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strawberry-nugget · 2 months ago

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You ask Katsuki to give you a massage and end up with him blowing your back out♡♡

Warnings: smut, 18+ minors do not interact, fem!reader, happy ending massage, p in v sex, fingering, (some light) anal fingering, oiled up sex yall #holyfuckingairball, slight!dirty talking, slow sex, biting, spitting, prone-bone position, unprotected sex, All characters are 20+

Katsuki’s hands are huge. Heavy. Warm like stones left out in the sun. His fingers are thick, bulky and chubby where his knuckles are, the pads of his thumbs are calloused and rough, freed from the texture of a print due to regular filing, and still, my god— do they feel good rubbing zig zag lines and uneven shaped circles against your sore back.

His hands settle over every curve of your back like they were made to be there. Broad palms that are quirk charged bracketing your waist, spreading heat through his thumbs over muscle and skin until you’re not sure where your body ends and his begins. The weight of them is grounding, like gravity doubled. Like exhaling for the first time in hours.

You have been sore for way too long. Debating on whether you should book an appointment for a massage or get doctor prescribed physios, but ultimately in your lack of time and indecisiveness, you’ve let the issue come to its boiling point, let your back feel sore and aching to even the touch of your nails when you scratch yourself.

You tell yourself it surely wasn’t an excuse to make Katsuki get his hands on you like this, but then again if you were asked, you couldn’t say the opposite. The feeling of his hands on your skin is scorching every cell of your existence at all times and now— now you’re enjoying this way too much.

Naturally, your breath starts to stutter. Just a little. Shallow at first—barely-there catches of air that stalls in your chest each time his thumbs roll in deep near your spine, right where it always hurts worst. Katsuki notices. Of course he does. His hands pause for half a beat, then glide lower, smoothing the ache with a gentler pass like he’s coaxing the tension out instead of breaking it.

“Too much?” he murmurs, voice thick with sleep and heat and something else he doesn’t name. Something that lives between the cracks of his touch.

You shake your head into the pillow.

No. Not even close.

If anything, you feel as if you might as well melt.

The room is candlelit, filled with that slow bloom of lavender and something warmer—jasmine? Chamomile? It smells almost toasted from where his palms heat up the oil, seeping into the air like steam curling off summer pavement after rain. Soft music is playing in the background, drumming low with every single lyric the singer sings; Katsuki has gone out of his usual way to make you feel comfortable.

You’re already half-melted into the mattress by now, face buried in a pillow that still smells like his skin, the edge of your tank top pushed up to your ribs. You feel him behind you, quiet, deliberate, the bed dipping beneath his weight as his hands find the bottle of oil again.

When his hands leave your back, you’re back to feeling like hell, like all the alleviated pain just punched its way back into your rear.

To save you from this agony, Katsuki’s hands—those massive, brutish hands that have torn through half the villains in Japan, the hands that have been worked in excruciating and harsh conditions over the years—are moving over your back again like they’re made of sunlight and patience.

He presses again, harder this time. Not cruel, not rough. Just deliberate. One thumb working in a crooked elliptical circle beneath your shoulder blade while the heel of his other palm drags slow, wide strokes across your lower back. There’s no rhythm to it, no pattern. Just instinct. Just him. And maybe that’s why it feels so good. Because it’s not technique, not some learned routine from a textbook. It’s just him and the way he cares about you. Cares enough to soften his rough edges, to make his hardened palms feel incredible and soothing on your back.

Katsuki settles on either side of your legs, sitting on his knees above you as his oily thumbs hook under your bunched up shirt, coaxing you to lift only ever just a little, so he can take the article of clothing off of you.

With only a small tag, the flimsy piece of clothing is over your head, discarded onto the edge of the bed and Katsuki moves over your legs again, this time sitting low, just over the back of your knees. Rough palms that drip of fresh lavender oil feel your tummy as you stay lifted up, running up, up, up, until they slide across your breasts, thumbs softly brushing your nipples.

You moan with a rasp, at the loss of the feeling, or maybe at how hot his palms are when they engulf your shoulders and give a pinching little rub.

You feel Katsuki press in with a slow, unyielding pressure that makes your breath hitch against the pillow. He knows exactly where to go—where you hold stress, where it bites. Right between your shoulder blades, far up on the back of your neck, low at the base of your spine, the outer edges of your hips. His thumbs circle there, digging in just enough to ache, then easing off like a tide pulling back from shore.

He tags at your pyjama shorts next, just the waistline at first, then the start of your panties, but his thumbs stain the fabric in lavender sweetness, tagging even further when he says “Off”

You lift your hips without a word. It’s not even a decision—it’s instinct. A quiet offering. A permission that’s already been granted a hundred times in your body before it ever reaches your lips.

The shorts slide down slow. The elastic tugs over the swell of your ass, catching just slightly at the curve of your thighs before easing off, guided by thumbs that are far too gentle for how rough they look. His hands are reverent, even now. Even with your bare skin revealed under the low flicker of candlelight, with the smell of lavender thick in the air, wrapping around you both like a silken ribbon.

There’s a pause. Not long. Just enough to make you breathe in, hold it. You feel the weight of his gaze on your back. Feel it like a touch. Like heat.

Then his hands are on you again, and it’s almost worse than before. Better. Unbearably better.

His thumbs drag low, slow, slick with oil as they part the dip of your spine. They don’t press too hard. Just smooth you open—figuratively, literally—with strokes that make your toes curl into the sheets. His fingers knead into the meat of your hips now, heavy and full, pressing into places that ache with tiredness, places that never get touched this way unless it’s under the guise of something much filthier.

“You wait too long,” he mutters. Voice rough, low, almost annoyed—but not really. Not at you. “Could feel the knots from the second I touched you.”

You hum, something low in your throat. Almost a laugh. Almost a whimper. “Didn’t have time.”

“Make time,” he snaps, but it’s soft. Almost affectionate. His hands say more than the words ever could. They dig in again, dragging slow zigzags along the base of your spine, making your back arch and your thighs twitch. He smooths them over your ass, dragging the oil agonisingly slow over you, until his thumbs brush over the lower crevices of your bottom.

“Just ask, I’ll rub your back”

You can’t tell if it’s the oil or your own sweat making your skin slick now. Can’t tell where the ache ends and the heat begins. Can’t tell where you end and his skilled fingers begin.

All you know is that Katsuki’s hands are still on you—huge and hot and unrelenting—and that you never want them to stop.

You’re starting to forget the ache.

Not because it’s gone, but because it’s changed, morphed into something else under his hands. It’s still there, but not sharp. Not angry. Just… full. Blooming warm in your chest and pooling low in your belly like syrup, like honey slowly melting down a spoon.

You breathe again. Really breathe. And it comes out shaky, lips parted against the pillow, lashes fluttering in the candlelight.

“Fuck,” you whisper. Not directed at him. Not even really a word. Just a sound of surrender.

Katsuki shifts behind you, and you feel it—his weight bearing down gently on the back of your thighs, his thighs bracketing yours now, his body closer than it was before. Still clothed. Still in control. But not distant.

Never distant.

You feel his breath brush across the back of your neck a second before his lips do.

A soft press. Nothing more. Just warmth. Just acknowledgement.

“I know you’re tired,” he murmurs, voice low, sticky with quiet tenderness and worn-down. “But you can’t let yourself get like this.”

You nod—barely—but he sees it. He always sees you. Even when you try not to be seen.

“I’m here,” he says. “You got a boyfriend to fix your back anytime”

It’s simple. Not romantic, not flowery. Just your usual Katsuki.

His palms flatten against your waist again, spreading out like wings, dragging slow and deliberate as they glide up your sides. They pass over the swells of your breasts without urgency this time, just pressure and heat and familiarity, before curling over your shoulders. His thumbs dip under your arms, into the softest parts of you, and rub gentle, grounding circles.

You lean into it. Into him.

“You don’t have to fix everything,” you murmur, voice hushed against the pillow. His hands still. Not gone. Just still.

You call out his name, almost sheepishly, sleep dragging a voice that’s ready to complain, in contrast to your previous statement. You pout even, “Don’t stop babe i'm sore”

Katsuki exhales through his nose, and it sounds like a laugh, except it’s lower. Thicker. Like he’s trying not to let on how fond he is of you when you get like this tired and whiny and melting beneath his hands like you were made to be touched and felt up by him.

“Yeah?” he mutters, and you hear the smirk even before you feel it. “Thought I didn’t gotta fix everything.”

You nuzzle your cheek deeper into the pillow, refusing to dignify that with an answer.

He hums. His thumbs move again, slow, small circles into the soft spot just below your shoulder blades. You sigh, finally loud and satisfied again—and he shakes his head like he’s trying to be annoyed, even as his hands keep coaxing little, blissed-out sounds from your throat.

“Back’s all locked up like you’re made of concrete. What the hell’ve you been carryin’ around?”

You shrug lazily, the motion barely registering. “Life?”

“Yeah,” he mutters, more to himself than to you. “Too much of it.”

He shifts again, the bed dipping as his weight adjusts. One arm slides beneath your stomach, anchoring you gently, while the other keeps working slow and steady down your spine. Every stroke is fixated to every dip of your back like he’s trying to draw something out of you. Not just the tension. The tired. The worry.

You make another soft, contented noise, and he presses his lips to the side of your neck again—no heat, no rush, just a quiet, grateful touch.

One moment you’re relaxed, open, muscles soft, the dull ache of being rubbed with such pressure weighing you down to complete relaxation and the next—Katsuki’s lips find the edge of your shoulder blade. Smooching once, twice over spots that are oiled up.

He can’t help himself.

The lavender scent. The way your ass is curved upwards, so perky. The oil makes your skin shine in the low light of the candles. The angelic way the music starts sounding as the notes hit your skin like the softest raindrops on flower leaves; He feels himself lean into the fondly softness of the moment, growing hotter by each second. His cock has already started giving him warning throbs inside his briefs.

It’s almost quite dangerous, what you do to him. The sight of you sprawling limp and sleepy and soft under just the touch of his hands. So in a bold movement he smooths his wonders once again over your ass, thumbs parting your legs from the inside of your thighs, just a little. When he pulls back to his original position, vermillion eyes flicker where your slit is, glistening softly, not throbbing quite yet.

The slow drag of his hands, smoothing lower, is parted only by a moment from the pause just above the dip of your ass, where his thumbs rest—hover—like he’s thinking something over. Like he’s holding himself back, the way he always does when he thinks this might be too much, too soon, too selfish of him.

But to assure him, it isn’t, you push your hips back, just a tiny bit. So eager for him as always, even in this vulnerable state.

“Katsuki,” you breathe through a moan slurred, not like a question, not a plea. Just his name. Like you’re granting him permission by calling it out.

It’s all he needs.

His hands firm at your waist again, grip tightening just slightly, a groan catching low in his chest as his body bows over yours. You feel the warm press of his mouth at the nape of your neck, open and slow and wet. Feel his breath, the way it shakes. The way it matches yours.

“You drive me fuckin’ crazy,” he mutters against your skin. “Lyin’ here like this. Soundin’ like that.”

You’d laugh, a soft breathy chuckle, but it comes out like a whimper when his thumbs knead into the meat of your thighs and spread you gently apart. Lavender clings to everything. Your skin, your breath, the air—but now it’s mixed with eerie desire, like it wouldn’t turn out exactly like this when you asked him to rub your back.

His hands don’t rush, like they usually do when his chest is so tight with desire, arousal. They drag over your hips, your waist, until his fingers slide down the sides of your belly and find the edge of your hips again. This time, when he tugs your love handles, doughing them into the pads of his palms, there’s no hesitation. Just soft skin and warm oil peeling away from your skin, pooling on the sheets behind you.

You’re bare. Completely. The candlelight flickers, catching the sheen of sweat and oil across your back, your thighs. Katsuki pours more oil on his palms. You feel it trickle down your spine, between your legs. You feel him there too, kneeling behind you, hovering over you like heat itself.

And when his hands return, when his fingers slide between your thighs and find you already wet, already open—his breath punches out in one low, reverent curse, like he doesn’t remember seeing the way you were glistening when he looked over a second ago.

“Fuck,” he mutters, hands slowly opening your ass cheeks “Look at you.”

You press your face harder into the pillow, hips tilting, thighs spreading wider in a silent invitation you’ve never needed to say aloud with him.

He slides one thick finger through your slick and groans, low and guttural like it hurts. Like he’s the one unraveling.

“You feel so fuckin’ good,” he says, voice rough, dazed, groaning out his words “fuckin’ dripping…”

The first push of his fingers is slow, deliberate—just one at first, thick and sure. Dragging the edge of the knuckle softly against your clit. Your back arches. Your mouth falls open. His other hand braces at your hip, grounding you, owning you.

Then another finger joins the first.

And god, his fingers are just as big as his hands, and you swear they’re made for this. Not gentle, but not rough either. Just pressure. Heat. Depth. The kind of stretch that makes your legs tremble, your body pulse with something deeper than need.

You sob into the pillow, and he shushes you softly—lips at your shoulder, tongue dragging the edge of your skin, teeth sinking in.

“Yeah, that’s it,” he breathes in your ear. “Let me make you feel good.”

You shiver when the pads of his thumbs push on the outter lips of your pussy, spreading you wider for him with that same careful control he uses in a fight—like he knows exactly how much force to use, how far to take it before it ruins you. And maybe you want to be ruined a little.

“Fuckin’ perfect,” Katsuki murmurs, voice nearly gone, wrecked from how hard he’s breathing. His thumbs hold you open while his fingers curl slow, deep—dragging against that spot, under the hood of your clit that makes your thighs jolt, makes your chest squeeze tight. He watches you clench around him, watches the oil and slick mix and drip down to the crease of your thighs. Watches everything with that starved kind of look on his face, biting his lips and scrunching his nose, eyes blown wide like he’s being allowed to witness something sacred.

And he can’t help himself, once again, not to drag his left thumb over your entrance, circling softly, to gather some slick before his finger taps at your other puckered hole, rubbing once, twice, before slowly sinking in.

At the same time, almost, his right pointer finger enters your pussy, the thumb never leaving your clit, always circling it lazily, elliptical.

You both hiss, you at the feeling of both of your holes being entered, him at the feeling of how tightly you clamp around just his fingers.

His cock is furious inside his pants now. Angry at the top and leaking over the spot the tip has settled at.

“Fuuuuck,” he whispers again, this time quieter. Like it’s just for himself. Like he can’t believe how good you feel, how warm and wet and tight you are, clenching down on both fingers like your body’s trying to drag him in deeper.

And he feels like he might as well go insane.

Because it’s not just the way your body reacts to him, not just the way you sob and tremble and push back against his hand like you can’t get enough, though all of that drives him crazy. It’s that you let him see it. Let him touch you here, like this, in this kind of quiet, candlelit intimacy where everything is soft and raw and slow.

Your thighs tremble. Your breath catches.

It’s too much and at the same time, not enough.

His left hand, still slick and strong, adjusts where it holds you open. That finger still lazily and slowly pumping —almost still of movement— in the hole of your ass, teasing in slow, subtle pushes that make your whole spine tense, makes your toes curl into the sheets. And all the while, his right hand works in tandem; pointer finger deep inside your pussy, thumb lazy and steady on your clit like he’s marking time. Like he knows just how fast to take you, just how slow to pull you apart.

You whimper, shamefully loud.

It’s the kind of sound you’d usually try to bite back, bury into your wrist or his bicep, but Katsuki doesn’t let you this time. He growls at it, low, like a threat, pushes in just a bit deeper, rubbing the pad of his thumb in slow, wet circles against your clit until your hips twitch again.

“There you go,” he mutters. “That’s it. Let me hear it, baby.”

You do. Because you can’t not.

As you carefully wiggle your hips just a little more upwards, you yelp, feeling just a little pain from the thick finger in your ass and it takes all of Katsuki’s humility to gather a ball of spit in his mouth and let it go off, past his raspberry blown lips and onto the slit of your ass.

His finger exits so, so, so slowly, still you groan at the slight discomfort due to it, making his chest swell, and he catches some of his spit with his finger and enters you again.

Every nerve in your body is lit, every edge of you aching and raw. Katsuki doesn’t let up and with his chest bearing all this excitement and humility that makes his ears red and tingly from seeing you so spread open like this, he doesn’t stop. Just holds you open like you’re something precious and obscene all at once, his fingers working slow and deep until you’re shaking under him, toes curling, face buried in the pillow to keep from sobbing his name.

Suddenly, the bed creaks under his knees as he leans down, dwelling chest brushing your back, breath hot on your neck. His fingers never stop working—sliding deeper, curling, then scissoring your pussy open just slightly as if to test how ready you are for what comes next. He simply rasps at how wet you are, but it’s swallowed under the silky sounds of your squelching.

You feel open, loose, hot to the touch and unable to move, like your lower half has been lost in a cloud of overbearing pleasure.

Then, like you're kicked to the gut and jolted out of your pleasure cloud nine— you feel it. The weight of it.

Katsuki’s cock, hard and heavy, presses against the swell of your ass, sizzling hot even through the thin cotton of his boxers, begging to be set free.

You feel yourself leak, a beady drop of sticky sleek that trails down the lips of your pussy and onto his thumb. He presses down on your clit like it’s a button, squeezing just enough before flicking it, left then right, up then down and all over again until you’re screaming into the pillow.

Your pussy feels like it’s on fire and for once, the finger in your ass is starting to feel way more pleasing than it’s ever felt in the few times you two have tried this.

You feel the steady pulse of his throbbing mushroom tip beneath your skin, a weight that drags and shifts with every careful motion of his hips, like he’s tracing the shape of you without needing to see. Every inch memorized in the heat of this moment.

Slowly and so deliberately, his hands exit out of you with a pop and a treacherous whine from the depths of your chest that drips on your lips and slip to the waistband of his briefs, fingers rough only to himself as they peel the fabric down his thighs, releasing the tight hold. The cool air hits the bare skin of his cock, already glistening with heat and promise, and your breath catches at the sound of his dick hitting his abdomen.

Katsuki shifts closer, lips trailing a feather-light kiss along your shoulder, warm and urgent, grounding and electric all at once. His fingers slip free from where they held you open just moments ago, replaced by the thick, slick head of him pressing between your folds, nestling there like he’s already part of you.

His cockhead on your clit feels like heaven. Everything nice. Big and bulky and heavier than his thumb, it glides over a few, agonisingly slow times, before his voice breaks into speech.

He finds your clit again, traps it between flesh and fingertip, giving a small, delicious pinch that makes you shiver and arch against him.

“Y’gonna let me in, baby?” he whispers, lips dragging over your shoulder as his fingers slip free, replaced by the thick head of him nestling between your folds again.

You’re going crazy. Aching at the loss of his tip on your entrance. Drool catches at the side of your mouth and spills over the pillow, walls clamping down around thin air. You need him inside you right now or else you’ll combust. You’ve been spread out and toyed with for oh so long.

“Y-yes, please baby, put it in”

His breath fans across your skin, hot and ragged, as he shifts the last bit of distance between you. The head of him presses deeper, teasing the wet, swollen gate of your slit, just at the edge of full surrender. Your body tightens, trembling with the delicious agony of waiting.

Then, painfully slow, he pushes inside you, past the tight rim of your entrance—inch by inch, and so deliberate, a tender invasion that makes your chest rise and fall in ragged gasps. The heat of him floods you, filling every ache and hollow with only his tip that's pouring clear precum like a river. A vein on his cock throbs, catches close to your g-spot and you moan at the feeling, your clit throbbing like its on fire, by the action.

Katsuki’s hot hands slide down your hips, gripping firm enough to anchor you but gentle enough to let you melt beneath him. His lips find the curve of your neck, pressing soft, chaste kisses that trail lower—each one a quiet confession, a promise stitched into flesh. He bucks into you again, broken breath and a rhythm to match it, hips far from even stuttering against you.

All Katsuki can think right now as he looks down at his hands on your plush skin is that he loves you. All blown out and barely spread open as he pushes your ass close, chanting his name as he feels you trap his veiny cock inside your walls. He couldn’t keep his hands off you for a second and it’s like a blessing that you asked him to massage you. A curse too, because he knew he wouldn’t hold back from turning it into sex even if he tried.

With every -barely- measured thrust, you feel his chest swell against your back, pounding with something more than desire—a love so raw and fierce it almost hurts. His cock drags deep inside you, the slow rhythm setting fire to every nerve, every whisper of skin-on-skin.

He buries his face into your shoulder, breath hitching, biting onto your earlobe and sucking before he speaks, voice thick and vulnerable at once. “Love you babe.”

Your body trembles, caught between the sweet sting of pleasure and the weight of his words. You press back into him, aching to close the distance, to be lost in the overwhelming pull of this moment—where every touch, every breath, every heartbeat says you.

“Love you too” you whisper, finally.

You gasp when he grinds deeper, and he groans like he’s hurting, like it physically aches how much he wants to make this last.

And then he starts kissing you. Everywhere.

“I gotchu babe, let go” he whimpers “You’re killin’ me,” he breathes. “Feels so good—I just wanna stay here, baby, please—lemme just…”

His hips stutter and you feel him shake into your sore neck, just a little—and his lips press harder, tighter, to your shoulder as he groans your name into your skin like a vow. Like he’s praying and you're his only god.

Your hand reaches back blindly, desperate to touch him, to grab at something real, with your face still squished into the pillow and he catches the movement, brings one of his hands to match yours and threads your fingers together without a second of hesitation. His hand tangles with yours above the pillow. Fingers sticky with lavender oil and need, pressing into yours like he needs the anchor. The other stays at your hip, guiding you back into him with the same rhythm he holds in battle—steady, devastating.

You can feel the way his heart beats against your back when he leans in close. Can hear the way his breath hitches when you let out a soft moan into the pillow, hips pushing back into his, seeking more.

His grip is tight, grounding. A promise made in the trembling space between sweating and hot skin.

You feel every inch of him, not just inside you, in the squelching in and out and the sound of skin slapping, but around you, covering you, his chest flush and hot on your back, the way his arm tighten around your waist like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he doesn’t hold you close enough.

With every thrust, he leans in, chest brushing your back, lips dragging kisses along the curve of your shoulder, your neck, the back of your ear. His breath is warm and ragged, but his mouth is gentle. If saying ‘I love you’ wasn’t enough, his cock spells it out inside you, like he can’t stop saying the phrase without saying it out loud.

“You’re killin’ me,” he mutters, kissing the nape of your neck, voice breaking against your skin. “Don’t even know what you do to me.”

Katsuki’s hips roll again, and you gasp more from the emotion than the sensation. You’re so full, he’s so deep in it almost hurts. But he’s so tender with it. You feel him kiss your shoulder again, then the spot just underneath your ear. You shiver under the weight of it, under the heat of his breath.

“Can’t get close enough to you,” he mutters, almost like he’s mad at himself for trying. “You’re all I fuckin’ think about.”

You reach for him with your other hand as well, fingers searching behind you until your hand finds his forearm. Taut, huge as always and trembling from the control he’s holding. You clutch him there, and he groans at the contact, your nails dig in and he’s thrusting just a little deeper, a little slower.

Each time his hips meet yours, your breath stutters, your throat tight with the aching swell of something bigger than arousal. It’s overwhelming—the way he fills you, how soft he’s being, how quiet and gentle he is when usually he’s all noise and heat and thunder. But now? There’s no room for temper now. And if he’s always just slightly embarrassed and aroused by that feeling in the bedroom, this time, it’s becoming something worse. His belly tightens, stomach tight and numb and falling like he’s been punched.

That bubbling feeling is travelling straight to his cock, making him impossibly hard, letting the start of an orgasm shimmer, his balls tightening so much he can feel it.

You can feel it where his hard abs brush your back, where his nose presses into your shoulder blade, where his hips move with more emotion than rhythm. His voice is cracking, his fingers are squeezing yours for dear life.

But the way he is fucking into you, is not rough, nor fast. It’s worship. Slow and delicious.

Every inch of his body sings with it, matching the soft song in the background. Every part of him is working to memorize a body he already knows like the back of his hand—not just how you feel around him, but the sound of your voice when you gasp, the way your hand tightens in his when the pleasure crests too high, the way your breath stutters when he kisses the back of your neck like he’s saying sorry for every time he ever doubted he’d deserve this.

He doesn’t even know what’s gotten into him right now.

It’s probably that he only feels safe when you touch him, when he touches you. It’s probably that the feeling of your skin on his is unlike any touch that he despises in this world. The hand you're digging your nails in is scarred, littered with skin tissue that’s newer, tissue that isn't going to match his old skin no matter how many years pass. And even though he hates looking at it, his cock throbs inside you at the sight of your bodies connecting there.

And it’s in every groan that leaves his lips, every kiss he drags across your spine, every tremble in his arms as he pulls you impossibly closer, like he needs your bodies fuse when he fucks you fron the back like a sin. Slowly, never picking up pace, likes he’s fucking you through it instead of towards it.

Your stomach feels likes it’s dropping, adorned in adoration, his love laced rhythm, that slow-motion hammering way he’s fucking you with is messing with your mind and body in delicious ways.

You’re almost at your breaking point.

Your breath catches again, again as the tension rises unbearably, a string pulled tighter and tighter through every snug and wet thrust, every kiss he plants tenderly, along your back

Katsuki’s forehead falls to your shoulder. He’s barely trembling by an inch but you feel it. Not from strain, not from fatigue, but from the way this is undoing him. And fucking hell if this isnt the hottest sex youve had in a while.

There’s no fight for dominance, no cockiness, just tenderness. Him not being close to you enough, you not being close to him enough either.

He desperately wants you two to merge into one.

You can hear it in his voice when he speaks next. Not a growl, not a command. Just a whisper. Frayed, cracked, raw.

“Can’t—can’t believe I get to touch you like this.”

The words split you open somewhere deeper than sore muscle. Because it’s not just the way he’s moving inside you, it’s the way his heart feels like it’s pulsing against your spine, the way he’s holding you like you’re both breakable.

You're scared for a second, that he's going to get irregular heart palpitations again, but the thought is pushed away when his lips brush your ear. “Your pussy 's so tight. Fuck...I’m not gonna last long if you keep squeezing me like that.”

But he doesn’t make a move to pull away despite his words. Doesn’t even speed up. If anything, he presses in closer. Slower. Like he’s trying to memorize this exact second—the shape of your back under his chest, the soft pull of your fingers on his scarred forearm, the hitch in your breath that comes every time his hips roll forward.

You can feel the tremble in his thighs now. The catch in his rhythm. You’re so close, just on the edge, and he knows it. You know he is too. But he’s holding it back like he’s trying to stretch this moment out forever, like climaxing would mean letting go and he doesn’t want to let go.

But oh—you can feel it coming, like thunder on the horizon.

It coils in your belly, winds tighter with every breathless thrust. Slow, grounding, devastating in its tenderness. Katsuki’s mouth is at your shoulder again, dragging crazed open-mouthed kisses along your skin, the base of your hair, drunk on the scent of lavender and your skin like it’s an aphrodisiac.

You think you hear him whisper your name. Just your name. Not even his usual ‘babe’ like it’s the only word he remembers how to say, but it’s so cracked and under his breath you can’t pinpoint it over the sound of your own heart beating in your ears.

His cock pulses deep inside you, catching the perfect angle of your g-spot and it’s so hard now it aches, dragging against every place that makes you cry out, stretch, tremble. He’s still slow. Still careful. Always clinging to you like the act of letting go might mean waking up from this.

His arms wrap tighter around you. His scarred hand finds your chest from underneath you , just above your heart, and stays there, pressing down like he needs to feel every beat. His other is tangled over yours, fingers still locked tight, sweaty and trembling and unrelenting.

“Katsuki—” you choke, and he moans like your voice alone just finished him. A total fatality.

“I know, baby,” he breathes. “I know—‘m right here, come f—ah— for me. Let me fucking feel you. Say it babe, say you wanna come and I’ll —fuck, I’ll get you there”

“Wanna come on your cock Katsuki, feels s’good”

“Let go babe, ‘m here, I got ya” he whispers against your ear.

“Please… please, mhmm”

You shudder under him, your legs trembling as you reach that edge and go right over, your whole body clenching, fluttering around him, pulling him deeper as everything breaks open inside you. Your cry is caught in the pillow, but he feels it. Feels you squeeze, feels your hips arch, your back press flush against him, feels your ass fill out the space on his v-line.

And then he loses it. Sweat drips from his forehead and it takes all of his restraint to not let anything in his body ignite his quirk right now. You feel so good, so wet, so hot around him.

He sinks as deep as he can go and stays there, buried, kissing your cervix with his leaky tip, forehead pressed between your shoulder blades, one long broken sound leaving his chest as his body jolts once, twice, into yours.

You feel him come inside you. Hot. Filling out every tight spot his cock doesn’t kiss in you. And still, he doesn’t stop holding you.

