#some good ol' smut

[hungharrington]

i feel it coming, babe

technically the sequel to a little less conversation this is yet another piece for girlies (gn) with bad sex experiences <3 remember sometimes it takes more than once to get it right honeys :D 12k words, fem!reader, MDNI THIS ENTIRE BLOG IS 18+

Okay so, you’ll admit, you might be beginning to get it. 

A smidge. A pinch. 

It’s just— well, how are you not supposed to understand it? How can you not get the thrill and fervour over sex when it’s with Steve and he looks like that. All golden tan skin and hazel eyes that look at you like he might eat you whole and— and he treats you like… 

Like there was never anything wrong with you.

Even after that balmy afternoon spent in his sheets, with his mouth between your thighs, pulling noises out of you that you’d never even heard before, he’s been so perfectly so. Not pushy, yet still that lingering hunger you can see simmering beneath his skin, hidden in the flex of his fingers. 

Part of you almost worries, a little niggle burrowed in the back of your mind, that it was all a fluke.

That nothing had really changed all that much between you— that the next time things start getting heated, the chemistry won’t be there. Or it’ll be weird and off, or you will be, and really, you were probably lucky to have that first time with Steve so good but you can’t expect that again. 

But then… there is one difference at least, to combat all your swarming thoughts a fluke. The kisses. 

When you think of Steve Harrington and his playboy past, you can’t say, of the words tossed around in the high school corridor, that clingy is something that comes to mind. Not that he had been described as anything other than charming… but you don’t mind pleasant surprise of coming to learn this about Steve. 

It means kisses all the time. 

On your hands, scattered across your knuckles, when he’s dropping you home from a date. Kisses pressed to your hair and forehead, when he’s scooching past you, when he’s saying hello and his hands are busy, when you sit between his legs on the sofa. 

He kisses your shoulders, up along the curve of your neck just to see if it’ll still make you laugh a bit when he finds that ticklish spot beneath your ear. Adores sweeping back your hair to plant a kiss against your skin with the sweetest little ‘mwah!’ so quiet you don’t think you’re meant to hear it. 

And your lips… you don’t think they’ve ever been so kiss-bitten in your life.

One night with Steve can leave them blooming with colour, all the blood beneath them rushing with pleasure as he kisses your mouth soft — sometimes hard, sometimes sweet, always maddeningly. 

He greets you with a kiss always, one hand curled gently around your chin to tilt it up perfectly. And always after, a grin spreads across his face, brown eyes crinkling and pink lips barely restrained his joy. 

“Hi, sweetheart.” He’ll always says, or some variation.

Which, yeah, that’s new too. Sweetheart. You haven’t quite figured out how to not melt to a gloopy gooey mess when he says it just yet. It’s a damn good thing that your boyfriend is a gentleman and he politely doesn’t comment when you fluster, only gets the smallest hint of a smirk. 

For all your past worries about not kissing him for fear of leading him on, you hadn’t realise quite how much you were depriving yourself of affection. Steve’s certainly turning you greedy— and he’s all too happy to sate your appetite for it. 

Today, it’s drizzly. The colour of the sky is a bright ashen grey, enough to warrant a headache and inspire a day inside. In the distance, you can see the thunder clouds rolling in and bringing a blanket of shadow with them. 

They reach overhead much quicker than you’re expecting and you’re barely a block out from Steve's house before the rain starts coming down. 

Try as you might, raincoat tucked tight around you, you’re still a bit drenched by the time you make it to Steve’s doorstep. One freezing finger presses the door bell. A chime sounds inside. 

You rub your hands together to try warm them as you wait, cringing at the whisk of wind that twirls your hair up and about. Your hands shoot up and you nervously flatten the wild strands back down— right as Steve opens the door.

He’s got a towel around his neck, one hand scrubbing it into his wet hair. Judging from his ruffled t-shirt — put on in a rush and exposing his tummy — he’s just got out the shower. He looks surprised but happy to see you.

“Sweetheart, hi-hoooooly shit,” He sticks his head out the door, eyes wide as he takes in the weather. His hair flicks as he turns back to you. “Did you walk the whole way from your house? In the rain?” 

Your shoulders form a meek shrug. Before you can speak, his hands are on your shoulders, tugging you inside, across the doorway. He kicks it shut behind you. 

“Christ, honey, what’d you do that for?” His hands fret a little bit, rubbing at your shoulders. He gently picks a piece of hair that’s stuck to your cheek, placing it behind your ear. 

“I mean,” You start, a little confused. Your hands tighten on your overnight bag, wringing the handle tightly. He knew you were coming over, right? “I thought we— on the phone, we made a plan?” 

Steve breathes a soft laugh. “Yeah, we’ve got plans. But I would’ve come got you instead of making you walk through the rain. C’mon, what  kind of boyfriend do you think I am?” 

His use of the word boyfriend still makes you glow. You smile, nope, you grin all cheesy — and it doesn’t help at all when Steve’s hands trail down your jacket to hold your own. He wiggles the handles of your bag out from your frozen fingers and drops it behind him gently. His hands dart back to cover yours.

“Dear god, I think you’re about two minutes from losing a finger.” His eyebrows have scrunched together in worry. He brings your hands up to his face, cupped in his own, and blows hot air on them. It tickles but you can’t stop smiling. 

He pulls them back, rubbing his thumbs over your icy fingers and peers down at them. Your heart coos at his concern. 

“What’s the verdict doctor?” You jest, making your voice all breathy and dramatic. “Am I gonna make it?” 

Steve frowns harder at your hands, his face serious when he tilts it back up to face you. “I’m afraid we’re gonna have to amputate.” 

You gasp dramatically. 

Steve grins. He runs over your hands once more, one of his fingers creeping up your wrist, trying to find a ticklish spot. You squeal a little, trying to pull back but he holds your hands firm in his own. He continues his serious voice. 

“Ma’am, I’m sorry but it’s your whole arm. We’re gonna have to chop it right off.” 

His fingers are half way up your sleeve, making it bunch up and you’re laughing so much it’s warming you up much faster than him blowing on your hands. You push his hand away playfully and Steve relents, putting his hands up in surrender. 

“Okay, okay, you got me.” He grins. “I’m not a real doctor.”

You laugh again, reaching up to tuck back your hair that’s fallen forward in your squirming. “Uh huh, a real doofus is what you are.” 

Steve rolls his eyes endearingly, his hands reaching out to snag your waist this time. He tugs you closer. Your feet stumble and when you press against his chest, you’re delighted to find he’s very, very warm. You're definitely soaking his shirt a bit with your coat but if Steve cares, he doesn't say.

“Just realised I didn’t properly say hello,” He murmurs, a little quieter than before. 

And when one of his hands moves up and curls beneath your jaw, holding your chin gently, you know what’s coming. If you weren’t already holding your breath in anticipation, he probably would’ve stolen it with his kiss.

His plush lips are soft and with a loving little hum, he kisses you.

All the lights around you look a little dewey and heart-shaped when Steve pulls back — though it may be just your own lovey-dovey eyes. You sigh without meaning to, all honeyed and sweet, and Steve softens immeasurably at the sound. 

“Okay,” He shifts his hands back down to your hands, rubbing them lightly. “I’m not kidding, even your lips feel frozen. D’ya wanna take a quick shower just to warm up?” 

Something about you flushes at his suggestion— a runaway thought about getting in his shower, it getting steamier and steamier, especially with Steve slipping in to join you halfway. You clear your throat to push away the thought and focus. 

Your hair is wetter than you’d expected, sticking to your neck in cold tendrils. A shiver zips down your spine. All your scandalous thoughts aside, it sounds like a pretty good idea. 

“Yeah,” you nod gingerly. “Yeah, okay, it wouldn’t mind the warm up.” 

Steve steps back, bending down to scoop up your bag deftly. He holds it for you as you unbutton your coat as quick as you can with your frozen fingers, shivering in relief as you shed the drenched layer. Droplets of rain spray in the rustle. Your coat finds a home on a peg beside the door.

It’s comforting how easy it is to follow Steve up the stairs, drinking in his cosy attire from behind— gone are his usual tight fitting jeans. Instead, he’s donned what you guess is his pyjamas; a plain ringer tee and red, plaid, and long flannelette pants. His feet are warmed by fluffy socks that have reindeer prancing about the fabric. A flash of his tan ankle makes you stumble for a moment.

Steve trades your overnight bag, with a smile and a promise to keep it safe, for a pillowy white towel, soft as ever. He leads you into the bathroom off his bedroom, depositing your bag on his bed along the way. 

His fingers find the switch for the heated towel rail and while you fold the towel over it neatly, heart humming in content at being taken care of, Steve starts the shower. He sticks one hand in, holding it under the spray and grimacing at the cold— until the chill slips away beneath the steamy hot water. 

“Alright,” Steve says, pulling his hand back. He gives it a little shake, droplets splattering on the tiles. “All ready for my best girl.“ 

He gives a cheesy and charismatic smile as he wipes his hand dry and if you were brave enough, you might give him a little thank you kiss for it. You aren’t just yet — but when he moves to slip by you, you halt him with a soft hand on his torso. 

“Thank you.” you say, quieter than you intend. You push on the balls of your feet and plant a quick peck onto his cheek. 

Pink blooms beneath where your lips touch. Steve looks like he melts a bit, lashes fluttering as he sucks in a sharp inhale. Turns out neither of you are getting any closer to getting used to the affection. It’s sweet to know it goes both ways. 

“I’m gonna—“ Steve breathes, his hand drifting up, his index finger pointed out to the door. “I’ll be nearby if you need anything. Or if you fall. Just like, uh, yell- or scream. Or— you know what, you’ve taken a shower before.” 

He stumbles out towards the exit, pulling two awkward thumbs-up over his shoulders. The door swings shut behind him, closing with a quiet click. 

Your clothes pool to the ground, a trail leading towards the shower as you move with haste. Though you’re sure the Harrington's won’t notice, you don’t want to waste the hot water. 

The heat soothes you— swathes of relief washing down your body, picking up every piece of ice in your skin and sending it swirling down the drain. It doesn’t take too long to get back to warm and toasty. 

Still, when your eye catches on it, you can’t resist. Steve has a body wash that smells heavenly. You pick it up, flick back the cap, and take a whiff — just to check it’s the one that’s been infiltrating your very dreams. Steve, even on a daily basis, manages to smell so good it drives you close to delirium. 

You’re more than happy to steal it for yourself today. You take another sniff of the bottle in your grasp, just to inhale it with a sigh. The sweater he let you borrow the other week has the exact same smell; a musky perfumed scent, with a hint of bergamot. 

You dollop some in your hand and lather it all over. Properly cleansed and throughly warmed up, you let the final suds whirlpool down the drain before shutting the tap off and stepping out. The fluffy porcelain coloured towel is toasty in your hands as you pluck it off the rail.  A sigh in appreciation comes out as you dry off, twisting it around yourself. 

It’s as you stand there, refreshed and smelling of Steve, in just a towel, do you realise you’ve forgotten to bring in clothes to change into. 

On his bed, Steve sits idle — because what else is Steve supposed to do when you’re in his shower? When you’re naked in his shower. Naked in his shower and probably using his soap and lathering it up down your body and on your boobs and— oh my god, soapy boobs and— 

Steve’s pulls himself from his thoughts with a rapid shake of his head, just in time for the bathroom door to rattle open and your shining face to peek through. 

You look a little flushed, maybe from the heat, or from the lack of clothing. Steve can see your bare shoulder, his eyes tracking a drop as it rolls down your collarbone. None of this helps his runaway thoughts. 

He stands up without thought. Then he realises how strange he might look, like a dog standing to attention. 

“Feeling boober?” Steve says, like an idiot. Heat floods his face as he realises his flub. “BETTER! Are you feeling better?” 

He’s thankful that you at least laugh, a pretty sound that you tuck behind your hand. You have the nerve to wiggle your eyebrows at him, a far cry from the confidence he’s come to expect from you in the past. Steve can’t deny— he adores it. 

“What are you thinking about?” 

“God,” Steve groans. He shoves his face into his hands and turns around, his back to you. His words are muffled over his shoulder. “Don’t even ask me that right now.” 

Another laugh titters out of you. Steve can’t resist peering over his shoulder. The steam curls out through the gap of the door, leaving dew on your skin. You look ethereal, like a dewy angel from a dream.

“Alright,” you relent playfully. You’re fighting a smile and losing, badly. Steve yearns. “Can you please pass me my bag?” 

This next time the door opens again and you step out, there’s less tantalising skin to tease Steve and his wandering mind. There’s still a flash of wet skin, the curve between your shoulder and neck. Steve wants to lick it, kiss it, devour it til the skin beneath is riddled with the bruises of a lover. 

For a moment, you’re simply admired — Steve’s eyes on you, adoring and soft, as you creep out the bathroom like you don’t want to make too much noise. 

You notice in your absence Steve has cajoled a little tray table into his room, tucked up at the foot of his bed. Atop it sits a chunky television, antennae sticking up in perfectly straight lines. The ones at home on yours are slightly warped from all the readjusting. 

“Hey,” Steve says. He’s on the bed this time, and while he doesn’t get up this time, he sits up straighter as you emerge from the bathroom. You put your bag down, abandoning it by the door and try to quell your nerves. 

Steve, unless he’s somehow obtained x-ray vision and hadn’t told you, can’t see the nice matching set you’ve got beneath your comfy clothes. 

He won’t see it— unless this night goes where you think it might, where you hope it might, but even still, the thought manages to make you fluster. 

“Hi.” You say back, voice closer to a whisper. 

The bed sinks beneath your weight as you climb on to situate yourself beside Steve. He’s all soft corners and crinkled eyes, his arm raised up in an instant for you to tuck yourself under. Even warmer in his arms, your heart delights when he gives you a little squeeze.

“Alright, movie time!” The television at the foot of the bed pulls Steve away from you. He unwinds his arm enough to crawl down the bed. The grey ringer shirt he has one slips forward a bit and at your angle, you can catch more than a sliver of his tan tummy. 

Without thinking, your thighs press together tightly as heat flares between them. You can trace the alluring wiry trail of hair with your eyes until it disappears into his pyjama pants, continuing out of sight. A part of your wants. 

You want to see where it goes, want to curl your fingers into his waistband and work it downwards, you want find out if the moles go all the way down his thighs like you hope they do.

Hunger sinks its teeth into your skin; a hunger you’ve been getting more and more familiar with. 

“Okay, pervert,” Steve’s cheeky remark shakes you from your thoughts and you start to stammer. He’s clearly caught you staring. “Can’t say I blame you for ogling—“ 

“I was not—“  

“— because I have been told before that I have a very distracting and attractive behind.” 

You sputter and despite your best efforts, a little laugh splutters through as well because well, yeah, he’s not wrong — but your brain is stuck on repeat with something else entirely. 

Tummy, tummy, tummy, the hair on his tummy, the hair leading down into his pants.   

“Yeah, uh huh, okay, Harrington,” You slump back against the pillows with a dramatic sigh, clearly teasing. “If you say so.” 

The television flickers to life right as Steve lunges back towards you with all the energy of a labrador puppy. He squishes down onto you so quickly that you actually squeal in surprise. 

“Oh, I’m back to just Harrington now?” He pouts, squeezing even closer to you. You’re laughing, flattened beneath him in a way that you can’t even wiggle your arms out. He’s draped across you dramatically. You trust him completely. 

“It’s your name, isn’t it?” 

“I thought my name was,” He leans closer and kisses your neck. “Boyfriend. Or baby. Orrrrrr,” 

He kisses up your neck and onto your cheek. His hazel eyes are bright, crinkled in his grin so much that his lashes kiss in the corner. He kisses your nose. “Handsome.” 

“Mmmhm,” you revel in the never-ending affection, glowing from the inside with happiness. You wiggle your arms to make Steve push himself up, just enough to free them from being smothered against your chest. Free to roam, your hands find the sides of his face. 

“What about…” You begin. Steve watches you closely, evidently gleeful from the touchiness of your hands. He pushes into your palm, turning to kiss it fast. “My snookums.” 

You exaggerate the word, your voice going all sugary to butter it up. You watch as emotions ripple across Steve’s face— the twitch in his nose as he tries not to outright frown at you. How polite he is. 

It’s only as he catches the grin spreading across your face, wicked and just loving watching him squirm at the terrible pet-name, does he catch on to your jest. A sigh of relief and a chuckle whooshes out of him at once. 

“Oh, thank God you’re joking.” He drops all his weight into your waiting hands, grinning when you let his face flops forward into your chest. His words are completely muffled as he speaks into your chest. “That could’ve been serious grounds for a breakup.”

You huff a laugh and nudge him up best you can. “Yeah, alright, drama queen. Your movie is starting.” 

Steve’s head pops up, his head twisting back towards the television like he had forgotten about its existence until you had mentioned it. 

“Oh true,” He says. He pushes up off you to sit himself up, shuffling back so instead you can lean on him. Re-situating his arms around you, Steve hums absentmindedly as he throws a leg over you, tangling it with yours. Thoroughly intertwined, you both sink back into the pillows. 

The credits roll up and off the screen, the first five minutes of the film whisked away while you and Steve were settling down. Now, the opening scene begins, the grainy picture on the screen buzzing as it plays the VHS. 

You get approximately two minutes of silence, your and Steve’s heads turned towards the television, until distraction kicks in.

You do your best to ignore it as his head turns towards you, your eyes still focused on the screen, but all your attention runs to Steve. He nudges a little closer to you, his nose pressing into your temple and right as you realise he’s smelling you, he says— 

“Did you use my body wash?” 

You freeze. 

“I— was I not supposed to?” Your voice comes out a bit weaker than intended. 

Steve lets out a soft noise, somewhere between a sigh and a groan, only worrying you further. He starts to shift around a bit, retracting his leg back an inch, his nose no longer nudging close along your temple; all actions that contrast his assuring words. 

“No, no, no, it’s fine, you’re fine—“ Despite his words, he shifts again. His hips shuffle backward, one of his hands moving down subtlety as he can to fuss with his pyjama pants. 

It takes about two more seconds for you to get it — clued in by Steve’s suddenly scarlet cheeks and his embarrassed expression. 

Your mouth drops open a bit unwittingly. 

