!”

“…”

“Do you like it?”

“…Just hand me the pen.”

.

.

.

Lin Ling was starting to get nervous. 

After signing the contract (He tried getting the name changed to anything- anything else, but, coupled with Nice’s puppy eyes and Miss Juan pointedly looking at the clock, he gave up and just accepted his fate, his embarrassing, embarrassing fate), Miss Juan immediately chaperoned them to True Love Recipe’s studio where they were shoved into the makeup room with what he assumed to be the script and were told to wait for the makeup artist. 

They were told that 30 or so minutes ago at 7:00 pm.

It was now 7:43 pm

The show starts at 8.

Lin Ling was getting anxious, and from the sound of Nice reshuffling every item on the desk and him glancing at his phone every minute, so was he. 

“Shouldn’t the makeup artist be here by now?” Nice looked up, offering a reassuring smile to Lin Ling. “Don’t worry, he’s often late, so this isn’t out of the norm for him.” He gnaws on his lip, glancing at his phone. “Still,” He presses, “It might be a good idea to do your own makeup, Nice. Just in case he’s a no-show.”

Nice hums, “I should." He pauses, "There is a problem, however.” Holding up a finger, he turns to Lin Ling with an almost embarrassed smile, “I don’t know how to do makeup.”

“For real?” “Yes.” He turns back to the assorted makeup, picking up two of the nearest bottles. “It shouldn’t be too hard, though, it’s just blush and cream, right?” Lin Ling couldn’t help but snort, the sound making Nice blush a faint pink. “Here,” Getting up from the couch, he walks over and plucks the two bottles out of his hands. “Sit, I’ll do it for you.” Nice stared at him in shock before immediately slamming himself down into the chair. 

Leaning in close, he can’t help but marvel at how smooth his face is, not an acne scar in sight. This will make his job real easy then. Looking at the makeup supplies on the desk, he picks up a highlight and contour palette along with a big bristle brush. Opening the thing up, he begins to paint.

He should keep the makeup light, he muses to himself as the soft, repetitive motion of blending and smoothing things out lulls him into a trance, just enough so the stage lights won’t wash him out. Stepping back half a step and deeming the contour complete, he picks up a blush to continue the process.

Nice observes him with half-lidded eyes, “You’ve done this before.”

“Mmph,” he nods, carefully applying the blush. “A coworker of mine got really sick and begged me to fill in for them as the makeup artist for some small commercial. Feeling bad, I agreed.” A grimace tugged on his face as he further recalled the memory. “My boss got on my ass about it, though. Assigned me so much work after because ‘-If you have the time to play around with dress-up, you have the time to finish these by Monday!’ God, I had to pull so many all-nighters to finish those.” During his semi-rant, he didn’t notice how Nice’s eyes narrowed into slits, his hands clenching into fists.

“Why didn’t you quit?” 

Lin Ling freezes for half a step, his hand reaching for the gloss. He laughs, “Well, because I liked the job.” He starts, turning around with the gloss in his hands. Bending in closer, he uncaps the lid. “Sure, it wasn’t my dream to work there, and my boss was an absolute grade A asshole, but,” Tilting Nice’s chin up, he began to apply the lip gloss, the stick sliding across Nice’s lips, leaving them shiny and plump. “I always wanted to help, and what’s better than to help out heroes from behind the scenes?”

(He doesn’t mention the fact that his actual want was to be a hero, to punch bad guys and save innocents. He doesn’t mention the fact that when he was a child, he would look up at heroes like Nice and want.) Dammit, a bit of the gloss got onto his skin. Swiping it off with his thumb, he steps back to admire his work and—

Nice’s face was red. Pure tomato red.

Shit “Did I hurt you?" Fuck, fuck, fuck "I am so sorry! What do I do!? Are you allergic to something!? Hold on, let me go find a doctor!” Turning around, he was about to sprint before a hand shot out to stop him.

“...No, I’m fine. You didn’t hurt me.” Turning back around, Nice’s once tomato-red face has calmed to a dusty pink. “Still, shouldn’t you get checked out? I'm sure I can find a doctor before the show starts.” Lin Ling argued. Nice’s mouth opened to retort when-

Miss Juan bursts into the room, tablet in hand. 

“What’s taking so long!?” She demands, “We’re airing in 5! Get your asses on set!” 

.

.

.

Oh, Lin Ling,

Does he know how much he is affecting him?

How must know. He must know how much he drives Nice mad. 

His heart is still beating uncontrollably in his chest, the touches left by Lin Ling burn on his skin, and the way his face was just a breath away, his cute eyes focusing on him and only him. Oh, how it took all his patience not to pounce on the boy and take him right then and there.