His breath is a mess against your skin. Lips still find you in the aftermath—your shoulder, the side of your neck, the shell of your ear. Your cheek. His arms won’t stop shaking. Neither will yours.

But he doesn’t move. He goes still. Stiff like his whole body is cramping.

Minutes pass like this. Breathing each other in. Skin to skin. Not a single space left between you as he pushes you with his hand from underneath you, into his chest.

You shift your head, enough to reach for him with your mouth, just barely brushing your lips to his knuckles where your fingers are still laced together.

“Babe—Kats,” you breathe, lunges closing in, a hint of guilt closing in as you know he has no other way to make you feel he means it when he says he loves you “I love you so much but I’ll pass out”

“Yeah, yeah, just let me—” he shifts a little, just to pull out, dragging his hand just enough to flip you over as he lays on the bed “all good now. Love you”

Katsuki catches your cheeks and presses a tiny kiss to the apples of both your squished cheeks. He flattens you against his chest with that same arm—the one that pulled you through it all. His hand is spread wide over your back like he’s trying to cover every inch of you.

Your cheek rests against his collarbone, lips parted, lashes damp. You feel the flutter of his pulse against your mouth, a part of you, the one that’s worried about his heart, tries to count how many times his heart beats in sixty seconds.

“I can’t feel my thighs,” you murmur, the words slurred, not really a complaint, when you decide his heart is pumping just fine.

“Shut up,” he says, but it’s all rasp, no bite. His lips press to your sticky forehead like punctuation.

You hum a soft laugh against his chest, then pout as you hold and squeeze onto his peck, kissing the outer rim of his scar over and over again. “No, really. I think I forgot how to walk, you’re gonna have to massage me all oooover again”

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sirfrogsworth · 5 months ago

Text

I think this question is the most asked one I see from people starting their photography journey.

They upgrade from their smartphone and get a nicer camera and lens and then wonder why their photos don't look much different.

A fancy camera opens up more possibilities and gives you great control. Lenses are creative tools that allow myriad perspectives. But a paintbrush does not paint a picture for you.

The answer to the question is light and effort.

The better the light, the less effort required. The worse the light, the more effort required. But you always need both to get a good photo. And you need a lot of both to get a spectacular photo.

Imagine this photo taken in the same overcast light as the waterfall above.

That would be the world's most boring parking lot photo.

But because the light was so beautiful I was able to pull out my smartphone and get a great shot. No fancy camera required. But I knew my phone was limited so I took three photos for a panorama. And I captured everything in RAW format to make sure I didn't lose any dynamic range or color information. This required a lot of extra post processing to combine everything and edit the colors close to what my eyeballs saw.

The light made things much easier. I just had to point the camera in the direction of the sunset. But effort was still part of the equation.

The best light is at...

Sunrise.

Sunset.

Or at night (tripod required).

Or... bring your own light.

I had a sunset but my friend was in the dark so I employed my gigantic 7 foot umbrella.

Good photographers often plan their shots in advance. They will scout locations (Google Maps is your friend), take test shots to find the best composition, and then wait until the light is magical to get their shot. There are some landscapists who return to a spot continuously until conditions are perfect. I've heard of some who spend a year or more to get the photo they desire.

I knew I was going to be near the Arch. I used Google Maps to figure out a cool vantage point. I hauled my tripod a few blocks to that spot. And then my heart sank a little...

They turned the lights off.

The lights that illuminate the Arch confuse migrating geese in September. I still took the photo. And it's okay. But I didn't have the light I wanted. So I'll have to go back another time when geese aren't screwing everything up.

I'll have to put in that effort.

I understand you cannot always plan ahead. If photographers need to get a good shot spontaneously in bad light, they have to go above and beyond to elevate the photo.

They might have to find an interesting perspective.

Perhaps use an atypical lens.

Long exposure.

Or they can incorporate an interesting subject. A model. An old barn. Fungus.

Think about foreground, midground, and background. If you have a dull background, increase interest in the foreground or midground. Or both.

Again, the worse the light is, the more effort you have to put in to compensate. You might find yourself lying on the ground or dangling over a cliff.

Another option is to bring your own light. Overcast days can actually look quite compelling if you light a subject and then underexpose the background. This can bring out a lot of details in the clouds that would otherwise get lost in a natural light exposure.

(not my photo, source unknown)

Sometimes the prettiest days make the most boring photos. Sunlight at high noon is very hard to work with photographically. Especially if you have people in the photo. Hard shadows tend to not be flattering.

Black and white can sometimes make harsh sunlight look cool.

Or you can add a fold-up diffuser to help soften things.

All of this is to say... you cannot take a fancy camera to a waterfall on an overcast day and expect it to do all of the work. You are just going to end up with a flat looking snapshot. You have to put thought into your photos. You need a bag of tricks you can pull from at any moment. And you have to be willing to go the extra mile if you don't have the light you want.

For a waterfall at sunset, you can just put it dead center and call it a day.

(photographer unknown)

But if you have an overcast day with boring light, you're gonna need to effort your ass off.

This photographer put the camera near the ground, found a great composition, included cool foreground/midground elements, and used long exposure to make the water silky.

(Stephen Spragg)

There is also the option to combine maximum light with maximum effort.

This is by famed photographer, Joe McNally. He shot at night. There is a hidden flash off to the right of the worker. He used a wide lens to get a unique perspective. He used long exposure to get light trails from the cars below. Oh, and he is hanging off the side of a building.

Light and effort. Light and effort. Light and effort.

And, as always, the third secret ingredient is... education.

Education will help you leverage light and effort more so than any camera or lens. Don't just learn the open chords. Learn those ones where you have to stretch your pinky out super far while barring the low F.

Sorry, I used to play guitar and a metaphor slipped through.

Free photography education...

Tony & Chelsea 7 Hour Course Karl Taylor Free Introduction to Photography

#long post #photography

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alohajix · 16 days ago

Text

𝐏𝐫𝐞𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐝

Description: when you need a date to your cousin’s wedding, your best friend Harry offers to play the part — fake boyfriend, doting companion, human shield against your ex. But one shared hotel room, a swirl of family expectations, and a few dangerously honest confessions blur every line between what’s pretend and what’s achingly, irreversibly real. One night turns into everything you were afraid to want, and neither of you can go back.

Warnings: explicit sexual content, mild alcohol use, and themes of emotional vulnerability and soft aftercare within a best friends-to-lovers, fake dating scenario.

Word count: 6,271

🌷 Main Masterlist

I'M BACKKK GUYS 🥹🥹 I missed you

***

Clothes were flying across your bedroom like a one-woman hurricane, hangers clattering against the hardwood, the floor strewn with silks, sequins, and broken hopes. A silky slip caught on the corner of the bedpost, swaying mockingly every time you moved, and the suitcase you'd hauled out sat half-open on the mattress, as if it, too, had decided to judge you.

"God, I cannot let him see me looking pathetic," you bit out under your breath, voice tight with a bitterness that scraped at your chest. You snatched a fitted emerald dress off a hanger, shaking it out, trying to picture how it might look under the harsh ballroom lights — if it would scream confidence or just look like a pitiful attempt at revenge. Nothing felt right, no matter how many times you held something up. You were overthinking every color, every cut, and hating yourself for caring so much.

Of course, that was exactly the moment Harry chose to appear, his presence as casual and natural as sunlight spilling through the window. He didn't even bother knocking — he never did — just strolled through the door like he'd been born to walk into your chaos, like your unraveling belonged to him, too.

"Jesus Christ," he drawled, taking in the apocalypse of fabrics littering the room, a grin breaking across his face. "Did the closet fight back, or are you just reenacting a reality show meltdown for my benefit?"

You shot him a glare that would have withered a lesser man, but Harry, infuriatingly unshaken, only grinned wider.

"Don't start with me, Harry," you warned, a shaky edge to your voice.

He raised both hands in theatrical surrender, the grin softening into something far gentler as his eyes moved over your face, reading all the anxiety you couldn't hide. "Hey," he said, voice dropping, warm and steady, "I come in peace, yeah?"

You clenched the emerald dress in your fists, the fabric wrinkling, your shoulders rigid. "It's just—" you struggled for the words, throat tight. "They're all going to stare, Harry. Everyone. Waiting for me to slip up, or fall apart, or—God, they'll look at me like I'm some broken charity case."

Harry's smile faded, the teasing dropping away like a mask, revealing something protective and sharp underneath. He moved closer, the shift so subtle you barely registered it until you could feel the heat of him crowding into your space. His hand came up to rest lightly on your shoulder, thumb stroking through the tense knot of muscle there, and it startled something dangerously tender inside you.

"You're not facing him alone, yeah?" he murmured, so close you could almost taste the mint on his breath.

You blinked, voice snagging on a half-laugh. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Harry's gaze was steady, calm, but there was a flicker of something deeper — something that made your stomach twist in a way that had nothing to do with nerves. "What if I went with you?" he asked, a casual confidence dripping from every word, though his hand on your shoulder held just the slightest tremor. "Played the doting boyfriend. I'd look great on your arm."

You let out a startled laugh, but it was brittle, cracking apart on the last syllable. "Harry, come on, that's... that's ridiculous." It felt safer to call it ridiculous than to admit how much you wanted to say yes.

He watched you, eyes dark and unflinching, and for a second you wondered if he could see right through the armor you'd spent years building. Then he leaned just a breath closer, voice lower, more intimate, the teasing barely holding together. "I'd rather it be me than some random prick, you know?"

The words landed like a spark in dry grass, lighting up something raw in your chest. You looked away, pulse pounding in your throat, because the idea of letting Harry stand beside you — hold you — was both the most terrifying and most comforting thing you could imagine.

His thumb brushed your shoulder again, gentle, like he was afraid you might break. "You deserve to have someone in your corner," he added, his voice going so soft it almost hurt. "I'm not going to let you do this alone."

***

The second you stepped through the hotel's glass doors, your stomach twisted into a hundred knots, your brain churning up every horrible scenario at once.

"God, they're all going to be here," you blurted, voice cracking with nerves. "My mom, my aunts, him — they're going to dissect everything I do, Harry. What if I cry? What if I freeze up? What if—"

A warm hand pressed firmly against your lower back, interrupting the spiral.

"Hey," Harry said quietly, steady, grounding. "I'm right here. You're not alone, remember?" His voice smoothed some of the chaos swirling in your head, just enough to let you breathe as you stepped up to the reception desk together. "Reservation under Y/L/N," Harry told the clerk, his tone so confident you felt a surge of gratitude.

The clerk tapped at the keyboard for a moment, then looked up with an apologetic smile. "Ah, sir, I'm terribly sorry — there's been a mix-up. The room only has one king bed."

Your breath caught, panic rising — a single bed, after everything? — but Harry didn't even flinch.

He glanced down at you, a small, private smirk curling his lips, then turned back to the clerk. "That's fine," he said easily, then lowered his voice for just you to hear. "It's okay. I promise."

You tried to match his casual shrug, but your cheeks were already hot, and your voice came out higher than you meant. "Yeah. Sure. One bed. No big deal."

He squeezed your shoulder gently, reassuring you again before leading you toward the elevator, his presence solid and protective the whole way.

The suite was huge, luxurious, with tall windows and a massive, impossibly inviting king-sized bed taking up the center of the room. One glance at it made your skin prickle.

Harry chuckled low in his throat when he saw your wary expression. "Don't look so terrified," he teased, dropping his bag on the dresser. "I told you — respectful fake boyfriend, remember?"

Before you could even snap back, he had grabbed a towel and disappeared into the bathroom.

You tried to steady yourself, unpacking your dress for the rehearsal dinner, but your mind was stuck on that stupid bed. The thought of Harry — your best friend, but also impossibly gorgeous — sleeping inches away from you all night sent a dangerous thrill through your veins.

A minute later, the bathroom door opened and steam rolled out, curling around Harry like he'd stepped out of a fantasy. He was in nothing but a towel, hair dripping, shoulders still flushed from the hot water. He looked obscene without even trying, every inch of him carved and damp, and he knew it. He stretched, exaggeratedly, and then flopped down right on the center of the bed, towel slipping scandalously low on his hips.

"Hey," he grinned, catching your shell-shocked stare, "I'm a very respectful fake boyfriend, promise."

Your mouth went dry. You forced a shaky laugh. "Yeah, super respectful, Harry. Real subtle."

"Just testing out the mattress," he teased, rolling onto his side, propping himself on an elbow so the towel gapped open just a hair more. "Gotta make sure it's good enough for you, princess."

You fought the urge to cover your face with your hands, snapping your attention back to the dinner dress instead. Trying to refocus, you struggled to zip the back of your dress, fingers fumbling. "Harry," you finally called, turning half-around, "can you help me?"

He was up in an instant, towel still clinging dangerously low as he moved behind you. His fingers were warm, steady, brushing the bare skin of your spine as he caught the zipper and slowly tugged it upward. Your breathing stuttered at the contact, every nerve screaming at the closeness, at the intimacy of letting him do something so small and so enormous at the same time. He paused halfway, fingers grazing your lower back, and you felt — more than heard — the quiet, unsteady inhale he took. The silence felt hot, heavy, stretching out forever.

Finally, he tugged the zipper the rest of the way, letting his fingertips linger a moment longer than strictly necessary. When you turned to face him, your faces were so close you could count the flecks of green in his eyes. Neither of you moved, neither of you breathed, the air between you so charged it felt like it might combust.

Harry swallowed, voice rough. "Ready?" You nodded, even though your heart was pounding. He gave you a lopsided grin, impossibly sweet. "I've got you tonight, too," he murmured. And somehow, you believed him.

The air outside the hotel felt sharper somehow, slicing through the warmth still coiled under your skin, the tension refusing to fade even as you stepped into the hallway. Harry trailed after you, close enough to brush against your shoulder, that steady calm rolling off him in waves. His voice, low and impossibly gentle, broke the charged hush that had formed around you both.

"You okay?" he asked, his tone almost tentative, searching your face for a sign you were still breathing.

You tried to swallow the mess of adrenaline still fizzing through you, managing a shaky nod, your voice quieter than you meant it to be. "Yeah. I'm okay."

Harry didn't push, just nodded back, the corner of his mouth twitching in something that might have been relief. You followed him down to the lobby, the silence clinging to your shoulders, heavy and complicated.

In the car, as the lights of the city blurred by, he spoke again, that warm, steady voice cutting through your spiraling thoughts.

"You look incredible." A pause, then a grin that made your pulse kick. "He's not going to know what hit him." Your stomach flipped, heat racing to your cheeks. You glanced away, voice shy.

"Thanks, Harry."

He didn't say anything else, but you could feel the weight of his gaze lingering on you, protective and soft, and it made the knot in your chest loosen just a little.

The rehearsal venue was buzzing with too many faces and too many questions, glittering chandeliers throwing reflections across a sea of chattering relatives. Harry's hand found its way to your waist the moment you stepped inside, steady and grounding, fingers warm through the thin fabric of your dress. The contact made your entire body tense, that memory of him in the hotel room — damp hair, towel, zipper — crashing into your mind so hard it made you dizzy. I can't think straight with him so close.

Before you could even settle into a breath, Aunt Margo swooped in, her grin practically devouring the air.

"So, when's the wedding, you two?!" she demanded, eyes bright and far too hopeful. You froze, panic rising into your throat, words bottlenecked behind your lips. Harry's fingers squeezed at your side, the smallest reassurance, before he turned to Margo with that easy, practiced smile.

"We're just enjoying the moment for now," he told her smoothly, as though he'd rehearsed it a hundred times. Your heart lurched at the way he made it sound so true.

It didn't stop there, because your family never knew how to let things go. "Oh, you have to let us know when you're planning," someone chirped. "Don't wait too long, you'd have gorgeous babies!" another voice joined in.

You tried to answer, tried to focus, but the words tripped over each other inside your head, tangled up with Harry's touch and the memory of that zipper, that towel, that almost unbearable closeness.

"So you living together yet?" an uncle boomed over the chatter. You blinked, startled, your brain hopelessly behind.

"Sorry, what?" you blurted, mortified, cheeks going hot as Harry let out a quiet chuckle at your side. He leaned in, voice pitched low, mouth so close to your ear you could feel the soft brush of breath.

"Sweetheart, want another drink?" he murmured, slipping the pet name in so naturally it stole the air from your lungs. You nodded, too flustered to answer properly, the word sweetheart thrumming through your veins like a shot of something dangerous.

You barely had a second to catch your breath before another presence sidled up, a woman with perfectly lined lips and a dress that did nothing to hide her curves. She had eyes like sharpened knives, and they fixed on Harry with unmistakable hunger.

"If you get bored," she purred, bold and shameless, "find me."

Your heart slammed against your ribs, a flash of something possessive and messy exploding in your chest before you could think. "He's...with me, okay?" you stammered, voice thin but full of a raw certainty you hadn't realized was there until you heard it aloud.

Harry stilled, something dark and warm blooming behind his eyes. Then he looked at the woman, calm and final.

"All hers tonight," he told her, a quiet steel in his tone, before leaning in and brushing his lips against your temple in a move so gentle, so protectively intimate, you could hardly stand upright. The woman retreated, rolling her eyes, but your pulse still crashed wildly in your ears.

The noise around you pressed in again, laughter, clinking glasses, more intrusive questions you couldn't track. Harry's thumb stroked lightly along your side, a silent signal that he saw you unraveling, and then his voice dipped close, as if the rest of the world had stopped existing.

"I needed you to myself for a second," he murmured, voice rough, edged with something you couldn't name. You couldn't breathe. You could only nod as he took your hand and steered you away, guiding you through the side doors and out onto the quiet of the terrace.

The night air was cool against your overheated skin, the gentle glow of string lights spilling across stone railings, casting Harry's face in soft shadows. Neither of you spoke, but everything unsaid pulsed between you, thick and dangerous. Harry's fingers tightened around yours, grounding and possessive, and you couldn't help but look up into his eyes, searching for the cracks in his easy mask.

"You know I meant it, right?" he asked, low and breathless, something painfully real bleeding through every word. "All of it."

Your chest squeezed so tight you thought you might fall apart. "Yeah," you managed, voice shaking, because somehow — impossibly — you did believe him.

***

You had never worn anything like this before — deep emerald green that clung to your skin like a secret, catching the light across subtle beading at the neckline, the back cut so low you almost felt naked, and a slit running high up your thigh that made each step a quiet dare. It was powerful, stunning, a little terrifying, and you weren't sure whether to stand taller in it or run for cover. As you tried to steady your breathing, smoothing your hands down the slippery fabric, you whispered to your reflection, voice shaking, "You can do this. Just act normal."

But there was nothing normal about how your heart was pounding, nothing normal about how you felt suddenly raw and exposed.

A soft knock startled you, pulling you back to the moment, and then Harry's voice slipped in through the half-open door, quiet, careful, threaded with something warm and grounding. "Hey... you ready?"

He stepped inside, and the world seemed to tilt around you. His eyes landed on the gown, and for the briefest moment, he looked like someone had knocked the air from his lungs. His mouth parted, jaw tightening, and he stood frozen before he managed a rough swallow, fingers scraping awkwardly across the back of his neck. Then, almost like it was torn out of him, he breathed, "You look unreal."

The rush of his words, raw and unfiltered, made your chest clench so tight you thought you might break. You didn't move, letting him see you, letting the heat of his gaze trace every line, even though it made your knees feel weak, because you wanted him to see, really see, who you were under all of it — scared and strong, bold and shaking all at once.

Harry took a slow, reverent step forward, like he was walking up to something holy, and lifted a hand toward your hair, brushing a loose strand behind your ear with a tenderness that made your breath catch in your throat. His fingers lingered, tracing lightly against your cheek, and the touch was so careful, so devastatingly gentle, that a shiver rolled through you without permission.

He saw it, of course he saw it, his eyes darkening, lips parting like he was fighting words he shouldn't say. His thumb kept moving in soft, hypnotic circles against your skin, and the tiniest grin curled at the edge of his mouth — but it couldn't hide the hunger simmering underneath. "Trying to kill me, sweetheart?" he murmured, voice thick and uneven, "walking out like that?"

It should have made you laugh, the teasing edge, but instead it landed hard and hot somewhere deep in your belly, because there was something so honest in his tone, so painfully real you didn't dare breathe too loudly in case you broke it. It was terrifying, the way he looked at you — like you were precious, like you were something worth protecting, worth wanting — and in that moment, you felt safe in his gaze, safe in the way he held himself back for you, as if you were a storm he wanted to brave but didn't dare yet. Your thoughts reeled as you tried to steady your heart, tried to remember you were just pretending, but something between you had shifted, locked in place so solidly you knew there was no going back from it. As he stepped back, eyes roaming over you one last time, you felt the tremor in your hands, because you couldn't deny it anymore: you didn't want to go back, and maybe neither did he.

You left the hotel together in a hush that was heavy but somehow stabilizing, each of them carrying the rawness of what had just passed between you like a spark too dangerous to name. Harry kept a gentle hand at the small of your back, steady, present, and grounding in a way that made you want to lean into him and never leave. He cracked a grin to break the tension, voice pitched soft, teasing, "If we stall any longer, they're going to send a search party, sweetheart."

It was enough to shake a little breathless laugh out of you, even as your mind stayed caught in the slipstream of his touch, his words, the way he'd looked at you in that green dress like you were the only thing that had ever mattered.

The walk over felt dreamlike, the air tinged with that perfect early-evening gold, string lights already coming alive around the ceremony arch. Everywhere you turned, blossoms spilled color like something out of a fairytale — roses, peonies, climbing jasmine — and all of it wrapped around you with a perfume so heady it made your pulse stutter. You tried to focus on the aisle lined with flower petals, on the hush of the guests finding their seats, but every step felt unreal, Harry's hand resting low against your spine as a subtle, protective claim. Your brain buzzed, still replaying his compliment — "you look unreal" — and the gentle drag of his thumb against your cheek until you could hardly breathe.

When you caught sight of your ex standing near the rows of white chairs, the sting hit sharper than you'd expected. He looked polished, suit perfect, hair carefully styled, a smile too white and too wide that reeked of performance, the faint chemical sweetness of cheap cologne hitting you like a slap. Smug. That was the word for it, and the twist of arrogance on his lips made your stomach turn.

He clocked Harry's hold on you first, and for a brief, satisfying moment, his carefully curated smirk slipped. Then he rallied, letting out a slow, sticky laugh that made the hair on your arms stand on end. "Oh," he drawled, voice pitched for everyone within earshot, "you brought a date?"

Your spine stiffened, your heart trying to climb into your throat, but you stood a little taller, refusing to fold under his voice the way you had so many times before. Harry's hand pressed gently, support pulsing through that subtle pressure on your back, and he stepped forward just enough to shield you.

"I did," Harry answered smoothly, voice polite but carrying a razor-thin edge that set your pulse on fire, "and she looks incredible, doesn't she?"

A hush fell over the nearest guests, a few gasps breaking through the thick air. You could feel them eavesdropping without even turning to look, their curiosity pricking at your skin, but you refused to shrink, refused to cling.

Your ex scoffed, eyes darting between you both, the sneer back in place. "Well," he said, too loudly, "hope you two enjoy your little fairytale. Must be fun to pretend."

The words hit harder than you wanted them to, but before you could wobble, you steadied yourself, lifted your chin, and drew a shaky but clear breath. "No pretending," you managed, voice ringing with something fierce, "I'm exactly where I want to be."

That faltered him, just for a heartbeat, and Harry shifted closer, that hint of a threat bleeding through his warm tone as he followed up, "You heard her. So maybe focus on your own night, yeah?" Your ex opened his mouth like he might argue, but then snapped it shut, jaw ticking in frustration, and you caught a ripple of reactions around the guests, gasps blending into a ripple of awkward chatter as they pretended not to stare.

Your chest heaved, adrenaline still spiking, but a slow sense of pride began to anchor you — because you'd faced him, you'd stood there and not crumbled, and Harry was right there, steady, keeping you from drowning.

He leaned down, voice warm and low at your ear, a balm over every raw place inside you. "Breathe, sweetheart," he murmured, and you did, shaky but sure, pulling air all the way to the bottom of your lungs. Before you could thank him, he pulled you just slightly closer, arms wrapping you in a brief, solid hug, grounding and protective, his breath brushing against your hair. You melted into it for a second, a small moment of safety in the middle of the chaos, and when you pulled back, the way he looked at you — proud, careful, quietly protective — made your chest feel too tight to hold. Proud, you thought, heart hammering, I'm allowed to feel proud. And with Harry's palm still warm against your back, you felt like maybe — just maybe — you could survive whatever the night had left to throw at you.

***

The tented reception felt like stepping into another world, the ceiling laced with fairy lights that seemed to twinkle just for you, their soft gold glow pooling around candlelit tables dressed in rich burgundy linens and polished place settings that sparkled under the delicate shine. A string quartet tucked in one corner sent gentle notes through the warm dusk air, their melody wrapping around the space like a slow heartbeat. Laughter and the distant clink of glasses painted a comforting background, while a breeze threaded through the open tent walls, carrying with it the mingled scents of night-blooming jasmine and fresh-cut roses.

Your chest was still tight, shaky from the confrontation with your ex, adrenaline simmering in your veins like a warning drum, but Harry’s palm stayed firm at your back, guiding you through the swirl of guests as though you were the only person in the room. You drew courage from the weight of his touch, from the unspoken promise that he’d keep you upright if you started to crumble.

Couples began drifting onto the dance floor, their movements slow and unhurried as the quartet shifted to a familiar, timeless strain — something classic and achingly romantic, a song that felt like it belonged to the first spark of love, or maybe the last. You hesitated at the edge of the floor, your pulse hammering, afraid you might tremble right out of your own skin.

Harry turned to you, and the lights glimmered across the line of his jaw, catching the softness in his eyes. “Dance with me?” he asked, voice quiet, and for a second you couldn’t find the words, only nodded.

He pulled you in carefully, as if afraid you might break, one hand curling around your waist while the other found yours, anchoring you, claiming you, steadying you all at once. The first steps were awkward, your legs still fighting the aftershocks of your nerves, but then the music smoothed them out, carried you both into a gentle sway that felt like safety.

Harry dipped his head, the closeness of him sending a shiver straight through your chest, and he murmured low against your hair, “You did so good tonight, sweetheart.”

Your throat tightened, emotion crowding in. “I was terrified,” you confessed, voice almost lost in the music, but he heard it, you knew he did.

“I know,” he breathed, tightening his hold, “but you still stood up. I’m so damn proud of you.” The words landed with a soft, devastating weight, cracking something wide open in you, and you leaned into him, letting your forehead rest against his collar for one long, quiet second.

You danced that way for a while, letting the quartet’s sweeping chords and the faint rustle of the breeze carry you, until Harry shifted you both a little, guiding you toward a darker, quieter corner of the floor, where the lights blurred to gold in your periphery and no one seemed to be watching. His eyes found yours, steady and impossibly tender, and for a moment neither of you dared to breathe. You could feel the question thrumming between you, as loud as any shouted vow, could feel the impossible ache of how badly you wanted to close the distance. He dipped his head closer, noses brushing, breath mingling, and it was so easy to believe that this moment was yours, that the world would forgive you for wanting it. And then you both froze, fear rising at the same instant, a mirror image of each other’s panic that made you pull away before your lips could meet. The heartbreak of it was sharp, a clean, aching line right through your ribs, but you refused to look away, refused to hide from what you felt.

Harry’s eyes held yours, raw and unguarded, something almost broken shimmering there, and you matched it, letting him see every bit of your longing, even if it hurt.

When the song finally ended, he cleared his throat, voice rough. “We should…grab some water,” he offered, but didn’t let go of your hand. You nodded, breath shaky, and let him lead you off the floor. Before you stepped back into the brighter lights of the tent, he squeezed your hand, small and meaningful, a wordless reminder that you weren’t alone. That ember of hope glowed stubborn in your chest, refusing to die, even as you walked back into the noise of the night with your heart still aching for the kiss you didn’t quite get.

***

The ride back to the hotel felt like a single, drawn-out breath you couldn't quite exhale, your pulse still tripping over itself, skin buzzing from the dance floor and the weight of Harry's steady, unshakable presence. Neither of you spoke in the elevator, but the silence was thick — alive — thrumming with every charged second of tension that had been building from the moment he'd stepped into your life as something more than just your best friend.

When the door clicked shut behind you, the hush inside the hotel room seemed to swallow you whole, and you barely had time to register the soft golden spill of the bedside lamp before Harry's eyes locked on yours, hot and questioning.

"Baby," he murmured, voice protective and impossibly steady even though you could see the storm churning under his skin, "I need to know you really want this."

You didn't hesitate, didn't waver, not now. The answer rose up from somewhere deep, somewhere starved for him, as sure as the pounding of your heart. You took a breath, stepped forward, fingers curling around the dark silk of his tie, and tugged him down to you, your voice bold but shaking as you answered, "I want you."