“Are you—“ 

“Yes.” Steve grates out. He abandons fixing the growing tent in his pants to cover his face with his hands, rolling slightly away from you. You can feel the heat of his embarrassment radiating off him. His words are slightly muffled from behind his palms. 

“I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean— I didn’t even realise that was something that got me going until, like, right this second.”  

It’s adorable that he’s so flustered and that he’s apologising. You’ve never had that happen before. You’ve never had someone so conscious of how it might seem— never someone like Steve who doesn’t seem to come with any expectations. 

A thread of relief jolts through you. It reaffirms what you already know; anything you want to do will be done on your terms. 

And with his eyes covered up, if you glance down at his pants for good hard look…. well, that’s between you and the universe.

“Steve,” your fingers curl around one of his wrists, tugging it gently. You try to coax his face out of hiding, your smile somewhere between giggly and endeared. “It’s— it’s okay, really, you don’t have to apologise. I— I mean, I’m honestly flattered.” 

Steve deflates a bit, torn between relief and his still persistent concern. He had made a committed plan that he wouldn’t make any moves until you initiated it first and yet, here he was, like every other male in Hawkins. Popping a boner the moment you settle down to innocently cuddle. God, he’s the worst!

A pout forms on his lips. He wishes he could rewind the last 2 minutes and spend the whole movie holding his breath. 

“What is it about the body wash?” 

Your question takes him by surprise, given the way his other hand drops off from covering his face. He blinks up at you, cheeks still with a hint of cherry red. 

“I- I dunno.” He admits. “Like I said I didn’t even realise that…” 

Steve’s cheeks flush with colour again. He clears his throat. “That would have that effect on me.” 

Something within you preens, a fire stoked by his honest admission; a zing shooting down your spine because you don’t think you will ever get used to hearing how Steve wants you.

“Well,” you begin, the word more timid than you hoped it would be. You clear your throat and cast a glance at the television, feigning casualness. “If I was the cause…” 

You let your hand come up, brushing across his warm tummy. Look up at him through your lashes, hoping, praying it looks sexier than you’re feeling— which is somewhere between flustered and foolish.

Still, Steve’s throat bobs. You watch his eyes dart down to your lingering hand, an inch or so above his waistband. 

“Maybe, I can be the remedy.” 

A tiny groan scrapes out of Steve’s throat, like he would love nothing more. Even so, he pins you with a sincere look, hazel eyes burning into yours. 

“You don’t have to do that.” He assures you. “I mean—“ He coughs awkwardly. “It will go away, uh, in time.” 

“I’m aware how it works, Steve.” 

“Oh, are you?” Steve jokes— laughing when you wallop him in the chest. He grabs your hand, stopping your assault mid-motion with a cheeky smile. “Okay! Okay, I deserved that.” 

He releases your hand and you let it fall onto his chest. Nerves prickle beneath your skin but with them is something new, something you’ve only gained since your time with Steve; anticipation. 

Steeling your anxiety, you let your hand trail down his chest slowly— enough time that he could halt you before you embarrassed yourself. But he doesn’t. Steve watches you closely, his chest rising and falling a bit harder as your hand nears his waistband. 

This time, you don’t stop. You let your fingers brush over the tented fabric hesitantly, torn between wanting to watch your hand or to see his face. As confidently as you can, you palm across his bulge— feeling the heat of his hard length thickening up under your hand. 

Steve groans lowly. 

You look up at him as you rub him softly, taking in his large pupils and pink lips. He’s watching you too, his eyes darting between your face and the hand on his cock. 

“Is this okay?” You check. The movie crackles on in the background, idle noise. Steve nods quickly, a curl of his hair falling down onto his forehead. 

“Yeah,” He says, voice breathier than it was a minute ago. You try out a harder rub, beginning to feel out the shape of his cock, and you curl your fingers around it. Steve groans again, a little bit louder, his eyelashes fluttering. 

Still, he composes himself enough to ask, “Is this okay for you?” 

“Hmmm,” you draw out the noise, the smile on your face giving away your faux-thinking. You squeeze him again, right as you murmur, “Maybe make that noise again and I’ll see.” 

But any noise he makes is captured in your mouth as he surges forward, one of his hands curling up under your jaw. His fingers slide into your hair and his lips are sweet and soft, hungry for more against your own. 

You can’t help but melt under his kisses, body relaxing into the sheets as you let yourself be kissed breathlessly. A warmth pools deep within your chest, drooling down into your stomach. Anticipations sinks in. Your thighs rub together. 

Losing the nerve and the focus, your hand slips up to cup at Steve’s hip— but if he cares, he doesn’t show it. Instead, he takes it as a cue to press forward, leaning his weight onto on his elbows to hold his weight as he shifts up, his lips never leaving yours. 

It’s one smooth motion, the way he slips a leg between your own, his body held up and hovering above yours. He kisses, slow and languid. You ache. Your lips haven’t ever been so kissed before. 

It isn’t until his thigh shifts up and presses just right do you notice it properly — unable to swallow your shallow gasp, lips halting against Steve’s as a bolt of pleasure blooms deep in your gut. Your eyelashes flutter, a shadow of embarrassment threatening your cheeks. 

“S’okay?” Steve whispers, not relenting any of his closeness. His lips brush yours. 

You nod gently, a quiet hum sounding in your throat. You’re not entirely sure you can form words right now. Not when it feels like your heartbeat is everywhere — when you can feel the heat between your legs, the tightness of your nipples as they peak, the undeniable thrum of lust building within you. 

And certainly not when you can feel Steve, his hardness pressed up against your thigh, his pupils bigger than usual. They’re ringed in that hazel you love— a colour that might be your new favourite ever. 

Fuck, you’re in deep. What an incredibly sappy thought to have while you’re getting hot and bothered. Did Steve think that way about you too? Think about the colour of your eyes while he kissed your mouth?

“I…” You finally find your voice and Steve pulls back a couple inches so he can see you properly. His eyes dart over your face adoringly, his lips rosy red from all the kisses and quirked into a smile. He looks at you as if you’re everything. 

“I want to…” You say, unable to find the words to finish your sentence. Embarrassment winds up inside you, ready to spring free but Steve seems uncaring at your hesitance. 

“You wanna what?” 

He kisses the corner of your mouth with a hum. Endlessly patient. Somehow your stomach churns a little faster at that. Nerves stand up on their end, a thousand uneasy prickles over your body. 

“I want to.” You say this time, firmer. “Do more.” 

It still sounds too mousy coming out and you see a flicker of something on Steve’s face. 

“If you do, I mean.” You add on quickly. “I want to if you do.”

Steve huffs a quiet laugh, like the idea of checking in with him was a bit absurd. His gaze roams over your face slowly, taking his fine time just looking at you. He looks as though he doesn’t quite know what to say. 

He lands on, “You don’t seem sure.” 

Your heart flip-flops at the wrinkle between his eyebrows, his concern evident. He fixes you with a serious, sincere look.

You nod, your hair scrunching up against the pillow as you do. “I am. I just…” 

You sink your teeth into your bottom lip and worry it, thinking of how to put this. You’ve said it before, you’ve told him how it was in the past, how you hadn’t enjoyed it and yet…

Feeling too squirmish under Steve’s intense stare, you avert your eyes to look at the ceiling and swallow the knot in your throat. 

Your voice comes out a whisper. “I want to try but I’m not sure— I just I can’t promise that I’ll- that y’know, I—” 

Eyes crushing closed, you try to seize your bubbling anxiety before it seizes you. This is Steve. You trust him wholly. Just a moment ago you were thinking about how much you like him and—

“Hey,” Steve murmurs lowly, nudging his nose into yours. Your eyes open. He smiles softly when he says, “I have no interest in doing something you don’t enjoy.” 

The protest flounders up inside you before you can stop it. “But—“ 

“So,” He cuts you off pointedly. “If we give it a go and you don’t like it, that’s okay. We can just figure out what you do enjoy, okay?“

For a long moment, you just stare up at him.  

“Yeah? So we can just try and if it… If I…” You flounder for words, sounding like you think it must be too good to be true. You stare up at the ceiling as you try to verbalise the biggest hurdle, the final niggling worry.

You peer back up at Steve’s face. “You… you wouldn’t be disappointed if we started but then I wanted to stop?” 

Some emotion shutters across Steve’s face, a flash of devastation. You mistake it for annoyance. 

An unwelcome hitch suddenly twists in your stomach. “I'm sorry, I know that you— we already- last time, we talked about this and I should know—“ 

“Stop it,” Steve interrupts with a soft shake of his head. “Stop doing that, it’s fine to feel unsure or- or to not know what you like. It takes time and experience to figure what you do like.” 

His hand shifts up, brushing the hair back from your forehead. He leaves it there, the warmth of his hand a comfort. His fingers curl lightly into your hair. 

“That’s all I wanna do,” He breathes softly, his lips tugging up at the corners. He looks unbearably earnest, his brown eyes shining. “Just wanna do what you like. Wanna figure out what you like.” 

He leans down and kisses your cheek. Then your jaw. Then that soft sensitive spot under your ear. You squirm but this time for all the right reasons. 

“Y’want me to do that?” He murmurs. 

You’re breathing a little heavier and when Steve nips at your earlobe sparingly, just a love bite and a flash of teeth, your breath catches loudly. Desire surges through you, hot and straight between your legs. 

It takes another moment to remember he’s asked you a question. 

“Yeah…” you breathe. You wanna nod but you don’t want him to stop what he’s doing. Your throat bobs as you swallow. “I wanna do that. Wanna— wanna learn what you like too.” 

Steve hums, a pleased sound, and he kisses languidly at your neck. His lips, soft and plush, scrape against your skin in a way that gathers heat low in your gut. Your hips tilt forward an inch, moving against his thigh almost imperceptibly.

“Yeah?” 

The way he says it, the way the word rolls out of his mouth, all husky and low, makes your nipples peak. 

“We get to learn together, hm?” He kisses your neck again. The soft press of his tongue and the gentle scrape of his teeth have you gripping the sheets, almost white knuckled. 

Suddenly, you can’t stand to not be touching him. Your hands fly from the sheets, fingers curling around his midriff, feeling at the warm skin. His t-shirt is warmed by him. You slip your hands beneath it as he bites where your shoulder meets your neck, soft enough to make you sigh. 

Your hand finds skin. Finally, finally, you get your hands on that damned happy trail that’s been all but haunting your daydreams for the past months. 

As Steve kisses down your neck, you trace the line of hair with your finger slowly. Your thumb strokes the coarse hair all the way down to his waistband, gentle and hungry all at once— trying to commit it all to memory. Unwittingly, Steve shivers at the motion. 

“Fuck,” his breath shudders against your neck. He tucks his face in closer, fighting the urge to press his body up against yours and grind. You feel the twitch in his hips anyway. “You drive me crazy.” 

“Me too,” you gasp when he pulls off your neck, blowing cool air across the heated skin he’s been dedicating himself to. You wonder if a bruise will come up, beautiful and kiss-bitten. You clench a little at the thought, the heat between your thighs only increasing. 

A mark from him— a mark of a lover. 

You want to give one to him too. Managing to remember you can do things with your hands, other than just pawing at his back, you shift them up to curl into his hair. Tugging gently, you coax his face up enough so you can nose alone the length of his neck. 

Steve’s panting and you can hear his breath catch when you start planting kiss after kiss on his skin— dragging your bottom lip across those glorious moles you adore so much. 

Without meaning to, you press him back and Steve lets himself roll back onto the mattress, his hands tugging you closer. You take the invitation and struggle for a moment to get up over his hips, one leg too tangled in the blanket on the bed. 

“My leg,” you laugh weakly, having to retract a hand from his hair to free it. When you do, you settle down, straddling his hips, and try not to lose your confidence. Still, you can’t help apologising. “Sorry.” 

Steve peers up at you lovingly, frowning a little when you apologise. “What? No, it’s fine.” 

He shifts one hand and grabs the loose blanket beside you and then hefts it up, throwing it as far as he can off the bed with a grunt. It lands somewhere behind you with a soft noise. 

“Blanket’s fault.” He says, brown eyes back on you. “Freaking cockblock. I got rid of him, babe, don’t worry.” 

You snort a little, leaning down to kiss his perfect lips.

“My hero.” You murmur sarcastically against them. 

“Ooh, say that again, baby,” Steve moans exaggeratedly, throwing his head back onto the pillow dramatic, his eyes screwed shit.  

You laugh, unknowingly relaxing a little further into him. You swat at his chest. 

“Steve.” 

“Oh!” He moans again, all girlish and fake, and twists his head in the other direction. “I love it when you say my name like I’m an idiot!” 

You gasp, but it’s still hidden in your laughter as you hit his chest again, for a different reason this time. 

“Don’t say that!” You say genuinely. “I don’t think you’re an idiot.” 

Steve drops the act, his eyes creasing open to shine up at you. He’s glowing beneath you, cheeks a bit flushed and grinning like he’s a little bit in love with you. You think he might be. 

“No, you don’t.” He agrees. He soothes his hands up and down your sides. “Only idiot is that idiot who let you think there was anything wrong with you.” 

“Ugh,” you scoff. “Please don’t bring him up ever again— least of all when we’re in bed.” 

Steve squeezes your sides gently and smiles up at you like he hasn’t heard a word you’ve said. “Noted.” 

And then you kiss him. 

For a couple of minutes it’s this easy, lazy making out that you love. Though, it’s like there’s a furnace turning up beneath you both, the intensity getting more feverish with every kiss. When Steve finally pulls back from you, panting, he looks as flustered as you feel. 

“Can I take these off?” 

His fingers are curled into the waistband of your pyjama pants. You nod before you can overthink it, letting him shimmy them down your thighs and settling yourself down on the comforter. Steve sits up a bit beside you, to tug them down your legs and off your ankles. 

Steve’s focus is on his hands but your gaze is stuck on his face— and you watch as he tosses your pants behind him carelessly. His eyes fix on your cunt, hidden away behind your lacy panties. 

“Woah,” he murmurs softly, eyes flicking up to meet yours. He leans down on his elbows, one arm on either side of your hips and pings the elastic on the cutest lingerie you own. “These are very pretty.” 

He sounds like he means it, his voice tinged with lust. It gives you a moment of confidence. 

“Yeah?” You ask. You slide your hands up, pushing your shirt up gingerly as you to reveal the matching bra to him.

Even from your distance, you can see how Steve’s pupils dilate, blowing way out. “You like them?” 

Steve let’s out a pained noise as his head flops over, his nose pressed into your hipbone. One of his hands reaches down between his legs, adjusting himself in his pants. 

He looks back up at you, hair a bit mussed, and pouts.

“That’s not fair! That’s so not fair. Did you plan this? Blindside me by wearing my body wash and then surprise me with matching lingerie?” 

The way he says it, all faux accusatory, makes you grin. He sits up long enough to tug his own shirt off, discarding it behind him, and crawls up the bed to kiss you. You catch a glint of the single chain he wears around his neck before he's kissing you.

“You—” Kiss. “look—” Kiss. “so—” Kiss. “fuckin’—” Kiss. “hot.” 

He pulls back, taking a moment to just gaze at you before he leans back further, scuttling down the sheets til he’s paused between above your legs. 

Something within you flares hotly at the memory of the last time he was in the position. You feel a warm pulse in your cunt, a trickle of slick coating your panties. Your hips shift an inch— half nerves, half anticipation.

Steve kisses you over your panties, like last time, the first chaste and on your clit. The next is a little lower, a little slower, his lips parting further and his tongue pressing languidly against your core. You squirm, breathing a little heavier. 

His hands grips gently at your hips, moving up to smooth over your thighs. He lets his fingers slip forward, the tips of them pressing lightly into your inner thighs. He pulls them further apart and ruins you a bit when he kisses sweet along the skin of your thigh. 

“I’m pretty sure we could just do this every time and I’d be happy,” Steve says, but it’s paired a chuckle fringed with nerves.

He looks up at you and you realise it is a bit of nervousness— like he’s worried you might find it embarrassing just how much he likes it. 

Your blood hums in response, warmer, all of it rushing down your body. You don’t know quite what to say to that, so you say, “Yeah?” 

Steve smiles, that flash of nervousness already gone or cleverly hidden. He gives your thighs a gentle squeeze with his large hands and rubs his cheek up against one of them. 

“Are you kidding me? I think I’d do anything you wanted just to hear those noises you made again.” 

Your lips part slightly in surprise. He’s always so startlingly honest and forward with his feelings but, somehow, it still manages takes you by surprise— that he’s not at all shy about how much he likes you. 

Scrambling for an appropriately sexy response, you come up blank and instead decide to press your thighs together. Between them, Steve’s cheeks squish forward, his lips forming an absurdly funny pout. 

“Hey!” He exclaims.

It comes out a little muffled with his face squidged up and the mixture of both his face and voice makes you laugh. You release him, legs falling apart, feeling the breath of his laugh again your skin. 

“Kidding, you can warm my ears anytime you want, honey,” He’s still grinning up at you when he says it. Part of you know he’s being completely serious. 

Your gut burns low. You resist the urge to squirm, feeling the heat chase down to your cunt. It’s hard to relax when he manages to make you feel so keyed up. 

“Stop getting distracted.” You jest. 

“You stop getting distracted,” He jibes back, but his focus drifts back down, his eyes darkening with a fiery lust. 

He rubs the skin of your thighs again, soothingly, and lets one hand creep forward til his knuckles are brushing up against the edge of your panties. His thumb presses forward, into the wet spot you’ve soaked through. 

Even so, he still asks, “How we doin’? Still feeling good?” 

You nod quickly, then think verbal confirmation is probably far better. “Yeah, still good.” 

Realising you’re staring up at the ceiling, hard, you flick your eyes down between your legs. Even if it doesn’t feel particularly sexy, you still have to say it. “Thank you for checking.” 

“Of course,” Steve says. He pinches the elastic of your panties lightly, his eyebrows raising in question. “Gonna take these off, yeah? Then you let me know if you don’t like anything I’m doing.” 

Despite your history, a huge part of you wants to say yeah, fat chance of that because yeah, you’re beginning to wonder if your boyfriend has some genuinely magical fingers. And a magical mouth. And wait, does that mean his co—

The thought gets ripped away as you feel your panties get tugged downwards and you quickly lift your hips to help. Though he’s seen you bare before, it’s impossible to stop the flush that rolls through your body, hot and tinged with embarrassment. You want to close your legs but Steve between them prevents that from happening. 