The anger—the absolute fury he felt when Lin Ling began talking about the despicable man who was once his boss took him by surprise. A day ago, he could barely muster the energy to get out of bed, but now? His vision was filled with red and how he wanted to hurt. Hurt all who dared to lay a finger on Lin Ling. Lin Ling’s boss is a dead man on borrowed time because the minute he gets his hands on him—

Perhaps he’ll present his head as a gift to Lin Ling, showing him how deep his devotion goes. Show him that whatever he wants, Nice will provide.

Oh, Lin Ling, you truly are my heart.

Now, if only filming could end right so he can take Lin Ling back home. But alas, he must suffer sitting next to Moon as this new host, what’s-his-name, goes wildly off script, rambling about one thing or another. Really, the only thing stopping him from killing the guy was Lin Ling.

Lin Ling, who is standing behind the host. Far away from him so the camera can’t see, but close enough that Nice can see all the intricate details on his pretty little face. Nice smiles.  

Ah, what a good day. 

[sugary-strawberry-shortcake]

Blossom Reverse (Yandere Batfam x Neglected! Poison Ivy‘s Daughter Reader!)

Chapter One

There was a moment, right after waking, when everything felt normal.

The sun crept in through gauzy curtains. Her sheets smelled like chamomile and old linen. The air carried that soft, dusty warmth of a mansion too large to ever truly feel full.

But then the moment passed.

And Y/N remembered everything.

The chains.

The underground cell.

The collar.

Her own scream as the collar crushed her throat—her vines too slow to answer.

She had died. She knew she had.

So why… was she here?

The room around her was achingly familiar—her old room. Not the larger suite she’d been moved to at sixteen. This one was smaller. Green wallpaper. A desk by the window. Her old stuffed elephant still sitting on the dresser, untouched by time.

Her chest tightened.

No.

This wasn’t right.

This was before.

A knock. Then the door creaked open.

“Miss YN,” came the voice that never stopped being gentle. “Time to wake, my dear.”

Alfred.

She turned slowly. There he stood—older, upright, the ever-reliable silhouette in his pressed suit and warm eyes. He stepped in, balancing a tray with tea, fruit, and a slice of toast—simple, perfect, the way he used to bring it when no one else remembered she was alive.

She sat up, heart thudding.

“Alfred…”

He raised a brow. “Yes, Miss?”

Her throat tightened. She wanted to cry. To throw herself at him. But she didn’t.

He didn’t know.

None of them knew.

They didn’t remember what had happened. How it ended.

Only she did.

“Never mind,” she said softly, voice smooth and polite. She smiled gently—the smile she had trained to wear like a mask.

He looked at her a moment longer, his expression unreadable, before placing the tray on the bedside table.

“You’ll be late if you linger. Master Damian is already downstairs. I imagine he won’t wait.”

She flinched inwardly at the name.

Damian Wayne.

In her first life, he was her older brother by adoption and blood—Bruce’s biological son, trained since birth, brilliant and deadly. He used to ignore her. Mock her sometimes. In school, he barely acknowledged her existence.

And yet, she had idolized him.

Tried to win his favor. Smiled at him every morning, even when he didn’t look her way. Followed after him in school and sat beside him at lunch, even when he moved two seats down. Laughed at his jokes, even when they were at her expense.

She wouldn’t do that this time.

This time, she’d keep her distance.

This time, she wouldn’t beg to belong.

She dressed herself slowly in the Gotham Academy uniform—neatly ironed, green plaid skirt, soft cream blouse, and a jacket that bore the Wayne crest. It was strange, wearing it again. Strange being fourteen when she had last worn it at eighteen.

She tied her hair back, tucked a flower behind her ear—reflexively—and then yanked it out with shaking fingers.

Not this time.

No vines. No bloom. No signs.

No one could know what she truly was.

⸻

Breakfast was quiet chaos, just like it had always been. Dick laughing too loud. Jason making jokes between bites. Tim hunched over a tablet, barely touching his food. Bruce silent at the head of the table, sipping black coffee and pretending not to brood.

They looked the same.

But YN saw it differently now. She saw the spaces where affection should have been. She sat at the far end of the table, untouched by their noise.

No one spoke to her.

No one noticed her tea going cold.

Just like before.

But now she didn’t feel sad. She felt… numb. Distant. Watching it like a memory already repeating itself.

Then Damian walked in—clean uniform, sharp eyes, katana still strapped across his back like it belonged there. (Bruce would reprimand him, because the boy knew that he could not take weapons with him to school. Still, he tries to do it regularly.)

He looked at her.

She didn’t smile.

He frowned—briefly—like something felt off, but then sat beside Bruce, ignoring her as always.

It was easier this way.

She didn’t want his approval anymore.

The ride to school was silent.

They were in the same car, just the two of them. Alfred had driven them, like he always had. Damian was on his phone, scrolling through something on his WayneTech interface. YN sat beside the window, backpack in her lap.