It felt like something snapping, that final thread breaking in the space between you, and the next second his mouth was on yours, searing, desperate, starved. You kissed him back with everything you'd been trying to bury for far too long, pulling him closer by the knot of his tie until you were flush against the solid heat of him, dizzy from the taste of him, from how soft and hungry he felt all at once.

"I've wanted this for so long," he gasped against your lips, the confession tearing out of him raw and unfiltered, "God, I think I've loved you forever."

A small, helpless laugh broke free from you, a wet sound tangled up with the tears you didn't even know were gathering at the corners of your eyes. "Why did we wait so long?" you whispered, forehead pressed against his. He didn't answer, just shook his head, eyes burning with a mix of heat and something too soft to name, and then his hands were on your shoulders, sliding your dress down inch by inch, baring the black lace underneath in the dim lamplight.

He let out a broken sound, voice reverent, "Sweetheart, you're killing me." The words hit you like fire, and your breath faltered as you stood there in nothing but the thin stretch of lace, exposed but not scared, because the way he looked at you felt like worship.

His mouth was on yours again in a heartbeat, urgent, all-consuming, and you moved with him across the room, bumping into the wall with a soft thud before his hands splayed over your hips, dragging you closer, letting you feel every ounce of how hard he'd been trying to hold back. Your fingers fumbled at his shirt, popping buttons as you pushed it off his shoulders, wanting his skin against yours, wanting everything at once. You were bold, emboldened, running your palms over his chest, slipping lower until he hissed into your mouth, the sound shooting straight through your bones.

You didn't even make it to the bed at first, hands roaming, tangled in hair and fabric, until he had you pinned gently between his body and the cool hotel wall, kissing you like you were the only air left in the world. Then, as if remembering how delicate this was — how fragile — Harry slowed, drawing back to cradle your jaw in one big, steady palm. "Let me take care of you," he said, voice so soft and honest it nearly made you break in half.

You nodded, too full to speak, and let him guide you to the bed, the sheets cool and crisp under your skin. He lowered you down with almost painful tenderness, eyes roaming your body like a man starved, then climbed over you, kissing down the curve of your throat, across your collarbone, tracing the edge of your bra with a reverence that made your belly twist.

When he finally eased the lace away, you shivered, breath caught in your throat, but his praise was immediate and quiet, "Look at you...so fucking beautiful. So damn strong."

You reached for him, pulled him down again, refusing to be just passive in this, letting your hands thread into his hair and tug him closer, mouth clashing against his in a heat that left you both shaking. Your legs wrapped around him instinctively, pulling him in until you could feel him right where you needed him, and for a second neither of you moved, just breathed each other in. The first push of him against you was slow, measured, but desperate all the same, like he was trying to memorize every single second of how it felt to be inside you, finally, after all the wanting. You choked on a cry, your hands fisting in the sheets, but Harry was there, holding your gaze, whispering, "I've got you."

Every motion after that felt like a prayer — his name on your tongue, his voice in your ear, the world collapsing down to the slick, perfect slide of your bodies finding each other. He was gentle and then rough, hungry and then slow, praising you through every shiver and gasp, calling you baby, sweetheart, so good for me, until your mind was nothing but him. When you finally broke apart together, it felt like a wave crashing over you, unstoppable, powerful, leaving you raw and wrung out in the best possible way. He gathered you close before you could even catch your breath, hands roaming over your shoulders, your sides, steady and anchoring, forehead pressed to yours.

"I'm not going anywhere," he whispered, voice hoarse, and you believed him, letting that truth settle warm and unshakable inside your chest as you lay tangled up in each other, the city humming softly outside, the night stretching long and hopeful before you.

The room was hushed in the aftermath, the quiet settling around you like a soft blanket, only broken by the ragged sounds of your breathing and the faint hum of traffic outside. Harry was still holding you, his chest rising and falling against your cheek, his hands gentle, soothing, as they traced idle patterns over your back. You felt boneless, completely spent, every nerve left raw and sweet, but wrapped in something so comforting you could barely process it. He didn't rush to fill the silence, didn't pepper you with questions or push at the fragile space that had cracked wide open between you. Instead, he let his hands speak for him, warm and patient, grounding you in the safety of his touch. Every few moments, he'd shift to brush your hair out of your face, thumb sweeping across your temple with a tenderness that made your chest ache.

You closed your eyes, letting yourself breathe him in — faint shampoo, his skin, the cotton of the hotel sheets — and the scent felt achingly familiar, like coming home. Your muscles, still trembling, began to unclench bit by bit, and you realized you'd never felt so safe.

Time blurred, neither of you moving except to adjust, to press closer, to bury your faces in the other like a promise. The night carried on outside your window, but the only world you could focus on was this one, small and perfect, right here between tangled sheets and quiet heartbeats. Eventually, exhaustion caught up with you both, dragging you down into a heavy, dreamless sleep, Harry's hand still curved protectively against your waist, his breath warm where it brushed the crown of your head.

You woke with the pale light of morning slipping through the blackout curtains, soft and watery and so gentle you barely realized your eyes were open. The first thing you felt was warmth — Harry, still tangled with you, legs a mess with yours, one arm slung over your middle, breathing even and steady. Your chest tightened, a swell of emotion nearly choking you, because there was no fear in waking up like this. There was no uncertainty, no flinch. Just Harry.

When you shifted, he stirred, groggy and sweet, eyes blinking open as a soft, lazy smile spread across his lips.

"Morning," he rasped, voice warm enough to melt you.

You smiled back, heart pounding in the best way. "Hi," you whispered.

For a moment, neither of you said anything, just looked, soaking each other in, as if trying to memorize what it felt like to wake up finally here, after so many missed chances. Then Harry's hand came up, brushing against your jaw, thumb tracing your bottom lip with a quiet reverence.

"I'm yours," he breathed, voice rough, truth cutting through every doubt you'd ever carried, "I always have been."

Your throat went tight, and you swallowed down the rush of tears that stung behind your eyes. You caught his hand, pressing it flat against your cheek, holding it there like an anchor.

"We'll figure this out," you promised him, a small laugh threading through the words because it was terrifying and thrilling all at once, "okay? We'll figure it out."

His answering smile was so open, so completely Harry, that it broke something inside you in the best way. He ducked forward, pressing a soft, unhurried kiss to your lips — nothing frantic, nothing hungry, just a quiet sealing of the vow you'd both made without ever really speaking it aloud. The world outside could wait. The questions, the what-ifs, the family, the stories you'd have to tell — all of it could wait. Right now, it was just him, just you, breathing the same slow air, curled together in a hotel bed that had somehow become the safest place on earth. And maybe, you thought as you tucked yourself closer to his heartbeat, you'd been right all along to believe in best friends. Because sometimes, best friends were the ones who could love you better than anyone.

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ssweeterthanfiction · 27 days ago

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La dolce vita

husband!harry castillo x wife!reader content warnings: none! summary: a random tuesday with your husband wc: 1.9k

masterlist.

The sun always hit your bedroom in gold.

Not the harsh kind that slapped you awake, but the soft, diffused kind that filtered through sheer curtains and painted warm streaks across expensive sheets. It crept along the marble floors, kissed the edge of the duvet, and finally reached the sliver of skin exposed where your shoulder slipped out of Harry’s t-shirt.

His t-shirt. Always his.

Harry was already awake, of course. He always was—one of those rare, infuriating men who didn’t seem to require more than five hours of sleep and somehow still looked like he walked out of a cologne ad. His arm was draped around your waist, thumb stroking lazy circles against your stomach.

He hadn’t moved for ten minutes. Not because he was particularly sentimental—though he'd deny being anything but—but because he liked mornings like this. Liked the way you curled into his chest in your sleep. Liked the quiet. Liked pretending you didn’t have anywhere to be.

But you had somewhere to be.

“Five more minutes,” you mumbled into his chest, voice thick with sleep. You hadn’t even opened your eyes yet, but your fingers tightened in his shirt like a warning. “Don’t tell me the time. Just… five more minutes.”

He chuckled, low and soft. “Didn’t say anything, sweetheart.”

“You were thinking it.”

“I was thinking about how cute you look when you threaten me before coffee.”

You groaned, half-heartedly elbowing him in the ribs.

He leaned down and kissed the top of your head, letting his lips linger in your hair. “You’ve got a call at nine,” he murmured. “That client with the launch disaster. You told me yesterday you needed at least thirty minutes to prep.”

Another groan. You pulled the duvet over your face.

“You’re supposed to be my husband,” you grumbled. “Not my calendar.”

“I can be both. Multifunctional.”

You peeked out from beneath the covers just enough to meet his eyes—sleepy, annoyed, affectionate. “Remind me why I married you?”

He smiled, the cocky little tilt of it almost too smug for six in the morning. “Because I make really good coffee. And you liked the view.”

“The penthouse view?”

“No,” he said, tapping your nose. “This view.” He motioned to himself.

“You’re lucky I love you,” you muttered.

“I know.”

In the kitchen, sunlight gleamed off the marble counters. He poured two mugs—yours with oat milk and cinnamon, his black—and you padded in behind him, still dressed in one of his hoodies and soft pajama shorts. You were already scrolling through emails, fingers moving fast.

“Put that down for a second,” Harry said, sliding your mug across the counter. “You haven’t even kissed me yet.”

You looked up, softening. “Sorry. My boss is being—”

“Kiss first. Crisis later.”

You rolled your eyes but crossed the kitchen anyway, placing your phone down beside the fruit bowl. He met you halfway, tugging you in by the waist.

“You’re clingy in the mornings,” you whispered against his mouth.

“Only with you.”

The kiss was slow, easy. Familiar in a way that still made your stomach flutter. His hands didn’t wander. He wasn’t trying to start anything. He just wanted you close. That was the thing about Harry—he didn’t need you to do anything other than be.

“Okay,” you said, breathless when you pulled away. “Now I can save a client’s entire career with grace and caffeine.”

He smiled, leaning against the counter. “That’s my girl.”

As you disappeared into the bathroom to get ready for the day, Harry sipped his coffee and watched the light shift across the skyline. It never got old, this view.

But you were still his favorite one.

By 1:12 PM, your coffee had gone cold, your patience was thinner than the straps on your heels, and your inbox looked like it was actively trying to ruin your life.

Another email. Another “urgent” crisis. Another client who couldn’t keep their mouth shut.

You didn’t groan aloud, you were far too composed for that, but your eyes fluttered closed as you pinched the bridge of your nose and let out a quiet sigh.

Your phone buzzed again.

Harry: Look up.

You frowned, glancing toward the glass wall of your office—and there he was.

Leaning against the receptionist’s desk like he was posing for a GQ shoot, in dark sunglasses and an open-collared navy button-down. He spotted you instantly, gave a lazy two-finger wave, and smiled like he had all the time in the world.

Your heart did a quiet little flip.

The door creaked open. “Your husband’s here,” your assistant said with a barely concealed grin. “He says he’s kidnapping you for lunch. Or longer. Should I…block your calendar?”

You blinked. “He said what?”

And then Harry strolled in, sunglasses perched in his hair and dimples loaded.

“You look like you haven’t exhaled since breakfast,” he said, crossing the room and kissing your cheek like this was a normal Tuesday occurrence. “I’m stealing you. Just for a bit.”

“I have a call at two.”

“You rescheduled it,” he replied easily. “Well…I rescheduled it. Told your assistant to say you had a ‘husband-related emergency.’”

You stared at him, half-shocked, half-swooning. “You can’t just—”

“Sure I can,” he said, lacing your fingers with his. “Come on. Play hooky with me.”

"You're lucky you're so handsome."

And just like that, you were both gone.

You ate lunch at a quiet Italian spot in Tribeca, tucked away from the noise of midtown. Not your usual networking lunch. No name-dropping, no clients, no industry chatter. Just fresh pasta, house wine, and Harry’s fingers brushing yours every so often just to feel your skin.

You tried to keep your work brain on. You really did. But he had that smug grin and a soft thumb brushing your wrist and the audacity to say things like, “You always relax after the second glass.”

Which was true.

You finished your tiramisu and reached for your bag.

But Harry didn’t move. He just leaned back in his chair, sipping the rest of his espresso like you had nowhere to be.

“What?” you asked, brow raised.

“We’re not done yet.”

“Harry…”

“I’m not taking you back just yet,” he said, standing and offering you his hand. “We’re going shopping.”

You blinked. “Shopping?”

“You’ve been running on fumes for days. You need something pretty. Preferably several pretty things. Let me spoil you.”

You gave him a look. “You’re spoiling me just by pulling me out of work.”

“Then let me overdo it.”

Two boutiques and a perfume counter later, you were carrying three glossy bags and smelling faintly of jasmine and something citrusy and expensive.

Harry trailed beside you like it was the best afternoon he’d had in weeks—offering opinions on dresses, joking with sales associates, slipping a hand around your waist anytime you leaned in to look at jewelry.

“You are dangerous when you’re bored,” you muttered, stepping out of the third shop with a new silk blouse and slightly flushed cheeks.

“I’m extremely charming when I’m in love,” he corrected.

“You know you can’t buy me things every time I get stressed, right?”

“Can’t I?”

You swatted him with your bag. “You married a PR manager, not a runway model.”

He stepped in front of you then, palms gently framing your face.

“No,” he said, voice low. “I married you. And when the world burns you out, I get to remind you what you look like when you’re adored.”

Your breath hitched.

A pause. Then:

“You really want to go for a fourth store?” you asked, voice quieter now.

Harry grinned. “That depends. You want shoes or some new skincare?”

By the time he dropped you back off at your office, nearly two hours later, you were glowing. He kissed your cheek and helped you out of the car like he was still courting you.

You waved him off with a laugh and a roll of your eyes, but as you stepped into the elevator, your fingers still tingled where his had laced with yours.

And when your assistant looked up and saw your flushed face and full hands, she just smiled knowingly.

“Good lunch?”

You gave a small, breathless laugh. “Yeah,” you said. “Best one I’ve had in a while.”

The penthouse smelled like garlic and butter by the time you kicked your heels off by the front door.

The lights were dimmed to a warm glow, jazz hummed softly from the speakers in the ceiling, and the windows spilled the city’s golden-hour skyline across the kitchen floor.

You padded in barefoot, one shopping bag still looped over your wrist. Harry stood at the stove barefoot, sleeves rolled up, stirring something in a pan with the kind of easy confidence that made you want to melt into the marble countertops.

“You’re cooking?” you asked, leaning against the doorway.

“Don’t look so surprised,” he said, without turning. “I’m a man of many talents.”

“I’ve seen you try to use the microwave.”

“I said many. Not all.”

You laughed, walking over and setting the bag on the kitchen island. “What are we having?”

“Scallops. Fresh from that market you like. Some lemon pasta too. Thought I’d balance out all the luxury with something... handmade.”

“You mean ‘last-minute,’” you teased, sliding your arms around his waist from behind.

He tilted his head back just enough to rest it against yours. “Exactly.”

You stood like that for a minute. your cheek pressed to his shoulder blade, your arms warm around him, the quiet bubbling of garlic butter filling the space between.

“I could get used to this,” you murmured.

“I would hope you are,” he said. “This is the rest of your life, sweetheart.”

Dinner was simple. And perfect.

The two of you sat at the long dining table that usually only saw use during holidays or when Harry’s clients came by for dinner parties. Tonight, there were no guests. Just candles flickering, the scent of lemon zest, two wine glasses, and the way Harry kept looking at you like you hung the moon.

You were halfway through your second helping when he leaned back in his chair, wine in hand, and said:

“Today was good.”

You smiled. “It really was.”

“I missed you.”

“I was right there this morning.”

“Yeah,” he said, tapping his glass. “But I missed you when you get to laugh and breathe and forget about everyone else’s fires for a second.”

You blinked, caught off guard by the softness in his voice.

“You really are too good to me,” you said, quiet.

Harry reached across the table, linking his fingers with yours.

“I’m just trying to keep up with how good you are to me.”

You didn’t answer right away. Just looked at him—this man who could ruin you with a smirk but still managed to love you in all the gentle, necessary ways.

“I love you,” you said finally, thumb brushing over his knuckles.

“Good,” he said, grinning. “Because I was thinking I could steal you again tomorrow.”

You laughed. “Harry.”

“Kidding. Kind of.”

You stood, collecting plates, but he was already on his feet before you could make it to the sink.

“I’ve got it,” he said, brushing your hip with his hand as he passed. “Go sit and relax for a while. I'll finish cleaning up here then I'll run a bath.”

You raised a brow. “You’re drawing me a bath and doing dishes?”

He gave you a wink. “Like I said, many talents.”

Later, you’d be wrapped in his arms again, your hair damp from the tub, skin warm and scented from rose oils he poured too much of into the water. You’d fall asleep with your head on his chest and your fingers curled against his heartbeat, wondering how a random Tuesday turned into your favorite kind of day.

And Harry?

Harry would kiss your temple in the dark and pull you closer, already planning what he’d do to spoil you next.

#isa’s thoughts #harry castillo fluff #harry castillo fanfiction #harry castillo fic #harry castillo materialists #harry castillo x you #harry castillo #harry castillo x reader #pedro pascal x reader #pedro pascal #Spotify

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ilovemilestellersmoustache · 2 months ago

Text

Eternal Sunshine

Bob Reynolds x Thunderbolts!reader

Summary: Bob has come to the terms he likes you, he’s perfectly fine with the dynamic you two have going on, just friends. But when the guy on the team who gets on his nerves constantly decides he wants a flirty dynamic with you, his calm facade falters leading to a crabby, sassy and mean Bob.

WC: 2.4K

A/N: This was a request! Feel free to also requests to my inbox!

⸻

Bob Reynolds was used to being the quiet one.

In a team like the Thunderbolts, a group built on loud opinions, clashing egos, and wildly divergent moral compasses… Bob faded into the background like a shadow on the wall. He preferred it that way. Yelena and Alexei could never go more than ten minutes without yelling at each other, their arguments somehow both absurd and serious. Ava hovered on the edge, arms crossed, her energy signature humming like an angry hornet whenever things escalated too far. Bucky playing the “adult” all the time, didn’t talk unless he had something worth saying, which usually meant one deadpan line that had the rest of the group wheezing.

John, of course, was in the center of it all, loud, brash, entirely too confident in a way that made Bob a little bitter.

And then there was you.

You were a ray of sunshine. Quippy with Yelena, as energetic as Alexei, could coax an actual smile out of Ava, somehow vibed with Bucky’s dated refrences better than Bob ever had, And were also far too friendly with John. Which, while fine on paper, was becoming Bob’s personal hell in real time.

But Bob didn’t get jealous. Or at least, that’s what he told himself. You floated between them all so effortlessly it was like you belonged to the chaos, like you were born to thrive in the eye of the storm.

To Bob, you were something else entirely.

You were sunshine essentially. Not the blinding kind, not harsh. You were that golden hour stuff, soft and warm and everywhere, even when you’re not looking.

Being around you was like standing in sunlight after years underground. So golden and soft you forget how long you lived without it, overwhelming to the point where it’s almost too much, but you can’t go back once you’ve felt it.

You were a steady balm against the splinters of reality he still hadn’t fully adjusted to. The memory blackouts, the unbearable quiet between missions, the fear of remembering too much. Your kindness was never forced, never pitying. It snuck in quietly, like sunlight bleeding through old curtains, softening the edges of the thing inside him that still threatened to split open.

And for a while, it felt like maybe you saw him that way too.

Until John started calling you sweetheart.

At first, it was a joke. A teasing nickname thrown around. Coming back from a mission from just you and John had brought you suddenly closer. You honestly hadn’t seemed to mind. You rolled with it, elbowed him, rolled your eyes, laughed when he leaned into your space. But Bob noticed the subtle shifts. The closeness. The easy intimacy. how you looked up at him sometimes like he was actually funny. Things no one should even look into that much.

Bob tried to ignore it.

But during a team mission debrief.

You were seated beside John, both of you bruised and still glowing from the adrenaline high. The tablet sat between you, flickering with tactical footage. You leaned in close, shoulders pressed together. John’s fingers brushed yours as he pointed out something on the map. You rolled your eyes, grinning, and elbowed him in the ribs. John gave an exaggerated grunt and dramatically collapsed against your shoulder like you’d knocked the wind out of him.

The whole thing was so casual. So effortless. So intimate it made Bob’s skin prickle.

He was seated across the couch, tension crawling up his spine, jaw clenched tight enough that he felt his molars grind. His hands were stuffed into the pockets of his pants, toying with the loose threads in his pockets to distract himself. No one else seemed to notice. But Bob’s entire world had narrowed to the sight of you and Walker, and the sound of your laugh a sound he hadn’t heard directed at him in what felt like weeks.

“You two done making googly eyes because the rest of us would like to actually assess the footage.” he accidentally muttered too loud, not loud enough for everyone to hear but perfectly aimed in Y/n’s direction.

The tablet went silent. Heads turned.

Yelena arched an eyebrow, slowly swiveling in her chair like a cat sensing drama. “Someone’s cranky.”

Bob didn’t look at her. His eyes were still locked on you. Or maybe John. It was hard to tell.

Bucky glanced over from where he was perched, his expression unreadable. “Something wrong?”

“Nothing.” Bob said, already in too deep to back out with a sharp little smile. “Just waiting for these two to wrap up their audition for Love Island.”

You blinked, your smile faltering. “Excuse me?”

John leaned back in his chair, clearly enjoying the sudden shift. “Easy, Bob. Don’t tell me you’re jealous.”

The room went still at that.

Bob tilted his head. “Mm. That’s one word for it.”

“Oh, come on,” John grinned. “Tell me you’re not jealous.” He repeated

Bob raised an eyebrow. “Jealous? Of what? Your impeccable ability to manspread and mansplain at the same time? Truly awe-inspiring.”

Yelena made a choked noise. Ava sighed deeply like she was reconsidering her life choices. Alexei muttered “burn” under his breath and reached for popcorn that wasn’t there.

“Also I’d need to care first.” Bob blabbered on, mouth moving faster then his ability to think. His voice dropped to a different register, Not just annoyance, but hurt. ��And I don’t.”

That was a lie. An obvious one.

Yelena let out a slow whistle.

You stood slowly, your posture stiff, arms crossed over your chest. “Okay. What’s your problem?”

Bob met your eyes and shrugged one shoulder with theatrical indifference. “Nothing.” He snapped.

Bob never snapped at Y/n. Hell, he barely raised his voice. He didn’t let himself feel like this ever. But right now, the heat in his eyes was unmistakable.

John made a face. “Dude, what is your deal?”

“My deal.” Bob said, tilting his head, “is that I don’t usually have to sit through an entire season of the bachelor till 5 pm.”

That earned a laugh from Ava. Even Bucky smirked.

You didn’t laugh. You leaned forward instead, brows drawing together. “Are you seriously upset about… what? Me and John being friends?”

John stood. “You’re pushing it, man.”

Bob also stood up turned to him, lip curling. “Or what? You’ll throw your shield at me and miss again?”

That did it.

Alexei made a low oooh sound from the back of the room like he was watching a bar fight brew. Ava, ever the queen of patience, groaned under her breath and rubbed her temple. Bucky didn’t move, but his eyes narrowed in warning.

And you, your whole face changed.

The humor was gone. The teasing edge wiped clean. What was left was hurt and underneath that, fury.

You stepped between them, planting yourself like a wall. Your voice was tight, controlled. “Why are you being like this?”

But Bob couldn’t answer that.

Because how could he say the truth?

Bob hesitated. Just for a second.

That he’d watched you slowly drift toward someone else while he stood still. That the idea of you smiling at John, laughing at John, made something ugly claw at the inside of his chest. That he missed you before he even really had you.

His face falters realizing there was no reasonable way to end this without confessing so he held up a hand. “I- its-its nothing. I’m sorry Y/n, just- you guys- I’m just lacking sleep, I’m not- I can’t think straight.”

You didn’t say anything. You just kept staring at him, like you were trying to find the real meaning behind this.

Bob didn’t let you.

He timidly kept his head down turning around to quickly escaping the room, expression unreadable but his footsteps tapped against the floor like he was grounding himself. Like he was still trying to play it cool.

But beneath all the wit and all the sass, the truth pulsed steady and unspoken.

He cared.

Too much.

And you were slipping away.

And worst of all… that he cared.

More than he was ready to admit.

So instead, he decided to just let you go. Who was he to take away your happiness even if that happiness was with John.

⸻

Bob had been avoiding everyone for days, but he’d been avoiding you most of all.

After the blow-up in the debrief room, after the sarcasm, the jealousy, the lingering look in his eyes like he wished he could take it all back, you’d given him time. At first. But now, it was getting ridiculous. You barely saw him at meals. He left the gym before you arrived. Every time you entered a room, he seemed to remember something urgent that pulled him out the door.

So when you passed his room and saw the door slightly ajar with warm light spilling out, you didn’t knock.

You pushed it open and stepped in.

The room was dim, lit only by a shaft of sunlight cutting across the floor. Bob was curled up on his side, sprawled sideways on the bed like he’d flopped there and forgotten to get up. He was wearing a hoodie that was definitely older than the both of you, the hood pulled halfway over his head, sleeves covering his hands. A paperback was open on his chest with a cracked spine and dog-eared pages, one hand holding the page like he’d been rereading the same line for twenty minutes.

He looked up, startled.

You crossed your arms. “You can’t avoid me forever.”

Bob sighed and shut the book, fingers tensing around the cover. “Wasn’t trying to.”

You raised an eyebrow and took a step closer. “Really? Because from where I’m standing, it looks a lot like you were sprinting in the opposite direction every time I breathed near a hallway.”

Bob sat up with a sigh, book slipping to the side. He didn’t make room on the bed, didn’t invite you closer, just said:

“Look, if this is about what I said in the debrief-“

“It is.”

“Then I already said I was sorry.” His tone was airy, deflective. But his eyes didn’t meet yours. “It was dumb. I was cranky. I shouldn’t have taken it out on you. You and John can keep doing your little buddy-cop couple thing. It’s fine.”

You blinked. “Bob-“

“I mean, really.” he kept going, faster now like if he said it quickly enough it wouldn’t sting. “You guys flirt. It’s fine. It’s whatever. I don’t have a claim on you. I don’t want to have a claim on you. I-”

“Bob.”

That finally stopped him.

You crossed the room and stood at the edge of the bed, arms folded.

“Sit up.”

“I am sitting.” he muttered, looking up at you with those tired, searching eyes.

“Sit properly.”

He shifted upright, knees pulled close. You sat beside him, close enough that your thighs touched. He immediately stiffened, then relaxed like his body couldn’t decide if this was a threat or a prayer being answered.

You didn’t smile. “Actually tell me why. Please?”

Bob had a long pause and shifted upright. “Because. Look I don’t want to… I don’t know. Make things weird.”

“Too late.”

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “Figured.”

You sat on the edge of the bed, facing him fully. “So? Talk.”

Bob looked at you, then away. He picked at a loose thread on the edge of his sleeve. “Look, what I said in the debrief… it wasn’t fair. You didn’t deserve that.”

“You said you didn’t care, remember?” you said. “Said it was fine if John and I were being all coupley.”

“I do care.” he finally whispered. “More than I should. More than makes sense. I’ve been trying not to screw it up. Trying to stay out of your way. And then every time I look at you and John, it’s like- like I missed the shot before I even knew I had it.”

He hesitated.

Then, voice low and rough, he said, “The truth is that I like you. That I’ve liked you for a while. And watching you with him all flirty and close and happy- it messed with my head.”

You stared at him, unmoving. Bob swallowed, pushing on.

“I didn’t mean to be cruel. I thought maybe if I stayed quiet, it would go away. That if I buried it deep enough, it’d stop hurting.” He laughed once, hollow. “Spoiler alert, it didn’t.”

He looked down, cheeks flushed pink. “I didn’t know how to tell you. So I got snarky. Which is not… my best strategy, clearly.”

You smiled, slow and fond. “Definitely not.”

He looked back up at you, and this time, there was no deflection in his eyes. No shields. Just the honest, aching truth.

“I just really like you,” he said softly. “So much it makes me weird.”

Your laugh broke the tension.

“You are weird.” you said, nudging your shoulder into his.

Bob gave a small huff of a laugh and dropped his head against yours. “Yeah, well. So are you.”

Silence washing over.

“Finally.”

He blinked. “Finally?”

You grinned, sliding closer even closer. “Bob. I’ve been waiting for you to say that for a long long time, the team started placing bets when, or if you would ever.”

His face went scarlet. “There were bets?”

“Only small ones,” you said, laughing softly. “Nothing outrageous. I think Ava won the pot, though. She guessed you’d confess first after two weeks of existential dread and a minor breakdown.”

He dropped his head in his hands with a groan. “Oh my goodness.”