“Here,” Steve hums, reaching a hand up to scoop up your own from the bedsheets.

He gives it a quick kiss on the palm and then moves it up to land in his hair. “You let me know how m’doing, okay?” 

Your fingers curl into his brunette locks automatically and grip tightly when he leans in, his hot tongue dipping between your folds. Pleasure drips into your body as he begins to lick softly, his skilled tongue finding your bundle of nerves quickly and twisting around it. 

Heat builds. You close your eyes and let yourself enjoy it, soft pants escaping your lips as Steve kisses and suckles where you’re most sensitive, til there’s a moan lacing every breath. 

Fuck, he’s so good at this. How is he so good at this? 

One of his hands on your thighs starts to knead gently as the other one slides forward, til his thumb is rested at your slicked entrance. He hasn’t stopped sucking on your clit but your sudden sharp inhale catches his attention. 

“Sorry,” you say instinctively. 

“It’s fine,” Steve soothes, his thumb circling around your soaked hole, which clenches in response.

He kisses your thigh. Desire burns you up from within, your fingers twisting a little tighter in his hair, giving away your nerves. 

“We’re just figuring out what you like, yeah?” He muses, his words half comfort, half lust. 

You nod but don’t speak, trying to trust him enough to let his words calm you. Steve gives you a moment to breathe before he resumes the work with his mouth, his hot mouth suckling at your clit once again. 

He waits until you’re back to those quiet, shy lusty little noises before he tries again, prodding softly at your entrance in warning before he gently sinks his finger in. You gasp again, hands tightening in his hair — as something molten hot shoots right up your spine. 

“Steve,” you cry out his name. It feels... good, which feels like a fucking miracle in itself. He begins to fuck the finger in and out slowly, still lapping at your clit. A heat that you’ve only felt once before starts to nip at your skin, bleeding into each nerve. 

Your panting grows heavier and without meaning to, you clench down around him, desperate for a little more. 

“See, you like that one, huh?” Steve mumbles against you, his dark eyes flashing up to take in your face contorted in pleasure. His cock thickens unbearably in his pants, too confined. You nod, hair scrunching up against the pillow. 

“Yea—yes,” You say, feeling your hips rock down an inch. You want more of that. 

Steve obliges, more than willingly, adding another finger. It slides in with little resistance. It’s hotter than anything else to get to see you like this, pliant and horny, rocking your hips against his mouth. 

To get to make you like this— sucking on your cute little clit and fucking his fingers in, hearing the adorable squelch of your wetness. You’re so turned on it makes his brain melt a bit, the way you’re leaking all over his fingers. Steve’s cock throbs desperately— but he wants to make sure you’re stretched out enough to take him. If you want that, that is.

He eases one more finger in, keeping a careful watch on your face to see how you take it. You keen beautifully, back arching slightly as he curls his fingers and begins to stretch you out. 

You pant deliriously, these tiny whimpers beginning to slip out your throat. Steve wishes he could see your face, the cute scrunch of your brows as you moan— but happily settles for latching his lips back onto your cunt. 

Three fingers feel even better than two, you find, as you grip the sheets tightly— you’re throbbing but in this torturous way, balancing on the edge of too much and not enough. There’s a hint of pain lingering at the back, but not enough to distract you from the pleasure. 

It takes you by surprise then, when the pleasure suddenly tapers off, your eyes creasing up open and head popping up. You realise Steve is slowly stopping, his slick fingers slipping out of you as he sits back up a bit. 

“Why’d you stop?” You say without thinking.

Flushing, you quickly follow it up. “Every— everything okay?” 

God, you sound wiped. Your chest is still heaving and your clit twitches, missing the stimulation of your boyfriend’s mouth. The air smells honeyed and perfumed with sex. 

“You tell me,” Steve murmurs sweetly, his lips grazing the inside of your knee in an almost kiss. “You said you wanted to do more. Is this enough more?” 

Your heart nearly bursts in the pure consideration. God, he’s so fucking nice to you. So unbothered to take things your pace, so attuned to making you feel good. You know that you could happily do this more for the rest of the night. 

But it’s not what you had in mind — and the longer you wait, the more you’re beginning to crave getting Steve to a similar state you’re in. Moaning, flushed in the face, his hands buried in your hair. 

“We can do more,” You say, your voice dropping back into that shy whisper. 

Steve watches you closely, his hand still absentmindedly rubbing at your thigh dotingly. 

You clear your throat and speak a little louder. “I wanna do more.” 

“Yeah?” Steve says, his grin growing. He huffs and shakes his head a little, dropping your gaze. 

“I mean, believe me, even if we just—“ He gestures vaguely between your thighs. “— did this all night? Night well spent.” 

You know he means it, especially with his hungry gaze that dips back down, his tongue slipping out to lick his bottom lip briefly.

You press up onto one elbow and reach out one hand, hooking your finger over the one single chain he wears. There’s a ring looped on it, the one you gave him as a promise, and just the sight of it makes you glow inside. 

You tug the chain forward lightly and him with it, Steve shifting up the bed til you’re nearly face to face, his frame hovering above you. The beds dips beneath his hands as they crawl up to either side of your waist, his intense eyes locking onto your face. He might be holding his breath. 

Swallowing, you move up and press your lips to his in a slow, soft kiss. It turns deeper, hotter, heavier. You swipe your tongue into his mouth and Steve lets out a pitiful noise in response, pressing his mouth against yours desperately. 

Drawing back with a little gasp, you open your eyes and repeat your earlier sentiment, “I want to do more.” 

Steve watches you, his exhale shaking slightly. You dot a kiss on his cheek quick, pulling back to meet his eyes.

“I want to do more with you.” 

A kiss on his other cheek, just as fast. Pink blooms beneath where your lips touch.

“I want to do more, right now.” 

Steve smiles splits into a grin, his eyes shining as he chuckles, the sound doused in fondness. “Okay, okay, I got the message,” He murmurs. 

Pushing back to sit on his heels, he turns and rummages around in his bedside table for a moment. You lay back on the pillows and try catch your breath, knowing it’s only a matter of time before it’s stolen once more. 

When Steve pulls back, there’s a row of condoms in one hand and a bottle of lube in the other. He tears off one of the condoms and throws the rest of them behind him without thought.

You can’t help but tilt your head up, neck straining a bit, not wanting to look away for a moment as Steve raises onto his knees and pushes his boxers down. His cock kicks up, released from its confines with a soft slap against his happy trail. 

Unwittingly, your mouth waters a bit.

And look, you’ve seen a dick before, okay? It’s pretty hard to sleep with someone and not see one, unless you have your eyes closed the entire time. 

But Steve’s cock is… pretty. 

Pink and aching, the head of it slick with a bit of pre-cum— that you realise he’s gotten from being worked up whilst eating you out. You gush a little at the dizzying thought. 

You want to touch it — or put it in your mouth so you can drool over it, can suck on it, can feel the heady weight of it on your tongue. Or, as you realise what the ache of your cunt means, you really, really want him to fuck you with it. 

Instinct drives your thighs apart, beckoning him between them. Steve’s eyes darken as he notes the motion, moving a bit more hastily to tear the condom packet open. He rolls it down his length, quick and precise. 

“Okay,” Steve breathes, reaching out for the lube and drizzling a generous amount into his palm. He keeps the bottle within reach as he slicks it over his heavy cock, a beautiful groan pushing out his throat as he does. 

“Okay,” He says again, a little breathier than before. Shuffling forward, Steve lines himself up with your core gently before halting. His eyes dart up to your face.

“You let me know if there’s anything you don’t like or you wanna stop.” 

You nod, his ardent care only serving to fuel your lust. You’ll coo over it in the afterglow— right now you want to be around him, want to feel him pulsing inside you, want to feel full where you’re suddenly feeling so, so empty. 

Steve shifts forward, beginning to sink into you with a low groan of pleasure. 

The first few seconds are bliss — Steve’s done his job well at warming you up and something hungry awakens with a burst of pleasure as you take the first few inches.

Then, something a little more uncomfortable joins the mix. 

You try not to squirm, disappointment inflating as your pleasure is robbed by the twinges of pain. It’s not unbearable but you’re enjoying yourself less. Steve moves in another inch and then discomfort abruptly becomes pain.

You inhale sharply, teeth gritted together, and Steve stops moving in an instant. 

“Woah, y’okay?” 

You nod, even as your eyes slip shut. Half of this is a mental game, you know that—you’ll never loosen up if you don’t try to relax. 

“Yeah,” you say quietly, voice a bit tight. “Just— just gimme a minute.” 

Steve murmurs a quiet sure but after a moment he says, “Wait, lemme—“ and moves forward so he’s hovering above you instead of sitting back, your faces much closer now. The jostling doesn’t help but having Steve closer does. 

He keeps his hips as still as he can and kisses your cheek. You don’t open your eyes just yet, willing yourself desperately to relax, to enjoy it. You take a deep breath.

“We can stop,” Steve whispers. 

You shake your head. Creasing your eyes open, you move your hands up so you can twine them around Steve’s neck in almost a hug. Steve leans down and kisses your cheek again, then steals a kiss from your lips. 

“I wanna—“ You gasp, frustration mounting at how the pain doesn’t seem to be subsiding. You sound miserable as you cling to him closer. “I want this to work.” 

“It’s okay if it doesn’t,” Steve responds, his arm shifting up so he can trace his thumb over your cheekbone. 

The movement moves his hips forward another inch, pain spiking so severely that you wince aloud, your face pinched in discomfort. That’s all it takes for Steve to shift back, easing out of you gently. You’re devastated at the relief that follows. 

“Okay, I’m not doing that if it hurts you—“ 

“It wasn’t,” You lie fruitlessly. You know Steve heard your wince—but maybe if you lie, you can trick your body. 

Hands coming up to cover your face, you scrunch your eyes up, annoyed at how they sting with tears so quickly. Your voice is all wobbly when you say, “I’m sorry. I'm sorry, I really want this to work, Steve.” 

Steve aches at your words, moving in to tug at your hands. His voice is soft, sweet.

“Hey, hey, I know that, sweetheart.” 

You don’t let him in, hands still shielding your face. He kisses your knuckles instead, his thumbs swiping up and down your wrists comfortingly. 

He waits a moment before he continues, voice buttery soft, “I know you want this. It’s not your fault if your body only likes it some ways and not others. You can’t control that and I know that.”  

You take one deep breath and it shudders as you inhale, sounding far too teary for Steve’s liking. He tugs at your wrists again, relieved when you let him pull them away tentatively. You aren’t crying but you look damn near close. 

“What’s got you so upset, huh?” Steve coos, nuzzling in close, his nose brushing against yours.

He releases your wrists to cup your face, tender and soft, his brows knit together in his concern. “You know I don’t mind- I told you that I don’t care what we do, just that you’re enjoying it.” 

You take another shaky inhale, a little more stable than the last. Steve can feel how you move to press back against him, nuzzling him back. You take another moment before you reply. 

“I just-“ You start, voice still tight. “It’s so stupid. I wanted it— I wanted to enjoy it. And that doesn’t even seem to matter to my body. It doesn’t even change how it feels and that sucks. Like I can’t control this part of me.” 

Steve listens dutifully, waiting til you finish and your eyes find him.

“Well,” He starts, averting his eyes somewhat sheepishly. “Take everything I say with a grain of salt, okay? But… your body doesn’t hurt just to mess with you, right?” 

He waits a moment for your tentative nod. “Right. So, it’s not for nothing. It’s trying to tell you something and- and ignoring that isn’t having control. You have to listen and work with your body — it’s your partner in all this.” 

“I thought you were my partner,” you whisper, the small smile on your lips giving away your joke. Steve faux rolls his eyes and kisses the tip of your nose. 

“I’m your other partner.” He smiles. Then sighs, casting his gaze above your head for a moment before meeting your eyes again. “Am I making any sense?” 

Wiggling one hand up, you place it on his cheek tenderly and begin to whisper. “You’re making a lot of sense actually.” 

Steve sighs, leaning his face into the palm of your hand with a huff. “Well, that’s a relief.” 

For a minute, there’s only quiet. Your emotions come down from their swell and you take the time to admire the beautiful boy above you, who seems to be doing just the same to you. 

After a moment of time, you clear your throat and say, “Can we try again?” 

Steve seems to think on it for a moment before he nods, turning to kiss your palm. 

“This is gonna make me sound like a total guy,” He says, words muffled against your hand. His brown eyes flash up to yours, darting between them. “But maybe we should try from the back. Like, different angle and all.” 

You snort, unable to hold it in because it does sound like such a guy thing to say. Even so, you give a little nod, eager to try something else. You don’t even want to acknowledge the mounting dread around disappointing Steve — even with all his assurances, you can’t help but feel as though this has been one gigantic let down. 

As Steve shifts back, you become suddenly aware of the lubed up slick spot on your thigh where Steve's cock was resting and scrunch your nose with a laugh. Peering down, you drag a finger through the wetness left on it. 

“Ew,” you laugh. 

“Ew?” Steve echoes incredulously. “Alright, that’s it.” His sits up and back, his hands darting down lightning fast, manoeuvring you all of sudden. He hooks his hands under your hips and lifts, twisting so you’re suddenly splayed on your front. 

You’re giggling all the while, drunk on the feeling of your boyfriend’s hands as they trail up your sides. The hair of his tanned scrapes against your back as he leans in, mouthing along your shoulder towards your neck. 

You find your knees and prop yourself up on them, lifting your hips off the sheets of Steve’s bed. At the angle he’s draped himself over you, it’s a perfect line up of his cock with your cunt, the head of it teasing your entrance when you push back. 

You're relieved that your emotional moment hadn't killed the mood altogether. That same hot, pulsating want from before tears through you and Steve takes a stuttering breath, the slightest moan in his throat. You feel his forehead press against your shoulder blade, as though he’s trying to compose himself. 

“You-“ He says, the word catching in his throat. As if unable to help himself, his hips grind forward, pushing his aching cock between your slick folds. You make pitiful, keening noises in response, a thread of pleasure run through the two of you. 

“You ready?” Steve asks shakily. He relents some of his closeness to grab the lube, giving another generous drizzle into his palm to slather over himself. 

“Please,” you whisper, pushing yourself back an inch. 

This time when Steve pushes himself in, the bliss stretches out, lasting more than just the first couple seconds. You make a high, breathy sigh of a noise and your head drops forward. 

Steve pauses, his breathing on the ragged side, and checks in. “Still feeling okay?” 

You nod feverishly, a whine building up in your throat that threatens to escape if Steve doesn’t move. Or maybe if he does move. You can’t tell — can’t tell anything other than how good it feels to have him inside you, hot and throbbing. 

“Yes,” you manage to gasp out. “Yeah, keeping going, please,” 

Steve grunts, complying in an instant, sinking his cock further in. Something inside you tightens up again— but it’s not nearly as noticeable as last time. Still, Steve recognises it and he slows for a moment. 

“I’m okay,” you assure breathily, face nearly pressed into the bed. You need him to keep moving. 

And he does; his cock sinks in another inch right as his hand creeps around your hip, searching for something blindly. You barely get one moment of confusion before his calloused fingers drag through the slick on your cunt and move up, pushing against your clit purposefully. 

You moan, loud and high. The friction of your clit is enough to make your thighs spread a little wider and your hips move back before you even realise what you’re doing, almost the rest of Steve’s cock sinking inside you. It feels good but something else pinches up inside you.

Steve moans, muffling the sound into your skin as he hides his face in your neck. 

You pant, suddenly dreading how you can feel the prick of pain on the fringes of your pleasure if Steve stretches you too far. "Don't- n-not too much," You warn gently, the words all breathy, still swathed in your pleasure. "I—uh— fuck, I don't think I can take it all."

You feel Steve's nod against the back of your neck, accompanied by a low hum in his throat.

“Y-yeah, okay,” He stammers. His hips roll forward and he follows your word, not quite pushing all the way in. "F-Fuck."

His breath is hot on your neck and the sudden urge for his kiss is nearly overwhelming. Even not facing him, the way Steve drapes himself around you, gentle even with how he grinds his hips into yours, feels intimate. Your cunt gives a soft squelch. 

“Oh fuck,” Steve gasps, stilling completely — the feeling of you wrapped around him is enough to nearly push him to the edge. He screws his eyes closed and whimpers, trying to keep himself together. 

“Y’okay?” You whisper breathily after a couple of moments, forehead pressed into the sheets. Your hips move just a little bit, shifting in a little circle so his cock slides out an inch, his fingertips grazing across your clit again. 

“I—ngh-“ Another whine slips out from his throat at your movement and Steve’s hand slips back, gripping your hip tightly. “Jesus Christ. Y-Yeah I’m good, just trying not to— fuck- end this too quickly.” 

He moves a bit, readjusting him arms to hold weight up a little easier.

“But you’re really wet and, like, really warm,” He grunts, almost accusingly. “And I really like you, so,” 

You can’t help it — a little laugh titters out of you, one of pure delight because Steve is sincere about his feelings. The laugh only serves to make Steve groan louder. 

“Shit,” He gasps, his forehead pressing into your shoulder. “You can’t laugh right now, it’s so not helping.” 

“Sorry,” you laugh again, a little more apologetic this time. 

Then, after a moment of gathered bravery, you say, “I don’t think I like this position. I can’t see your face.” 

Steve makes a pained noise from behind you, a breathy and sharp inhale, and suddenly his grip on your hip is twice as tight. 

“I’m gonna need you to stop talking. Please.” He grits out, voice sounding tight and barely restraining the moan in it. “I’m trying really hard here but you’re making this impossible.” 

Steve shifts on his elbow again, bicep bulging as he lowers himself to one side. His hips press into your backside, sinking himself further into your wet heat, as he settles his weight down onto the mattress. The springs make a noise in protest. 

You’re still closely intertwined, Steve pressed up against you, still throbbing within you, but now it’s more like… you’re spooning.

You settle down too, forcing out an exhale to let yourself melt back into Steve’s chest. 

He lets out a soft groan again but the new position means he can bury his face in your neck properly— and when you turn your head right, he seizes the chance for a kiss. 

He kisses sweet and slow to begin with, plush lips nipping at yours as if you’re not already in the throes of sex. Like he kisses you hello. His nose nudges against yours and he shimmies an arm beneath you on the bed. It curls itself around your stomach and Steve uses it to bring you even closer. 