In the past, she used to try talking to him. Making conversation. Telling him about her school projects, or showing him her drawings.

Now, she stared at the skyline, her mind somewhere far away—four years ahead and buried beneath stone.

The car pulled up in front of Gotham Academy’s front steps. A wave of uniforms and chatter greeted them.

Damian got out first.

He didn’t wait.

She didn’t follow.

⸻

Inside the school, YN moved like a shadow. Students waved at her. A few boys smiled—too long, too interested. A girl ran up to say hi, called her “sweetheart,” asked if she was coming to lunch later.

YN nodded gently.

In this world, she was known for being kind. Polite. Shy, but graceful. Sweet as sugar, soft-spoken, the Wayne girl who always brought flowers to teachers and remembered birthdays.

And every boy with a pulse had tried to flirt with her at least once.

She remembered how they looked at her. How some of them turned cruel when she said no. How the whispers followed her through the halls.

She remembered how Damian would roll his eyes when she told him.

“You’re too sensitive,” he once told her.

“You let people get close.”

He was right.

She wouldn’t make that mistake again.

This time, she wasn’t going to be loved. She wasn’t going to be adored.

She was going to vanish—quietly, carefully—before the world could bury her again.

She would use her second chance in life.

Authors note:

Here comes the first chapter. Its still unedited and pretty short, but I wanted to try and post something. Any suggestions? Any ideas? Also, this story will contain a bit fanon stuff, but I will try to be as canon as possible.

[rafeysvenicebitch]

That Damn Dress.ೃ࿐

bluecollar!Rafe x sahm!reader

summary: You try getting Rafe’s attention with a dinner date, just you two, no kids. But he continues to ignore you…

cw: smut!! makeup sex, slightly rough, a few post-pregnancy themes, cussing, Rafe and reader yelling at each other, Rafe says something misogynistic one time “woman go get me a beer.”

You’d spent all afternoon getting the house just right. The kids were at your parents’ for the night—diaper bag packed, extra snacks stashed, Hayes’s tablet charged. You even lit candles. Made his favorite dinner. Wore the dress. The little black one, tight where it used to hug your waist, looser now in places it shouldn’t be. Still, it was the one he used to beg you to wear around the house, the one he’d once peeled off you in the kitchen while the oven timer went off behind him.

You’d done everything to make tonight feel special. To make you feel special again. And Rafe?

He hadn’t looked up from his damn phone.

The food sat on the table, getting cold as he scrolled through whatever the hell had his attention more than you. His chair creaked when he leaned back, eyes still locked on the screen.

“Woman, go get me a beer.” He grunted out.

That was it. That was the moment something in you snapped.

You stood so fast your chair scraped hard against the tile. Your hand slammed down on the table, the clatter of silverware making him finally glance up, eyebrows raised like you were the problem.

“Did you find a girlfriend or some shit?” you spat, voice trembling. “Or are you just that bored of me now? ‘Cause I swear to God, Rafe, if you’re gonna sit there acting like this while I’m trying—trying—to make you feel wanted, then at least have the guts to say what changed.”

He blinked, stunned. “What the hell are you talkin’ about?”

“I’m talking about you!” you snapped. “You don’t touch me anymore, Rafe. You don’t look at me. You haven’t called me beautiful in weeks—hell, maybe months. I wore this damn dress tonight, made your favorite dinner, sent our kids away, and all I got was ‘go get me a beer’? You treat me like I’m the maid now.”

His mouth twisted. “I work ten-hour days, every day. You think I don’t notice things? I notice everything, alright? You’re always tired, always stressed. And I’m not gonna grab at you like some horny teenager when you already got a million things on your plate.”

You stared at him, voice lower now but sharper. “So you just ignore me instead?”

“I’m trying not to bother you!” he barked. “You think this is easy for me? You think I don’t miss the way things used to be, too?”

“You think I don’t?!” you shouted, tears stinging now. “I don’t even know if I’m your type anymore, Rafe. My body’s not the same. I’m not some twenty-one-year-old girl walking around barefoot with beer in my hand and nothing to lose—I’m someone’s mom. I’m your wife. And I feel like you forgot that.”

For a second, everything was quiet except for both your breathing, heavy and strained.

Then, Rafe moved.

Fast.

He crossed the room in two strides and crushed his mouth to yours. It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t sweet. It was messy and heated and almost desperate—like he was trying to speak all the words he couldn’t say through the kiss.

His hands cupped your face like he was grounding himself there, like you were the only thing in the world that felt real. “You’re still the girl I fell in love with,” he rasped against your lips. “And you’re the woman I’d marry all over again. You hear me?”

You blinked, eyes glassy. “Then why do I feel like I’ve disappeared?”