You gently pulled his hands away and held them in your lap. “Hey. I’m glad you said it. I’m glad you feel it.”

Bob looked up, uncertain. “You really are?”

You didn’t answer.

Instead, you leaned in, slow and steady, giving him time to move, to breathe, to change his mind. He didn’t. His eyes dropped to your lips, his breath hitched and then you kissed him.

It started soft. Gentle. His lips met yours like a question, hesitant, reverent. But the moment you made a small sound, barely a hum of contentment, he kissed you again. Firmer this time. More sure. His hand cupped your jaw, the other slipping to your hip to pull you closer like he couldn’t not.

The air shifted. Your hands slid under his hoodie, palms warm against the cotton of his T-shirt. Bob inhaled sharply when you swung a leg over his, straddling him with a grin that said you’ve avoided me long enough.

“Okay,” he murmured against your mouth. “I believe you.”

You laughed softly, breathless. “Told you.”

His hands found your waist, anchoring you to him. He looked up at you, eyes warm and flickering with something new, no fear, no shame, just affection so fierce it made your heart ache.

“I don’t deserve this,” he whispered, pressing his forehead to yours.

“You absolutely do,” you said. “And I’m not going anywhere. So stop deflecting.”

He nodded, smiling slowly. “Okay.”

Then he kissed you again, slow, deep, unhurried and this time, it didn’t feel like a secret or a maybe.

It felt like the beginning.

⸻

A/N: This is how Bob 100% looked lets be so fr

750 notes · View notes

flux1563 · 3 months ago

Text

Sacrifice for Husband Ft Mina

Tags : pet play, degrading, creampie, squirting, creampie

Words :16k

Mina stood in her kitchen, the smell of burnt toast lingering in the air. She glanced at the clock on the wall. Ten minutes late. Again. Her stomach tightened into a knot of anxiety as she thought about the long day ahead of her. Her husband, Alex, had been working late every night for the past two weeks. His business was failing, and she didn't know how to help.

The coffee machine hissed its final protest as she poured a cup, the dark liquid steaming in the stark light of the kitchen. The house was eerily silent, a stark contrast to the usual morning chatter of their daughters getting ready for school. She took a deep breath, letting the warmth of the mug seep into her cold hands. She had to come up with a solution. Their family was depending on it.

Alex's office was a mess of unpaid bills and half-empty coffee cups. She picked her way through the clutter, her eyes scanning the numbers that blurred together in a sea of red ink. The business they had built together, their dream, was slowly drowning, and she felt powerless. The phone rang, jolting her out of her thoughts. It was Alex, his voice tight with stress. He needed her to come in today, to help him figure out what to do.

Her mind raced as she drove to work, passing the familiar landmarks of their small town. The office was in a dingy building, the paint peeling in the harsh sunlight. Mina was the receptionist for a successful construction company, a job she had held for years. Her boss, Mr. y/n, was a fair man, but today she had to ask for something she knew he might not be able to give: a loan to save their family's future. She took a deep breath and stepped into the building, her heart pounding in her chest.

The lobby was cool and quiet, a stark contrast to the chaos of the street outside. The receptionist looked up and offered a tentative smile. Mina returned it, feeling the weight of the world on her shoulders. She couldn't put this off any longer. She had to see Mr. y/n. She took the stairs, her heels clicking on the linoleum, each step echoing in the stairwell. His office was at the end of the hall, the door slightly ajar. She could hear his deep voice, discussing plans with a contractor.

Mina took a moment to compose herself, smoothing down her blouse and checking her reflection in the glass pane of the office door. She took a deep breath, knocked, and stepped inside. Mr. y/n looked up, his eyes widening slightly when he saw her. He was a black man, tall, well-built man with a shaved head and a no-nonsense attitude. His expression softened when he saw the worry etched on her face.

"Mina, what can I do for you?" he asked, his voice a gentle rumble.

"Mr. y/n, I need to speak with you. It's about Alex's business," she said, her voice shaking slightly.

He gestured for her to take a seat across from his cluttered desk, his gaze concerned. "What's going on?"

Mina took a moment to gather her thoughts. "It's failing, Mr. y/n. Alex can't keep up with the bills. I've tried to help, but we're at the end of our rope. I was wondering... if there was any way you could lend us some money. Just until we get back on our feet." She met his eyes, her own pleading.

"I can give you money with two requirements," Y/n said, his voice firm yet understanding.

Mina felt a flicker of hope. "Anything," she replied desperately, leaning forward.

Y/n leaned back in his chair, his eyes sweeping over her body. "I want you to create an OnlyFans account," he said, his voice a low growl. "And you'll be my personal slut."

Mina's heart stopped. She couldn't believe what she was hearing. "What?" she sputtered, her cheeks flushing with a mix of anger and embarrassment.

Y/n's expression remained calm, his eyes unwavering. "Three days, Mina. Take the time to think about it," he repeated, his voice firm and unyielding. "I'm offering you a way to help your family, but it's a serious commitment."

Mina left his office in a daze, the door clicking shut behind her like a prison gate. She walked back through the lobby, her legs feeling like jelly. The receptionist's smile seemed to mock her as she stepped out into the unforgiving sun. The drive home was a blur, her mind racing with the implications of Y/n's proposal. The quiet hum of the engine was the only sound, punctuated by the occasional honk from an impatient driver.

When she arrived at the house, she found Alex in the living room, surrounded by bills and paperwork. The sight of him, shoulders slumped in defeat, made her want to scream. She couldn't tell him what Y/n had said. Not yet. Instead, she forced a smile and told him she was there to help. They spent the evening crunching numbers, trying to find a way out of their financial nightmare. The TV droned on in the background, a mindless distraction that did little to ease the tension in the room.

As they finally went to bed, Mina lay awake, Y/n's words echoing in her mind. The thought of creating an OnlyFans account, exposing herself to the world, was mortifying. But the alternative was unthinkable. Their house, their daughters' futures, all of it could be lost. Her heart raced as she thought of the second part of the deal. Being his personal slut. What did that even mean? Would she have to sleep with other men? Would it be just Y/n? The very idea of it made her stomach churn.

The next few days were a blur of work and worry. She couldn't focus, her thoughts consumed by the decision she had to make. Each time she saw Y/n's number flash on her phone, her pulse quickened. The silence was deafening, the weight of his proposal hanging heavy between them. She knew she had to make a choice, but she didn't know if she had the strength to go through with it. She felt like she was drowning, and the only lifeline was wrapped in a noose.

On the third day, she sat in her car outside the office, the engine idling. She had made up her mind. With trembling hands, she picked up her phone and called Y/n. "I'll do it," she said, her voice barely a whisper. "I'll do whatever it takes."

Y/n's response was immediate. "Good girl," he said, the words sending a shiver down her spine. "Come to my office at six. We'll discuss the terms of our arrangement."

Mina nodded, though she knew he couldn't see her. She had agreed to become his personal slut, to do whatever he wanted, whenever he demanded it. The thought was terrifying, but the fear of losing everything pushed her forward. She took a deep breath and ended the call.

When she arrived at his office, the sun had set, leaving the room bathed in the glow of his desk lamp. The shadows danced on the walls as he stood up, his expression unreadable. "You've made the right choice," he said, his voice a dark promise. He handed her a contract, the pages thick with legal jargon. "Sign here, and it's all yours."

Mina took the pen with a shaking hand, her eyes scanning the document. It was all there in black and white: the loan amount, the terms, and her role as his sex slave. She felt sick, but she signed, sealing her fate. Y/n's smile was cold and calculating. "Welcome to your new life," he said, his eyes glinting with something that could have been excitement or malice.

The following days were a whirlwind of setting up the account, taking explicit photos, and recording videos. She felt like a whore, selling herself to strangers for money. But every time she saw Alex's hopeful face, she pushed down the nausea and continued. The money started to roll in, and she transferred it to Alex's account, watching the numbers rise with a sense of relief and self-loathing.

One evening, her phone buzzed with a message from Y/n. "Come to my house, slut. And make sure you don't wear a bra or panties." She read it over a dinner she couldn't eat, her heart racing. Alex looked up from his plate, noticing her sudden tension. "Everything okay?" he asked, oblivious to the deal she had made.

Mina took a deep breath, forcing a smile. "Yeah, just work stuff. I have to go to the office for a bit." She didn't know how much longer she could keep her secret from him. She showered, her hands trembling as she washed herself, feeling the weight of her decision like a noose tightening around her neck. She slipped into a short, tight dress, her bare skin feeling vulnerable and exposed.

The drive to Y/n's house was agonizing. Each minute stretched into an eternity, the anticipation of what was to come mixing with the fear of being caught. The luxurious mansion loomed before her, a symbol of the power dynamics that had shifted so dramatically in their lives. She stepped out of the car, the cool night air brushing against her bare skin. The door opened before she could knock, and he was there, his eyes raking over her body with a hunger she had never seen from him before.

As she entered, she noticed the dimly lit hallway and the faint smell of expensive cologne. She knew that tonight would be the first time she had to give in to his desires, and the thought filled her with dread. He led her into a plush living room, the sound of her heels echoing off the marble floors. He offered her a drink, which she took gratefully, downing it in one gulp, hoping the alcohol would ease her nerves.

The "red room" was exactly as he had described it: a den of iniquity, filled with an array of sex toys that seemed to glisten in the soft, crimson light. There were cameras positioned at every angle, ensuring that no part of their encounter would be missed. Her heart pounded in her chest as he closed the door with a soft click that sounded like a prison locking shut.

"Strip," he ordered, his voice a low rumble that sent a shiver down her spine. She obeyed, peeling off her dress and letting it fall to the floor, leaving her naked and trembling. He approached her, his eyes never leaving hers, and she felt the heat of his gaze on her skin as if it were a physical touch. He was tall, muscular, and powerful, his confidence palpable.

Mina lay down on the bed, the plush comforter cool against her feverish skin. Y/n pulled out a length of rope from a drawer, the sound of it slithering through his hands sending a jolt of fear through her body. He was surprisingly gentle as he tied her wrist to each ankle, her legs spread eagle, leaving her utterly vulnerable. The position was both humiliating and exhilarating, her body on full display for his perusal.

He stepped back to admire his handiwork, licking his lips. "Beautiful," he murmured, his eyes glinting with desire. "But not quite what I had in mind." He reached for another rope, looping it around her neck, and then down to her bound wrists, creating a tension that made her arch her back. She could feel the rope tighten slightly, the threat of choking if she moved the wrong way. "Now, let's get started."

Y/n approached the bedside table and picked up a sleek, black vibrator. He turned it on, the buzzing sound filling the room like a promise of pleasure and pain. Mina's eyes widened, her heart racing as she watched him approach with the toy. He knelt between her legs and spread her thighs even further apart, his breath hot on her skin as he leaned in.

With a practiced touch, he inserted the vibrator into her pussy, the coolness of the plastic giving way to a deep, pulsing warmth that sent shockwaves through her body. She gasped, her eyes rolling back in her head as he adjusted the speed, watching her reactions intently. He whispered sweet nothings into her ear, his breath hot and his words a dark contrast to the coldness of the transaction.

The vibrations grew stronger, each pulse making her toes curl and her body tense. She felt her muscles tighten around the invading object, her body betraying her by reacting with pleasure despite her mind's protest. It was a strange sensation, being both terrified and turned on, her thoughts racing as the room spun around her. He leaned over her, his handsome face a mask of concentration as he worked the vibrator with precision, his thumb circling her clit, pushing her closer and closer to the edge of an unwanted orgasm.

And then it hit her, a wave so powerful she couldn't hold back the scream that tore from her throat. "AHHHHHHHHHHH," she screamed, her voice echoing off the walls as her body convulsed with pleasure. The ropes bit into her wrists, the pain adding an unexpected intensity to the moment. Y/n watched her with a smug smile, his eyes never leaving hers as he pushed the vibrator deeper, making her scream louder. She bucked and writhed against her restraints, feeling the rope tighten around her neck as she reached peak after peak, her orgasms rolling over her like a stormy sea.

He didn't stop, not even when she begged him, her voice hoarse from screaming. He was relentless, driving her body to its limits, pushing her until she didn't think she could take any more. But she did, each cry of pleasure a silent admission of her defeat. She was his, utterly and completely, and she knew it. The thought should have filled her with anger, but instead it just made her want to come again, to feel that rush of powerlessness and pleasure.

As the last tremor faded, he removed the vibrator, his eyes gleaming with satisfaction. "Good girl," he murmured, stroking her cheek with a tenderness that was almost affectionate. "Now, let's see if you can handle the real thing." He stood and began to undress, revealing his massive cock that was already hard and ready for her. She felt a mix of fear and excitement, knowing she had no choice but to submit to him fully.

Mina couldn't help but ask, "How long and big is that?" Y/n smirked, his chocolate eyes holding hers as he replied, "12-inch length, 4-inch girth. But don't worry, I'll take it slow with you." His words didn't comfort her; instead, they sent a fresh wave of panic crashing through her. She had never seen anything so large, and the thought of it inside her made her feel both terrified and strangely eager to prove herself.

He climbed onto the bed, his weight making her gasp. He positioned himself between her legs, and she felt the head of his cock nudge against her wet pussy. He was gentle at first, pushing in just a little, allowing her to adjust to the size. But with every inch, she felt herself stretching, the pain bordering on unbearable yet mixed with a strange thrill she had never felt before. Her breaths grew ragged, her eyes watering as he inched further inside her.

Finally, he was all the way in, and she lay there, panting and trembling, feeling utterly filled and claimed. He began to move, his strokes long and slow, each one sending a bolt of pleasure and pain through her. She had never felt so alive, so used, so completely under someone's control.

"Ahh, so big," she gasped, her eyes watering with every thrust. "My pussy is gonna tear apart." Her voice was a mix of pain and pleasure, a sound she had never heard herself make before. His eyes held hers, the connection between them almost intimate. He knew exactly how to push her buttons, how to make her beg for more.

"Do u like it how a BBC destroy ur pussy?" His voice was a gruff whisper, the question a taunt that sent a shiver down her spine. She didn't know if she liked it or not, but she knew she craved it. The way he filled her so completely, the way he made her feel so small and vulnerable, it was a heady cocktail she hadn't anticipated. She nodded, unable to form coherent words, her body already preparing for another orgasm.

"Good," he said, his strokes becoming more intense. "Now tell me, slut. What do you feel?" Mina took a deep breath, the pressure building inside her, his cock stretching her to her limits. "I...I feel...full," she managed to gasp out, the word barely audible over the sound of his hips slapping against her ass. "I feel...like I'm yours."

His smile grew wider at her admission, his grip on her hips tightening. "That's what I want to hear," he murmured, his voice thick with lust. He leaned down and kissed her, his tongue claiming her mouth as thoroughly as his cock claimed her pussy. She moaned into the kiss, the taste of him mixing with the metallic tang of fear and arousal on her tongue.

"I can feel your walls tightening around me," he said, his voice a dark promise. "You're going to cum again for me, aren't you?" She nodded, her eyes glazed with need. "Say it," he demanded, his thrusts growing faster, more erratic. "Say it, Mina."

"Yes," she whimpered, the word barely leaving her lips before she was spiraling into another orgasm. It was like nothing she had ever felt before, a crescendo of sensation that consumed her completely.

Y/n's grip tightened, his strokes becoming more frenzied as he approached his own climax. "Cum together, slut," he grunted, his eyes boring into hers. The command was a spark that ignited the final explosion of pleasure within her, her body convulsing as she screamed out her release. He followed shortly after, his hot seed filling her up, marking her as his.

"Ah, your womb is so tight," Y/n murmured, his voice a mix of satisfaction and amazement as he pulled out, his cock still pulsing with the aftermath of his orgasm. Mina felt a strange sense of pride, despite the circumstances. She had never felt so desired, so used, so completely owned.

As he untied her, she took a shaky step, her legs wobbling slightly. He handed her the crumpled dress, and she slipped it back on, feeling the fabric stick to her sweat-drenched skin. "Leave it here," he said with a cruel smirk. "Go home naked. And make sure you don't get caught by your husband."

Her heart racing, Mina nodded. She knew the drive home would be a mix of fear and excitement, her body still humming with the aftershocks of her forced climaxes. She stepped into her car, the cool leather of the seat a stark contrast to the heat between her legs. The engine roared to life, and she pulled away from the curb, her naked body on display through the windows. She had never felt more exposed, more alive.

The drive was a blur, the headlights piercing the darkness as she navigated the quiet streets. Every shadow could have been a hidden camera, every car a potential witness to her degradation. She felt a thrill at the risk, the adrenaline pumping through her veins like a drug. The cool air brushed against her skin, making her nipples peak and her pussy throb with the memory of his touch.

Pulling into the garage, she killed the engine and took a deep breath. The house was dark, and she knew Alex would be asleep. She stepped out of the car, her bare feet hitting the cold concrete, the chill sending a shiver through her body. She tiptoed inside, the sound of her heels echoing in the silence. She made her way to the bathroom, her legs still trembling with the aftershocks of her experience. She slipped into the shower, the water scalding hot as she tried to scrub away the evidence of her betrayal. But she knew it was more than just physical; she had crossed a line she never thought she would.

The warmth of the water washed over her, mixing with her tears as she realized she had become the very thing she had once pitied: a woman willing to sell her body for the sake of her husband's business. Yet, as the water cascaded down her body, carrying away the traces of Y/n's semen, she felt a strange sense of empowerment. Despite the fear and the humiliation, she had survived. And the thought of going back for more, of being used and degraded by her powerful boss, sent a thrill through her that she couldn't ignore.

Mina stepped out of the shower, her body still trembling. The mirror reflected a woman she barely recognized, her makeup smudged, her hair a mess, and her eyes glazed over with a mix of pain and pleasure. She took a deep breath and opened her phone, the message from Y/n glaring at her from the screen. "This is your video from the red room. Upload it on your OnlyFans account tonight and make a slutty title." The words were a cold reminder of her new reality.

With trembling hands, she opened the file, watching herself being taken by her boss. The sight of his large, black cock pumping in and out of her made her stomach clench, both with disgust and an unwelcome wave of arousal. She forced herself to watch, to acknowledge what she had done. The video was explicit, her moans and cries of pleasure clear as day, and she felt a strange sense of pride knowing that she could handle something so intense.

But as she stared at the screen, she knew she couldn't just upload it. Not without a plan. She had to keep her identity a secret from Alex, from everyone. So she took another deep breath and opened her laptop, logging into her newly created OnlyFans account. The platform was a world of anonymity and depravity, a place where she could be anyone she wanted to be.

Her heart racing, she titled the video "My First Night with the Boss" and wrote a steamy description that made her skin crawl. She posted it, feeling a mix of excitement and dread as the notification popped up. "Video uploaded successfully." The thought of strangers watching her, getting off to her pain and pleasure, was both terrifying and exhilarating. But she had to push those thoughts aside. For now, she had to focus on the money and keeping her secret from Alex.

The morning came too quickly, and with it the inevitable return to the office. She tried to keep her head down, avoiding eye contact with Y/n as much as possible. But she could feel his gaze on her, a constant reminder of her new role. She sat at her desk, her mind racing with the events of the night before. The office was the same, but she felt different, tainted by her secret.

Her phone buzzed, and she glanced down, expecting it to be another notification from her OnlyFans. But it was a message from Y/n: "Came to my office, Mina. We have business to discuss." Her stomach dropped. She knew what he wanted, and she knew she had to go. With trembling legs, she stood and made her way down the hallway, the click of her heels echoing through the empty space.

His door was open, and she stepped inside, the smell of his cologne hitting her like a punch to the gut. He was sitting behind his desk, looking up at her with a smug smile. "Good morning, slut," he said, his eyes traveling up and down her body. "Take off your dress." She swallowed hard, her heart pounding in her chest. She knew that she had no choice but to obey.

With shaking hands, she unzipped her dress and let it fall to the floor. She was wearing nothing but a thong and a bra underneath, and she could feel his gaze burning through the thin fabric. "Turn around," he ordered, his voice firm. She did as she was told, her stomach flipping as she heard the sound of his chair rolling back. He stood up and came closer, his hand tracing the line of her thong, sending a jolt of arousal through her body.

He hooked his thumbs into the waistband and pulled it down, letting it fall to her ankles. She stepped out of it, her bare ass on display. "Spread your cheeks," he murmured, his breath warm on her skin. She obeyed, feeling a strange mix of fear and excitement as he inspected her. He stepped closer, and she felt the tip of his finger brush against her clit, making her jump.

Without warning, he dropped to his knees and buried his face in her pussy. His tongue was hot and wet, and she couldn't help the moan that escaped her. "Ahh, yes," she gasped, her body responding to his touch despite herself. He licked and sucked, his teeth grazing her sensitive flesh, sending shockwaves through her body. Her legs trembled, and she had to grip the edge of the desk to keep herself upright.

"Y/n," she moaned, her voice a breathy whisper. He looked up at her, a smug grin on his face. "You like that, don't you?" She didn't answer, the sensation too intense to form words. He chuckled darkly and went back to work, his tongue delving deeper, finding spots that made her toes curl.

Mina felt herself getting wetter with each pass, her body betraying her as she leaned into the feeling. "Ahhh," she moaned louder, her voice echoing in the quiet office.

Y/n slid a finger into her pussy, and she gasped. The intrusion was sudden and intense, her mind going blank as she focused on the feeling. He moved his finger in and out, his thumb rubbing her clit with expert precision. It was as if he knew her body better than she did herself. She could feel her walls tightening around his digit, her muscles contracting with each stroke.

The pleasure was overwhelming, and she found herself moaning continuously, unable to form coherent thoughts or words. Her knees began to buckle, and she was grateful for the desk that kept her upright. "More," she begged, the need in her voice unmistakable. He complied, adding a second finger, stretching her even further.

The sensation was almost too much, the pain and pleasure blurring into a white-hot haze that consumed her. She couldn't believe she was letting her boss do this to her, but she couldn't stop. It was as if she was watching herself from the outside, a spectator to her own degradation. And yet, she craved more. "Harder," she whispered, her voice hoarse from the screams she had held back.

With a smirk, Y/n increased his pace, his fingers moving faster, pushing her closer to the edge. She could feel the pressure building, her orgasm just out of reach. "You're going to cum for me now," he said, his voice firm and commanding. And with that final push, she did, her body shuddering as she screamed his name.

The climax ripped through her, leaving her trembling and gasping for air. Her legs gave out, and she would have collapsed if it weren't for his firm grip on her hips. He pulled out his fingers, licking them clean, his eyes never leaving hers. "Good girl," he said, his voice a dark purr. "You're learning fast."

Mina couldn't help but feel a twisted sense of pride, despite the sickness in her stomach. She had never been one to enjoy pain, but the way he made her body respond was addictive. She reached for her dress, her hands shaking as she tried to cover herself up. But he stopped her, holding up a hand.

"Not so fast," he said, his voice low and dangerous. "I think we need a little... souvenir of our time together." He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, black device. "This little beauty is a mini-cam," he said, flicking it on to reveal the recording of her orgasm. "Every time you come for me, it'll be recorded for us to enjoy later."

Her eyes widened in horror as she watched the video, her own face a mask of pleasure and pain. She had never seen herself from that angle before, never realized how much she looked like she enjoyed it. "Y/n, please," she begged, her voice shaking. "Please don't do this."

He stepped closer, his breath warm against her ear. "It's already done," he whispered. "And who knows, maybe your husband would like to see his pretty wife taking a cock that's twice the size of his." The threat was clear, and she felt the color drain from her face. He was in complete control, and there was nothing she could do about it.

Mina nodded, her body trembling with a mix of fear and arousal. She knew she had to play along, to keep her secret and her marriage intact. She pulled her dress back up, trying to ignore the sticky wetness between her legs. "I'll upload it as soon as I get home," she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper.

The rest of the workday was a blur. She couldn't concentrate, her thoughts consumed by the video that was now in his possession. Every time she saw him in the office, she felt a strange mix of dread and excitement. What would he do with it? Would he share it with others? The thought made her stomach churn, but she couldn't deny the thrill of the risk.

Finally, the clock struck five, and she practically ran to the elevator, eager to escape the confines of the office. The ride home was torturous, her mind racing with what-ifs and fear of discovery. She knew she had to keep this from Alex at all costs, the thought of his reaction too much to bear.

As soon as she was in the privacy of her own home, she rushed to her laptop, her hands shaking as she logged into her OnlyFans account. She uploaded the video with trembling fingers, the title "Boss's Pet Gets What She Deserves." The click of the mouse button was like a gunshot in the silence of the room, finalizing her descent into a world she had never thought she would enter.

The video went live, and she watched as the views began to climb. The comments were a mix of praise and degradation, her secret admirers reveling in her humiliation. She couldn't help but feel a strange sense of satisfaction at the thought of them getting off to her pain. It was a twisted reality she had never imagined herself in, but here she was, playing the role of the obedient slut for the man who held the key to their financial future.

The next day, Mina walked into the office with a heavy heart, her chest feeling bare without the protection of her usual lingerie. She could feel the fabric of her blouse rubbing against her nipples with every step, the sensation a constant reminder of her submission. Y/n's eyes met hers, a knowing smirk playing on his lips. He didn't say a word, but she knew he was aware of her predicament. The tension between them was palpable, the air thick with the scent of his dominance and her growing arousal.

Throughout the day, she found herself constantly checking her phone, the messages from her anonymous fans sending a thrill through her that she couldn't ignore. They praised her, called her their whore, their slut, and she found herself craving the validation. Her body was a battleground of emotions, torn between the fear of her husband finding out and the desire for the intense pleasure Y/n provided.

The moment she saw the message from him, she felt a jolt of panic. "Mina, come to my office," it read, simple and to the point. She knew what it meant, knew what he wanted from her. Her heart pounded in her chest as she stood, her legs shaky as she made her way to his domain.

Y/n looked up from his paperwork, his gaze raking over her body as she entered. "Take off your dress," he said, his voice calm and in control. She knew the drill now, the power dynamics set in stone. With trembling hands, she unzipped the garment, letting it pool around her feet.

"Now, show me that you did what I say," he demanded, his eyes gleaming with lust. She took a deep breath, her cheeks flaming red with humiliation as she complied. She reached under her skirt, her fingers touching the bare, sensitive skin of her pussy. She had never gone without underwear to work before, and the feeling of vulnerability was intense.

Mina parted her legs slightly, allowing him to see that she had indeed followed his order. His eyes darkened with approval, and she felt a strange mix of pride and shame. "Good girl," he murmured, his voice sending a shiver down her spine.

He tossed her a pair of vibrating underwear, the kind that had a slit for her pussy. "Put these on," he instructed, his tone leaving no room for argument. She caught the underwear with trembling hands, her heart racing as she realized what he wanted her to do.

With shaky fingers, she slid the garment over her bare skin, the material clinging to her curves. She could feel the vibrator nestled in the slit, the buzzing a constant reminder of her submission. Y/n watched with a smug expression, enjoying the sight of her in the compromising position. "Now, go back to your desk," he said, his voice a low growl.

Mina nodded, stepping back into her heels. She made her way back to her cubicle, the vibrator pulsing with every step. She tried to focus on the spreadsheet in front of her, but it was useless. The sensation was too intense, too distracting. Her colleagues were oblivious to the torment she was enduring, their mundane chatter a stark contrast to the war raging inside her.

Her body was betraying her, the vibrator sending waves of pleasure through her core. She bit her lip to stifle the moans, her cheeks flushing as the first orgasm of the day ripped through her. It was like a storm she couldn't control, a silent scream trapped in her throat. Her eyes glazed over, and she had to grip the edge of her desk to keep from falling.

The climax left her breathless, her body trembling with the aftershocks. She tried to compose herself, but the vibrator didn't relent. It kept pulsing, demanding more from her. She knew she couldn't last the whole day like this, but she had no choice. She was his plaything now, and she had to follow his every command.

The hours passed like molasses, each second a battle between focusing on her work and the relentless buzzing between her legs. She found herself getting wetter, her pussy swollen and begging for relief. The anticipation was agonizing, a delicious torment that she couldn't escape.

When the next orgasm hit, it was like a surprise attack. Her body tensed, her toes curling in her heels as she bit her lip so hard she tasted blood. She hoped no one had noticed the subtle tremor that had passed through her, the way her hand had gripped the mouse so tightly. But she couldn't be sure.

The rest of the day was a blur of forced climaxes, her body a slave to the vibrator's whims. Each wave of pleasure brought a fresh wave of fear and arousal. She was living a double life, and the line between the two was blurring. By the time she was allowed to leave, she was a wreck, her nerves frayed and her pussy sore. But she knew she couldn't let it show, not when Alex was waiting for her at home.