“Is this better?” He whispers. He nudges his hips for a bit, giving a gentle thrust. Something warm flares at the pit of your belly, hungry for more. “Still okay?” 

You nod, a whimper escaping your throat as you steal another kiss from his lips. “Yes,” You whisper, lips scraping against his, hardly believing it. “Feels— feels good, baby,”

Steve finally gives in to his moan, a beautiful noise that sends heat rushing between your thighs. He begins to move more, building a gentle rhythm as he fucks into you, sensual and adoring all in one. 

Time drips away. You feel much warmer now, pressed up against Steve’s chest, with his kisses all around. One of his hands stays dutifully between your legs, pushing around your bundle of nerves and pulling weak, soft noises from you. The other, you cling to, your fingers twisted as best they can with his.

Pleasure wraps the pair of you up til a soft glow of sex and love settles over the both of you. Steve murmurs doting words, an endless stream of encouragement pouring from his mouth as he nibbles at the shell of your ear. 

Still feelin’ good? Yeah, you are. Just listen to you- sounding so pretty wrapped around my cock. 

Fuck, your pussy makes the cutest noises. So wet f’me, isn’t she? God, you drive me crazy. 

You’re taking me so well, yeah? Being so fuckin’ good f’me- letting me know how you feel. M’so lucky - fuckin’ love— love this with you.

You don’t even realise when every gasp out your mouth has turned into a moan, each breath building and mounting. Your chest heaves and Steve’s motions go from lazy to focused. His hips slow a little but his fingers over your clit speed up, dancing across the nerves perfectly. 

You clutch desperately at the arm he has wrapped around your waist, your head thrown back to rest on his shoulders with your eyes screwed shut. Your hole clenches wildly as you hurtle towards your orgasm— and go right over the edge without warning. 

You make this cute little gasping noise, high pitched and wrapped in a pretty sigh, and Steve doesn't think he's ever heard something so sensual, so pretty. His blood seems to thrum in response, pleasure turning the coil in his gut tighter and tighter.

Euphoria melts into your body and you sag into it with a drawn out soft moan, turning your face to search for Steve’s in an instant. One of your hands darts up, sloppily reaching for the back of his neck, suddenly starved of a kiss. 

You find his lips right as Steve finds his peak— his handsome face screwing up as he all but whines into your mouth. You capture it, some heavy, open mouthed kiss of desperation shared between you. 

Pleasure flows over you, hot and heavy, fuelled by the frantic grinds of Steve’s hips into yours as he whimpers into your mouth. Even though some part of you feels vulgar, another, louder, part of you feels like you've taken part in something sacred. Steve's fierce kiss certain feels akin to something holy.  

After a minute, the euphoria fades. You settle back into your body, feeling the scratch of the cotton sheets beneath you, the sweat of Steve’s chest on your back, the slightly discomfort in between your thighs. 

Steve can feel it, the moment you tense back up, some unwelcome twinge of pain in your gut. He’s shuffling back and pulling out before you even have to ask.

Without his chest to lean on, you roll backward naturally and flop onto your back, still panting lightly. Steve shifts up to hover above you. 

“You good?” He asks, that same breathlessness in his voice. He smiles handsomely, his hair a little limper than usual, flopping over his forehead. He looks gorgeous. “You did great.” 

That almost makes you laugh, the sincere praise so like one might give a child, but Steve seals it with a kiss to your forehead. Your laugh turns into a sheepish but giddy grin. “I’m gonna take the condom off, I’ll be right back.” 

He disappears from your line of sight for a minute or two and you can hear him rustling around in his room.

Without any distractions, you suddenly remember the film you’d put on in the beginning, still running at the end of the bed— the final credits are just starting to roll. The streetlights glow a little brighter in the evening dark through the curtains. 

You huff out a breath and your smile comes without even trying. In fact, if Steve hadn’t come back when he did, you’re sure you would’ve started giggle to yourself madly, cocooned in your own contentedness. That same awed, gleeful smile just like the first time round.

“You look like a dope, smiling like that, you know that?”

Steve’s wearing a pair of boxers, green plaid, and he’s got a fresh, warm wash-cloth in his hands. 

"I didn't know that," You muse playfully.

“Hey,” He changes tone to less playful, kneeling on the bed. You notice the change of clothes in his other hand when he throws them onto the duvet beside him. “M’just gonna clean you up a bit, that okay?” 

You’re sure there’s a pinch of embarrassment in you somewhere but, still blissed from your orgasm, you can’t manage to find it. Steve is quick and precise, the warm cloth wiping up any excess sticky fluids. He kisses the inside of your knee when he’s done. 

“All done,” He murmurs, climbing back off the bed in the direction of the bathroom, switching off the television as he does. He gestures to the clothes at the foot of the bed as he walks. “Y’can wear these if you want.” 

Finally feeling less flattened, you shift up to lean on your elbows. He’s grabbed you a pair of his boxers, the matching blue pair to his green, and one of his old Hawkins swim-team shirts. You slip into both quickly, your heart going a bit fuzzy with how soft the shirt is. 

Then you crawl beneath the covers, blood still rushing far faster than usual and a satisfied tiredness beginning to sink into your body. You can't help but thinking it all over — Steve's mouth between your legs, the feel of him sinking into you, the ecstasy of falling apart in his arms.

Part of you hadn't wanted to acknowledge that, well, it fucking worked this time and you enjoyed it. A niggly fear about jinxing it. Like if you pointed it out, it would incite the likelihood of your body turning on you once more. Robbing you of pleasure and experience in equal measure.

But when Steve comes bounding back to the bed, dragging back the covers to join you beneath them, you speak first.

"So, that didn't suck." You say excitedly, biting back your grin as Steve settles down beside you.

Together, you share one pillow as he scooches in closer. His hands reach out, searching for you amongst the sheets. When he finds your hips, he uses them to drag you closer to him, a halfhearted cuddle.

He lets out a puff of air against the pillow, a light snort. "I mean, hopefully it didn't just not suck."

If you had more energy, you might give him a playful shove because you know he knows what you mean. He'd seen the whole display of nervous emotions attached to sex all the way leading up to it.

Instead, heart feeling awfully gooey in your chest, you seize the opportunity to press in closer to him. Your head tucks beneath his chin, your lips barely grazing his throat.

"It was really good." You whisper, lashes fluttering as your eyes fight to stay open. Steve's warm on a good day. He's hot as a furnace with all the blood that's pumping around still. Perfect for snuggling up with.

"Yeah?" He sounds delightfully pleased, but not the smug kind. He sounds happy that you enjoyed it.

Then he whispers, "Told you it wasn't you."

His big palm sweeps up your back soothingly.

He's right. You've never been so glad to be on the receiving end of an I told you so before. Not that Steve would say that (at least, not right now).

Cuddling in closer, you wriggle one hand out from beneath the covers, not bothering to pull back or open your eyes when you murmur, "Just had sex high-five?"

You can feel Steve's laugh as it rumbles through his throat. It's an inside joke now, it seems.

"Hell yeah." He wiggles one hand free and slaps it against yours, probably a little harder than necessary. You laugh too, the sound a mixture of joy and sleep.

And yeah, okay, you might get it now. The whole big fuss around sex that everyone seems to make—but maybe you don't entirely agree with them.

There was something more in the... trust. In knowing that Steve wouldn't have cared which way it happened, as long as you were both enjoying it. In the intimacy shared, even before you had ever slept together. In the waiting. In the wanting—for both yourself and for Steve.

There's some grandeur discovery you've uncovered, you're sure of it, about the mystery and craze around sex. You just keep losing the string of thoughts to your slumber which drifts ever closer.

Oh well. You can always put it all together in the morning when you're not so tempted by sleep and bundled up in the arms of a boy who you love. For now, you drift off, fulfilled and content.

tags below! (seven months later...)

@roanniom @madaboutjoe @huang-the-geek @pootcullen @superskittles

@hales-who-loves-to-reid @spear-bearing-bi-witch @daisiesandinvasives @season4steve @thelauraborealis

@mmmunson @everythinghasafacee @katethetank @sorry--for-the-mess @matterdontminduntildone

@blowing-mikey @astoryreader @mulletmcghee @sugarcoatedstarkey @pullhisteeth

(these are just the ppl in the tags that mentioned wanting to be tagged! if i know u follow me and are a regular, i didn't bother tagging u cos i know you'll see it hehehe <3)

[opscuritas]

The smut war has started and my first attack comes in the form of a comic: "The taste of my desire" (Page 1/?) Enjoy. 😈

Follow the smut war on reddit! @goodomensafterdark remember that any explicit content will be uploaded uncensored on my Ko-fi 😉

Next page 💕

[binsito]

quiet

pairing: changbin x fem reader

genre: fwb

word count: 2k

synopsis: after coming back home from college, changbin recalls the time you two first had sex in your childhood home while your parents were away and tempts you to do it again - except this time, they were down the hall

rating: mature, includes: unprotected sex, swearing, dirty talk (words like slut, kitten, baby and good girl are used), fingering, little bit of cumplay, changbin cums inside

note: not proofread so i apologize in advanced

the drive back home was exhausting but you were finally pulling up to the driveway of your childhood home. changbin parked the car and got out to take out the luggage. your parents had come out to greet you both happily, embracing you and welcoming you both back home.

your mom, embarrassing as always, squished changbins cheeks. complimenting him and letting him know how handsome he’s gotten which caused him to laugh shyly and his face to flush red.

you and changbin had grown up together, two peas in a pod, virtually inseparable. your parents were very fond of him and treated him like one of their own. they were excited to know their little girl wasn’t going to be alone when moving away to a new city for college. they trusted changbin and knew he would take good care of you. your dad had helped him bring the luggage inside while you and your mother caught up. she asked your typical motherly questions: “how’s school? are you being safe? are you dating?” you reassured her that everything was fine and not to worry. she was just so glad to have you back home for some time.

they had prepared a nice dinner for all of you to share as a family, changbin had always loved your mother’s cooking. she served him a nice portion and smiled when he complimented her. he was always so vocal about food especially if he found something delicious. happy belly, happy binnie.

once dinner was over, you offered to do the dishes but your mother said she’d take care of it. she wanted you and changbin to settle in to the room upstairs and unpack your bags. you trudged upstairs tiredly and walked into your childhood room, just as you had left it. there was a mix of posters and cds as well as a teddy bear collection. you were a very nostalgic person so even as you grew up, you still kept trinkets from when you were younger - meshing your interests from when you were a child with your adolescence. “it’s almost like you never left huh?” changbin chuckled as he sat on your old full size bed.

you were kneeled in front of him, unzipping your suitcase and pulling out your pajamas. you smiled softly and nodded “yeah.. i missed being here. it’s cozy.”

he hummed in agreement and fell back into the bed, staring at the ceiling. you could hear your parents going into their room down the hall. you both knew they would be out like a light very soon.

“hey..” changbin calls out with a soft chuckle, his mind had begun to race and he remembered something. you glanced over at him and questioned him, you could tell by the stupid smirk on his face that he was up to no good. “remember the first time we fucked?” god, he better shut up before you strangle him.. “changbin.. shut the fuck up my parents are down the hall..” he whisper yelled at him.

he didn’t seem to care, however, propping up on his elbow and looking down at you.

“it was right here. on this bed. remember that, kitten? we had such a blast..” you threw a shirt at him to shut him up but he just grabbed it and laughed, finding your facial expressions amusing. you would die of embarrassment if your parents ever found out about this. “what if we did it again? you know your parents are heavy sleepers..” he suggested “yeah but the thing is.. they literally were not home when we did it..” you rolled your eyes. changbin knew that was true, but he found the element of your parents potentially hearing you or finding out making his cock swell.

he recalls the time he fucked you face down into your bed while your parents were away on a work trip. he could vividly feel how your cunt was sucking him in, how you kept trying to reach back for him, moaning so loudly he was sure the neighbors were going to call the cops. he spent the entire weekend ruining your pussy, making an absolute mess of you. 

it happened on a whim, you had invited him over like you normally did but things felt different. your playful banter quickly turned into blatant flirting which then turned to you straddling him, teasingly grinding into him. you would be lying if you said he didn’t raise the standards of sex for you. sure, you slept with other guys before him, but after that you just kept coming back to him for more. if something works, why change it? if you were guaranteed fantastic sex, why would you risk doing it with a guy you didn’t even trust? with a guy who didn’t know where to find your clit, or how you liked your tits to be played with. a guy who’s cock may not be as thick as changbin’s, a guy who may not have the stamina that he does?

it made absolutely no sense to do something that silly!

“but wouldn’t it be fun? you’d have to be super quiet for me.. and you deserve a little fun after being so uptight at school with studying”

he was tempting you and he knew you couldn’t turn him down. if there was one thing you could never turn down, it was sex with changbin. you grumbled under your breath and got up to lock the door but changbin got up to stop you. “leave it unlocked.. that way you have no choice but to shut up and be a good girl” he whispered, leading you over to the bed. 

it was moments like this that made you hate the fact that he was your best friend. why was he capable of making you feel so good? why were you both so sexually attracted to one another? the lines were starting to blur too much for your liking and it was starting to make you nervous. “hey” he grabs your face, not having a clue what you were thinking about but trying to get you to focus. you snapped out of it and tugged him into bed with you, pulling him in for a kiss and quickly deepening it, tugging on a lock of his hair to elicit a moan from him because if he wanted to play this game then so were you. and you knew how fucking whiny and loud he got during sex. he couldn’t shut up for the life of him. he slipped his hands up your shirt to cup your tits, pressing them together and then pulling your bra down to let them spill out, he’d worry about unclasping the back later.

changbin was a very patient man, he had no rush when it came to undressing you. he knew that one way or another, you’d end up naked for him. you on the other hand, needed all clothes off immediately. you needed him bare in front of you and ready to get to work. however, you had to learn to be patient because changbin didn’t like it when you would hurry him up, often denying you orgasms or making you work harder for them.

thankfully, it seemed he was feeling a bit needy today, unbuckling his belt and pulling his pants down, throwing them off the side of the bed before bringing his attention back to you. he grabbed your thighs and dragged you closer to him, you giggled and looked up at him. he was able to manhandle you so easily, he could fold you in two, your body so pliant to his touch. 

“you sure you’ll be able to stay quiet binnie?” you teased, he rolled his eyes as you lifted up your hips of the bed, allowing him access to tug your shorts down your legs.

“i have self control, unlike you.” but you knew that was a straight lie. sure he might’ve been more composed than you were, but you knew that as soon as he plunged into you, all reasoning would be tossed aside. 

and you were absolutely right.

as soon as you were both fully naked, he was struggling to restrain his moans. you having to press a hand to his mouth to quiet him down as you sunk down on his cock. he was sat on the edge of the bed, you on his lap, slowly starting to move on him. eyes rolling back, him nipping at your hand gently to help stifle any noise. you could feel him drooling a little and that made you pick up the pace. he gripped your ass tightly to slow you down, hearing the bed start to squeak. “getting nervous bin? they’re out like a light remember?” you taunted him, pulling your hand away from his mouth to tug at his hair and kiss at his neck, sucking a little too harsh and leaving a mark. you’d laugh at him trying to cover it tomorrow. and he was getting tired of you having the upper hand, making you gasp out when you feel him stand up, holding you in his arms as he rutted up into you, the sound of his skin smacking against you as you wrapped your arms around his neck. you were dying to scream out his name and he was making it hard for you not to, leaning into his ear so he could hear your pants and whimpers.

“fuck.. you drive me crazy.. letting me fuck you while your parents sleep down the hall.. you are such a slut..” he grunted, accentuating slut with a sharp thrust, one that made your toes curl.

he needed to be deeper in you, needed his cockhead to hit the very back of your pussy. as quietly as he possibly could (which wasn’t very quiet at all), he moved you both to the floor, laying you down on the rug you had by your bedside. he lifted your legs over his shoulders and hammered into you as you bit your fist. it would be a miracle if no one had heard the ruckus you had going on. “c-cunt’s gripping me so tight today.. so greedy.. don’t worry baby, it’s not going anywhere.”

he had you seeing stars, your mind completely full of him. he looked particularly handsome in this angle, hovering over you while he drilled you against the floorboards. he was getting sloppy, hips stuttering along with his breathing. your pussy pulsating and swollen, clenching on to him tightly as you felt him release inside you, the feeling of his warm cum inside you never getting old.

he pulled out carefully as to not spill any and helped you up into the bed. he laid against the headboard and pulled you into his chest. his chest against your back as he spread your legs open with his own, dipping his fingers down and pressing them into your pussy as he fucked his cum back into you. you kicked your head back on to his shoulder and breathed out in pleasure, his thick fingers always knew how to work you open. curling them as the squelch of your juices and his cum echoed softly.

“can’t get enough of you binnie..” you moaned out softly as his other hand came to rub your clit. scissoring you open and watching as you melted into his touch. he knew your body all too well.

he pressed soft kisses to your cheek as you reached your peak, shushing you gently so you wouldn’t wake anyone up. he pulled out his fingers and brought them to your lips, having you suck them clean before he kissed you to get a taste. “we might have some explaining to do in the morning..” he laughed softly “god i hope not.. they probably won’t bring it up even if they did hear anything”

you curled up in bed with him, not even bothering to get under the covers. you’d deal with your parents (and your possible feelings for him) later. 

please refrain from reposting, modifying, translating, copying or stealing my work. - © binsito

[themeganator5000]

Ayo, who ordered the 4k smut fic for the 40-year-old yaoi ship?? 🛎️👋👩‍🍳

[i-fondued]

It's two am here, I gotta get up at 7am

I've gotta stop writing and go the fuck to sleep ahahahha help

I love you all see you in the am

[pumpkinspicepirates]

Twiddling my thumbs and screaming at the moon because what am I supposed to do without AO3

[shellshocklove]

this was so fucking cute 🥺 i need that old man:((

girlie:((

BABY !!! you heard that fellas? we’re winning

this is such a good detail. in love with it actually!!

he’s so annoying sometimes 😫 joel please just let yourself be loved for once

“you already are” 🥺 alexa play baby by halfnoise

imperfect for you (joel miller x f!reader)

masterlist | a/n written for @janaispunk's 1500 kisses challenge! i got joel + nose kisses with this lovely moodboard and actually managed to write something!!! believe it or not this started out as a drabble lmao. i hope you like it jana - sorry it's a bit late, and congrats again on your milestone 🤍 summary: you never thought joel miller would accidentally call you baby. warnings: age gap (joel is mid 40s, reader is 23), fluff, very brief instance of blood, tending to a wound, joel is eepy, soft kisses, cuddles word count: 5.5k ao3 dividers by @saradika-graphics

"When's the last time you slept?"