He pressed his forehead to yours. “’Cause I’ve been a damn idiot. Been too tired to show it, but not too tired to feel it. You walk in a room, and I still look. Every time. You’ve never stopped being mine, baby. Not for one damn second.”

Your breath hitched, lips brushing his. “Then don’t act like I’m invisible.”

“I won’t,” he promised, pulling you into his chest. “I swear. Just… remind me when I get stupid like this. Shake me out of it. Hell, yell at me again if you gotta.”

You gave a watery laugh, resting your head against him. “I think I kinda blacked out when I yelled.”

He smiled, tugging gently at your dress strap. “Still love this on you, y’know.”

“Even if I’m not twenty-one anymore?”

He leaned down, voice low in your ear. “Especially because you’re not.”

And later, you forgot about the dinner you made. You forgot about your dress sliding off. You forgot about the phone, the fight, the silence.

You didn’t even remember how you made it to the bedroom.

One second Rafe was kissing you like he hadn’t touched you in years, and the next your back hit the bed, the familiar creak of the mattress beneath you drowned out by the sound of his breathing—rough, uneven, needy.

The black dress was still bunched around your waist, your thighs bare and parted as he knelt between them, dragging his hands up slowly, worshipfully, like he couldn’t believe you were letting him touch you again.

“You really thought I didn’t want you?” he muttered, voice ragged, eyes dark as sin. “You wear this fuckin’ dress, and you think I could ignore you?”

“You did,” you whispered, voice shaky, heart hammering. “You didn’t even look at me, Rafe…”

“I was scared I’d ruin it,” he said, pressing kisses down your inner thigh. “Scared I’d mess it up. Be too rough. You’ve been tired, baby. Burned out. You think I don’t see that? You take care of everything. You keep this house, raise our kids, make everyone feel safe, and you still got time to worry about me?”

His hands slipped under your thighs, dragging you closer until his mouth was on you, hot and slow, tongue flicking with the same intensity he used building roofs—precise, deliberate, a little dirty. You gasped, hips bucking instinctively, legs tightening around his shoulders.

“You still taste the fuckin’ same,” he groaned. “You’re gonna make me lose my mind.”

Your fingers tangled in his hair, tugging when he sucked just right, his nose brushing your clit with every pass. It had been too long. Too long since you let yourself feel. Too long since someone took you apart instead of you giving everything.

“Rafe—oh my God—Rafe, wait, I’m gonna—”

“Let go,” he said, voice gravelly, breath warm against your soaked skin. “You deserve to cum, mama. You deserve to feel good. You always fuckin’ do.”

You came with a cry, thighs trembling around his head, tears stinging your eyes at the sheer force of it. He didn’t stop, not until you pushed at his shoulders, gasping, overwhelmed.

When he finally rose above you, he was already unzipping his jeans, eyes never leaving your face. “Want you to look at me,” he said. “Wanna watch your face when I slide in.”

You nodded, too dazed to speak, hands gripping his biceps as he pushed inside—thick, slow, deep. Your back arched at the stretch, your mouth falling open on a silent gasp. He hissed through his teeth, like the heat of you knocked the wind out of him.

“Fuck, baby,” he grunted, pressing his forehead to yours. “Still so tight for me.”

You moaned his name again, desperate, your legs wrapping around his waist as he started to move—strong and steady, his hips rolling like waves, filling you again and again until the pleasure curled up your spine like fire.

His hand found your throat, not choking, just holding. His other slipped beneath your lower back, angling your hips up until the sounds of skin-on-skin echoed off the walls.

“Say it,” he rasped. “Tell me you’re mine.”

“I’m yours, Rafe,” you cried, nails digging into his back. “I’m yours—only yours.”

He growled, kissing you hard, hips snapping faster, deeper, until you were right on the edge again.

When you came the second time, he followed with a deep groan, spilling into you with a shudder that rocked his whole body. You held each other through it, clinging like it might all slip away again if you let go too soon.

When he finally rolled onto his side, still panting, he pulled you into his chest, arm banded tight around your waist.

“I didn’t mean to make you feel unwanted,” he whispered against your hair. “I just didn’t know how to show it anymore without breaking you. But I see you, baby. I love you. Every stretch mark, every soft curve, every tired smile. I want all of it.”

You looked up at him, eyes glassy. “I’m not broken, Rafe. I just needed you to want me. Not the mom. Not the cook. Me.”

He kissed you softly this time. “I always want you.”

And that night, there were no cold dinners or unfinished arguments. Just heat, honesty, and the sound of your name whispered like a promise long overdue.

Tagging some moots: @strawberries-and-lots-of-kisses @faistingmymike @rafesbabygirlx @memoirofasparklemuff1n @cameronsbabydoll @rafeyscumangel @skel-skell @marinrscomplex @slut4rafey @lolabunnyworldss