As she pulled into the garage, she saw the notification on her phone. It was a video from Y/n, timestamped from the middle of the day. Her heart raced as she played it, the image of her own face, flushed and desperate, appearing on the screen. It was a recording from the office security camera, capturing the moment she had lost control in the throes of pleasure. Her mouth open in a silent moan, eyes squeezed shut, her hands desperately trying to keep herself from being heard.

The message that accompanied the video was a taunt, a declaration of his power. "Mina, remember," he had typed, his words a knife to her gut, "I put every camera on you in the office. Now, put this video on your OnlyFans with the title 'A slut craving for a big dick while at work.'" The reality of her situation hit her like a truck, her secret now in his hands, ready to be shared with the world.

With trembling fingers, she uploaded the video, the title a twisted jest that sent a shiver down her spine. She knew it would drive her viewers wild, the thought of her being watched while she worked, her desperation palpable. The comments began to flood in, each one more degrading than the last. But she couldn't bring herself to take it down. The money was too good, the thrill too intense.

The days turned into weeks, and Mina found herself caught in a cycle of submission and degradation. She continued to work, her OnlyFans account growing, her interactions with Y/n more intense with every encounter. She felt like she was drowning in a sea of desire and fear, her marriage hanging by a thread she didn't dare to pull. Her relationship with Alex grew more strained, their passion replaced by the cold, hard truth of their financial situation.

But every time she felt like she couldn't go on, she remembered the promise she had made to save her husband's business. And so, she endured, her body a battleground of pleasure and pain, her soul a tapestry of conflicting emotions. Each time she uploaded a new video, each time she felt the eyes of her anonymous fans upon her, she felt a strange sense of purpose, of power. She was more than just a wife now; she was a commodity, a source of income, and a woman who could survive anything.

The day the message came, she felt a strange mix of relief and dread. Her phone buzzed, and she saw the text from Y/n: "Our contract will end in 3 days. I want you to stay at my home until your contract ends." She knew what he was asking of her, and she also knew she had no choice but to agree. It was a final push, a chance to pay off their debts and end this twisted arrangement. But the thought of being so completely under his control, with no escape, was terrifying.

Mina took a deep breath, her heart racing as she replied, "Okay." The word felt like a weight on her chest, but she had come too far to back out now. She packed a small bag, her mind racing with what lay ahead. What would he make her do? How much more could she take? She tried to ignore the dark excitement that bubbled in her stomach, the thrill of the unknown.

When she arrived at his mansion, the gates loomed before her, a symbol of the prison she was about to enter. The house was as grand and intimidating as she remembered, a testament to his wealth and power. She stepped inside, her heels clicking on the marble floor, the sound echoing through the hollow halls. Y/n was waiting for her, his arms folded across his chest, his eyes gleaming with anticipation.

"Welcome home, Mina," he said, a smug smile playing on his lips. The words sent a chill down her spine, but she forced a smile in return. "I've been looking forward to having you all to myself." His tone was one of ownership, a stark reminder of her fate. She swallowed hard, her body already responding to his presence.

"I will tell you right now," he began, his voice a deep rumble that sent tremors through her core, "that you will only be living in the red room for the next three days." The room she had come to know so well, the stage for their twisted games, was to become her prison. "You will eat, sleep, and breathe in that room. You will only leave when I command it."

Mina felt a cold hand of fear grip her heart, but she nodded in compliance. She knew what was expected of her, and she would see it through. The red room was her sanctuary of sin, a place where she could be someone else, do things she had never dreamed of doing. She had become addicted to the thrill of submission, the power dynamics that played out within those four walls.

As she stepped into the red room, she noticed that it had been transformed. The bed was adorned with silk scarves and leather cuffs, and the air was heavy with the scent of lust. Her eyes widened at the sight of the new toys laid out on the bedside table, each one more intimidating than the last. "You've been a good girl," he said, his eyes raking over her, "but now, it's time to push your boundaries even further."

Mina felt a cold sweat break out on her forehead as he approached her, his hand reaching out to caress her cheek. He guided her to a chair in the center of the room, one that she had never seen before. It was made of a sleek, black material, and it looked as if it had been designed with one purpose in mind: her submission. Her heart raced as he bound her wrists and ankles to the chair, the ropes biting into her skin, leaving her completely at his mercy.

He stepped back, admiring his handiwork, before he began his twisted game of tease. His fingers traced over her skin, skimming across her breasts, her stomach, and her thighs. Each touch sent a shiver through her body, her anticipation building to a fever pitch. The fabric over her eyes was tight, leaving her in darkness, heightening every sensation. "Please," she whimpered, her voice shaking with need. "I can't take it anymore. Give me your cock."

Y/n's chuckle was the only response she received. He continued his torturous exploration, his touch featherlight, driving her to the brink of madness. She could feel her pussy growing wetter with every stroke, her body begging for relief. "Please," she moaned, "please, I need it. I can't handle this."

He leaned down, his breath hot against her ear. "You want this, don't you?" His voice was a seductive whisper, a promise of pleasure wrapped in the threat of pain. "Beg for it," he ordered, his hand moving to her throat, applying just enough pressure to make her gasp. "Beg like the whore you are."

Mina's body responded to his dominance, her mind racing as she tried to comprehend the situation. "Yes," she choked out, "I need it. I'm begging you, please give me your cock."

The fabric was ripped away from her eyes, and she stared up at him, his expression a mix of amusement and lust. He stepped back, his cock already hard and ready. He didn't waste any time, unbuckling his belt and letting his pants fall to the floor. His shirt followed, revealing his muscular chest and abs.

He approached her again, his cock in hand, stroking it slowly. "Look at me," he demanded, his voice firm. "Look at what you've become." She couldn't help but watch, her eyes transfixed on the monstrous length of him. The fear and excitement melded into one, creating a potent cocktail that left her breathless.

He stepped closer, positioning himself between her spread legs. She could feel the head of his cock brushing against her, teasing her wetness. "Beg," he said again, his voice a low growl.

"Please," she whispered, her voice hoarse from screaming. "I need you inside me."

With a sadistic smile, Y/n leaned down and untied the ropes around her ankles. She let out a sigh of relief, her legs feeling like jelly as she tried to stand. He took her hand and led her to the bed, the plush mattress a stark contrast to the cold, hard chair. Her body was a canvas of bruises and marks from their previous encounters, but she didn't protest as he laid her down, her back arching with the softness of the bed beneath her.

"On your hands and knees," he ordered, his voice a low rumble that sent a thrill of excitement and fear through her. Mina complied, her heart racing as she positioned herself on the bed, her ass in the air. The cool air of the room brushed against her wet pussy, and she felt a shiver run down her spine.

He approached her, his hand coming down to rest on her lower back. "You've been a naughty girl," he murmured, his voice a dark promise of what was to come. She felt his finger probe at her entrance, slick with her desire. He pushed it in, hard and fast, making her gasp. His hand was rough, his movements unyielding, and she could feel herself stretching around him.

The second finger followed, and then the third, each thrust sending waves of painful pleasure through her. She moaned, the sound echoing off the walls of the room. "Yes," she heard him murmur, his voice filled with satisfaction. "That's it. Take it like the whore you are." His grip tightened on her hips, his fingers moving faster, harder. The pain grew, but so did her arousal.

He pulled his hand away, and she felt the head of his cock at her entrance, thick and demanding. "U like that whore?" he repeated, his voice taunting, pushing her buttons. She nodded, unable to form words. It was a question that didn't need an answer, a declaration of her new reality.

With one firm thrust, he filled her completely, his cock stretching her to her limits. Mina cried out, the mix of pain and pleasure overwhelming her senses. He paused, his cock buried deep inside her, and she felt his hand come down hard on her ass. "Who has the best cock?" he asked, his voice a dark whisper in the quiet room.

"My husband," she lied, her voice trembling with the effort to maintain her façade. The lie hung in the air, a stark reminder of the life she had left behind for this twisted world of debt and desire.

Y/n's hand swung down again, the sound of skin meeting skin echoing through the red room. "The truth," he demanded, his voice a low rumble of dominance. Mina gritted her teeth, the sting of his hand on her ass a stark reminder of her new reality.

"You," she finally admitted, the word slipping out in a rush of breath. "You have the best cock." His grip tightened, his fingers digging into her flesh, and she felt a surge of arousal at the admission. It was the truth, no matter how much she didn't want to admit it.

"Scream it," he ordered, his voice harsh and demanding. His hand came down again, the slap resonating through the room. She bit back a whimper, her pussy clenching around his shaft. The pleasure was almost unbearable, the pain a strange complement to the feeling of his thickness inside her.

"You are the best, my husband's dick was a quarter of your size," she gasped, her voice strained with each thrust. "He can't reach what you do inside my pussy." The words were a declaration of her submission, a confession that sent a jolt of arousal through her body. She felt the head of his cock hit her cervix, the sensation so intense it was almost unbearable.

Her body responded to his dominance, her pussy clenching and releasing around him, eager for more. Each slap on her ass brought a fresh wave of pleasure, a dark symphony of sensation that had her screaming his name. "Y/n, yes, yes," she chanted, her voice a litany of need and desperation.

Her orgasm was like a dam breaking, a flood of sensation that washed over her. She could feel the tears streaming down her face, the mix of pain and pleasure too much to hold back. "That's right," he groaned, his voice thick with his own desire. "You're mine now. You're nothing but a slut for my cock."

Mina's eyes rolled back in her head, her body writhing beneath him as she came. She had never felt so used, so utterly owned. And yet, she couldn't help but love it. The orgasm ripped through her, leaving her trembling and gasping for air.

He didn't stop, his strokes becoming more erratic, his breathing ragged. She could feel his cock swelling inside her, the promise of his release imminent. "Cum for me," he demanded, his voice a harsh growl. "I want to feel you milk my cock."

Her pussy clenched around him, her body responding to his words. The orgasm built again, a crescendo of pleasure that had her screaming. She could feel his hot breath on her neck, his teeth grazing her skin as he bit down, claiming her in the most primal way.

With a roar, he released inside her, filling her with his cum. She felt it spurt hot and thick, the sensation of his seed filling her making her orgasm all the more intense. Her body was a wreck, her pussy sore and her ass bruised, but she couldn't find it in herself to care.

As he pulled out, she collapsed onto the bed, her body limp and exhausted. He leaned over her, his hand coming to rest on her cheek. "You're mine," he whispered, his voice filled with possession. "And you will always come back for more."

Mina looked up at him, her eyes glazed with pleasure and pain. She knew it was true, that she would always come back for more of what he had to give her. Her life had changed irrevocably, and she was powerless to stop it. But as she lay there, the warmth of his cum inside her, she felt something she hadn't felt in a long time: alive.

The morning of the second day dawned, and Mina woke up with a start in the unfamiliar bed. Her body was sticky with sweat and cum, the scent of sex still lingering in the air. She tried to sit up, but her muscles protested, the evidence of the previous night's exertion clear. The sheets were tangled around her, a testament to the tumultuous night she had endured.

Her eyes searched the room, and she spotted a gleaming chain and a collar lying on the nightstand. The sight of them sent a shiver down her spine, her stomach flipping with a mix of dread and anticipation. Y/n had left them there as a reminder of their arrangement, a symbol of her servitude. She reached out, her hand trembling, and picked them up.

The chain was cold and heavy in her hand, the metal links glinting in the soft morning light. The collar was made of the same material, with a small, delicate lock at the back. It was beautiful in its own twisted way, a stark contrast to the stark reality of her situation. She knew what it meant: she was his, to use as he saw fit, until the end of their contract.

The door to the red room opened, and in strode Y/n, his eyes dark with lust as he took in the sight of her. He was dressed in a tailored suit, his tie askew and his hair disheveled. "Good morning, my pet," he purred, his voice sending a thrill through her. "I trust you slept well."

Mina could only nod, her voice failing her. She felt his hand on her neck, the collar cool against her skin as he fastened it around her. The lock clicked into place, the sound final and irrevocable. He attached the chain to the collar, the other end in his hand. "Today," he began, "we're going to explore some new boundaries."

He led her out of the red room, the chain jingling softly with each step she took. They moved through the mansion, her eyes downcast, her body sore from the previous night's exertions. The sun had barely risen, casting a soft glow over the opulent surroundings. He took her to the back of the house, and she knew what was coming next.

The door to the expansive lawn swung open, revealing a lush carpet of dew-kissed grass. The morning air was crisp, the scent of flowers and freshly cut grass filling her nose. Y/n attached the leash to her collar and gave a firm tug, guiding her down the steps. "Walk," he ordered, his voice low and firm.

Mina obeyed, her legs shaking as she descended into the role he had chosen for her. The cold metal of the leash was a constant reminder of her subservience, the coolness of the metal against her skin sending shivers down her spine. The dew on the grass was like a caress, a stark contrast to the harshness of her situation.

The leash was short, forcing her to move on all fours as he walked beside her, his grip unyielding. She could feel the leather of the collar cutting into her neck, a constant reminder of her new status. She was his pet, his toy, and she would act accordingly.

The world outside the mansion was quiet, the only sounds the distant chirp of birds and the rustle of leaves. The cool breeze kissed her skin, raising goosebumps despite the warmth of the early morning. Each step was a battle against her pride, her body moving in a way that was both humiliating and exhilarating.

He led her around the lawn, her breasts swaying with each step, the cool air teasing her erect nipples. The leather of the collar was already growing warm from her skin, the metal of the leash cold in her palm. She felt the tension in her body, the fear of being caught mingling with the excitement of their secret.

Without warning, Y/n stopped and bent down, his hand slipping between her legs. He inserted the vibrator into her pussy, the buzzing sound filling the silence. She gasped, the sudden intrusion both painful and exhilarating. He didn't stop there, his fingers probing until he found her ass, slipping the second vibrator inside her tight hole. She whimpered, the feeling overwhelming as he turned both devices to their highest setting.

"Walk," he commanded, tugging on the leash. She stumbled forward, the vibrations setting her nerves on fire. The sensation was intense, the vibrations from the toys sending waves of pleasure through her body as she stumbled along the grass. The coolness of the dew on her hands and knees was a stark contrast to the heat building inside her.

Her pussy and ass were stretched wide by the vibrating intrusion, each step sending new jolts of pleasure through her. She felt the grass tickling her bare skin, the sensation a strange mix of pain and arousal. The early morning dew soaked into her, making her feel even more exposed, even more like a wild creature being tamed by its master.

They continued their perverse journey across the lawn, the vibrations growing more intense with each passing moment. Mina's eyes were wide with shock and arousal, her breaths coming in short, sharp gasps. She could feel her body growing wetter, her juices mixing with the coolness of the dew.

As they approached the edge of the lawn, Y/n paused again, his eyes scanning the surrounding woods. The early light painted the trees in shades of gold, the leaves whispering secrets in the breeze. He leaned in close, his breath hot in her ear. "You're going to cum for me, my pet," he whispered. "And when you do, I want you to scream my name."

The anticipation was unbearable, the vibrations reaching a crescendo as she felt her orgasm building. Her body tensed, her muscles tightening around the toys as she struggled not to scream. But she knew she couldn't hold out much longer, the pleasure too much to contain. And when it came, it was like a dam bursting, her body shuddering with the force of it.

The scream ripped from her throat, echoing through the quiet morning. She could feel the eyes of the forest upon her, watching her degradation. But she didn't care. In that moment, she was free, a creature of pure need and desire. And as she collapsed to the ground, panting and trembling, she knew she would always come back for more of what he had to give.

Y/n's hand tightened on the leash, his grip firm as he pulled her back to her feet. "Who is your master, Mina?" he repeated, his voice a dark thunder in the stillness.

Her eyes locked onto his, the intensity of his gaze like a brand on her soul. "You are," she murmured, the words a declaration of her submission. The words were like a drug, a heady mix of fear and excitement that left her breathless.

They continued their perverse walk, the vibrations never relenting, her body a playground for his desires. The leather of the collar grew warm and sticky with her sweat, the chain a constant reminder of her captivity. Each step sent a new wave of pleasure through her, the vibrations from the toys in her pussy and ass creating a symphony of sensation that was impossible to ignore.

Mina's body was a battleground, her mind screaming for relief while her body craved more. Her pussy was a river of juices, soaking the leather of the collar, trailing down her stomach to pool on the grass beneath her. The sun had fully risen now, casting a golden light over the scene, turning their walk of shame into a macabre dance of submission.

The heat of the afternoon sun bore down on them, turning the dew to steam. Her body was a wreck, her muscles screaming with fatigue. Yet, she continued to follow him, driven by a force she didn't fully understand. The vibrations grew more intense with each step, the buzzing a constant reminder of her predicament. Her orgasms had become a blur, her cries of pleasure now mingling with whimpers of pain.

Y/n's eyes gleamed with satisfaction, his grip on the leash unwavering. He led her to a small gazebo in the center of the garden, the ivy-covered structure offering a semblance of privacy. He paused, the leather of the leash taut between them. "You've done well, my pet," he said, his voice a purr of approval. "Now, let's see how much more you can take."

With a flick of his wrist, he attached the leash to a hook on the side of the gazebo. She was forced to stand, the vibrations from the toys inside her unrelenting. Her legs were shaking, her body trembling with the effort to remain upright. "Spread your legs," he ordered, his voice a low growl that sent a fresh surge of arousal through her.

Mina obeyed, her muscles protesting as she spread her legs. The vibrations grew more intense, the sensation like a thousand tiny hands caressing her swollen flesh. She could feel the eyes of the forest upon her, watching her most intimate moments. But she didn't care. The only thing that mattered was the pleasure that Y/n brought her, the painful bliss that she had grown to crave.

He stepped back, his hand moving to his belt. With a slow, deliberate motion, he unbuckled it, the sound echoing through the gazebo. "You're going to scream my name again," he promised, his voice dark and seductive. "And this time, I want the whole world to hear it."

The leather strap came down hard across her ass, the pain making her gasp. The vibrations from the toys grew more intense, the sting of the belt sending fresh waves of pleasure through her. Her orgasm was building again, the tension coiling in her belly like a snake ready to strike.

He stepped closer, his eyes never leaving hers. His hand caressed her cheek, the leather of the belt a stark contrast to the tenderness of his touch. "You're going to love this," he murmured, the promise in his voice making her stomach flip.

He began to smack her body in a rhythm, the leather biting into her flesh with each strike. Her breasts bounced with each hit, the pain mixing with the pleasure from the vibrators. She could feel her body responding, her pussy growing wetter, her ass clenching around the toy inside her. The sound of leather on skin echoed through the gazebo, a testament to their twisted games.

Mina's cries grew louder, each smack pushing her closer to the edge. Her eyes rolled back in her head, her body a tapestry of pain and pleasure. She was his, utterly and completely, and she reveled in the feeling of submission.

The leather met her skin again and again, each smack more punishing than the last. Her body was on fire, the pain a crescendo that built and built. And then, just as she thought she couldn't take any more, it stopped. The vibrations ceased, the world going silent.

Y/n stepped closer, his eyes boring into hers. "You're mine," he whispered, his breath hot and demanding. "And you will always be mine." The finality of his words sent a shiver down her spine, a mix of fear and excitement.

He unclipped the leash, his grip on the collar tight as he pulled her closer. "Now," he said, a cruel smile playing on his lips, "it's time to show the world who you truly are." He reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone, the screen glowing with the promise of a new audience for her degradation.

Mina's heart raced, her mind reeling with the implications of his words. What was he going to do? What would happen when the world saw her like this? The fear grew in her chest, a dark cloud threatening to swallow her whole.

He held the phone up, the camera focused on her tear-stained face. "Say it," he demanded. "Say you're my whore." Her voice was a broken whisper, the words sticking in her throat like shards of glass.

"I'm your whore," she choked out, the admission like a knife to her soul. He clicked a photo, the flash momentarily blinding her. The evidence of her degradation would now be etched into digital immortality, a secret that could be shared with the world at his whim.

The fear grew, a thick, choking presence in her chest. What would Alex think? What would their friends and family say? But even as the dread consumed her, she couldn't deny the thrill that shot through her at the thought of being exposed.

Y/n's hand traveled down her body, his fingers finding her clit, the sensation making her gasp. "Good girl," he murmured, his eyes never leaving hers. "Now, let's make some more content for your adoring fans." He turned the camera to record, the red light blinking ominously.

Mina felt the panic rise, her body trembling with the weight of her decision. But the fear was laced with excitement, a toxic cocktail that had her panting and begging for more. He began to flick her clit with the precision of a master craftsman, her body responding despite her inner turmoil.

Her cries grew louder as he worked her, his other hand reaching down to remove the toys from her pussy and ass. He tossed them aside, his cock already hard and waiting for her. "Take it," he ordered, pushing her down onto her knees. She opened her mouth, her tongue flicking out to taste him.

The saltiness of his cock filled her mouth, the taste of their previous encounter still lingering. She took him deep, her throat constricting around his length. The camera rolled, capturing every moment of her degradation, every tear that fell from her eyes.

The vibrations started again, the toys in her hand now a part of the show. She brought them to her own pussy, her body responding with a desperate need for release. The sound of her moans and the slapping of his hand against her ass filled the gazebo, a symphony of submission for his enjoyment.

As he fucked her mouth, she worked the toys inside herself, her body a playground for his desires. She could feel her orgasm building, a tidal wave of pleasure that she knew would consume her. And when it did, she screamed, the sound a mix of ecstasy and despair.

Y/n pulled out of her mouth, his cock glistening with her saliva. He grabbed the phone, filming himself as he painted her face with his cum, the hot liquid a brand of ownership. She closed her eyes, her body shuddering with the aftershocks of her climax.

"Now, let's go," he said, his voice a cold command. He tugged at the leash, pulling her to her feet. Her legs were shaky, her knees threatening to give out beneath her. The vibrating toys were still lodged deep inside her, the painful pleasure a constant reminder of her submission.

They began the long walk back to the mansion, her body trembling with each step. The leather of the collar and the metal of the leash were slick with her sweat and his cum, a testament to their depraved play. Each step sent a fresh wave of pain through her, her ass and pussy still throbbing from the belt and his relentless fucking.

"Can you take out the vibrator, Master?" she begged, her voice a ragged whisper. The pain had become unbearable, the pleasure a distant memory. Her body was a canvas of bruises and marks, a map of his dominance.

He chuckled darkly, his hand coming down hard on her ass. "How dare you ask for mercy?" he taunted. She whimpered, the sting of his hand making her eyes water. The vibrations grew more intense, the toys inside her a constant torment.

"Please," she sobbed, her body slick with sweat and cum. The leather of the collar was biting into her neck, the metal of the leash digging into her wrists. But he ignored her pleas, his eyes gleaming with sadistic pleasure as he watched her suffer.

The mansion loomed ahead, a stark contrast to the serene beauty of the garden. Each step brought her closer to the reality of what she had become. A whore. His whore. The thought sent a fresh wave of arousal through her, despite the pain.

As they approached the mansion, she could feel the vibrations growing stronger, the toys inside her a relentless tease. Her legs felt like they would buckle at any moment, her body a wreck of pleasure and pain. She knew what was waiting for her inside the red room, knew that her punishment was far from over.

Yet, she walked on, driven by a force beyond her control. The leather of the collar was a noose around her neck, the leash a chain that bound her to him. She was his, and she knew that she would always come back for more of his twisted games.

The mansion's doors swung open, the coolness of the air-conditioned interior a stark contrast to the heat outside. She stumbled through the entrance, her eyes downcast. The sound of the doors closing behind them was like the final nail in her coffin, sealing her fate.

He led her back to the red room, his grip on the leash unyielding. "On the bed," he ordered, his voice a harsh whisper.

Mina stumbled onto the bed, her body a trembling mess of need and pain. She went down on all fours, her eyes searching for his approval. "Please," she begged, her voice a desperate whine. "Give me your dick, my master." The words tasted like sin on her lips, but she couldn't get enough.

He stepped closer, his cock hard and demanding. "Give to me that big fucking black cock," she pleaded, her voice thick with desire. She could feel the toys inside her, the vibrations now a taunting reminder of what she had lost. Her dignity, her self-respect, all of it replaced by an insatiable hunger for his touch.

Y/n's eyes flashed with amusement as he climbed onto the bed, his knees on either side of her. He grabbed her hips, his grip bruising. "You want it, don't you?" he asked, his voice low and seductive. "You want me to pound you like the whore you are."

Mina nodded, her voice a desperate whimper. "Yes, master. Please pound me hard." She knew what was coming, knew that she would beg for mercy and he would give her none. But in that moment, she didn't care. All she cared about was feeling him inside her again, feeling that all-consuming pleasure that only he could give.

He positioned himself at her entrance, his cock slick with her juices and his own lust. "Beg for it," he said, his voice a dark command. "Beg me to fuck you."

Her eyes met his, filled with a mix of fear and arousal. "Please," she sobbed. "I need you to fuck me. I need to feel you inside me." Her words were a confession, a declaration of her complete and utter surrender to his will.

Y/n smirked, the cruel glint in his eyes telling her he knew exactly what she was feeling. He pulled the vibrator out of her pussy, the sudden emptiness leaving her feeling exposed and vulnerable. But he left the one in her ass, the constant buzz a reminder of her submission. He positioned himself at her entrance, his cock thick and throbbing.

With one swift movement, he plunged into her, the sensation making her scream. The vibrator in her ass continued to buzz, the sensation now amplified by the feeling of his cock filling her completely. Her body was a symphony of pleasure and pain, a fine line that she danced upon with each of his punishing strokes.

Mina felt his hands grip her hips, his fingers digging into her flesh as he began to pound her. Each thrust sent shockwaves of sensation through her body, the vibrations from the toy in her ass resonating with the impact of his cock. She could feel her orgasm building again, the tension coiling in her stomach like a serpent.

Her screams grew louder, her body moving with his rhythm, desperate for the release he had conditioned her to crave. He was her master, her god, the source of her pleasure and her pain. She was his to use, his to abuse, and she loved every second of it.

The room was filled with the sound of flesh meeting flesh, the smell of sex heavy in the air. She could feel her pussy clenching around him, her body desperate for the release he had promised. "Please," she begged, her voice hoarse from screaming. "Let me cum, master."

He leaned over her, his breath hot on her neck. "You want it?" he asked, his voice a dark whisper. "You want to cum for me?" His grip tightened, his strokes growing more erratic. She nodded, her eyes squeezed shut, the world narrowing to the feeling of his cock inside her.

"Then cum," he ordered, his voice a low growl. And with that, she did. Her body convulsed, her pussy spasming around his length. She felt him swell, his cock pulsing with his own climax, and she knew that she had served her purpose once again.

As he pulled out, she collapsed onto the bed, her body spent. The vibrator in her ass was still going, the sensation now one of pain rather than pleasure. But she didn't dare ask for it to be removed. She knew her place now, knew that she was nothing but his whore to use and discard.

The chain of the collar jingled as he pulled her upright, the leather sticking to her sweat-slicked skin. "Good girl," he murmured, his voice filled with satisfaction.

Mina couldn't speak, couldn't even think. Her body was a maelstrom of sensation, the vibrations from the toys a constant reminder of her submission. She watched through hooded eyes as he strolled over to the wall of BDSM toys, his eyes scanning the selection with the intensity of a hunter choosing its prey.

He selected a set of nipple clamps, the metal gleaming in the soft light of the room. She whimpered as he approached, the anticipation of pain making her pussy throb with need. He attached them to her swollen peaks, tightening them until she gasped. "Look at me," he ordered, his voice a low growl. She raised her gaze to meet his, her eyes filled with a mix of fear and desire.

The second night in the red room began with a fierce intensity that surpassed the first. He was an animal, his eyes wild with lust as he stared at her. She felt his hand come down on her ass, the sound of flesh on flesh echoing through the room. Each spank sent a jolt of pain through her body, the vibrator inside her a constant presence.

Her skin was on fire, each smack making her pussy wetter. She could feel his cock, thick and demanding, pressing against her thigh as he worked her over. The pain grew, the pleasure grew, until she could no longer tell where one began and the other ended.

With a snarl, he grabbed her by the hair, pulling her onto her knees. "You want this?" he asked, his cock bobbing in front of her face. She nodded, her eyes never leaving his, and took him into her mouth, the taste of her own juices mixed with the saltiness of his pre-cum.

The vibrations grew stronger, the toy in her ass a constant torment. She moaned around his length, her eyes watering with the effort. His hand tangled in her hair, holding her in place as he began to fuck her mouth with the same ferocity he had her pussy.

The room was a blur, the only thing she could focus on was the feeling of his cock in her mouth, the sound of his grunts of pleasure. The vibrations grew more intense, the pain and pleasure swirling together until she could no longer tell them apart.

He pulled her head back, his cock popping out of her mouth with a wet sound. "You're mine," he said, his voice a dark whisper. "Say it."

Mina could barely breathe, but she managed to gasp out, "I'm yours, Master." The words were a declaration, a promise that she would submit to his every whim, no matter how twisted or depraved.