He doesn't bother to grace you with an answer, hands clenched on the steering wheel as you barrel down the vacant stretch of highway back to Lincoln. He's been ignoring you for the past fifteen minutes now, eyes straight ahead, brow furrowed, jaw clenched. But he looks pale, almost sickly, the whites of his knuckles stark against the sudden greenish hue of his skin. The last thing you need is for him to pass out and for the two of you to crash into a damn ditch.

"I'm just saying," you continue with an exasperated sigh, "I could drive the rest of the way, we're almost there."

No reply. You roll your eyes and cross your arms indignantly in the passenger seat, returning his icy demeanor. He's in one of his moods again, the ones only Tess really knows how to handle, but you'd volunteered to try your hand at a supply run in her stead which means she's not here to mediate. You should've known some issue would arise, stubborn Joel inventing problems in typical Joel fashion.

"You could've tried to last at least one more hour pretending to like me," you mutter, loud enough for him to hear. He doesn't say anything.

Almost a year of working with them now, and you still don't understand him. You're not sure you ever will. Tess, she's much easier to understand, much more open to being understood. She'd seen your potential and taken you under her wing, brought you in to help, taught you everything you needed to know about smuggling. And Joel... well, he's a different story.

"You know, Tess thinks I have promise," you continue anyway, expression crumpling into a scowl, "She thinks I can do this. I don't get why you don't."

No answer.

"And don't say it's 'cause I'm a kid, because I'm not. I'm twenty three now, I'm past the point of being called a fucking kid. The shit I've seen in that QZ-" you cut yourself off, shaking your head, "I'm not a kid."

His lack of response is beginning to hurt deeper than you'd really like to admit. You glance over at him again; he's still staring straight ahead, still ignoring your presence. It makes unwanted tears prick in your eyes, nose stinging a little as you peer down at your lap and fold your hands together.

You'd been excited for this supply run, probably against your better judgement. You'd wanted to show him how much you know and understand, how hard you've been working, how you're up to the task. Hoped maybe he'd give you a smile - rare, but not impossible - and tell you that you did good, that he sees potential in you too.

You care what he thinks, almost more than what Tess thinks. And you know why, can sense it deep in the pit of your stomach and in the way your heart stutters when he looks at you, but you're clearly living in a fantasy world if you think he's ever gonna get past whatever this stigma is that he has against your age. She's too young, Tess. She'll get hurt, Tess. She shouldn't be doin' this, Tess. You've heard it all, muffled through closed doors in a dark and damp hallway.

He doesn't want you, and you're not sure how much longer you can go on like this. If he's not willing to change his stance, view you as anything other than an inconvenience...maybe Tess will have to find somebody else to help out.

"I know what I'm doing," you mumble, a tear dribbling down your left cheek, "I just wanna help."

You spare him one more look, fruitlessly hoping that maybe he'll feel bad now that he's made you cry - a childish thought, considering you're trying to make a case for being mature, but you can't help it. You know he's capable of being gentle, of being kind. You've experienced it with him before, quiet moments between the two of you in his apartment while waiting for Tess to return, making small talk, him peering at you with a softness in those brown eyes that have since made frequent appearances in your dreams. Moments where you swear you felt wanted under that gaze, but it must've been in your head, because you certainly don't feel wanted right now.

He doesn't look well, you have to admit. His skin is covered in a sheen of sweat, getting paler by the second, turning an unnatural grey color akin to some of the hair on his head. His eyes are glassy, dark bags settled beneath them that you've noticed getting worse and worse over the past few weeks. You shoot a glance at his hands again and are surprised to see that he's loosened his grip, that his fingers seem to be trembling against the rubber.

"Joel," you say, raising your voice a bit, "Joel, are you okay?"

His lack of response no longer angers you - it worries you. Carefully, you reach over and slowly wrap your hand around his right wrist, eyes trained on his face. At your touch, he finally turns to look at you, almost like he's only just noticed you're even there.

"You say somethin'?" he asks, voice raspy, a bit slurred.

Your grip tightens on his wrist, "I think you should stop the car."

He looks at you curiously, dazedly. It's the expression of a man who's running on two, maybe three hours of sleep in the last few days. You choose your next words carefully, eyes flickering back and forth toward his face and the road that he's suddenly no longer watching.

"Let's slow down a bit," you murmur, thumb stroking gently along his skin - he's warm, warmer than normal - "I'm gonna drive the rest of the way, okay?"

You expect some pushback, an attempt at an argument, but the tiredness is setting in quickly. Without any hesitation he eases his foot off the gas and you hurriedly reach your own leg over into his space to push down on the brake. He doesn't seem to notice the way your bare leg brushes his jeans, the crease in your knee bending over the warmth of his thigh.

"There we go," you say softly, bringing the car to a slow stop. He's still looking at you, eyes unfocused as you carefully lean over a little more to unbuckle his seatbelt. You try to ignore how good he smells, how big he is compared to you, putting all your attention on getting him out of the front seat. You unlock his door and then unbuckle your own belt, hurrying out of the car to his side.

"M'okay," he mumbles as soon as you open his door. You start to help him out, and you think he's becoming a little more aware of the situation now, allowing you to pull him to his feet as you tug open the back door. "What's happenin'?"

"You're just tired," you tell him softly, "It's okay, you can sleep in the back, I'll drive."

"Bill n' Frank's," he says as you lead him the right way, pushing him a little and helping him place his knee down on the seat, "Y'know where it is? You remember?"

"I do," you tell him confidently, your hand coming down to press flat against his back - he's so solid, heat radiating against your palm, "Only twenty minutes away now, I got it. You just sleep."

He doesn't argue; in fact, he makes your job easier by crawling onto the seat and settling down with a low groan, rolling onto his back and breathing deeply. You can't help but let a small smile cross your features, watching as one of his hands comes up to rest atop his belly, the other dangling onto the floor. His eyelashes flutter a little, lips parting, and you're about to shut the door when he speaks again.

"I know you jus' wanna help, baby."

You stand there for a moment just staring at him, confusion racing through your thoughts. Goosebumps rise on your flesh as the last word repeats like a mantra in your head, steady and slow as Joel drifts off. It's only when the door is shut and you're in the front seat that you're able to put some meaning to the words, eyes wide as you stare at the faded lines on the road.

I know what I'm doing, you'd said, I just wanna help.

You leave him in the car when you get to Bill and Frank's, typing in the gate code with a backward glance at his loose form in the backseat. They must see him on one of the security monitors, because as soon as the doors open you spot them sprinting out of the house toward you, a scanner gripped in Bill's hand. Typical.

"He's okay," you tell them as soon as you're out of the car, instantly alleviating their stress, "He's just exhausted, I think he needs to sleep for a little while."

"Understatement of the century," Frank replies with a relieved laugh, eyeing the backseat, "Think we can get him in the house?"

"Just leave him in the car," Bill says with a wave of his hand, already turning to head back towards the house with the scanner hanging out of his pocket, "He'll be fine."

Your gaze meets Frank's and he rolls his eyes, "Come on, baby, let's get him upstairs." Your brows go up at the pet name, the same word that had fallen from Joel's lips only twenty minutes ago, but then Bill is shuffling back over with an annoyed look on his face and you quickly realize he's not talking to you.

Getting Joel out of the car proves to be a lot more difficult than getting him in. You try a gentle approach at first, brushing his arm and stroking his skin with your thumb again like you'd done earlier. You can feel Frank's eyes on you as you squeeze Joel's bicep, his wrist, his thigh, and you pretend you don't see the look that passes between him and Bill as you step out to let them take a turn.

Bill goes for a much more aggressive approach, shaking Joel's shoulders wildly and practically yanking him out of the car. Understandably, Joel wakes with a gasp and kicks his legs out, hand reaching for his pistol as he frantically tries to escape Bill's grasp. Before he can grab it though, he's suddenly falling forward, knees buckling as he faceplants onto the pavement beside the car.

Well, that certainly wakes him up. His hands press into the gravel and his head shoots up, blood trickling down his nose as he peers up at the three of you, stunned.

"Oh, for fuck's sake, Bill," Frank groans.

"That was not my fault."

Ignoring them, you kneel down and gently touch Joel's shoulder, a concerned look on your face as you eye the splattered blood on the ground, "Fuck, are you okay?"

"What in the hell is goin' on?" he groans, turning to look at you, "Did Bill just break my fuckin' nose?"

"Don't be dramatic," Bill barks, spinning on the spot and heading into the house, "Shoulda just left you in the car."

Joel starts scrambling after him, rising up and standing on wobbly legs, hand reaching for his pistol once again. You and Frank grab him before he can do anything, both of you taking an arm and holding him back.

"Joel, you're exhausted," you tell him quickly, utilizing all your strength, "You just need to lay down. Please."

He turns his face to look at you and something flutters in your chest when you catch the way his eyes soften, the anger in his expression fading as he acknowledges your presence. You can vaguely make out Frank watching the two of you in your periphery, but you try your best to ignore it, instead opting to give Joel a reassuring smile.

"Let's just get you cleaned up, okay?"

You're grateful that Frank leaves you alone with Joel to tend to his nose. You've only met him a handful of times, but each time he'd somehow been able to clock the way you interact with Joel, the way you look at him. The last time you'd been here he'd subtly pulled you aside to give you a few words of wisdom.

"You do realize he's extremely unavailable, right?"

"I- I don't know what you're talking about."

He'd smiled, tapped his nose and given you a knowing look, "And I don't just mean because of Tess. That man is emotionally constipated, kiddo. He's an island." He'd laughed then at your confused expression, shaking his head, "Just be careful, s'all I'm saying."

You'd gone to walk away, forget the conversation even happened, when he'd softly called after you:

"And I'm pretty sure Tess would hang your head on her wall."

You think of those words now as you stand in front of Joel in the small bathroom off the landing, lip between your teeth as you eye the cut on his nose. It isn't broken, thank fuck, but you can see some dirt and gravel in there that you need to clean out.

"It's not broken," you tell him softly. He's sitting on the edge of the bath tub, peering up at you with a much more alert expression. The fall definitely woke him up, not to mention the choice words he and Bill had thrown at each other as you and Frank helped him up the stairs. He's still exhausted though, and he needs to rest.

"I know it's not," he grumbles, "Just wanted to give Bill a piece of my mind for once."

You laugh softly as you reach for the damp cloth beside you, bringing it up to carefully pat it against the gash on the bridge of his nose. You can feel his eyes on you, watching and assessing as you do your best to wipe the area clean.

"I can do that myself," he murmurs.

"I just wanna help," you say quietly, and your eyes fall to his in a knowing glance. He doesn't seem to remember though, just nods and lets you carry on.

It's rare for you to be this alone with him. And by that, you mean this far from Tess. You're painfully aware that it would be impossible for her to walk in at any moment, to see the way you're standing over him, touching him. Frank's words from last time echo in your head but you're not quite sure you believe them; would she really be that angry if she knew how you felt about Joel? It's not like he'd return it, right? The man is twenty years your senior and, as Frank said, extremely unavailable. Not to mention Tess and Joel's relationship has been a point of confusion to you for a year now, still unsure exactly what they are to each other - would she really care?

You reach for the antiseptic - one of the many perks of having an injury in a supply house - and carefully dab some onto the cloth. Your hand trembles a bit as you reach up to carefully hold Joel's chin, your thumb getting lost in his greying beard.

"You haven't shaved in a while," you breathe, your eyes meeting his, and you wonder if you've already crossed a line by even noticing.

He doesn't seem to mind though, sighing deeply, "I haven't slept in a while, so let's hurry this up," he eyes the cloth, "Don't gotta warn me, just do it."

His words bring you back to the present, and you slowly ease the cloth down onto his cut. He hisses a bit, a normal reaction, but it only takes a few seconds to clean and then you're already reaching for a bandage, reluctantly letting go of his chin.

"I was worried about you, before. In the car," you tell him softly, unpeeling the adhesive, "Why haven't you been sleeping?"

His eyes fall to the floor, "I just don't sleep good. Never have."

"Is there anything I can do?"

He shrugs, gives you a humorless laugh, "Handful o' pills and a couple sips o' whiskey usually does the trick."

It makes sense, then, why these past few weeks he's seemed worse. It's been longer than usual since your last supply run and the three of you had started running out of vital supplies over a week ago now, not only for buyers but for yourselves. Joel had written whiskey near the top of the latter list, along with hydromorphone which he'd underlined several times.

"You should've told me you weren't feeling well," you murmur, applying the bandage carefully, "I could've driven the whole way."

"Could've, should've," he dismisses you with a grunt, "Doesn't matter now, does it? We got here, that's what counts."

You linger a little longer than you should on the bandage, thumb falling to gently trace the crease of his nose as you assess your work. It might scar, but it feels pointless to voice this - he already has so many, scattered across his face and neck like confetti. It hurts a little, knowing he's been through so much, seeing the evidence written all over him.

"My mom had this superstition," you tell him softly, a smile playing at your lips as you trace one of the scars under his eye, soft and delicate, "Whenever I got hurt, skinned my knee or busted my elbow playing, she'd bandage me up and then kiss it. She said a kiss would seal her love in there, keep me safe and protected. And if it scarred, that meant it worked."

He blinks at you, expression faltering a bit, "That's...that's a nice thought."

You shake your head, "It's silly, and not true. But... but I still do it anyway, even though she's gone. Just in case," you bite your lip, "I mean, who doesn't wanna feel a little more safe? A little more protected?"

Your gazes lock, and neither of you seem to move, caught in the stillness of the moment and the way your thumb is still stroking his face. You know you have limited time, maybe a few seconds before he breaks it, so without much thought at all you lean down and lightly press your lips to the bandage, eyes closed.

He inhales sharply, a sound that triggers butterflies in your tummy as you hold your mouth against his nose, soft and sweet. It's the closest you've ever been to him, even if you're kissing gauze and not skin - you can still feel the warmth radiating from him, sense the way he freezes below you. A squeaking sound pierces the silence, his hand squeezing the edge of the bath tub tightly. It startles you, your eyes blinking open as you pull back to look at him.

His cheeks are tinged pink, eyelids heavy as he peers up at you with slow blinks.

"You're tired," you breathe, unable to stop your hand from flitting to his hair, pushing a little behind his ear, "Let's get you to bed."

The Joel Miller in Bill and Frank's guest room is not the Joel Miller you thought you knew.

This Joel is loose, pliant. He lets you lead him into the bedroom with a hand on his back, lets you carefully turn him on the spot to reach up and undo the buttons on his flannel. Frank had told you on your way up to make sure Joel didn't get blood on the sheets, so you're only following orders, only doing what you were told.

"Sorry," you murmur softly, fingers shaking every so often as they toy with the buttons, sticky with his blood. Joel doesn't seem to notice though, retreating more and more into the sleepy state he'd been in earlier.

Once his flannel is off you assess his t-shirt and jeans, and you're not sure how to feel about the fact that they didn't get dirty in the fall. On the other hand, though, you're not sure you'd have been brave enough to take them off. Instead you help him toward the bed, pull back the sheets and carefully push him ahead.

"There you go," you whisper, helping him under the covers and pulling the blankets back over him. The sun is streaming through the window, casting the golden light of early evening across the bed, and while it's quite beautiful you shut the curtains anyway, knowing he'll sleep better in darkness. When you turn back around, he's already fallen asleep, lips parted, face peaceful. A different man.

You don't linger, even though you want to.

It's around ten o'clock when you decide to check on him again. You'd watched a movie with Bill and Frank, feeling more than a little unwelcome as Bill tossed you a few dirty looks every so often, though Frank repeatedly told you to ignore him. Now they're in bed downstairs while you pad from your own room across the hall to Joel's, turning the knob carefully. The hinges squeak a little as you open it and you wince.

"Who's there?" you hear Joel grumble from the bed. So much for just taking a peek.

"Me, just me." You push the door wider and walk inside, eyebrows going up when Joel turns on the bedside lamp. He seems a little more rested, although you know he still needs a full night's sleep. "I sent a message to Tess through the radio to let her know we're not coming back tonight - well, Frank did. Picked a song called Tomorrow or something like that."

"Hope it was the Johnny Mathis version," he mumbles, and you watch as he brings his hands up to rub across his face. He accidentally dismantles the bandage and you step forward without really thinking, hurrying to his side and reaching down to fix it.

His hand comes up to grab yours and you freeze in place.

"I can do it," he says, giving you a curt look and then releasing your hand to adjust the gauze himself.

Well, you suppose lax and sleepy Joel couldn't stick around forever. You stand awkwardly by the side of the bed, toying with the edge of the blanket as he rubs his eyes and sits up a little, leaning back against the headboard. He looks so much older in this light; you can see the little flecks of grey in his beard and hair that have been starting to get more noticeable lately, the crows feet, the wrinkles.

He's so handsome.

He turns to look at you with a frown, as if he's only just realizing what you said, "We can go back tonight, I'm fine."

"You're not and you know it. Besides, it's already past ten and now I'm tired, I won't be able to drive."

"I can drive."

"Joel," you surprise yourself by sitting down on the edge of the bed, narrowing your brow as you give him a serious look, "You can't drive. You almost fucking killed us both."

"No I-"

"Yes you did," your tone is firm, suddenly angry - are you angry? - "If I hadn't been talking to you, if I hadn't noticed something was wrong, you would've driven us off the damn road."

He goes quiet at that, frown deepening, the lines on his face more prominent in the low lamplight. You sigh, eyes falling to rest on where your hand is settled on the bed, only inches from his. Part of you wants to reach out and touch, feel the warmth of his skin, the rough of his palm - the other part decides to do something even more stupid.

"You called me baby."

It's out of your mouth before you've even really acknowledged it, and once the words have tumbled out you know there's no taking them back. Your gaze snaps back up to his, slightly surprised to see that he doesn't seem very shocked by your admission.

He clears his throat a little, averting his gaze and shuffling a bit under the covers, "Did I?"