He leaned in, his breath hot on her ear. "Prove it," he whispered. "Prove to me that you're mine." His hand left her hair, instead reaching for the vibrator still buried in her ass. He cranked it up to the maximum setting, the buzzing so loud it was almost deafening.

Her body convulsed, her eyes rolling back in her head. The pain was exquisite, the pleasure unbearable. Her pussy was a river, the scent of her arousal filling the room. He took his cock in hand, stroking it as he watched her squirm.

"Look at me," he demanded again, his voice a harsh command. She forced her eyes open, meeting his gaze as he stroked himself. The vibrations grew stronger, the pain in her ass now a crescendo of agony.

And then, with a roar, he came, painting her face with his cum. She could feel the hot liquid on her cheeks, her eyes, her nose. The taste of him filled her mouth, mixing with the metallic taste of her own blood. But she didn't flinch, didn't look away. She was his, completely and utterly.

The vibrations stopped, the silence deafening in their intensity. He pulled the toy out of her ass, the sudden absence of pain making her gasp. He threw it aside, his eyes never leaving hers. "Now," he said, his voice calm once more, "we begin."

He unclipped the leash, the metal clanking against the floor. "Clean yourself up," he ordered. She stumbled to the bathroom, her legs shaky from the abuse. The mirror showed a reflection she barely recognized: a woman covered in cum and bruises, a woman who had given herself completely to a monster.

But as she cleaned herself, the pain slowly ebbing away, she felt a strange sense of pride. She had survived the first two days, and she would survive the last one. For Alex, for their future, she would endure whatever Y/n had planned.

The sun had set by the time she emerged from the bathroom, the room cast in shadows that danced with the candles' flickering light. She knew the third and final night would be the most intense, a crescendo to the symphony of submission she had been playing.

Mina lay on the bed, her body a canvas of bruises and marks, each one a testament to her submission. She closed her eyes, willing herself to rest, to regain the strength she would need for the night ahead. Despite the pain, she slept deeply, her dreams filled with images of Y/n's dominance, her mind reeling from the tumult of emotions that plagued her.

When she awoke, it was to the sound of the door opening, the scent of his cologne filling the room. She sat up, her eyes heavy with fatigue, her body aching for his touch. The red glow of the room washed over her, the candles casting an eerie light that painted the room in a bloody hue.

Y/n walked in, his eyes gleaming with excitement. He was dressed in a tailored suit, his skin gleaming with a sheen of sweat from his day's exertions. She watched as he removed his tie, his movements slow and deliberate, his eyes never leaving hers.

"You've been asleep for quite some time," he said, his voice a low purr that sent shivers down her spine. "I've missed my little whore." He strode over to the bed, his hand reaching out to trace the bruises on her thigh. She flinched at his touch, the pain a stark reminder of her place in his world.

"Please, master," she whispered, her voice a hoarse plea. "I need you." The words were a confession, a declaration of her need for his dominance.

He smirked, his hand sliding up to cup her pussy. She was already wet, her body betraying her. "You're eager, aren't you?" he asked, his voice a dark whisper. "Eager for more of my cock."

Mina nodded, her eyes never leaving his. She was his, completely and utterly. The last shreds of her pride had been stripped away, leaving only a desperate craving for the pleasure he could give her.

He leaned in, his mouth claiming hers in a brutal kiss that left her breathless. His tongue invaded her, tasting her, claiming her. She moaned into his mouth, her body responding to his touch despite the exhaustion.

When he pulled away, she was left gasping for air. "Tonight," he murmured against her lips, "you will truly understand what it means to be mine."

Y/n's eyes were wild with a feral hunger that sent a shiver down her spine. He grabbed the chain attached to her collar, pulling her off the bed. She stumbled after him, her legs still weak from the previous nights of abuse. He led her to the center of the room, the floor cold and unforgiving beneath her bare feet.

"On your knees," he ordered, his voice a low growl. Mina obeyed, her knees hitting the floor with a painful thud. She watched as he approached, his cock thick and erect, the head glistening with precum. The anticipation was unbearable, her body already quivering with need.

He grabbed the two vibrators from the bedside table, his eyes never leaving hers. "You've been a very bad girl," he said, his voice a dark promise. "You need to be punished."

Mina felt the coolness of the first vibrator as he pushed it into her ass, the sensation making her whimper. He didn't stop there, instead pushing the second one in alongside it, stretching her beyond what she thought was possible. The pain was a living entity, consuming her, becoming her. She felt her pussy clench in response, her body betraying her with its need.

With a cruel smile, he turned the vibrators on, the buzzing a harsh intrusion in the quiet room. Her scream filled the air, echoing off the walls. The sensation was overwhelming, the pain and pleasure a tornado that she couldn't escape. She felt him behind her, his hands on her hips, his cock pressing against her slick entrance.

He didn't bother with preliminaries, instead slamming into her with a brutal force that made her eyes water. She could feel the vibrators moving inside her, the sensation a symphony of agony and ecstasy. Her screams grew louder with each thrust, the vibrations setting her nerves on fire.

The world outside the red room ceased to exist, the only reality the feel of him fucking her, the buzz of the vibrators in her ass, the pain of his grip on her hips. She was lost in the maelstrom of sensation, her mind a blank canvas of submission.

He fucked her like he owned her, and she knew he did. Each thrust was a claim, a declaration of his dominance. She could feel her orgasm building, a pressure that grew with each plunge of his cock. "Scream for me," he demanded, his voice a thunder in her ears.

And scream she did, the sound tearing from her throat like a wild animal. Her body convulsed around him, her pussy spasming with the force of her climax. Yet, he didn't stop, didn't give her a moment's reprieve. He continued to pound into her, the vibrations from the toys driving her over the edge again and again.

Her cries grew more desperate, her body a wreck of pleasure. She didn't know if she could take anymore, didn't know if she wanted to. Yet, she begged for more, her voice a broken plea. He was her master, and she would endure whatever he had planned for her, for Alex, for their future.

Y/n's hand kept slapping her ass, each smack a brand that marked her as his. The vibrations from the toys were relentless, the pain morphing into something else entirely. Something that made her body quiver and arch back towards him, eager for more. Her orgasms were like a series of explosions, each one more intense than the last.

His grip on her hips tightened, his strokes growing more frenzied. She could feel him getting closer, his breath hot and ragged against her neck. "MINE," he roared, his voice a declaration of ownership that sent a fresh wave of arousal through her. Her pussy clenched around his cock, her body betraying her with its need for his release.

Y/n pulled out, the sound of her body's protest a symphony in the quiet room. He spun her around, her legs giving out beneath her. He caught her, his arms like steel bands around her waist. She looked up at him, her eyes glazed with lust, her mouth open in a silent plea.

He didn't speak, his actions speaking louder than any words could. He lifted her up, her legs wrapping around his waist. His cock slammed into her pussy again, the angle hitting her g-spot with a precision that had her seeing stars. The vibrations in her ass grew stronger, the pain a beautiful agony that had her panting.

Mina's head fell back, her mouth open in a silent scream. Her body was his plaything, a toy for his pleasure. He fucked her mercilessly, his thrusts punctuated by the smack of his hand against her ass. Each hit sent her spiraling closer to the edge, the pain and pleasure coalescing into something dark and beautiful.

And then, with one final, brutal thrust, he came. The vibrations grew even stronger, the sensation too much to bear. She felt the warmth of his cum fill her ass, the pressure unbearable. She clenched around the toys, her orgasm ripping through her like a tornado.

Her vision swam, the room spinning. She could feel herself slipping away, the edges of consciousness a distant memory. But even as the darkness claimed her, she felt his hand on her throat, his grip firm but not painful. "Look at me," he ordered, his voice a low growl.

Her eyes snapped open, meeting his gaze. He leaned in, his cock still hard, his eyes burning with a fierce hunger. "You're mine," he whispered, his voice a dark promise. "Always and forever." And with that, he thrust into her mouth, his cum spilling down her throat in hot, salty spurts. She gagged, her throat tight around his length, but she didn't fight him.

As he pulled out, she felt her body give out. Her legs went limp, her arms sliding down his body. The world went black, the only sound the ringing in her ears. The last thing she felt was his hand on her face, his thumb stroking her cheek with a tenderness that was at odds with the brutality of their encounter.

And then there was nothing.

Mina's world went dark, her body a crumpled mess in the arms of the man who had just claimed her so thoroughly. She felt weightless, floating in a sea of pleasure and pain.

Y/n carefully laid her on the bench in the center of the red room, her legs still quivering from the intensity of her orgasm. Her mouth hung open, cum and saliva pooling on her chin, a testament to her complete submission. Her pussy was still wide, stretched from his brutal use, a slick mess of arousal and his seed. Her body was a canvas of red, the imprints of his handiwork a stark contrast against her pale skin.

While she remained unconscious, Y/n moved with a purposeful grace, his eyes never leaving Mina's limp form. He selected a length of rope from the wall of toys, his calloused fingers running along the coarse fibers. The scent of leather and sweat filled the air as he approached, a silent promise of what was to come.

He began by securing her wrists to the chair, his movements methodical and precise. Each loop of rope was tightened with a firm tug, ensuring she would be unable to move. Her arms were stretched taut, her breasts heaving with each shallow breath she took. Despite the pain that would surely follow, there was a strange beauty in her vulnerability, her submission laid bare for his enjoyment.

Y/n picked up a marker, the black ink gleaming under the candlelight. He bent over her, the tip of the marker tracing the word "slut" in an elegant script across her chest. She flinched at the cold touch of the plastic, the harsh reality of her situation sinking in deeper. With each stroke, he claimed her, branding her as his own. He moved lower, writing "Whore" across her stomach in bold letters. The words stung, but the pain was a strange kind of pleasure, a reminder of her place in this twisted game of power and control.

Next, he marked her thighs, scribbling "Y/n pet" and "BBC slut" with a sadistic smile. Each word was a brand, a declaration of ownership that sent a shiver down her spine. He took his time, savoring the moment, his eyes lingering on the words as if they were a sacred incantation that bound her to him for all eternity.

Mina's eyes fluttered open, the pain from the rope burns bringing her back to reality. Y/n's eyes gleamed with excitement as he took in her wide-eyed terror. "Good," he murmured, his voice a dark caress. "You're awake for the grand finale."

He stepped away, his eyes scanning the room before landing on a duffle bag in the corner. He pulled out two vibrators, the size of them making Mina's heart race. They were longer, thicker, and more intimidating than anything she had ever seen. "Time to see if you can handle two," he said, his voice filled with a twisted sense of amusement.

Mina felt the coolness of the first vibrator as he pushed it into her already sore pussy. She bit her lip to stifle a scream, her eyes watering with the pain of the intrusion. He didn't stop, instead pushing the second one in alongside it. The feeling was overwhelming, a stretch that made her feel like she was being split in two.

Y/n's fingers danced over the buttons, the vibrations starting slow, almost gentle. She panted, her body trying to adjust to the new sensation. But he wasn't satisfied with gentle, not tonight. The vibrations grew stronger, the two toys moving in unison, a symphony of pain and pleasure that had her writhing in the chair.

Her mind was a whirlwind, unable to focus on anything but the relentless buzzing inside her. Time lost all meaning, the only constant the steady beat of the vibrators and the pain that grew with each passing moment. She was his, utterly and completely, and she knew it. The pain was a reminder, a brand that seared itself into her very soul.

As dawn approached, the red room grew lighter, the candles flickering out one by one. Y/n watched her, his expression unreadable. He didn't speak, didn't move. He was a silent sentinel, a god of lust and punishment, watching her dance on the edge of sanity.

When the sun fully rose, he finally approached her. His hands were firm as he turned off the vibrators, the sudden absence of noise and sensation leaving her feeling empty. He pulled them out with a slow, deliberate movement that had her gasping for breath. She felt the warmth of his cum inside her, a final reminder of her submission.

"Let's go," he said, his voice a harsh command that brought her back to reality. He fastened a leather collar around her neck, the metal tag jingling against the collarbone chain. She could feel the weight of his ownership, a constant reminder of her role in this twisted arrangement.

Mina's body was a wreck, her muscles screaming for relief. Yet, she managed to stand, her legs shaking with the effort. Y/n's hand was a vise around her arm, keeping her upright as he led her from the room. The cold morning air hit her skin like a slap, her bruises and welts standing out in stark relief.

He didn't speak as they walked through the mansion, his grip on her unyielding. She felt like a ragdoll in his grasp, used and discarded. But there was something else there too, a strange sense of pride that she had survived the final night.

As they reached the front door, she saw her reflection in the mirror. The woman staring back at her was a stranger, a creature of need and desire, of pain and pleasure. But she knew it was her, the woman she had become.

Y/n opened the door, the bright light of the outside world blinding her. "Let me take you to your husband," he said, his voice a dark promise. She had no idea what awaited her at home, but she knew she would face it with the knowledge of what she had become for their future.

The drive to her house was a blur, the only sounds the hum of the engine and the steady throb of the collar around her neck. She couldn't bring herself to look at him, too ashamed of what she had done. But she knew she had no choice, not if she wanted to save Alex's business.

When they pulled into the driveway, the sight of her husband standing at the door was like a punch to the gut. He was dressed in his usual business casual attire, looking every inch the successful entrepreneur. But the moment he saw her, his eyes widened in horror. "What happened to you, Mina?" he choked out, his voice barely above a whisper.

Y/n's grip on her arm tightened, his chuckle low and menacing. He stepped out of the car, pulling her along behind him. "Let me show you," he said, his eyes gleaming with a twisted pride. He pushed her towards Alex, her legs stumbling under the weight of her own humiliation.

Alex's face paled as he took in her bruised and marked body. The cum that still clung to her skin, the vibrator that poked out from her swollen pussy, the leather collar that branded her a whore. He couldn't believe what he was seeing, the reality of her degradation too much to bear. "What have you done?" he sobbed, tears streaming down his cheeks.

Y/n leaned in close, his breath hot in her ear. "This is what I've made of her," he whispered, his voice a dark caress. "Your little whore, my little plaything." His hand trailed down her side, his fingers tracing the words he had etched onto her skin. "See how she's marked, Alex. She's mine now, in every way that counts."

Alex stared at her, his eyes filled with a mix of horror and anger. "Why?" he demanded, his voice shaking with emotion. "Why did you do this?"

Mina looked at her husband, the love of her life, and felt a fresh wave of guilt. "For us," she whispered, her voice barely audible. "For our future."

Y/n laughed, a cruel, mocking sound that echoed through the quiet suburban street. "Don't be so dramatic," he said, his hand coming up to cup her cheek. "It's just a bit of fun, isn't it, Mina?"

Alex's hand clenched into a fist, but he didn't move. He couldn't tear his gaze from the woman he once knew, the woman who now bore the marks of her submission to this monster. "Is that what you want?" he asked, his voice a hoarse whisper.

Mina's eyes searched his, desperation in her gaze. "It's what we need," she replied, her voice firm despite the tremble in her chest.

Y/n's grip tightened, a silent warning. "Look at her, Alex," he said, his voice a purr. "Look at how she craves this. How she loves being my whore."

Alex's eyes fell to her body, to the words etched in black ink, the evidence of her submission. He felt his stomach churn, bile rising in his throat. "I can't," he murmured, his voice breaking. "I can't do this."

But Mina's gaze was unwavering. "You have to," she said, her voice steady. "For us."

The finality in her tone was like a slap. Alex knew he had no choice but to accept this new reality, to accept what she had become. And as Y/n led her into the house, his hand a brand on her arm, Alex followed, his heart heavy with despair.

The scene inside was one of quiet tension, the air thick with unspoken words and raw emotions. Mina's body was a canvas of Y/n's ownership, the words etched into her skin a stark reminder of her fate. Alex could only watch, tears streaming down his face, as Y/n proudly displayed her, his laughter a chilling soundtrack to their shattered marriage.

Y/n pulled out his phone, the screen lighting up the room. "Let's get a picture," he said, his voice full of amusement. "For the memories." He snapped a photo of Mina, the collar around her neck, the words "slut" and "Whore" clearly visible. Alex felt his world crumble around him, the reality of what she had become too much to bear.

Mina's eyes never left her husband's, her gaze filled with a mix of apology and defiance. She knew what this was doing to him, but she also knew that it was for their future. The pain of her submission was a price she was willing to pay.

As Y/n's laughter echoed through the house, Alex's mind raced. He had to find a way to save Mina, to save their marriage. But as he looked at her, the marks of her degradation stark against her skin, he wondered if it was already too late.

The tension grew palpable as Y/n's hand slid down Mina's body, his fingers lingering on her bruised skin. Alex's fists clenched, his anger boiling over. "Get out," he growled, his voice filled with a rage he had never felt before. "Get out of my house, and never come back."

Y/n's smile didn't falter. "As you wish," he said, his tone mocking. "But remember, she's still mine." He leaned in, his breath hot against Mina's ear. "And she always will be." With that, he disappeared into the night, leaving Alex to deal with the wreckage of their lives.

Mina looked at her husband, her heart breaking. "I'm sorry," she whispered, her voice shaking. "I'm so sorry."

Alex didn't respond, his eyes unable to meet hers. He couldn't process what he was feeling, the betrayal too deep to voice.

The silence was deafening as they stood there, the house a prison of pain and regret. They both knew their lives would never be the same again. The bond they had once shared had been irrevocably changed by the red room and the monster that owned her body.

And yet, as she saw the tears in her husband's eyes, Mina felt a flicker of hope. Maybe, just maybe, there was a way back from this darkness. Maybe they could find a way to heal, to forgive, to move forward together.

But for now, she could only stand there, naked and trembling, her body a map of her submission, and wait for his next move. The future was uncertain, but she knew she had made her choice.

For better or worse, she was Y/n's whore, and she would do whatever it took to keep the man she loved.

#mina smut #twice smut #klook #kpop smut #male reader #girl group smut #gg smut

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colouredbyd · 2 months ago

Text

Sweater Weather

Regulus Black x fem!reader

synopsis: Regulus, notoriously bad at expressing love, spends an entire fall knitting you the world’s ugliest sweater, yet you wear it anyway

warnings: fluff, insecurities, ugly sweaters, regulus being a love sick softie, and even more fluff

w/c: 4.7k

a/n: i love soft reg <3 (not proofread)

masterlist

There is a softness to winter mornings at Hogwarts that you adore, a kind of stillness that feels almost sacred. Frost clings delicately to the windows, tracing lacework patterns across the glass, fragile and intricate, as if the castle itself is caught in the delicate grasp of some ancient enchantment.

Breath mists in the chill of the corridors, curling like pale wisps of smoke, mingling with the warmth of whispered secrets and stolen laughter that flutters from the lips of students bundled in scarves and heavy cloaks.

You love it—the quiet magic of it all—the way the world seems to slow and hush beneath the weight of fresh snow, footsteps muffled and echoes softened, as though the very air is holding its breath. And you love how that magic seems to linger on your skin, settling there like snowflakes that refuse to melt, shimmering faintly in the early morning light, a fragile reminder that even in the coldest months, there is beauty.

Regulus hates it. You know this because he tells you, every single morning, his voice low and sharp-edged, threaded with the kind of irritation that never seems to thaw.

There is always something to complain about—the cold that seeps through stone walls and nips at his fingers, the brightness of sunlight reflecting off snowbanks like shards of glass, the way the castle seems to creak and groan with the weight of frost.

He mutters his grievances beneath his breath, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his robes, shoulders hunched against the chill as if the very air is an inconvenience meant solely to test his patience. His scowl is etched into those fine, aristocratic features, sharp and unyielding, like it was carved there long ago and never quite managed to fade.

And yet, despite his endless grumbling, he still meets you by the stairwell every morning, just as he always has, waiting with the sort of resigned sigh that makes you laugh when you catch it.

His presence is constant, unspoken, as if written into the rhythm of your days—the shadow that lingers just a step behind you, the steady heartbeat of winter mornings that would feel incomplete without him.

When you bound up to him, cheeks flushed from the cold, hair tousled by the wind, you greet him with a smile that is impossibly bright for such an early hour, eyes shimmering with the warmth he pretends not to crave.

And though he greets you with a grimace, lips pulled into something almost petulant, you have seen the way it softens when you are not looking. It is fleeting, barely there, the ghost of something gentle that flickers at the edges of his expression before he smothers it with a practiced indifference. But you catch it sometimes, that brief surrender to warmth, and it is enough to make you believe that maybe winter is not so harsh after all.

You met him through the Marauders. They were your closest friends, the ones who tugged you into their mischief and laughed with you until your sides hurt, but Regulus had been the curious exception.

Sirius had never been quite able to understand it, always watching the two of you with narrowed eyes, as if trying to solve a riddle that kept slipping out of his grasp. Remus would only chuckle and shake his head, while James insisted it was just “some sort of cosmic prank.”

But you knew better. You always had.

There was something that tethered you to Regulus Black, something unspoken but deeply rooted, woven through your days like threads of silver light. It lingered in the quiet spaces between conversations, in the gentle pauses where words were unnecessary, where silence became a language only the two of you could understand.

It was not grand or ostentatious; there were no sweeping gestures or declarations shouted into the wind. Instead, it was soft and unhurried, a kind of devotion that thrived in the delicate moments—those fragile, fleeting seconds where time seemed to hold its breath.

It was in the way his hand would linger just a heartbeat too long when he passed you a book, fingertips brushing against yours with a softness that felt almost accidental, yet always intentional.

It was the way he would walk on the outside of the pavement whenever you wandered through the cobblestone streets of Hogsmeade, his gaze sharp and watchful, his hand hovering near your back when the crowd grew too thick, like he was ready to pull you closer at the first sign of trouble. He never spoke of it, never gave name to the way his touch felt like a promise, but you felt it all the same—steady and unyielding, like the pull of the moon on the tide.

There was no need to pin it down with words, to shatter the fragile magic of it by making it solid. It existed in the spaces between breaths, in the glances that lingered just a moment too long, in the way his fingers would brush the back of your hand when he thought no one was looking.

It was there, unbreakable and steady, carved into the marrow of your days together, silent and certain as the turning of the seasons.

Regulus Black was a storm cloud personified—dark and swirling and distant—but you had always liked the rain. He once told you, during a particularly bitter October, that he adored your cheerfulness. You had only laughed, nudging his shoulder and remarking that his grumpiness was practically medicinal for you, like a tonic that kept your head from floating too far into the clouds.

He had not smiled, but his eyes had softened, just a bit, just enough for you to see it. It was the closest thing to affection you would get from him, and you had treasured it like a secret.

And perhaps that was why, despite the way he huffed and scowled and complained, he always waited for you by the stairwell every morning.

He would be there, hands stuffed into his robe pockets, expression fixed into that familiar look of begrudging patience, but he was there—always. And perhaps that was why you always came running, cheeks flushed and eyes bright, breath puffing out in soft clouds of frost as you bounded up to him as if it were the most ordinary thing in the world.

He would roll his eyes at your cheeriness, mutter something about "too much energy for this hour," but you had seen the way his shoulders relaxed the moment you came into view, the way his gaze would soften ever so slightly, almost imperceptibly, like the first thaw of spring.

And maybe that was why, even when the corridors were crowded and the air too frigid to feel your fingertips, the world seemed a little bit softer with him there, even if he would never admit it. You felt it in the way he would shift his books to his left arm just so his right could hover protectively at your side, guiding you through clusters of students without a word. You felt it in the way his gaze would flicker to your hands sometimes, brow furrowing if you forgot your gloves, and how, without fail, the next morning a pair would be waiting for you, no note, no explanation, just the softness of wool threaded with silent concern. He would brush off your thanks with a scoff, cheeks a touch pinker than usual, but the warmth lingered all the same.

But as the weather grew colder, so too did Regulus begin to act a little strange.

It was subtle at first—a missed breakfast here, a hurried excuse there, nothing glaringly obvious but enough to leave you tilting your head in quiet confusion.

His presence, once so steady and familiar, began to slip away like fog burning off with the morning sun. You would catch glimpses of him in the corridors, his gaze flickering away too quickly when you tried to meet it, his hands buried a little deeper into his pockets as if holding onto something secret.

He would disappear for hours, sometimes entire evenings, and when you asked him where he had been, his responses were clipped but gentle. "Busy," he would say with the smallest of smiles, brushing off your questions with a kind of practiced patience that left you with a thousand more. His eyes would soften, though, just for a moment, as if he wanted to say more but couldn’t quite bring himself to unravel that thread of secrecy.

More curious still was the time he had begun spending with Pandora. It was not unusual for them to share the occasional conversation—Pandora was sweet and curious, a bit like bottled stardust, fluttering around with wild hair and ink-smudged hands, always speaking in riddles that left you smiling and a little bit bewildered.

But now they seemed to be together constantly. In the library, heads bent over something you could not quite see. By the greenhouses, hands moving in gestures that spoke of plans and secrets. You would see them huddled together in the courtyard sometimes, her hands gesturing wildly as she spoke and his head bowed in concentration, nodding along with something you could not hear.

When you asked him about it, his gaze would flicker to you with something unreadable before he smoothed his features back into something softer, more familiar. "Nothing important," he would say, voice quiet and unyielding, before changing the subject with a soft sort of insistence that left no room for prying.

But you saw the way his hands would flex at his sides after you asked, the way he would glance at you out of the corner of his eye, like there was something caught in his throat that he could not quite bring himself to say.

And though you trusted him—you always had—a part of you could not help but wonder what secrets this autumn had coaxed from him, what fragile thing he held in his hands that he was too afraid to show you.

He still met you in the mornings, still walked you to your classes and stood with you in companionable silence by the frost-covered windows.

He was not distant, not cold—just different. A touch more secretive, a little more preoccupied, and when you asked him if everything was alright, he would only smile and tell you not to worry, and you would pretend that you were not worried at all.

Regulus shuffles his feet, cheeks dusted a delicate pink against the bite of winter’s chill, and his hands tighten around the fraying cloth bundle he cradles behind his back as if it is something precious, something breakable.

His eyes flicker to yours, soft and uncertain, before flitting away again, skimming over the frost-bitten hedges and the towering spires of Hogwarts that rise like shadowed sentinels against the pale, wintry sky. Snow drifts lazily around you, swirling in gentle spirals that catch on the hem of your cloak, the world hushed and still, as if holding its breath just for the two of you.

"I wanted to..." He pauses, the words slipping from his lips like fragile things, delicate and unsure, barely loud enough to be carried by the breeze.

His shoulders tense, and he straightens almost instinctively, like he is bracing against some unseen force, eyes dropping to the patch of snow between your feet. "I wanted to make you something. For the cold."

His voice is so soft, so uncharacteristically tender, that it takes you a moment to process it.

Surprise flickers across your features, warm and bright, your eyes softening with the kind of gentleness that always seems to unspool something tightly wound inside of him.

"For the cold?" you echo, your voice light with disbelief and something else—something softer, sweeter—that threads through the space between you like a whisper.

He nods, gaze still fixed on the snow as if it holds the answer to something unspoken. "You’re always complaining about being cold," he murmurs, so quietly it is almost lost beneath the whisper of the wind. "I thought… I thought maybe I could help."

There is a tenderness in the way he says it, a kind of careful vulnerability that makes your heart ache just a little. He shifts his weight, rocking back and forth with a nervous energy that is so uncharacteristic, his knuckles white where they clutch the bundle, fingers flexing as if bracing for impact.

"It’s... it’s not good," he rushes out, the words stumbling over one another in their haste to escape. "Not even close to good, actually. It’s probably the ugliest thing you’ve ever seen, and I wouldn’t blame you if you hated it. I wouldn’t—" He swallows, voice faltering just a little, his gaze still fixed on the snow at his feet.

"I wouldn’t even be upset if you didn’t want to wear it."

You watch him, the way his hands tighten and loosen around the bundle, the way his eyes flicker with that nervous, flickering light, and your heart softens with the weight of it.

He is bracing himself for rejection, for ridicule, and the realization makes your chest ache with something warm and tender.

You tilt your head, a soft smile curling at the corners of your mouth as you watch him ramble, his voice a little higher than usual, his hands fidgeting like he can’t quite find the right place for them.

"Regulus, my love," you say gently, and his eyes snap up to yours, wide and startled, silver flickering with something like hope and fear and every unspoken thing he’s never quite managed to say. "I’m sure it’s perfect."

His mouth opens, then closes, his gaze flickering away as if he is struggling to decide whether or not to argue. "I—no," he says finally, shaking his head with a furrowed brow.

"It’s really not, amour. It’s—Pandora helped me, but she said I knit like a drunk troll, and honestly, I think she’s right."

A laugh bursts from you, bright and sudden, the sound curling through the frostbitten air, and his expression softens just a bit, the corners of his mouth twitching as if suppressing a smile.

"A drunk troll?" you repeat, voice laced with mirth, and he rolls his eyes, cheeks flushing deeper, the pink spreading like watercolors beneath pale skin.

"It’s bad," he insists, voice dropping to a murmur, softer now, like a confession whispered against the edge of dawn, fragile and almost transparent in the chill of the morning. "Really bad. I just… I just wanted you to be warm."

You step closer, the snow crunching beneath your feet like the soft crackle of embers, and reach out without thinking, fingertips brushing against his knuckles where they grip the bundle with a desperation that is almost sacred. His hands are cold, trembling just slightly beneath your touch, and when he looks up at you, eyes wide and uncertain, it is like staring into something raw and unspoken, something delicate enough to shatter.

"You made something for me," you whisper, voice feather-light and trembling at the edges with wonder. The words settle between you, soft and gentle, curling into the spaces left empty by winter’s chill. "How could that ever be bad, Reggie?"

He blinks, and for a moment, it seems as if the frost caught in his lashes might melt from the heat in your gaze.

His blush deepens, spreading like the first flush of dawn to the tips of his ears, and the sight of it, of him standing there with snowflakes caught in his hair and cheeks dusted with pink, is something almost ethereal. Like a painting come to life, brushed in soft hues and fragile light.

"Because you deserve beautiful things," he says quietly, the words so soft you almost miss them, like they are meant for the snow at his feet rather than for you.

His gaze drops again, lashes casting shadows on his cheeks, and his grip on the bundle tightens, knuckles white against the fraying edges of the cloth. "And I don’t know how to make beautiful things."

His voice is so gentle, so unbearably tender, that it feels as though the air itself stills to listen. There is a vulnerability in his words, a kind of delicate confession that unfurls between you like petals in bloom, and for a moment, you cannot speak, cannot breathe, because Regulus Black is standing before you with frost in his hair and his heart in his hands, and you think you might never want to be warm again if it means staying in this moment a little while longer.

You want to tell him that he is wrong, that everything he touches is beautiful because he is beautiful, but the words tangle in your throat, heavy and aching. So instead, you just squeeze his hand, gentle and reassuring, and offer him the only thing you can: the softness of your smile and the unyielding warmth in your eyes.

"Show me?" you ask softly, and he hesitates, eyes flickering back to yours, searching for something fragile and unspoken. His hands tighten around the bundle, knuckles pale, and for a moment you think he might refuse.

But then he takes a breath, a trembling thing that ghosts white in the morning air, and nods.

"Yeah, sure, 'kay," he whispers, voice cracking just a little, eyes shining with something raw and tender. "Okay."

The cloth slips away slowly, unfurling like the petals of a flower, and there, nestled within the worn fabric, is a sweater.

It is not perfect—the stitches are uneven in places, and one of the sleeves is just slightly longer than the other, but it is yours.

It is your favorite color, threaded with hues that catch the winter light and turn it into something soft and gentle. There are places where the yarn loops a little too tightly, where the fabric bunches just slightly, but you can see the effort in every knot, the tenderness in every crooked seam.

He had made this for you, painstakingly, deliberately, as if weaving together the very threads of his heart.

Your hands move without thinking, reaching out to trace the fabric, fingertips brushing over the soft, uneven stitches with something close to reverence.

It is warmer than you expect, soft and inviting, and you look up at him with eyes that shimmer in the morning light, filled with something that makes his breath catch. He is watching you carefully, nervously, like he is afraid you might laugh or turn away, his hands now empty and fidgeting at his sides. His gaze is fixed on you, searching, waiting, as if bracing for rejection.

"Regulus," you breathe, voice feather-soft, and he stiffens, jaw clenching just slightly. "You made this for me?" The words are almost a whisper, delicate and fragile, as if saying them too loudly might shatter the moment entirely.

His gaze drops to his feet, and he nods, just once, barely more than a tilt of his head. "I—I know it’s not good," he murmurs, voice small and cracking at the edges. "I tried to fix the stitches, but it just… I couldn’t get it right. I wouldn’t blame you if you didn’t want to wear it."

You do not even let him finish before you are slipping it over your head, the fabric catching on your hair before settling around your shoulders, heavy and warm and perfect.

It smells like him—like cedarwood and parchment and the faintest hint of mint. You pull your hands through the sleeves, letting them hang just a bit too long past your wrists, and then you look up at him, beaming, bright and unrestrained.

"It’s perfect," you say, voice brimming with something soft and unyielding, something that catches in your throat and makes your heart ache.

"It’s perfect, Regulus." You twirl in place, laughing as the hem flares out just a little, catching the light like the glimmer of frost on snow. "I love it," you add, more earnestly, the words spilling from your lips without hesitation. "I love it so much!"

He stares at you, eyes wide, cheeks flushed, and for a moment, it seems as though he has forgotten how to breathe. But then his gaze drops to the sleeve, where your fingertips are brushing against a small, messy patch of thread—a sun, unevenly stitched, its rays crooked but unmistakably bright.

You pause, running your fingers over the stitches, and then you look up at him, eyes glimmering with curiosity and wonder. "A sun?" you ask, voice gentle, reverent. "Why did you…?"

He looks away, fingers fumbling at his sides, the blush creeping down his neck. "Because," he begins, voice low and unsteady, the words coming slowly, like he has to pull them from someplace deep inside his chest.

"Because you are my soleil," he says softly, eyes flickering back to yours, and his gaze is so earnest, so tender, that it makes your breath hitch. "Mon rayon de soleil dans l'hiver," he continues, voice turning delicate and fragile, like glass spun too thin. (My ray of sunshine in the winter)

And for a moment, everything else falls away—the snow, the cold, the distant towers of Hogwarts. It is just you and him, standing there in the hush of winter’s breath, the sweater warm against your skin and his eyes soft with something unspoken, something infinite.

His words wrap around you like the sweater itself, warm and fragile and threaded with something achingly tender.

Something catches in your throat, the soft ache of yearning and something deeper.

And when you look back up at him, beaming, cheeks flushed and eyes sparkling, he stares like he has never seen anything quite so beautiful in his life.

The sweater drapes over you like it was made from sunlight and spun with care, each thread a testament to hands that worked quietly and patiently in the stillness of winter nights. It is imperfect, a little rough at the edges, but you love it more for that—the way it hugs your shoulders, the way it spills just past your wrists, the way it smells faintly of cedar and parchment, unmistakably him.

When you look up, your smile is incandescent, eyes shining with something that catches the fragile morning light and makes it feel like the first breath of spring. Before you can think twice, you are in his arms, pulling him close with a burst of warmth and laughter that rings out like music against the frostbitten air.

Regulus stiffens at first, the way he always does when affection is given too freely, too brightly, but his hands find your back, tentative and soft, fingertips grazing the fabric he crafted with his own hands.

His touch is gentle, almost reverent, like he is afraid you might slip away if he holds too tightly. But you do not slip away. You hold on, and he melts into it, his breath warm against your shoulder, steadying himself in the cradle of your embrace.

You pull back just enough to see his face, and your smile only widens, brilliant and unrestrained, cheeks flushed with something deeper than the cold.

"I love it," you whisper, voice trembling with sincerity, and then louder, bursting with joy that cannot be contained, "I love it, Regulus! It’s perfect!" The words spill from your lips like sunlight through cracked glass, filling the space between you with something pure and unyielding.

"I absolutely love it," you insist, the words tumbling over each other, bright and breathless.

"It’s my favorite thing I’ve ever owned." You spin then, arms stretched wide, the sleeves fluttering like wings, and snow dusts the air around you in shimmering spirals. Laughter spills from you, ringing out across the courtyard, and you look so alive, so impossibly beautiful in your joy, that he is struck silent.

A blush blooms across his cheeks, crawling up his neck to the tips of his ears, and he turns his head away, gaze dropping to the snow at his feet.

But he cannot hide the way his mouth quirks up at the corners, the way his eyes soften when he looks back at you, just for a moment. "You—you don’t have to say that," he murmurs, voice so quiet it almost disappears into the crisp morning air, but you shake your head firmly, sending snowflakes scattering like stars.

"Are you kidding me?" you laugh, spinning once more for good measure, the sweater flaring around you. "I’m going to wear this every single day," you declare, your hands smoothing over the uneven stitches with the kind of tenderness reserved for something sacred.

"It’s beautiful, Regulus! I don’t care what you say. I’ve never loved anything more."

There is something in your voice, something bright and unyielding and real, that makes him pause. His eyes flit back to yours, searching, waiting for the catch, for the punchline, for the hesitation that never comes. You are looking at him with so much light, so much unguarded joy, that it sends his heart stumbling in his chest, unsure of its rhythm.

He shifts his weight, a flicker of nerves flaring in his gaze, but you do not let him pull away—not this time. You catch his hand in yours, fingers curling around his with gentle insistence, grounding him there with you, in this moment. And for once, he does not resist. For once, he stays.

You press up on your toes, hands still clinging to his sweater, and you kiss him. Softly, sweetly, the kind of kiss that is more sunlight than heat, more promise than demand. His breath stutters, and he freezes for just a moment before he melts into you, the tension unraveling from his shoulders like loose threads.

When you finally pull back, your eyes are sparkling, cheeks dusted pink, and you’re still holding onto him as if you are afraid he might disappear with the snow.

"Thank you," you whisper, and it is so gentle, so full of something tender that he forgets how to breathe.

"You’re… you’re really going to wear it?" he asks, voice cracking just slightly at the edges.

Your laughter spills out, bright and unrestrained, tumbling over itself like sunlight streaming through fractured glass.

"Are you kidding? I’m never taking it off. Not even in the summer. I’ll suffer just to wear it," you declare, eyes shining with mischief, voice threaded with a warmth that cuts through the morning chill.

The words are exaggerated and dripping with dramatic flair, but you mean them, every last syllable. He must know you mean them too, because the blush that sweeps across his cheeks blooms all the way to the tips of his ears, spreading like wildflowers beneath the frost.

And you don’t.

Through frost-laced mornings where your breath fogs the air in delicate tendrils, through snow-dusted afternoons where the sky hangs heavy and gray, you wear that sweater like it is armor, like it is a piece of him you get to carry with you.

Even as the threads begin to pull loose, even as the sleeves fray and unravel at the edges, you wear it proudly, shoulders squared and chin held high. It becomes part of you, woven into your everyday

And every time Regulus sees you in it—bright and beaming amidst the gray wash of January, cheeks flushed with cold and eyes alight with joy—it is like watching sunlight crack through a frozen lake.

He will never say it, not in words, but the way his gaze softens, the way his shoulders ease just a little, is enough. You are enough.

What you do not know is that Regulus begins knitting another one. This time in secret, this time with softer wool that glides smooth and easy over his fingertips, this time with the precision and patience of someone who has learned that good things are always worth waiting for.

His hands work in steady rhythm, each loop and pull a silent promise, each stitch woven with the quiet hope that this one will be better, this one will be worthy of the way you beamed up at him like he had hung the very stars for you.

He does not rush. He takes his time, lets the winter days bleed into each other as he perfects the weave, his fingers aching and his brow furrowed in concentration.

He pictures you in it sometimes, wrapped in its warmth, cheeks flushed with that same bright joy, and it is enough to make him press on, enough to make him believe that maybe, just maybe, he can make something beautiful after all.

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moonstruckme · 1 year ago

Note

I really hope you mean here 🤭

Request: "Remus is being rude to the reader due to the upcoming full moon.. make it as angsty as you can"

Thanks for requesting babe <3

cw: migraine, Rem is mean :(

Remus Lupin x fem!reader ♡ 1.2k words

When you come home from work, the apartment is dark and there’s evidence of Remus’ shit day everywhere.

The curtains are drawn closed against the sunlight, and there’s a discarded blanket on the couch and several snack containers half-emptied on the coffee table. One of them has tipped onto the floor, a mess of crisps your boyfriend was likely feeling too unwell to tidy. He’s spilled tea on the table, too. These kinds of things are more common in the days before the full moon, but you think he must really be having a rough one. Even a few unwashed dishes in the sink is usually enough to stress Remus out, so he has to have been in a state to leave things like this.

You brew a fresh cup of tea, grabbing some chocolates from the cabinet in case he didn’t bring any with him, and broach the bedroom. A shape moves under the sheets when the door creaks open.

“Hi,” you say softly. You kneel by the bed, lightly touching the ends of Remus’ hair. “How are you, love?”

“Bad,” he mutters from beneath the covers. You wince. He must be, if he won’t even lower the sheets beneath his eyes.

You do your best to keep the pity from your voice, knowing he’d hate it. “I brought you some tea,” you murmur, “if you want it.”

“Can’t right now.”

“It’s chamomile,” you coax. “It might help—”

“I can’t.” The low rumble of his voice takes on a hard edge, and you fall instantly silent. You nod even though he can’t see it, setting the tea and chocolate on his nightstand as quietly as you can.

You don’t tell him you’re going, sure every footstep is agonizingly loud for him. You force down the lump in your throat. Remus is miserable right now; he’s not thinking about how his tone affects you, and that’s not his fault. He doesn’t mean anything by it. You can deal with it, help anyways.

You sweep instead of vacuuming, gathering the little bits of crisps into a dustpan and dumping them in the trash. The half-eaten snacks get reshelved in your cabinets, the puddle of tea cleaned off the coffee table, and candles lit to banish the stale smell in the living room. The cinnamon ones are usually Remus’ favorite, but you trade them out for lavender on the off chance it helps with his headache. You’re washing dishes one at a time so they don’t clatter when the bedroom door creaks open.

“Hey,” you say, relieved. “Feeling better?”

“No.” Remus’ voice is low, and the scratch of it tears at your heartstrings. He trudges to the end of the hall, where he stops, rubbing his forehead with his thumb and forefinger. “I need you to be quiet.”

“Oh, sorry.” You soften your voice, freezing with your hands submerged in the warm dishwater. “I’ve been trying, I didn’t realize you could hear. I’m almost done with this, so—”

“Could you stop?” he asks, tone going harsh again. “Just, be quiet or find somewhere else to be, please. I can’t deal with this.”

You swallow against the intrusion in your throat. Will away the heat from your face. “Okay,” you say, the word barely a whisper.

Remus turns, plodding back to the bedroom. You hear the door shut.

You leave the dishwater to get cold rather than pouring it out and making more noise. You sit down on the couch with a book, eyes skimming over the words as you convince yourself over and over that it’d be stupid to cry about this. Your face heats, then cools. Tears blur your vision and you blink them away. This is ridiculous. Remus is just moody, he didn’t mean it. You know better than to take anything he says to heart right now. You can’t expect your efforts to be properly appreciated, but the important part is to keep making them. When he’s feeling better, he’ll thank you in a million sweet ways, because that’s who he is. He loves you. He didn’t mean it.

It’s dark outside when the bedroom door creaks open again. You hadn’t noticed night falling, even when the light became too dim for you to make out the words on your page. You set your book down; you hadn’t been reading anyway.

Remus sits next to you without a word. He leans the side of his head against the cushion with a sigh.

“Dove?” he murmurs.

You don’t dare do more than hum in response.

A scarred hand finds your leg, the thumb sweeping back and forth over your skin. “I’m sorry for snapping at you,” he says quietly. “That was…it was really mean. And undeserved.”

“I’m sorry I was being loud,” you reply, and you can’t help it, your throat clogs all over again. “I was just trying to help.”

Your voice catches on the last word, and Remus makes a pained sound that has you silencing yourself instantly. He makes another at your response.

“Fuck, I’m so sorry,” he rasps. “Do you want a hug?”

You bite down on your lower lip. “Are you okay to hug?”

“Yeah, sweetheart.”

He meets you in the middle, pressing upon your shoulder blades like he can hold you together by sheer physical force. You try for his sake, swallowing the cries that rise in your throat.

“I’m sorry,” he says again, palm marking a slow path up and down your back. “You weren’t too loud, I’m just fussy. You were only being your kind self. I had no reason to be so horrid.”

“You weren’t horrid,” you warble. “I know you’re having a hard time.”

“That’s no excuse.” His palm makes its way back to your shoulders just in time to feel the first little sob escape you. Remus’ grip tightens. “Aw, dovey. I’m so, so sorry. I can’t believe I spoke to you like that.”

“It’s okay.”

“It’s not,” he murmurs, kissing the exposed bit of skin where your shirt is slipping down your shoulder. “It’s not, and—” He pauses, looking around the room for the first time. “Did you clean?”

You nod against his front, feeling the pained sigh that leaves him.

“Fuck, I’m awful.”

“You’re not.”

“You were cleaning up my mess, and I yelled at you.” Now Remus’ voice sounds a tad raw too. He gathers you closer, stubble scratching your forehead as he kisses your hairline. “My sweet girl. You should have ripped me a new one.”

“You weren’t yelling,” you point out, teasing a bit now, “and anyway, it seemed like you were already being ripped a new one.”

“Still,” he mumbles into your hair. “You lit the lavender candles and everything. You deserve to put me through hell.”

“You’re already going through hell,” you remind him gently, brushing a kiss against his cheek. “I don’t need to help the process along. Do you want some tea, love?”

Remus hums. “I do, but let me get it. Let me get some for you, too, yeah?” He leans back to look down at you. “You want some nighttime tea, darling?”

You’re alright really, but you tell him you do anyway. He looks nearly happy as he drags himself into the kitchen, and he won’t stop mollycoddling you for the rest of the night.

3K notes · View notes

honeyslibrary · 2 months ago

Text

First Mother's Day | Quinn Hughes

Pairing; Dad!Quinn Hughes x Fem!Reader

Warning(s); Established relationship, fluff, edited once!

Summary; Reader's first mother's day with Quinn and baby Scarlett (installment in the Sweet Girl universe)

Word Count; 1.1k

Authors Note: This is super short, I didn't really have as much time to write earlier as I thought I would (celebrating my mommy and all) but I wanted to post this because I think it's so cute, and I absolutely adore Scarlett and Quinn so much. Hope you like it! And to all the mothers out there, mother figures, and those yearning grieving a child, today we celebrate you, happy mother's day. 🩵 -Honey

The scent of coffee overloads your senses. Not the harsh, burnt kind Quinn sometimes makes in a rush before morning skate, but the good stuff, your favorite vanilla blend. You wake slowly, caught between sleep and something sweeter, that blurry liminal space where dreams dissolve into morning. The aroma wafts through the bedroom like a gentle announcement: today is different. Today is special.

A small giggle confirms it.

Your eyes flutter open, vision still hazy with sleep, but your heart recognizes them instantly. Quinn stands by the window, morning light haloing his disheveled hair, wearing a well-worn UMich hoodie and some black joggers. Against his chest, he cradles Scarlett as if she contains the universe—which, in many ways, she does. Her tiny fingers tug at his drawstring, her round cheeks flushed with morning warmth, eyes sparkling with five-month-old mischief far too vibrant for this early hour.

"I love you, my sweet girl," he whispers, pressing his lips to the crown of her head where wisps of baby-fine hair catch the sunlight.

You watch silently, savoring the tableau they create.

"Okay," he murmurs to her, "time to wake Mommy."

You quickly close your eyes, surrendering to this game of pretend. The mattress dips beside you moments later. Quinn's calloused fingertips brush hair from your temple with surprising tenderness. Then comes the familiar weight of Scarlett settling against your chest, her heartbeat a hummingbird's flutter against yours.

"Happy Mother's Day," Quinn says, his voice still rough-edged from sleep yet softened by adoration.

Your eyes open to meet his. Scarlett squeals with delight at your awakening, her little body writhing with excitement. You laugh, instinctively securing her before she can tumble from the bed.

“Good morning, my love.” you murmur, brushing your nose against hers. “And good morning to you, too.” You add, glancing up to Quinn.

"She was perfect this morning," Quinn says, his smile crinkling the corners of his eyes. "We've been conspiring."

"Have you now?" You press your lips to Scarlett's rosy cheek. "What kind of conspiracy?"

Quinn leans over and presses his lips to your forehead, lingering for a moment before pulling away to place a small cream-colored envelope on the nightstand. "Step one. Breakfast is warming downstairs. Step two: read the note after we eat. Step three: you're forbidden from doing anything remotely resembling work today."

"That's an ambitious plan," you say, raising a skeptical eyebrow.

"That's why you have me—your very handsome husband." His eyes dance with mischief. "Full-time, highly qualified in diaper changes and nap supervision."

"Qualified, you say?"

"I passed the test last night—she only protested once when I wrestled her into that ridiculous giraffe sleeper."

You snort softly. "She loves that giraffe sleeper."

"And I love you," he says, leaning down to press his lips to yours. "More than anything."

You pull apart with a content sight, hand reaching up in an attempt to smooth some of his bedhead. "You realize she's five months old, right? You could've handed me a dollar store card and I still would've cried."

His smile softens. "I know. But you deserve more than that."

And you do. You know that. But hearing it from him, seeing it reflected in the way he's planned this morning, makes it real in a way that settles deep in your bones.

Downstairs, breakfast waits on the kitchen table: your favorite croissant sandwich with the sharp cheddar from the farmer's market, a bowl of juicy blackberries that stain your fingertips purple, and that warm vanilla coffee he made just the way you like it—extra cream, just a little sugar. You sit wrapped in his hoodie while he bounces Scarlett on his knee, narrating every one of her babbles like it's the most important conversation in the world.

"Oh really?" he says, leaning closer as she makes a string of nonsensical sounds. "That's your opinion on climate policy? Fascinating perspective. Very nuanced."

You watch them over the rim of your coffee mug, memorizing the way Quinn's hands, hands that can send a puck flying with pinpoint accuracy, now move with such care as they wipe drool from Scarlett's chin.

When the last blackberry is gone and your coffee mug sits empty, you finally reach for the envelope. Inside is a note, handwritten in Quinn's messy, barely-legible scrawl that has brought heat to your cheeks with many different love notes over the years.

You're the best thing that's ever happened to me. And now you're the best thing that's ever happened to her, too. Watching you be her mom has made me fall in love with you in a way I didn't even know was possible. Check the diaper bag. Love, Q.

You're already misty-eyed as you unzip the diaper bag hanging by the door. Inside is a small box, midnight blue against the chaos of baby wipes and spare onesies.

Your breath catches in your throat.

You open it to find a delicate gold chain, simple and elegant against the velvet. Hanging from it is a tiny "S" and a heart-shaped charm engraved with two sets of initials—yours and Scarlett's—interlocked like vines growing together.

"Oh my God," you whisper, running your thumb over the cool metal.

Quinn is behind you before you can turn, a hand wrapping gently around your waist as he rests his chin on your shoulder. He smells like home—like detergent and that woodsy cologne you bought him three Christmases ago.

"I wanted you to have something just for you and her," he murmurs against your ear. "Something you could wear every day, close to your heart. A reminder that you're her whole world. First Mother's Day... felt like the right time."

You close your eyes, overwhelmed by the quiet earnestness in his voice, the weight of what this day means, the feel of your daughter's initial pressed against your palm.

You turn in his arms and hug him tightly, sandwiching Scarlett between you. She makes a noise like she wants in on the moment too, her small hand patting against your collarbone with surprising strength.

"You're unbelievable," you whisper into the curve where his neck meets his shoulder.

Quinn's chest rises and falls with a deep breath. "No. You are." His voice catches slightly. "You gave me everything. I just wanted today to feel like a thank you."

And it does.

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#sweet girl universe #quinn hughes #quinn hughes imagine #quinn hughes imagines #quinn hughes fanfiction #quinn hughes fic #quinn hughes x reader #quinn hughes x you

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dilfismz · 5 months ago

Note

Hi! Can you write jealous professor dom!cho sangwoo x student sub!reader. Can you make sangwoo become real mad and some spanking too? Thank you so so much 🥹🥹

Mine

Summary: Turns out Professor Cho doesn’t like it when stupid young boys touch what’s his.

A/N: there are a few flashback scenes in order to build a backstory so don’t be confused!

Warnings: age gap, inappropriate teacher/student relationship, spanking, some degradation?, p in v, no prep (Sangwoo is desperate), dom/sub dynamics, and hair pulling.

In all honesty, you and Professor Cho had become close by complete accident. If you could even call it close…more so acquainted. You could recall every detail of your night spent together as if it had just occurred. Every single time you step foot into his lecture hall you can’t help but reminisce.

⋆ ──── ❍ Δ □ ──── ⋆

The bar was quiet that night, many students in their dorms studying for finals. Luckily for you, yours had concluded in one long, godforsaken day. It was tough but the reward was getting to celebrate the end of the semester early.

Sliding into a seat with your friend you spot him. He was seated a few spots down, leaning casually against the bar. He looked out of place in his crisp, tailored shirt and sharp jawline—older than most of the patrons and far more composed. His presence seemed to draw attention without trying, though he didn’t seem interested in anyone else around him.

You weren’t sure why you caught his eye, but you did. His gaze lingered on you for a moment before he spoke, his deep voice cutting through the noise.

“Not a regular here, are you?”

You smiled faintly, shaking your head. “Does it show?”

“Just a little,” he said, taking a sip from his glass. “You seem…young for this crowd.”

The comment made your cheeks flush slightly, but you held his gaze. “Maybe. But you don’t exactly blend in yourself.”

He chuckled, low and warm, and moved to sit closer. “Fair enough. I’m Sangwoo.”

You gave your name, and from there, the conversation flowed with surprising ease. You told him about your studies, your aspirations, and the stress that had driven you here tonight. He listened intently, asking thoughtful questions that felt more probing than casual small talk.

“I have to say,” he murmured at one point, leaning in just slightly, “I don’t usually find myself talking like this with someone… your age.”

You shrugged, trying to ignore the way your pulse quickened. “Maybe age doesn’t matter as much as you think.”

He studied you for a moment, his gaze flicking to your lips before returning to your eyes. “Maybe.”

The air between you shifted, heavy and undeniable. When he suggested leaving, you didn’t hesitate.

The night blurred into stolen kisses in the cab, whispered words, and the heat of his hands on your skin. You fell into his bed with reckless abandon, the difference in your years forgotten in the haze of passion.

The next morning, sunlight streamed through the curtains, forcing your eyes open. The unfamiliar room was quiet, save for the soft sound of breathing beside you.

You turned your head to see Sangwoo lying on his back, his arm resting over his eyes. The sharp lines of his face were softened by the light, but there was a tension in his expression that hadn’t been there the night before.

“Good morning,” you said quietly, unsure of what else to say.

He let out a soft sigh, finally lowering his arm to look at you. His eyes were darker now, clouded with something that felt like regret.

“This… probably shouldn’t have happened,” he said, his voice low.

The words stung, even though you’d expected them. “Why not?”

He sat up, running a hand through his hair. “You’re young. Too young to be tangled up with someone like me.” His tone wasn’t harsh, but there was a firmness to it that made your stomach twist.

You sat up too, pulling the sheet around you. “You didn’t seem to mind last night.”

“That was a mistake,” he said, glancing at you briefly before looking away. “I should’ve known better.”

The silence that followed was heavy, the warmth of the night before replaced with a cold, sinking feeling. You wanted to say something, to argue that you were old enough to make your own decisions, but the look on his face stopped you.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured, standing and reaching for his shirt. “You’re… incredible. But this can’t happen again.”

As he moved about the room, dressing and avoiding your gaze, you couldn’t help but wonder if you’d ever been more than a fleeting distraction to him.

⋆ ──── ❍ Δ □ ──── ⋆

Another thing you always thought of when you’d step into Professor Cho’s room is the moment you’d realized just how disastrous your night together actually was.

The first day of the new semester carried the usual energy—a mix of fresh starts and quiet dread. Students milled into the lecture hall, some chatting excitedly, others scrolling through their phones or sipping lukewarm coffee. You were somewhere in the middle, adjusting the strap of your bag as you stepped into the massive room.

You hadn’t given much thought to your schedule beyond the requirements you needed to fill. This class—some upper-level finance course you had reluctantly signed up for—was just another stepping stone toward your degree. You were more concerned with surviving the workload than anything else.

That was, until you looked up.

Your heart nearly stopped.

There, standing at the podium, flipping through a stack of papers with an air of quiet authority, was him.

Cho Sangwoo.

Your throat went dry.

For a second, you thought you had to be mistaken. But there was no mistaking him—not the sharp jawline, not the dark, intelligent eyes that had lingered on you once in the glow of a streetlamp, not the hands you could still feel on your skin if you let your mind wander too far.

You froze mid-step, the chatter of the other students fading into white noise. The last time you’d seen him, he had been pulling his shirt over his head in a dimly lit bedroom, his words clipped, his expression guarded.

“This can’t happen again.”

And yet, here you were.

And here he was.

As if sensing your gaze, Sangwoo glanced up from his notes.

The reaction was instant.

His confident posture faltered, his fingers tightening slightly around the edges of his papers. His brows lifted just barely before his eyes widened in unmistakable shock. You saw the exact moment recognition hit him, watched the composed, professional mask he undoubtedly wore every day crack—just for a second.