"...Yeah."

You think maybe he'll say something else - anything else - but he doesn't. God, it really is like pulling teeth with him; he's so fucking beautiful but so impossible, never being able to expand on something unless prompted, never being able to answer a single question without jerking you around first. How the fuck has Tess managed to deal with it for so long?

The thought of Tess sends a wave of guilt through your body, Frank's words echoing in your head, but you shove it down.

"What made you... I mean why..." your voice is soft, apprehensive and shy in the quiet of the bedroom, "why'd you call me baby?"

A beat of silence. Then-

"Don't ask me that."

The mood has shifted, your sudden anger ebbing and his annoyance fading into something else, something on the brink of being real. He's avoiding your eyes, peering at the window with the curtains drawn and tapping his fingers anxiously against the mattress, so close to your hand. He's nervous; you're making him nervous.

You stay silent, hoping he'll speak again, hoping maybe just this one time he'll tell you what he's thinking.

"I don't know why."

The words are barely a whisper, almost like he's telling you a secret, and he leaves them hanging in the air briefly before amending - "Well," he sighs and finally looks at you, an emotion you can't place crossing his features, "that's not true. But... I didn't mean - fuck, I was passin' out, for Christ's sake, I didn't realize-"

He cuts himself off again, raising his hand up to press his fingers to the bridge of his nose, briefly forgetting the bandage. He winces when he comes in contact with the gauze, "Can I take this off? It's drivin' me fuckin' crazy."

"Let me do it," you say quietly, inching forward on the bed and reaching for his face. He flinches when you go to touch him, and your hand freezes mid-air.

"Sorry," he mutters, shaking his head like he's shaking off a sensation, a chill, "Go ahead."

With careful - and slightly trembling - fingers, you remove the bandage from his nose. It looks much better than before, no fresh blood in sight, and you suppose it's okay for him to keep it uncovered for the night. Without really thinking about it you gently thumb the side of his nose just shy of the cut, the tips of your other fingers brushing against his cheek.

"It's not too bad," you murmur, and before you know it you're suddenly cupping his jaw, feeling the weight of it in your palm. Your gaze falls to his lips, your thoughts going a mile a minute.

You realize you're close enough that you could kiss him, if you really wanted to. If he really wanted to. All it would take is one small movement, one little push from the both of you, one leap of faith...

And then he whispers your name, almost a warning, and it's like his thoughts are mirroring yours - like he can see exactly what you're picturing, wishing for. Your eyes meet his and you feel a flutter in your stomach when you see the way he's looking at you, a quiet hunger hidden in the deep brown.

You decide to test the waters. You lean in and softly press another kiss to his nose, this time without the gauze in the way. Just like you'd thought, his skin is hot under your lips, soft but scarred, and his smell - god, he smells so masculine and safe, invading your senses as your lips trail downwards to press a small kiss to his cupid's bow, then another to the corner of his mouth. It's sharp, prickly from his scruff, but it doesn't bother you in the slightest - in fact, you kind of like the dull pain, the way it grounds you, keeps you in the moment.

"Baby," he whispers, and a soft little whine falls from your lips without meaning to as your lips move to ghost across his mouth, going for another kiss - a real kiss.

He pulls away before you get there, but then his hand comes up to touch your face, big and wide. He holds you like you're precious, small. His baby.

"S'not right," he whispers, though his thumb strokes your cheek soothingly, "S'not okay for me to want you like that."

You close your eyes at his touch, breathing deeply, "But you do."

"Yeah, I do," you hear him murmur, "You know I do."

"For how long?"

He doesn't respond right away, just continues to stroke your cheek, hold what feels like all of you in his warm palm. You tilt your head a bit to the side, eyes fluttering open to look at him again. You catch the way his lips turn up a little at the movement.

"Too damn long," he sighs, "But that don't... that's not..." he brings his other hand up to cup the other side of your face, holding you still as he peers at you in earnest, brow furrowed, "Point is, we shouldn't... you shouldn't be out here alone with me. Tess knows how I-" he cuts himself off again, and you can see now how difficult it is for him to communicate like this, to be open and honest, "I told her it wasn't a good idea."

"Why?"

He laughs lightly, thumbs circling the apples of your cheeks, "'Cause look where we ended up." He swallows, eyes falling to your lips, "Look where you are right now, baby. Look where my damn hands are for cryin' out loud."

"Keep calling me baby," you breathe, a desperation in your voice that betrays your emotions, tears pricking in your eyes as the weight of this conversation comes crashing down around you. He wants you - he's always wanted you. His words to Tess about not wanting to put you in danger, wanting you to stay away, those soft looks you've shared in his apartment, the small talk, all of it - it's because he wants you.

"We can't do this," he murmurs, leaning in to press his forehead to yours, eyes closing, "I can't do this, you're so- you're too-" he groans, fingers digging into your hair, "You're so young, baby."

"I don't care," you whine, butting your head forward to chase his lips, suddenly yearning to be kissed and held and protected by him, be wrapped in his embrace.

But he pulls away, removing his hands from your face and shuffling back a bit on the bed, away from you. Your hand drops but you reach out pathetically for him anyway, moving closer, attempting to pull the covers back. His hands capture yours and he squeezes them firmly, shaking his head.

"You need to go back to your room," he tells you, and his tone has changed from soft to serious, "It's late and I'm... well, you know I'm fuckin' exhausted. And you've had a long day." He looks at you with pleading eyes, like he's silently begging for you not to put him in this situation, "Let's just call it a night, okay?"

"But-" you start, tears shining in your eyes.

"Please," he breathes, "Please don't make this harder than it needs to be."

You do not want to get up from his bed. But you do.

You do not want to leave his room. But you do.

You do not want to lie awake in your own bed, staring at the ceiling, thinking about how his hands felt on your face, the way his eyes searched yours, the way his skin felt under your lips.

But you do.

You lie there for hours, thumbs twiddling against your belly, tears trickling down your cheeks every so often. All you can hear in your mind over and over again is the word Baby, punctuated by that soft groan he'd made, the way his thumbs had stroked your cheeks, how large and warm and safe he'd seemed in that bed.

All you want to do is be in that bed with him.

So it's no surprise when, as the sun is beginning to rise and that warm golden light starts to stream through your window, you crawl out from under your blankets and cross the hall one more time.

"We shouldn't" he murmurs when you climb into bed with him, when you tuck yourself into his side and bury your face in his shoulder, but his hands are already in your hair, fingers stroking along the back of your head.

Your bodies mold together like they've always been meant to fit that way, your legs tangled with his, arms trapped under big biceps and hairy forearms, breasts flush with his suddenly bare chest.

"I wanna be your baby," you whisper.

The nose you'd kissed brushes slowly up and down the side of your face, and he doesn't hesitate this time. He reaches up to turn your head, presses his lips against yours and lets you melt into him. Lets you trail your hand downward to unbutton his jeans in the silence of the early morning.

"You already are."

[celestie0]

gojo satoru x reader | oneshot smut [18+]

title. around the clock

Hooking up with your little brother’s babysitter? That sounds more like a bad porno than a sensible decision.

ᰔ pairing. babysitter/boxing au - underground boxer & babysitter!gojo x college student!reader (f)

ᰔ summary. when underground boxer gojo satoru becomes a little strapped for cash, he gets a day job as a babysitter for a five-year-old kid named yuuji who most definitely has adhd (but that’s besides the point). the kid’s mom gave gojo two rules, and two rules only: don’t accidentally kill my son, and do not flirt with my daughter. he’s pretty sure he’s got a good hold on the former, but he’s got no self control over the latter.

ᰔ warnings/tags. 18+, fem!reader, smut, casual sex, lil bit of fluff, lil bit of crack, slight age gap (reader’s 22 & gojo’s 27), cum play, creampie, unprotected sex, praise kink, slight degradation, gojo is a sleazebag that cares?, sort of porn-coded smut except there’s a lil bit of lore so it’s kinda porn w plot, uhh having sex with risk of getting caught, gojo beats people up at night & then plays father figure to a 5 y/o during the day, mentions of violence/alcohol/drugs/blood/cigarettes

ᰔ word count. 12.6k

a/n. hiiii friends jeez it feels like FOREVER since i've posted some good ol' smut (still has plot tho xd)...hopefully you enjoy n see ya at the bottom! lmk if i missed any warnings! if you asked to be tagged but didn’t get tagged it’s bc you have your tags off aaa :( even when some ppl tried to fix it i still couldn’t tag them i’m sorry!!

alsoooooo so very much love to @starmapz for beta reading this for me :”) really helped me w my posting nerves haha. she is also a wonderful jjk author pls go check out her works!! 💕 ART CREDITS: @/3-aem

➸ masterlist

2:34 pm yuuji’s sis (no flirting): heyy um i’m sorry if this comes off kinda rude i just am kinda bad with this but i was wondering if you could text my mom for questions about yuuji’s care instead of me?

2:46pm Gojo Satoru: Oh 2:46pm Gojo Satoru: Yeah, sure

2:34 pm yuuji’s sis (no flirting): sorry i know my mom doesn’t know much ab how to take care of him bc i was the one that took care of him for a while but i just really want to separate myself from that guardian role now that i’ve transferred to NYU yknow? :/ i think it’s not my place anymore. i just wanna be big sis now haha

2:46pm Gojo Satoru: I get it. Sorry if I was making you uncomfortable with my texts

2:48pm yuuji’s sis (no flirting): no no not uncomfy by it, thanks for looking after him. it’s just i’m kind of busy n stuff so it can be distracting 

2:49pm Gojo Satoru: Ok, got it

2:52pm yuuji’s sis (no flirting): and it was kind of an issue with his last babysitter

2:53pm Gojo Satoru: Oh?

2:55pm yuuji’s sis (no flirting): yeahhh like he would keep textinf me n stuff uhh kinda weird things… i told my mom about it and she was super pissed so she fired him

2:55pm Gojo Satoru: Weird things?

2:56pm yuuji’s sis (no flirting): yeah he was always “accidentally sexting me” n like he sent me a dick pic once sooooo yeah

2:56pm Gojo Satoru: Who tf 2:56pm Gojo Satoru: I’ll go beat him up

2:57pm yuuji’s sis (no flirting): oh no no its fine lol 2:57pm yuuji’s sis (no flirting): please dont beat anyone up 2:58pm yuuji’s sis (no flirting): i’m not saying you’re like him tho i just think maybe less texting unless its an emergency okay?

3:00pm Gojo Satoru: Are you sure because I will totally go beat him up for you

3:01pm yuuji’s sis (no flirting): NO I DONT WANT YOU TO BEAT ANYONE UP FOR ME 3:01pm yuuji’s sis (no flirting): also no offense but you dont look like you could beat someone up

3:01pm Gojo Satoru: WHAT 3:02pm Gojo Satoru: Tf you mean “no offense” that’s literally the most offensive thing you could say to a guy

3:04pm yuuji’s sis (no flirting): yeaa i mean you have muscles ofc but in the ‘ohhh i wanna look good for instagram’ way and not like real man muscles yknow

3:06pm Gojo Satoru: Ok princess next time you visit home and go on one of your stupidly large grocery hauls I’ll make sure you carry all those groceries in by yourself 

3:06pm yuuji’s sis (no flirting): NO 3:07pm yuuji’s sis (no flirting): I WAS JUST JOKING 3:07pm yuuji’s sis (no flirting): YOURE SO STRONG TY FOR ALWAYS CARRYING THE GROCERIES INSIDE 3:08pm yuuji’s sis (no flirting): PLEASE KEEP CARRYING MY GROCERIES INSIDE

3:09pm Gojo Satoru: Nah 3:09pm Gojo Satoru: Should we be texting right now? I’m not sensing any emergencies here

3:11pm yuuji’s sis (no flirting): pls. my groceries :(

3:16pm Gojo Satoru: I’ll let the kiddo know you say hi 👋🏼 

The irony of it all was that, if Gojo really wanted to, he absolutely could beat the shit out of someone. And he has, hundreds of times, pseudo professionally. Although that isn’t something he’d admit to you, out of fear that you might relay that info back to your mom who would then become mortified that she’s entrusted her five-year-old son’s life to the hands of an underground boxer. 

But he needed the money. A night-time job didn’t really make daytime money, not when they could easily replace him with the next dude the second he gets knocked out of the ring more than twice, let alone if he let it happen once. And although he sometimes made large sums, it wasn’t stable income. He needed a back-up plan, and so babysitting it was. 

The babysitter working nights at unsanctioned dojos and gyms located in the back of cartel blocks, knocking teeth out of men twice his size, would put any decent mother into a coma or induce some episode of syncope, hence why it wasn’t something he put on his resume before he got hired. Not that he even needed to provide a resume; your mom seemed desperate to cover the position as fast as possible, that promotion at work was moving faster than she wanted to, and Gojo’s beneficial attribute that he possessed as a candidate to look after her son, compared to all the other potential hires, was that he had a penis.

He likes the kid. Yuuji. He’s got kind of a short attention span, and makes Gojo weary of his age. Hold up, that makes him sound like he’s geriatric, he’s really only the ripe old age of twenty-seven, but the immortality and infinite stamina that a five-year-old boy has on him is enough to have him huffing and puffing at the end of every single evening shift he takes on with the rascal. 

Fighting is all sprint, and no stamina. Sure, there might be some more seasoned boxers that might disagree with him, but for someone as young as him in the field, it’s the tactic he’s been forced to gain. If he draws a fight on for too long, he'll get killed by a forty-two year old man with steroids clogging up his adipose tissue and enough  testosterone to grow a full-body beard by the time the sun starts to set. No, his strategy is to knock them out within the first fifteen seconds. Use their weight against them, and whatnot. A tactic he’s found has worked, since he’s been undefeated thus far. 

He can never wrap his head around it. The drug lords that run the rings who’ve gained millions the night before from selling crystal meth only to lose it all the night following in the second Gojo hooklines a solid punch to their betting boxer’s chin, making them see God & their Momma before they tap out (if they’re even able).

He doesn’t pocket much money from it, not anything compared to what the men who bet on him end up making at least, but it’s a decently solid sum. How lucrative it really is depends solely on what he thinks the value of his life is.

It’s not unheard of, boxers dying in the ring. Turns out, rich drug dealers care very little about the sheep they’ve captured to perform their entertaining little stunts. But Gojo wasn’t doing all of this to feel some sense of work-life pride, no, it was just sustenance. When basic needs are not met, humans resort to the most animalistic of all behaviors, and while he’s not proud of what he does, he can’t deny the fact that it’s turned him into an adrenaline junkie that gets a rush in his veins every time he knocks a jaw loose.

But balance was key. And hence why he’s a boxer by night, babysitter by day. For at least four days a week, he gets to pretend he’s the king’s most trusted appointed knight, or he’s the radioactive tyrannosaurus rex that wants to tyrannize all the other dinosaurs, or maybe he’s the evil power ranger (he always forgets which color that one was) that is determined to make the world a living hell by smashing mr. potatohead against the bunk bed post a billion times for all the other toys to see. Or whatever other imaginative hyperfixations Yuuji imposes on him in the later afternoon once he’s had his bowl of spaghetti-O’s and is ready to play. Lately, the kid’s been really into space. They’ve got all sorts of space toys these days. Back in Gojo’s day, he just had a good ol’ Buzz Lightyear.

“One rule, that’s it: don’t accidentally kill my son. Actually, one more rule. Don’t flirt with my daughter.” 

There’s a part of Gojo that believes your mom kind of knows he’s up to shady shit at night, otherwise why else would she clause for him to not flirt with you if she didn’t read the slight swell to his eye and the healing gash across his cheek as anything other than this boy is trouble and I want him nowhere near my too-good-for-him daughter of reproductive capacity since that’s the exact tale of how I became a single mother in the first place. Or maybe he inherently looks like he’s up to no good? He’s not sure which angle is more offensive, and which one was more flattering. Well in any case, she entrusted Yuuji’s life to him, despite acknowledging the plausibility of harm, and that means she overall thinks positively of him, right? ……right?

The first night he met you, it was awkward to say the least. Gojo spends most of his nights performing deadly stunts for middle aged men with potbellies, and most of his days hanging out with a five-year-old (one who he’d argue is his only friend at this point). Sure, he’s got some people he sees occasionally back in his high school hometown when he can brave hearing about how everyone’s in college now or doing a masters or they’re working respectable nine-to-five day jobs meanwhile he has to lie to his Pops that he’s been working in insurance for the past two years. Listen, in fairness, he probably makes the same amount of money as an insurance broker would anyways, but he can’t exactly own up to the identity of his craft. 

Anyways, the point is, he’s not used to seeing other people his age anymore. There’s the occasional hook-up with girls he hasn’t seen since Mrs. Tracy’s homeroom period back in sweet two-thousand-sixteen, or his twice-a-year hangout with Suguru where he only learns the day of where he's visiting from since the guy moves around more than Gojo can keep up with. But save for that, he mostly just sees your mom and then Yuuji. 

So seeing you standing in the kitchen for the first time when he went to put Yuuji’s half-finished GoGurt back in the fridge was startling to say the least. When the sight of a woman startled him, he knew he needed to start getting out again.

You were on your tiptoes, reaching up to grab at something over the fridge, and wearing these ridiculously short shorts to where he could see the curve of your ass, his line of sight trailing down the skin of your bare legs. He couldn’t see anything of your form above your shorts, given you were wearing an extremely baggy t-shirt with NYU on it in big bolded university letters. As far as he knew, you were a senior at NYU, studying psychology, made dean’s list consecutively for the past three years given the way your mother posted all your stellar transcripts up on the fridge (he gets that she’s proud of her daughter, but doesn’t that kind of stuff usually end in grade school?) But other than that, it was all the information he had on you.

“Here,” he said, pressing his front to your back, maybe just to get a feel, as he reached over to you to finally grab the box of cereal you were swatting for, the one that he purposefully placed at the back because Yuuji learned how to climb counters recently. “Is this what you want?”

He had heard you gasp, spinning around on your heel fast, staring up at him with wide eyes like you weren’t expecting some random man to be in the house right now, and your first instinct ended up being to grab the knife out of the kitchen knife block and lunge it straight at his torso.

If it wasn’t for his boxer reflexes, he’d have ended up at the ER that evening. Or dead. All depending on the strength you could pack into a stab. But instead, he deflected it, though not without a gash to his torso through the fabric of his shirt, one that you spent the rest of the evening profusely apologizing for and eventually mending to with cotton balls and neosporin. 

“I didn’t know you were my little brother’s babysitter,” you mumbled with a small wince on your face as you dabbed ointment on the wound while he pulled the hem of his shirt up to his shoulder. He’s never had an injury tended to before. It was nice.

“It’s fine, I get it, totally acceptable response to seeing a random dude in your house.”

He remembers the curl of your eyelashes while you stared down at his bare upper half, something he imprinted on his memory rather than the concern in your face as your fingertips traced the scars across his chest. He hoped they made you feel better about the one you just slashed into him, because after all, what was one more? 

He knows he shouldn’t have, but he kissed you that night. Two minutes before your mom came home, and right after you bid him goodnight with one more apology, he backed you up against the door of your bedroom, his hands on your hips pulling you towards him, and his lips pressed against yours. Something seamless, from candid conversation that was heading towards an end, to full fledged making out against white-painted wood, his teeth nipping at your lip and he wondered just how touch-starved those university boys were leaving you given the desperate way you’d clinged to his shirt for dear life as he deepened the kiss.

The moment only lasted one minute and fifty-seven seconds, and in the remaining three, your mother’s key pushed into the front door and he had to pull away. Always, on the dot, 10PM, she was home. It was how he knew he had two minutes left to make a move in the first place.

So much for no flirting.

6:57pm Gojo Satoru: Bahahah I accidentally forgot where yuuji’s epipen is 6:58pm Gojo Satoru: [sent a photo] 6:59pm Gojo Satoru: Turns out this can-o-soup was just covering it in the cabinet

7:01pm yuuji’s sis (no flirting): ??? why did you need to find his epipen

7:08pm Gojo Satoru: Oh he accidentally took a bite of my pad thai 7:09pm Gojo Satoru: I freaked cuz I thought it had peanuts in it but I remember I asked for it without any  7:09pm Gojo Satoru: shit’s crazy

7:10pm yuuji’s sis (no flirting): WHY THE FUCK DIDNT YOU TEXT ME????????

7:12pm Gojo Satoru: YOU SAID YOU DIDNT WANT ME TEXTING YOU UNLESS IT WAS AN EMERGENCY ?

7:13pm yuuji’s sis (no flirting): SATORU YOU THOGHT HE ATE SOMETHING W PEANUTS IN IT AND YOU FORGOT WHERE HIS EPIPEN WAS THATSS A FUCKIGN EMERGENCY

7:15pm Gojo Satoru: THE KID IS DOING FINE HES ALIVE JESUS LEAVE ME ALONE 7:16pm Gojo Satoru: [sent a photo] 7:16pm Gojo Satoru: See. he’s chill 7:17pm Gojo Satoru: with intact airways might I add 7:18pm Gojo Satoru: Also isn’t he a little too old to still be watching baby sensory videos?

7:20pm yuuji’s sis (no flirting): yeah my mom thinks he has adhd :(

7:22pm Gojo Satoru: oh

He tried to keep his word though (although he doesn’t recall ever giving it) out of the respect he had for your mom. She was a hard-working lady, single mom of two who went from working three jobs to now being a major administrator at a big law firm near the outskirts of town. It was an underdog story if he’d ever heard one, and he loved an underdog story. 

But a little texting here and there wouldn’t hurt, right? Or so he thought, until you told him to cut it out with the contact. Maybe you were just trying to be the good one in this situation. After all, hooking up with your little brother’s babysitter? That sounds more like a bad porno than a sensible decision. Still, he’ll eventually get your replies to his which shirt should Yuuji wear to the park? and look, the toothfairy gave him the butt of a joint and a couple thumbtacks for his front tooth. he’s ecstatic texts, although in a less timely manner than before when you weren’t trying to preserve propriety. And when you’d occasionally visit every other weekend, he’d do his best to keep his hands in his pockets, and you’d fill up your nights with hangouts with your hometown friends to avoid spending too much time with him at the house. A silent agreement to not fuck each other, it was. 

4:55pm yuuji’s sis (no flirting): send pic of yuuji pls i miss him :(

5:04pm Gojo Satoru: [sent a photo]

5:08pm yuuji’s sis (no flirting): IS THAT BLOOD?!?!?!?!

5:09pm Gojo Satoru: chillllllll it’s fake. We’re working on his halloween costume

5:09pm yuuji’s sis (no flirting): WHY DOES IT HAVE BLOOD?!?!?!?!?!?

5:10pm Gojo Satoru: He wants to be a baby xenomorph and I'm his parasitic host. You know that iconic chestburster scene from the old school alien movies? yeah

5:12pm yuuji’s sis (no flirting): satoru please for the love of god just dress him up as a dinosaur or something

5:13pm Gojo Satoru: I’m not the one that came up with the idea, okay? It was him

5:14pm yuuji’s sis (no flirting): because you let him watch adult swim with you before putting him to bed. you’ve deranged his brain.

5:14pm Gojo Satoru: He needs it. Builds character.

Gojo was living a double life, and if someone asked him, he’d say it was less of a Clark Kent way and more of a Bruce Wayne way, although in reality, he knows it’s close to neither. He’s no superhero with a concealed identity fighting crime, he’s a con artist that’s tricked a hard-working woman into hiring him just because he’s trying to save up enough money to get the fuck out of this godforsaken town, given he’s not knocked dead before then for the crime’s amusement.

But Yuuji looks up to him now. And Gojo’s grown attached to him too. He taught the kid how to tie his own shoes and piss inside the actual toilet like a real man. And that kid’s the only thing that’s made him question any of this. Maybe that’s what dads feel, suddenly held to all this impossible responsibility and the pressure to stop doing stupid shit so that you’ll stick around to see your kids get older. The thought that there are eyes on you now, eyes that are innocent and hopeful and learning, and because they know nothing at all, you feel the responsibility to protect them from everything. For fucks sake, remind him to never become a dad. 

“Do you like my sister?” Yuuji had asked him out of nowhere one afternoon after he just got home from preschool, stacking a blue cube over a yellow one at the dining table.

“Uhh,” Gojo starts. He wondered if your mom had put a wire on the kid, so his answer was as diplomatic as he could manage. “Yeah, she’s cool. You’ve got a cool sister.”

“But. But.” Yuuji stutters, trying to find his big boy words. He stretches up higher to reach the top of his stack of blocks, but he only has so much arm real estate at the age of five. “Do you like her like you wanna kiss her?”

Gojo grabs the block from the kid’s hand, for a moment questioning Yuuji’s decision to want to put a blue block over another blue block, but he figures aesthetics are the least of a kid’s concern, and so he places the block where Yuuji wanted it. 

Why does the kid know what kissing is anyway? Do kids know that kind of stuff at that age? Isn’t a kiss to a five-year-old just something their mom gives to them before they head off to preschool for the day? And not something that happens between adult men and women? Maybe he should stop watching that adult swim in front of him.

“No. I don’t want to kiss your sister,” he says, again, because he is suspicious of a wire. It was a lie and then some, because he wants to do a lot more than just kiss you.

Gojo lifts the RedBull he was nursing up to his lips and watches Yuuji in the corner of his eye as the kid stares at his growing stack of blocks with a concentrated expression on his face, his chubby fingers squeezing tightly into little round dimpled balls, like he’s putting together all his tiny brain cells together to form another coherent thought before turning to face Gojo on the chair.

“It’s ok. You can kiss her if you wan’ed to. You can marry her too,” Yuuji says.

Gojo almost spits out his RedBull. He barely manages to swallow it, a broken cough immediately leaving his throat when some of the liquid goes down the wrong pipe and he’s smacking a fist against his chest to knock the sanity back into himself.

“Where the fu—…where the flip did that come from?” he asks, blinking back tears from the rasp in his throat.

Yuuji’s small shoulders sulk as he sits back on his heels. “I want a papa.”

Oh fuck that hurt. Jesus christ, there was nothing more sad than that. Yuuji has literally never known what it’s like to have a dad, since his had left before he was even born. Gojo’s not really close to his old man by any means, but he had still been a fatherly figure in some pivotal moments when he had needed it growing up. Kids need their dads. And he’s seen enough people lose their way without one to know that the value of them is really underestimated.

He’s also kind of shocked that Yuuji really did think of you as his motherly figure. Maybe since it had always just been him and his dad, Gojo learned how to self sustain from a young age, and he and his dad became accustomed to just looking after their own interests to avoid the headache of tending to one another. My land is my land, and your land is yours, and there was the occasional Saturday night spent together with his dad’s millions of beer bottles emptied dry on the carpet in front of the 1992 box TV as the two shared a greasy pizza from the place down the street. That was the extent of family solidarity that he knew.

But he can’t imagine being barely eighteen and having to take care of your little brother all by yourself because your mom was too busy trying to put food on the table and was too poor to hire a babysitter. Your mom tried so damn hard to keep you away from the single teenage mother life, but somehow ended up giving it to you by proxy in the end anyway. It was no wonder you wanted space now that Yuuji’s a little older and your mom can afford a babysitter. No matter how much you might love your sibling, being their effective guardian out of pure necessity had to have taken a toll.

Gojo clears his throat before he speaks. “Buddy. If I married your sister, we’d be brothers. I wouldn’t be your dad.” 

Yuuji’s eyes light up at the word brother. “Brothers? Me and you?”

“Yeah. Bros.”

The kid giggles, all bubbly with cheeks rounding fully and eyes sparkling. Gojo reaches out to ruffle at his hair before Yuuji gets down onto one stubby leg at a time from the chair then bolts towards the kitchen.

“Juice!!” he yells somewhere around the corner out of sight.

Gojo sighs, staring at all the toys he pulled out for Yuuji to play with, all left in a scattered mess across the table. He gets up out of his chair and heads towards the fridge. “Yeah, yeah. I’ll get you your juice, you little demon.”

The conclusion he comes to, and it might read like an obvious one, is that kids don’t really know the reality of life, hence why adults hide so much from them. 

This is what he thinks of tonight when he wraps his worn out boxing tape around his hands and his wrist, tightening it with his teeth, and he can smell the sweat and grime from them. The back of the underground gym had an old dated locker room, and as Gojo stretches his neck side to side while sitting on the stiff metal bench, he eyes the peeling red paint of the locker in front of him, blurring vision making it look like spilt blood. 

His phone pings with a text. He shuffles inside his duffle bag to look for it while his other hand scratches at his bare chest.

1:07am yuuji’s sis (no flirting): hhhhhhhhhiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii 1:07am yuuji’s sis (no flirting): omgomgomg sor y i’m 

He blinks at the screen, confusion flashing across his face. He types one letter, but then he sees three dots and a speech text bubble in the bottom left, so he waits for you.

1:09am yuuji’s sis (no flirting): i drunk :(

The corner of his mouth ticks up slightly. 

1:09am Gojo Satoru: Yeah I can tell

1:10am yuuji’s sis (no flirting): at a apartyyyy

His eyebrows raise slightly, the thought of you tipsy on some frat party couch flashing through his mind, yet of all things you could be doing at that frat party, you’re texting him? Must be a really boring party.

1:11am yuuji’s sis (no flirting): whyyy are you aawake?

1:12am Gojo Satoru: Couldn’t sleep 1:12am Gojo Satoru: Don’t you have a midterm in the morning?

1:14am yuuji’s sis (no flirting): wtf hwo do you knwo that

1:15am Gojo Satoru: Your mom keeps your schedule posted on the fridge

1:15am yuuji’s sister (no flirting): im so fucked;’;(((

He snorts. He’s got a bit more life experience than you, five-ish years to be exact, more than enough time to master the no-hangover hangout, but just before he can offer you some advice, he sees another text from you. 

1:16am yuuji’s sister (no flirting): can i tell u smething 

His gaze flits up to the ceiling briefly, and he hears commotion outside the thick walls of the locker room. The previous fight was over, and fast. The guy must’ve been knocked out in under twenty seconds tops, which means that Gojo was next up against whatever superbeast just beat him up. 

1:17am Gojo Satoru: Sure

He stands up, placing his phone down on the bench before he flexes the muscles in his arms a couple times to get the blood flowing into them. And there’s the noise of another ping. Actually, four.

1:14am yuuji’s sis (no flirting): sonetimes 1:14am yuuji’s sis (no flirting): i thikn of  1:14am yuuji’s sis (no flirting): when u kisse me 1:14am yuuji’s sis (no flirting): *kissed me

His eyes widen slightly, irises dry to the ashy cigarette smoke from outside lingering in the air, and his heart rate picks up a bit. An adrenaline junkie with close to no fear in his veins due to the way his amygdala’s been fried to a crisp from years of boxing, yet he’s got his breath hitched from the memory of your soft lips against his. It makes the blood rushing through the muscles of his arms rush somewhere down south instead.

Loud banging on the door of the locker room jolts him out of his trance, and he’s stiff around the edges once more.

“Satoru! You’re up, man,” he hears Danny, the fight coordinator, yell at him from the other side of the heavy & poorly-installed steel door.

Gojo sighs, glancing down at the texts on his phone. To respond, or not to respond. You’re off your face, clearly chatty from the alcohol, and he knows for certain you’ll regret every life decision you’ve ever made once you wake up in the morning and see the self sabotaging behaviors you’ve engaged in tonight. He knows that responding to you might put you at ease rather than straight up ignoring you, but the feeling will pass, and he has a match to win with no more room left to stall.

He makes his way out the locker room, pushing past the crowded halls of people underneath dim flashing club lighting, some dudes angrily jerking to face him when he pushes past them with a stiff shoulder, only for their eyes to widen when they see just exactly who pushed them. 

There’s strippers in the ring, doing some routine for pre-match, and Gojo narrows his eyes at the man he sees laying back over the rubber boundary rope, head tipped back up to the ceiling with a wicked grin on his face. So that was his opponent? He’s never seen the guy before. Was he from a different district? Different district talent was tough, you had no background info on them, while they’ve been preparing to be here for weeks. Hence why boxers tend to do better when they visit a different district than they do in their own. There have been rules made to limit these types of fights, mostly over outrage that it was unfair to bid on them, but they were also usually more entertaining to watch. Gojo’s got a sick feeling to his stomach as the strippers clear the ring.

“Hey,” Gojo calls out, grabbing Danny by the back of his collar and dragging him towards him and away from the girls stepping down onto the floor, “what’s in for this fight?”

Danny glances up at the ceiling. “Tarp’s bettin’ tonight, so it can’t be anything less than ten grand for you. I’d say tops fifteen?”

Gojo narrows his eyes further, then glances off into the ring again. The man stands up, and Gojo gets a better look on his face. He’s got short hair, neon green in color with a dark fade underneath and tattoos all over his face. But those eyes. They were freakishingly red, and it made him uneasy. He knows the type. The type of boxers that do this to genuinely hurt people for thrill. Make no mistake, Gojo understands he’s made himself out to be like that too, gaining some kind of rush out of this profession, but this type of fighter was different. The type to literally continue smashing a dude’s face into the floor until they’re a bloody mess even minutes after the winning call, and no referee to stop it because that’s the kind of action the spectators wanted.

Danny reads his line of sight. “That’s Gale. Newton’s new boxing toy. Came outta nowhere about a month ago. He’s undefeated so far in his district, and Newton specifically wanted to see you up against him tonight,” Danny tells Gojo, resting his elbow up on his bare shoulder. “Chances are he’ll compete with Tarp for final bid if you win this one. I’m talking twenty-five grand in the next if you can knock him out in this.”

“Uh-huh,” Gojo acknowledges, rolling his shoulder so Danny’s elbow falls from it. Forget the money, he just wants to make it out of this alive.

He sets his foot up on the square, ducking through the dividing boundary straps and the tacky caution construction tape that the gym thinks creates an exciting ambience. He hears the static of the speakers as the announcers call out Gojo’s name, then this other guy, loud bass club music booming through Gojo’s chest as he tries to take a few deep breaths through the thick air of this low-ceiling arena. 

The dim overhead lights flickered, casting shadows over the makeshift ring, and the crowd pressed tight around at every perimeter area, yelling and pushing, one even tosses a beer bottle on the square and it shatters, spreading glass all across, a few shards reaching Gojo’s feet and he looks down at them with a shudder. A fight immediately breaks out in the crowd over something related or possibly entirely unrelated, and he’d have no way of knowing as he swipes the shards away with his heel.

The influential men always sat up on higher seating, off towards the back in their own VIP section where they suck in the smoke of fat cigarettes and peer through 100% tinted sunglasses to assess the boxers they’ve bid thousands on. The light reflects off the golden grills of their teeth with every snarl at any passerby that gets too close, like a lion in its den. That’s what the sanction was called. Lion’s den.

Gojo sighed, eyeing the twisted grin of this Gale guy across from him. Was that his real name? Usually, foreign district guys get nicknames. Gojo’s always thought the nicknames were tacky, and he’s accumulated some of his own over the years, but to his ears, none of them ever really landed, although The White Fox admittedly was kinda nice. Reminded him of throwback shooting games. 

He sucked a breath in through his teeth, holding his hands up in front of his chest in weak fists, storing energy in them in the form of pure anticipation alone, and then the bell rang.

His opponent lunged towards him immediately, fists flying in a barrage of reckless strikes, and Gojo’s eyes momentarily widened in the briefest moments of hesitation he had been allowed before ducking and dodging every one of this guy's shots, then jumping a step back to create distance.

Fuck. He was fast. Not just boxer fast, athlete fast. There was a difference. And it wasn’t a good one to be up against.

Gojo picked up light on his feet. He couldn’t win this one fast, that much was certain. One single careless or reckless move, and he’ll get tackled. He knows that by the malicious look he sees on that guy’s face, grin wide like he’s some cannibalistic beast. 

Stepping back towards the center, Gojo purposefully set himself up for Gale to swipe a vicious hook towards his head, before Gojo last minute ducked down, crouched to the floor, and swung his leg out to knock the guy off balance by his ankles, and he falls onto his back with a loud thud!

There’s a moment of momentary silence from the crowd, right before Gojo put the man in a torso-lock, twisting him in a way a human body should absolutely not be twisted, hearing the grunts of pain and the crack of spine even through the shouts of the crowd.