A blush rose to his face.

It was slight, barely there, but enough for you to notice. Enough for you to know that despite his careful words that morning, despite whatever lines he had drawn in his mind between you, the sight of you standing in his lecture hall had caught him completely off guard.

The confident, articulate professor—who had surely done this a thousand times, who commanded rooms full of students without hesitation—had lost his composure.

Your stomach twisted.

For a fleeting moment, it felt like you were back in that dimly lit bar, your bodies too close, your words laced with the kind of reckless flirtation that had led to this. The memory burned through you so suddenly that you were sure it showed on your face.

But then, just as quickly as the moment had come, you watched him shove it back down.

Sangwoo cleared his throat sharply, turning his attention back to his papers. The color in his face faded as he schooled his expression into something unreadable, his professional demeanor snapping back into place like a steel trap.

But you had seen it.

You had felt it.

And now, you had to sit through an entire semester pretending it had never happened.

Swallowing hard, you forced yourself to move, slipping into a seat near the middle of the lecture hall. Around you, students continued their chatter, completely unaware of the silent war raging inside your head—or his.

Sangwoo took a breath, straightened his tie, and finally spoke. His voice was steady, controlled.

“Good morning. Welcome to Financial Strategies.”

If you hadn’t seen the way his hands curled slightly against the podium, you might have believed he was completely unaffected.

But you had seen it.

And you weren’t sure either of you would be able to ignore it.

That day, after class ended you sat frozen in your seat, your fingers gripping the edge of your desk as if that could steady the storm of emotions brewing inside you.

Sangwoo hadn’t looked at you once throughout the entire lecture.

Not directly, at least.

Instead, his eyes had skimmed over you like you were just another student, his voice measured, his posture rigid. But there were moments—fleeting, barely-there moments—where his fingers tensed slightly on the podium, where his breath hitched in the smallest, most imperceptible way before he forced himself forward.

And now, as you remained seated while the rest of the students shuffled out, he still wouldn’t meet your gaze.

“Stay after,” he had said near the end of class, his voice neutral, yet somehow sharp.

You knew this conversation was coming. There was no avoiding it.

Sangwoo stood by his desk now, organizing papers that didn’t need organizing, straightening his laptop screen only to close it again. It was almost frustrating—watching him fidget with anything but you.

Finally, he exhaled through his nose, as if bracing himself.

“If you wish to remain in this class,” he started, his voice clipped, “you will forget about what happened between us.”

You swallowed, gripping your bag strap tightly, but said nothing.

He continued, his expression carefully blank, though you could see the tension in his jaw. “It was… inappropriate. A mistake.” His fingers curled around the edge of his desk, the only sign that his control wasn’t as steady as he wanted it to be. “And it cannot affect your education.”

Your throat felt tight.

He was speaking to you as though that night had been some careless accident, as though it hadn’t been charged with something real. And yet, even as he spoke, his voice was too deliberate, too forced, like he was convincing himself as much as he was convincing you.

But you didn’t miss the way his fingers twitched slightly against the desk.

Your gaze dropped to his hands—the same slender hands that had once roamed your body, tracing paths of fire along your skin.

You could still feel them if you thought about it long enough. The way they had tangled in your hair, how his fingertips had brushed over your bare waist with aching slowness, how they had tightened possessively around your wrist just before he kissed you—

“Are you listening?”

Your head snapped up.

Sangwoo was watching you now, his brow furrowed slightly, his lips pressed together in a thin line.

You nodded, trying to ignore the heat rising in your face.

He exhaled sharply, dragging a hand down his face before crossing his arms. “Good,” he muttered. “Because I can’t have distractions in my classroom. Whatever… that was, it’s over. Understood?”

His words were cruelly impersonal, but his body language betrayed him. The stiffness of his shoulders, the way he seemed almost restless standing still, as if part of him wanted to move, to do something else.

You wondered if he was remembering it, too.

The weight of him pressing you into the mattress. The way he had looked at you, his usual self-control slipping with every kiss, every touch.

You sat up a little straighter, ignoring the pang in your chest. “Understood,” you said quietly, though the words felt like a lie.

For a moment, he didn’t move.

His fingers tapped once against the desk. Then again.

Then, as if snapping himself out of something, he turned away, collecting his things with more force than necessary. “You’re dismissed,” he said, not looking at you.

You hesitated.

But there was nothing left to say.

So you grabbed your bag and walked toward the door, feeling his eyes on your back even though he had told himself not to look.

————-

Now here you are today and you have done exactly what Sangwoo asked.

For months, you kept your distance, pretending as though nothing had ever happened between you. No lingering glances, no hesitation when he called on you in class, no trace of the night you had spent tangled in his sheets. You became cold, detached—indifferent.

And it was driving him insane.

At first, he convinced himself that this was what he wanted. That this was the right thing.

But then Jisoo happened.

A boy your age. Bright-eyed, eager, always quick with a joke that made you laugh—actually laugh. You had never laughed like that in his class before. Not when you were with him.

Sangwoo ignored it at first.

But then it happened again.

And again.

Soft whispers shared between the two of you, your heads leaning close as if nothing else in the room existed. His blood simmered every time Jisoo touched your arm, every time he caught you smiling at him—every time he saw you looking at Jisoo the way you used to look at him.

But today was the worst of it.

Today, Jisoo had whispered something in your ear, and your face had gone warm—cheeks flushed, lips parting just slightly in surprise before you giggled.

Sangwoo gripped his pen so hard it nearly snapped.

The moment class ended, his voice cut through the murmurs of students packing up their things.

“Stay after.”

Jisoo glanced at you, curious. You barely reacted, nodding as you finished gathering your notes.

The last student filtered out.

The door clicked shut.

Silence.

Sangwoo remained standing at the front of the classroom, bracing his hands against the desk, his head tilted downward. You could see the tension in him—the way his fingers curled, the way his breaths left him in slow, controlled exhales.

You knew this was coming.

You waited.

And then, finally, he spoke.

“Tell me,” his voice was low, measured. “Do you plan to seduce him the way you seduced me?”

Your heart stuttered.

The accusation hung heavy between you, thickening the air, making it harder to breathe.

“What?”

Sangwoo lifted his gaze, and for the first time in months, his carefully constructed mask had cracked.

No indifference. No feigned professionalism. Only raw frustration—barely-restrained jealousy simmering beneath the surface.

He took a step forward, slow and deliberate.

“You heard me,” he murmured, his voice dark. “Is that your plan? To make him desperate for you? To make him think, even for a second, that he can satisfy you the way I did?”

Heat pooled in your stomach, but you forced yourself to hold his gaze. “That’s not—”

He scoffed. “Not what?” Another step forward. “Not true? You don’t think I see the way he looks at you? The way you let him lean into you, whisper in your ear?”

His jaw clenched.

“Do you think he can touch you like I did?” His voice dropped lower, barely above a whisper. “Think he can even attempt to please you?”

Your breath hitched.

Your fingers curled into fists at your sides, knuckles whitening. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you forced out.

His lips quirked up—not in amusement, but something far crueler.

“Liar.”

Your stomach flipped.

You hated how easily he unraveled you.

Sangwoo exhaled slowly, dragging a hand through his hair. “I shouldn’t care,” he muttered, more to himself than to you. “I told myself I wouldn’t.”

You swallowed hard.

“But then I see you with him,” he continued, his voice quieter now. “I see you laughing, smiling, and I—” He cut himself off, exhaling sharply as if disgusted by the confession sitting on his tongue.

Your pulse pounded in your ears.

“You’ve been punishing me,” he murmured. “All these months, Ive been trying to forget, trying to pretend it never happened—but it did. And here you are pulling this shit right in front of me.”

His fingers twitched.

“And it still matters to you…”, you intended to ask but it came out more like a statement.

Sangwoo inhaled sharply, and before you could react, his hand shot out—grasping your wrist.

Your breath caught.

His fingers, long and slender, wrapped around your skin. Not tight. Not pulling. Just holding.

A mistake.

A reckless, dangerous mistake.

But neither of you moved to stop it.

“You don’t get it,” he murmured, his voice lower, almost pained. “I broke the rules for you once.”

Your throat went dry.

His fingers slid down, tracing your palm before hesitantly releasing you.

Then, barely above a whisper—so quiet you almost missed it—he admitted:

“I think I’d break them again.”

Your stomach clenched.

Sangwoo exhaled slowly, looking at you as if he were already regretting saying it out loud. But it was there now. It couldn’t be unsaid.

For the first time in months, he wasn’t telling you to forget.

He wasn’t telling you to leave.

Instead, his voice was quiet. Measured. Unsteady.

“Stay, it’s your turn to be punished.”

You take a tentative step in his direction, testing the waters. Sangwoo blinks slowly, looking you up and down, “You stay there”, he commands while walking to the lecture hall door. He locks it with a flick of his wrist and returns.

He sits on his chair behind the large desk he often spends hours sitting at. He spreads his thighs, patting them expectantly.

You take this as a sign to straddle him but he immediately grunts in dissatisfaction. “No, bend over my knees, face down ass up”.

You flush at the command, all self respect fleeing your body as you comply without a second thought.

Tch tch

He clicks his tongue mockingly, all while lifting your skirt up to expose your plump ass, barely covered by a tiny thong.

“Now did you wear this for me or him”, Sangwoo asks, a scowl etched onto his features.

“You Sangwoo, always for you-”, before you could finish your sentence a loud smack echoes throughout the lecture room. Before you can even register the pain another red hot slap lands on your bottom, leaving you breathless.

“It’s sir”, he commands, a shit eating grin already overtaking his features.

“Y-yes sir”, you respond.

“Good fucking slut, finally you do something right. Maybe I should’ve done this right away, then we never would have had that silly little problem huh?”

You simply nod, his words going in one ear and out the other. Sangwoo pulls your hair harshly, forcing your head back to look at him.

“Speak when you’re spoken to”, he commands, his other hand landing another firm slap to your stinging ass.

“Yes sir-“, you moan as he kneeds the sensitive flesh, “-wish you would’ve done this sooner.”

He nods in approval, forcing you off of his legs and pushing you against his desk.

You can hear him unbuckle his belt and all but shake with anticipation. You’ve waited oh so long to feel him again.

Suddenly his swollen tip is prodding at your entrance, your thong pulled to the side. Sangwoo lets out a heavy sigh and declares, “I’ve waited way too damn long to do this again…now tell me have you been whoring around campus or is the last time your pussy got stretched with me?”

“Y-you sir, haven’t done anything since that night”, you splutter out, backing up into him, hoping he’ll just push in already.

“Good girl, that’s what I like to hear”, he says right before completely bottoming out in one harsh thrust.

Sangwoo doesn’t start out gentle, he keeps thrusting into you slowly but oh so roughly. You swear you can feel him reaching spots even he didn’t hit last time.

Your eyes roll into the back of your head as his hands grip your hips with a bruising force. He scoffs at your desperate mewls, “I won’t last long sweetheart so you’re gonna take what I give you and be grateful, ya?”

“Yes sir”

Sangwoo can feel his glasses slipping down his nose as his pace quickens. The entire room is filled with the sound of skin slapping against skin and its filthy.

“Please don’t stop sir I’m close”, you beg as you feel that all too familiar feeling within you.

He doesn’t stop. His hands gripping you even tighter as he grits his teeth, cock twitching as your gummy walls suck him in.

“Fuck, it’s like this pussy was made for me, can’t believe I stayed away for so long”, he gasps out.

That’s all the praise you needed to reach your peak. Your walls spasm around Sangwoo and he continues his assault on your insides, coming to an abrupt stop as you feel his warm seed fill you up.

The both of you are a panting mess and he runs his hands through his own hair, pushing him glasses back up his nose.

When Sangwoo finally pulls out he sighs and looks at your pathetic form in front of him.

“Clean yourself up and we’ll have a serious conversation about how this arrangement is gonna work.”

#x reader #squid game 2 #squid game #cho sangwoo #cho sang woo #cho sangwoo x reader #x reader smut #professor au #park haesoo #hwang inho #smut #teacher student #dilfs are real #berlin #money heist korea #money heist #seong gihun #sae byeok

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lxvebun · 2 months ago

Text

spring rain

buns notes: this went from a 500 word drabble to a 3.2k word brainrot.

content: Sukuna x gender neutral reader. College au! Sunshine x grumpy trope. Yearning, FLUFF sickeningly sweet fluff. Sukuna had a lip piercing. Mention of smoking once or twice. Little rushed at certain parts, pookies this fic gave me so much eyestrain ejdj. Eng is not my first language let me know if there are any annoying mistakes!

You’re too sweet for someone like Sukuna Ryomen. Too bubbly, too full of color and kindness, like spring in human form compared to someone who seems like he was carved out of storm clouds and shattered glass. And everyone around you makes sure to remind you of that every time your eyes seem to wander off in search of him. Every time you try to catch a glimpse as he walks by or your head turns around at the sound of his voice.

"He's trouble." "He's rude." "He's all bite, no bark. Be careful."

They’re not wrong, necessarily. Almost everyone has either witnessed or been the recipient of his downright cruel insults and sharp tongue. And yeah, it's probably not the best idea to get involved with someone who seemingly gets agitated over the smallest things. Someone who threatens to punch someone's lights out whenever they look at him the wrong way. Someone who comes to lectures with a bloody broken nose and a split lip at least once a month. Someone rumored to be some underground fighter, someone for hire to do your dirty work, throwing punches for cash beneath flickering street lights.

And the thing you hear most often? “You’re too good for him. He’s only going to break your heart.”

Whether that's true or not, you're not really sure. But maybe it doesn't really matter when Sukuna of all people has the special ability to reduce you into a lovesick mess and make your heart feel all warm and fuzzy. When something as small as a brief glance your way or the sound of his voice are enough to errupt a plethora of butterflies in your stomach.

You once read a line at 2am while doomscrolling the night away after another failed attempt at sleeping. It carved itself into the walls of your mind and refused to leave ever since:

“In the right heaven-yellow light, anything looks holy enough to save you.”

You scribbled it in the margins of your notebook, circled it in red, then underlined it so many times the paper nearly tore. It felt like the only way to explain what Sukuna looked like to you in those fleeting golden moments, when the light catches on his lashes and softens the hard edges of his face, casting a halo where no one else seems to see one.

Yes, he’s cruel. He’s cold. He’s careless.

But sometimes, when you catch him in the soft sparkle of the morning sun or in the lull of twilight when everything feels a a little softer, a little more like a dream, he looks like he could be something else. Something warm, something sweet. Like the first crocus pushing through thawed earth, the first beam of sunlight after a cold harsh winter.

You keep this to yourself of course. Keep those thoughts tucked away between the lines of your notebooks, in the quiet corners of your mind. To dream about later when you go to sleep. Because as much as you like to daydream about this theoretical goodness inside of him, try to solve the puzzle that is Sukuna Ryomen, you're very much aware that these thoughts, this fixation on him stem from the puppy crush you’re harboring more than any objective, critical observation. Hell, you’ve barely interacted with him other than stolen glances and brushing past him in crowded hallways.

It's just a silly little crush. Something softer to fixate on than the endless stressful exams and exhausting all-nighters. Nothing more, nothing less and that’s okay. You're okay with that.

However, something begins to shift come spring. Things begin to bloom… a little differently.

ⓘMon march 24. 8:14 AM

Your morning unfolds like a series of unfortunate events. Your alarm, the one time you don't double-check it, betrays you, leaving you to be awakened by your body's internal clock in a haze of sleep and panic before rushing out the door. The air outside bites with an unexpected chill that you would have been more prepared for had you actually had some time this morning, and your favorite café, typically a haven, serves you a coffee so sweet it becomes undrinkable. By the time you reach the lecture hall, it's already brimming with students, each seat occupied or guarded by a strategically placed bag.

Your eyes scan the room, heart sinking, as every seat you gravitate towards has already been taken. Until they land on a solitary empty seat in the back row — beside him.

Sukuna Ryomen.

He’s claimed the seat closest to the pathway, which means that, if he’d let you, you’d have to scoot past him to reach the empty chair and that alone makes you debate whether the floor is really such a bad spot. Your back wins that argument, however.

He’s slouched, arms crossed, head tilted back like he’d rather be anywhere else. There's a bandage over the bridge of his nose and a scratch near his jaw that looks fresh. Angry and red against his skin. He doesn’t look at you when you approach. Doesn’t move his bag either.

“Hey…is that seat taken?” The words come out way more shy than you intended.

His eyes flick toward you. Brief. Sharp. Then away again before he speaks, gruff: “No.”

He doesn't move his bag but he does shift his legs slightly, giving you the space to squeeze past. It’s not an invitation, not really. But it’s not rejection either.

As you settle beside him, you try not to think about how close his leg is to yours, how his broad shoulders nearly bump into you and how despite sitting down he still manages to tower over most. He smells faintly like smoke and something coppery, blood most likely. His presence all in all should intimidate you more than it does. Instead, there's a strange comfort in the closeness (maybe that's just your heart beating a little stronger and convincing than the rational part in your mind). You try to focus on the lecture, on keeping your notes tidy and your mind grounded, but it’s hard when your thoughts are fluttering everywhere. Between the nerves, the curiosity, and the way your heart won’t settle, your handwriting comes out crooked, your fingers a little too unsteady..

When your pen eventually slips from your grasp, surprisingly, he retrieves it without so much as a sigh or a grunt, holding it out to you, his gaze never leaving the front of the room. You mumble something between a thank you and apology and he responds with a barely audible hum.

The rest of the lecture passes more smoothly after that, the flutter of nerves calming down as the minutes pass. Now and then, you can feel his eyes on you, fleeting, when you glance over, he’s already turned his attention back to the front, idly tugging at his lip piercing. You find yourself unintentionally fixated on the subtle glint of the silver metal, eyes lingering longer than they should. He notices, a quiet chuckle slipping past his lips, amused, maybe even a little flattered. You're quick to avert your eyes after that. Ignoring the racing of your heart as you try to tune back into whatever the professor was saying.

The lecture winds down without further incident, the professor’s voice finally trailing off into dismissal. Sukuna is out of his seat the instant it’s over, slinging his backpack over one shoulder and heading for the aisle.

You exhale, shoulders loosening slightly as the tension of the hour begins to dissolve. But before you can fully settle into the quiet, Sukuna pauses.

He turns back to you, eyes trailing over your form, Behind him, the tall windows rattle softly in their frames. Rain streaking down the glass in blurred rivers.

He glances at the storm, jaw tightening, then looks at you again. You fail to recognize the glint in his eyes. After a beat, he sighs, drops his bag to the floor, and shrugs off his leather jacket.

Without a word, he steps forward and holds it out to you.

You begin to shake your head, waving your hands frantically, the words "it's okay" barely make it past your lips before you're enveloped in something warm, heavy as he drapes the jacket around your shoulders.

"You can give it back tomorrow," he mutters, eyes avoiding yours, before turning and disappearing down the hallway, the echo of his footsteps swallowed by the rain.

Despite the hectic morning, despite the cold outside, something warm curls in your heart and stubbornly lingers long after he’s gone.

ⓘTue. March 25. 7:45 AM

You’re on time the next day, thankfully. The lecture hall is still quiet, touched with that early-morning calm, and best of all, it’s full of empty seats waiting to be claimed. You make your usual choice: fifth row, right in the middle. It’s the perfect spot—close enough to see the board without squinting, but not so close you feel exposed.

Sliding into your seat, you let yourself relax, Sukuna’s jacket resting on your lap, thumbing idly through your phone while the room slowly begins to fill. The murmur of arriving students builds little by little until—

A knee knocks into yours.

You blink, startled, and look up.

Sukuna.

He doesn’t say anything at first, just nods and settles in the empty seat beside you.

“Thank you, Sukuna,” you say, offering a small smile as you hand him his jacket back

He nods, then mutters, “Ryo is fine.”

He tosses the jacket into his lap with a careless flick of his wrist. You wait for the moment he’ll stand and retreat to his usual seat in the back. But instead, he makes himself comfortable, leans back into the stiff wooden chair, legs stretched out, head tilted back and eyes closed.

For the briefest second, he looks... calm.

Then the bell rings.

A substitute walks in, clipboard in hand, and that peace he once had evaporates instantly.

You notice the change instantly. Sukuna’s jaw tightens, and his whole body shifts, sighing, fidgeting, fingers twitching against the side of his jeans. So maybe one of the rumors was true: his patience...or lack of it.

He chews the end of his pen like it personally wronged him, expression locked in that ever-present scowl.

You try not to notice. Really, you do. You focus on the substitute, who seems nice enough, if a little scatterbrained. He stumbles through the material, backtracks, apologizes, and starts over again.

Sukuna doesn’t make it easy.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

The eraser of his pencil hits the desk in sharp, uneven bursts.

Annoying. Erratic. Deliberate.

You glance over once. He’s staring ahead, eyes fixed, unblinking.

Twice. Now he’s looking at you, only from the corner of his eye, like he’s waiting for you to crack first. Daring you to say something

You fold.

"Did that pencil steal your lunch money or something?"

He turns toward you. For a second, nothing. Then the corners of his lips pull into an easy smile, He swings an arm around the back of your chair, respectful enough to not touch you, close enough that you can feel his body heat.

“Just thinking about stabbing it through my eye,” he says.

You blink. “ what a nice, normal thing to think about.”

He shrugs. “Better than listening to this guy. Pretty sure even he doesn’t know what he’s saying.”

You snort, quietly, before you can stop it.

It earns you another glance, this one softer. Curious, even.

He leans back again, pencil now resting against his bottom lip instead of tapping the desk.

Something shifts between you two. You both feel it. It’s not enough to name. But it’s something.

Enough to make you feel more at ease, leaning back in your chair more comfortably, not blinking in surprise or moving away when your knees touch nor when the arm around the back of your chair curls a little more around you.

ⓘThu. March 27. 21:13

The next time you see Sukuna is a few days after your last encounter. It's late—just past 9—after a long-overdue study session with a friend. You told her you'd stay a little longer, work a little more, you waved her off with a tired smile, insisting you'd be fine getting home on your own.

When you finally step out of the library, your eyes are heavy with sleep and your stomach twists begging for something more substantial than the coffee and vending machine snacks you've been surviving on. You descend the steps slowly, half-lost in your thoughts until you see him.

Ryomen.

Leaning against one of the stone pillars just outside, a half-smoked cigarette dangling between his lips, the soft glow of twilight and hazy streetlights casting golden shadows across his face. His helmet rests carelessly by his feet. There's a fresh bruise blooming along the edge of his jaw, and even in the dim lighting, you can make out dried blood and new cuts on his knuckles.

He hasn’t noticed you yet.

You hesitate. Would it be weird to just walk past him without saying anything? Would he even want to talk? It's hard to tell with him, his default expression always seems to hover somewhere between indifferent and vaguely pissed off.

Still, you speak.

“Hey, Ryo...”

Quiet enough to slip by unnoticed if he wants to ignore it. Open enough to invite a reply if he doesn't.

He glances over. Nods. Removes the cigarette from his lips and exhales the smoke sideways, deliberately away from you.

“You're out late.”

“Study session,” you reply, “Trying to piece together what the substitute was actually saying... you know?”

You’re not sure where the sudden courage to crack a half assed joke comes from, but it earns you a real smile from him, small but genuine, as he takes another drag.

“Good luck with that. Didn’t understand shit.”

There’s a beat of silence before you find yourself saying,

“Would you... I could text you my notes, if you want?”

He eyes you—an unreadable glint in his gaze. Playful? Curious? Something else entirely?

“You asking for my number?”

You freeze, caught somewhere between embarrassment and surprise. Before you can stammer out a reply, he chuckles—quiet and low—then fishes his phone out of his pocket and holds it out to you.

It's beat up, cracked at every corner, and struggles to register the taps of your fingers as you enter your number. Still, you manage.

When you hand it back, “Oh—my name is—”

“Y/N,” he says, cutting you off gently, “I know.”

You blink. “How do you know my name?”

He shrugs, eyes drifting toward the sky like he won’t elaborate. The silence that follows isn’t awkward, just… suspended. Like the moment is deciding what it wants to be.

He drops the cigarette to the ground and crushes it under his boot with a quiet scrape. Then, almost casually, he says, “You headed back to the dorms?”

You nod. “Yeah. Just a few blocks away.”

He considers that for a moment, then picks up his helmet “I’ll walk you.”

You blink again, thrown off. “You don’t have to—”

“I know,” he says simply, cutting off the protest before it can form. His voice is rough, but there's a strange softness beneath it—like the gesture isn't for show, like it matters to him in a way he won’t admit out loud.

You try to fall in step beside him as he starts walking, his strides easy, slows a little when he realises he's going too fast. The night hums around you wind tugging gently at your clothes, the few leaves that have begun sprouting rustling in the trees overhead, the occasional buzz of a streetlamp flickering to life. He breaks the silence after a while

“You always this reckless?”

You glance at him, confused. “Reckless?”

“Heading home alone this late.”

You roll your eyes lightly. “It’s not that late.”

He doesn’t argue, but you hear the faintest huff of disapproval.

Eventually, you reach the familiar path that leads to your dorm. You stop just at the edge, where the lights from the windows spill across the pavement in warm, golden patches. Sukuna slows beside you, eyes scanning the area before landing back on you.

He hesitates for a second—just long enough for you to notice—then nods once.

“Get some sleep,” he says. “You look like hell.”

You laugh under your breath. “Thanks. You’re not looking so great yourself.”

A ghost of a smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth.

“Goodnight, Y/N.”

He turns without waiting for a reply, but you watch him for a few seconds longer as he walks away—helmet dangling from one hand, bloodied knuckles catching the light, his figure fading into the shadowed path beyond.

Warmth blooms in your chest again. Different from before. Not just butterflies now, but something steadier. Stronger.

And long after he’s gone, when you're back in the comfort of your dorm you still feel it.

ⓘfri. March 28. 18:37

The weekend has begun.

The hallways are quieter now, the last shuffle of feet fading into the distance as students leave the building, laughing in small clusters, huddling close against the oncoming chill. You linger, trailing your fingers along the railing as you descend the steps, the air thick and heavy with the scent of spring rain—fresh earth, damp bark, and something faintly sweet like budding flowers just beginning to stretch open. Everything smells clean, alive, as if the world has been waiting for this exact moment to breathe again.

You pause beneath the shelter outside the lecture hall, arms wrapped around your bag. A breeze dances past, and though it carries a lingering bite, it’s softened by the warmer undercurrent that always comes this time of year—the promise of growth, of things blooming again.

The rain begins slowly at first, a droplet here and there, before it turned into a drizzle, then into a cloudbreak. It hits the pavement hard, kicking up steam and a stronger wave of that earthy, green scent it's the kind of rain that feels like it’s rinsing the last frost of winter away.

You shrink back beneath the narrow shelter, clutching your bag a little tighter to your body, trying to avoid the areas where rain leaks through. Your umbrella? A long forgotten accessory still sitting on the floor of your dorm. You debate whether or not you should make a run for it or wait it out, although the rain doesn't seem like it's stopping anytime soon

Then you hear it. footsteps. Measured. Familiar.

Then, without looking at you:

He steps into your periphery, already damp, rain streaking down the curve of his neck, along the outlines of his tattoo and soaking into the fabric of his hoodie. Earbuds wrapped around his ears, dangling with each step. He doesn’t speak at first, just watches the storm with a sort of stillness that feels different than usual.

Softer.

“You waiting for it to flood, or…?”

You glance up at him, sheepish. “Didn’t think I’d need an umbrella today. Spring’s supposed to be kinder than this.”

A quiet huff of amusement, barely a laugh. He shifts his bag, pulls a weathered umbrella from inside, and opens it with one smooth flick of his wrist.

He hesitates just a beat.

Then, like it’s no big deal he holds his arm out to you, just slightly but you get the idea.

“Come on. I’ll walk you.”

You don't hesitate this time, curling a hand around his arm carefully as step beside him, close beneath the small arc of shelter. The umbrella’s not big and you're pretty sure his right shoulder is getting completely soaked but he doesnt" seem to care. The bruise on his jaw is healing, fading into his skin and the broken skin on his knuckles have turned into white little lines. His normal cologne, natural scent of smoke is softened by the sweet green notes still clinging to the rain.

“Thank you” you murmur.

He doesn’t look at you. Just says, quieter:

“Your books would’ve gotten ruined.”

There’s meaning tucked between the words, like always.

When you glance up at him, his ears are flushed faintly pink.

You smile. Something new and gentle stirs in your chest.

Maybe spring is kinder than you thought.

Maybe it just came in his shape.

#jjk x reader #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jjk fluff #jjk x gender neutral reader #sukuna x reader #sukuna fluff #sukuna ryomen x reader #sukuna ryomen #jjk x you #jujutsu kaisen fanfic #jujustu kaisen

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