He can hear it. Kill him! Knock his fucking teeth out! Snap his neck like a goose, man! FIN-ISH HIM! FIN-ISH HIM! FIN-ISH HIM!

He feels like throwing up. 

Gojo looks up at the referee, who wasn’t really a referee, just there to run the clock when there was action and only barely stop it before near death. “This is enough, right?” he asks.

The referee nods. “1-0, next round.”

Gojo lets go of his opponent, leaving him there to heave for a moment before he gets up onto his feet again. Just needs one more, and he’s a winner. Ten grand in his pocket, and he won’t have to come back here for a couple weeks.

Gale gets up, swiping at the spit that had trickled out the corner of his mouth down to his chin, and he had an enraged look on his face. The second the bell rang for the second round, he exploded forward towards Gojo with even more fervor than before, gritted expression with a thirst for violence fueling the storm of punches he was throwing towards Gojo but he tried to remain calm, light on his feet, swiftly duck and avoid before he can find another opportunity to clear a sharp, clean jab right to the ribs—

sometimes, i think of when you kissed me

Gojo misses his strike, leaving his guard wide open, and Gale takes the opportunity to land a solid punch straight to his jaw, sending his mouth guard flying straight out of his mouth into the air, and knocking him backwards onto the ground with a thud and then he finds himself staring up at the rusting metal ceiling and a ringing in his ears that almost matches the roar of the crowd.

His head is in a haze, dizzy like where one second could feel like a millennia. He feels a soreness underneath his chin, a pain that radiates to his mouth, and he briefly swipes his tongue over his front teeth to make sure he still has all of them. 

What the fuck was that? That intrusive thought. There’s no intrusive thoughts allowed in life or death situations, not when he was always just one smash to the head away from a permanent concussion. But, fuck, he can’t help it. Can’t help thinking of you. Even when his vision has gone blurry and he should really be weary about what happens next in this ring, his mind’s just thinking about you, at some frat party, tipping back shots of tequila and waiting for a text-back in response to your tipsy ones. Were you even waiting up on him? Have you already passed out on the couch, or were your friends dragging you back to your dorm? Or are you fucking some other dude right now? Has he got his hand up your top, squeezing at you, sleazily feeling you up before spilling beer all down your shirt, and are you kissing him back with the same enthusiasm, your phone now somewhere long slipped between the cushions of the couch and out of sight?

Even though it’s still sore, he tenses his jaw. Grinds his teeth, even. Tasting blood somewhere along the line of his gums, he realizes his lip is split. He licks at it, the flavor of copper more rich on his tongue, and he clenches his fists tightly. Why’s he thinking of that right now? It just pisses him off, the thought of you with some other dude. Maybe that’s what he needs to win this fight. Spite. Although he’s not sure why the guy across from him at the ring has to pay for it.

He lifts his head up off the ground, and while it felt like years he had been down, a glance at the timer tells him it’s only been a solid four seconds. A solid four seconds that his opponent had to fully charge a lunge towards him with the look of death in his face, raising his elbow up into the air in time with his leap, ready to come straight down, and Gojo’s eyes widen at the sight above him from where he’s still lying on the wood.

“Shit—” he cusses, rolling his body over to the side so that the dude falls straight down onto the floor rather than elbow Gojo in the fucking ribs, and then he gets back up on his feet. 

Stakes were high, he has to end this, he has to end this now, and he flexes the muscle in his right bicep, channeling everything he has into this one blow, and before Gale even really has a chance to turn around and face him again, Gojo’s already three-fourths set up a knockout undercut that he drives straight up the guy’s chin, with so much force it has him lifting up off the floor, a vertebrate stretch to his spine before he’s sent flying backwards and slammed against the tight rubber lining of the ring to where he was half hanging over it.

The room fell silent for a split second, then erupted in a roar as the referee fell to one knee beside Gale, checking him for any semblance of consciousness, and when he found none, he waves the match off. 

Gojo’s eyes flit up towards the lion’s den, the only opinions that he really needed to care about were sitting in those mahogany chairs with glasses of scotch swirling around in their hands, and he sees some of them looking straight at Gojo before leaning towards one another and discretely talking about something he can’t make out because he doesn’t know how to read lips.

He feels someone tug at his arms from behind, pulling him to crouch down and he balances back on the balls of his feet. He glances down through the ring at the floor. Danny was leaning against the wooden surface of it. “Dude. Go.” He jerks his head towards Gale, who still laid there sprawled across the now stretched out rubber perimeter bands. “Go fuck him up. Knock a few more teeth out, I don’t know, get some more blood out of him.”

“What?” Gojo huffs, yanking his arm away from Danny’s grip. “The fuck are you saying?”

“I told you, man, Newton’s here and he’s got his eye on you. Go give him a show,” Danny says, “do it.” And when he sees clear frustration on Gojo’s face he sighs. “Twenty-five grand, consider that, will you?”

Gojo sneers at the man, an awful taste in his mouth as he spits blood towards Danny’s feet. “Go fuck yourself on his cock if he wants a show that bad.” And then he ducks underneath the bands and hops back down onto the floor, pushing past people who were trying to grab at him and pull at him and lift him up and even throw him down until he made it through flashing hallways and back to the locker room.

He shuts the door behind him, sliding the bolt lock into the frame so no one can follow him inside, and then he leans his weight back against the chilling steel before tipping his head back until it hits the surface too.

He lets out of a few deep breaths, then stares down at the sting he finds over his knuckles. Red and blistering from the last punch he delivered, and he’s almost certain he broke a bone in his hand. Fuck. It was bleeding across the cuts, too. He had to figure out a way to get it all healed by tomorrow, as if that was humanly possible, just because he doesn’t want Yuuji questioning him about it.

Yuuji. For fucks sake, when has he ever thought about the kid this much? When has he ever thought about much of anything when he’s out here or in the ring? He’s a babysitter by day. He’s a “part” of your family when the sun is up and normal functioning society is breathing their lives into the clean air. That’s it. He’s no five-year-old’s caretaker in front of all these primetime drug lords, and he certainly shouldn’t be thinking of you when facing big, burly men he’s aiming to rough up, all within the dead hours of night. So then how come these thoughts are on his mind at all times, twenty-four-seven, around the clock?

He heads further into the locker room, glancing down at the bench where he’d left his phone, then picks it up, neck craned all the way down to glance at the screen as he holds his phone by his hip because he doesn’t have any energy to pick it up any further towards his eyesight. 

He sees your messages. You never sent any follow-up ones, just your horrendously typed out sonetimes, i thikn of when u kisse me *kissed me across the span of four texts, and Gojo runs a tired hand down his face.

He tips his head back to groan at the ceiling, guttural with no basis other than a release of all the pent up frustration of every sort, then he types in a couple messages to you,

3:23am Gojo Satoru: That’s nice 3:24am Gojo Satoru: I think about fucking you all the time 

—and then tosses his phone into his duffel bag to call it a night.

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

You’re awoken to your alarm blaring heavily, and you whack your arm across your nightstand table beside your tiny twin-size bed to hit the snooze button, then rub your eye with a loose fist while smacking at the residual taste of alcohol you have on your tongue. 

“Mm…” you mumble to yourself. And then the thirst hits you. The overwhelming, intense, unquenchable thirst that leaves your mouth feeling like the Sahara desert before you grab your twice-dented Hydroflask from the nightstand, twist the cap off and chug about twenty ounces of water in one breath. 

You let out a deep exhale and fall back into bed, your hand resting on top of your water-filled tummy, and you stare up at the ceiling of your dorm. 

Last night was horrible. You knew you shouldn’t have gone to that frat party, especially given you have an exam in—you checked the time on your phone—about an hour, and an hour was not enough time to recover from the raging hangover headache that’s pounding through your head. But your roommates insisted you went, and so go you did. You never knew what to expect, always torn between shaving your pussy before you go or throwing on a stained pair of sweatpants to keep the guys away instead. Sometimes, it was a combination of both. But last night, you ended up drinking more than you usually do, and that always led to poor, poor, poor decisions, in which all the sense of pride you had in yourself was washed down with the puke that you hurled into the upstairs toilet. 

You grab at your phone again, briefly seeing that your friends had sent you some photos from the night. You immediately swiped off to the side to dismiss the notifications, because as far as you were concerned, you never wanted to see those photos in your life.

And then, in the briefest of moments, you saw a familiar name in your notifications that made you heart skip a beat.

Gojo Satoru (yuuji’s babysitter)

With an immediate gasp, you pulled your phone to your chest and held it there, blinking up at the pale yellow ceiling, your heart picking up in rhythm.

Oh fuck.

That was right.

You drunk texted him last night.

You drunk texted your little brother’s hot babysitter.

Fuck.

Mortified was an understatement, possibly because you don’t even remember what you said, and so you don’t even want to see what he replied with.

You groan, rubbing both your hands across your face then kick your sheets back with your feet like a child having a temper tantrum because you were so embarrassed you had even texted him at all last night. I mean, he was hot. A little older than you, really gorgeous eyes, tall, and, yeah, you gave him shit for the Instagram muscles thing, but that’s only because you thought he’d find it cheeky that you were trying to humble him despite the fact that he’s more toned and ruggedly sculpted than any other man you’ve ever met. You didn’t want to have a flustered schoolgirl attitude because it would just seep through to his ego.

In any case, he was hot, there was no denying it, so can you really blame yourself? But still. There was collateral with this. You had to see him every other weekend. He knows your family, even your extended since they invited him to Thanksgiving dinner a couple weeks ago. A high-risque drunk text recipient if he ever was one (of course he has been, look at that face). Why couldn’t you have just drunk texted ECON160 guy from last semester who Clit DJ’d you underneath your desk at the back of the lecture hall instead?

The thing that made you nervous about Gojo Satoru was that he was just so…confident? Like, in that I was raised to be this way confident and not that I fought inner demons my whole life to barely end up this way confident, y’know? Never had to fake it ‘til he made it, he just was. At least that was the kind of energy you got from him, and unfortunately for you, it was nerve wracking but enticing all at the same time.

You sigh. “Stupid. Stupid. Stuuuuuupiiiiidddddddddddd. You. Are. So. Stuuuuuupiiiiddddddd,” you sigh, running your hands through your hair to grip at the strands.

You pull your phone away from your chest, and finally brave yourself to read the texts from your notifications screen, but not without blurring your vision a little to further stall. And then you finally refocus it to read them. The first one you see has you gasping—

3:24am Gojo Satoru (yuuji’s babysitter): I think about fucking you all the time 

It has heat spreading across your cheeks, and you blink at your screen, then quickly swipe up to read the previous messages with rushed glides of your index finger on the screen to see that he had sent it to you in response to your barely coherent texts about how you still so often think about that time he randomly pressed you up against the door of your bedroom to kiss you that night you first met him.

I think about fucking you all the time

At 3 in the morning? He decided to send that text at 3 in the fucking morning? That was the devil’s hour. What’s he trying to tell you? 

Oh come on, you’re not stupid. And you know he isn’t either. The sexual tension was palpable, it was there since the day you two met and you almost stabbed him, and also everytime you were visiting the house, and his shoulder brushes against yours when he’s trying to get past you in the kitchen, or when you’ve got Yuuji in your arms and the kid is clinging to Gojo’s sleeve because he wants him near him at all times. There’s even sexual tension over the phone, in those stupid texts he sends you all the time about meaningless child care stuff, and honestly, those little updates made your day.

But… you don’t know much about him, and your mom would kill you if she ever found out you wanted him. And she’d probably pulverize him if she found out he ever made a move on you. Cremated without leaving a trace behind would be an understatement. She thinks he’s no good and she thinks you’re too good. You know she’s warned him before to not get close to you, as if she was pre-emptively expecting him to try to get in your pants like it was some canon force of the universe, hence why he’s probably so fucking awkward around you whenever she’s there too. Like if he accidentally got caught staring at your ankles, your mom would light him on fire, so he’d rather not risk it by just avoiding looking at you at all.

Your mom has always been protective of you. Your father was a deadbeat, one she thought she loved, only to watch him leave. And she had to raise a baby all by herself. He re-entered your lives right before you graduated high school, knocked up your mom again with Yuuji, and guess what? Left again without a trace. To be doubly humiliated by a man is a fate you wouldn’t wish on any woman, but that’s exactly what your mom went through. It was a wake-up call for her, though. No more living paycheck to paycheck like you had been your whole lives up until Yuuji was born. The kid doesn’t even know how lucky he is with everything he has right now. Your mom worked her way up the corporate ladder and made something of herself and now you guys were comfortable, so it was safe to say she had some sort of right to look after her daughter, of whom she simply doesn’t want to follow in the same naive footsteps of her youth.

You get it. She wants to break the generational cycle. But it made being with men tough on all fronts, let alone dating. You could never bring a guy home because he’d never be enough, even if he cured cancer or could make you orgasm while doing a sixty-nine handstand. And while her overbearing paranoia over what you do or where you are or who you’re with has since dimmed slightly since you officially moved out to finish your last year of higher education at NYU, you can still feel her disappointment from a hundred miles away when you’re making out with some random frat guy on his beer-stained couch at eleven AM on a Tuesday.

But you got to college. You’ve already made it this far. You’re on dean’s list. You graduated high school as salutatorian. You’re the most highly decorated cello player in the state. You won Miss County pageant when you were sixteen for your philanthropic efforts towards feline leukemia. You did online community college for three years so you could stick back after high school and help your mom raise Yuuji, which meant that you had to forfeit your scholarship to Cornell. You’ve spent your whole life being good, you just wanna be bad for a little bit.

And if bad meant fucking the hot and mysterious babysitter, then so be it. 

You pick your phone up, begin blasting what the hell by Avril Lavigne on your dorm room bluetooth speaker, then type a message to him that says—

10:34am you: do it then

—then shove your phone under the sheets and belt out the lyrics aaaall my life i’ve been good, but now, ahhhh i’m thinkin’ what the hell!!! while kicking your feet and clutching your pillow.

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

Gojo has no clue what divine entity has overcast their gratuitous spirit over him on this blessed Monday afternoon, but he’ll thank them for it later once his balls are empty. 

He’s got you on your back, sprawled across the couch in the living room, the first fuck being a rushed one that you offered him with before he has to go pick Yuuji up from circle time at preschool, which wasn’t ideal, but he’s delirious at the sight of you underneath him right now. Your little NYU shirt, a tighter one this time, bunched up over your bare breasts, otherwise entirely naked other than the flimsy panties dangling at your ankle, and the view of the tip of his cock looking hot and heavy against the velvet of your cunt, slowly pushing in, feeling the warmth of your walls squeeze around him paired with the sweet moan that leaves your lips, makes him fall forward with a bracing hand dug into the cushion by the side of your head because the sensation feels so fucking good he can hardly keep himself upright.

“Fuck, you’re so tight,” he grunts, pushing himself in further to try and bottom out but he’s still got a couple inches he needs you to take, and so you curl your hips upwards towards the cieling to make more room for him, practically putting yourself into a mating press and soon enough he’s balls deep, “you on any birth control?”

“Uh-huh,” you moan, eyes closed and head tipped back with one hand squeezing your own tit.

“I can cum inside then, yeah?” he asks you, pushing your knees to your chest, slowly drawing his hips back and you squirm underneath him.

“Let’s get there first, and then we’ll discuss,” you breathe out.

“I’ve been there for the past ten minutes, baby. I could cum at any second with the way you look and feel,” he informs you flatly, because it was just the truth and you had to know it, then he feels himself twitch inside, slowly working up to a languid rhythm, almost fearfully like your mom’s going to pop out somewhere around the corner with a camera crew ready like one of those retro TV shows just to humiliate him on national television for not keeping it in his pants like she’d told him to. 

“Harder,” he hears you whisper, and he rolls his eyes shut to just focus on the feeling. The feeling of your nails grazing down the skin of his chest and his abs, tracing the scars he’s collected over the years, and he feels you tightening around him. He leans down to kiss you, fucking you properly now with the squeak of the couch springs echoing across the room, your hums of moans seeping through his lips until he’s fully taking them on with an open-mouthed kiss of sloppy tongue. 

The fact that it was wrong felt right to him, and he realizes in this moment he’s lost all sense of control. He wasn’t just an adrenaline junkie that liked to rough up dudes, he was an adrenaline junkie that wanted to fuck you against all better judgement or moral compass. The way your tits were bouncing, the slap of skin on skin, his balls slapping against your ass while you wrap your legs around him tighter, all convincing him that any consequence made it worth it.

“Good,” he groans the praise, pinning your hands above your head as he rams his hips against yours, your cute moans and squeals sounding like literal music to his ears and he feels heat spread all the way up his neck, “goooood, keep squeezin’ me like that, fuck.” He slows down momentarily, just to take a moment and watch, really look and see the way his length disappears inside of your pretty self with every push forward, and then he works back up to a relentless pace that has you tipping your head back with a slack jaw and eyes closed tightly shut, sprained expression of pleasure spread across.

“Oh, oh my god, Satoru—” you mewled and he felt dizzy from the sound of his name from your softly parted lips.

“Fuck, I’m gonna—” His hand finds it’s way between your legs, calloused pads of his fingers brushing against your clit and you jolt underneath him, gasping as your hand shoots out to dig your nails into his bicep for purchase. “I’m gonna cum, better tell me where you want it.”

“In me,” you moan, “nowhere else.”

He presses his mouth against your cheek in a lazy smile, “Atta girl,” he drawls before pushing your ankles down as far as they’d go near your ears, folding you in half and then reigns all hell into your cunt. He should really care a bit more about your pleasure, but testing your flexibility like this with both his hands holding you down was doing sinful things to his brain, and besides, you had yourself covered with the messy circles you were rubbing over your clit. It was hot to see that too, your nimble pretty fingers so close to the place where he was pounding into you. 

“Oh shit, shit, shit—” he grunts when starts to see blistering white in his vision, balls straining with a pleasure that was almost painful. The moment he finishes feels like hot flashes in his brain, a heat like the cum he begins to paint inside your walls in time with your release, thrusting over and over and over, each one more staggered as he lets off a long, drawn out groan that comes from deep within his chest with the feeling of you milking him dry and the sound of you enjoying every second of it. He can’t remember the last time he came this much or this hard and even after coming down from the high, he feels the remnant pulse of your orgasm around his now half-flaccid dick.

He leisurely pulls out, hearing you let out a soft whimper as he marvels at the sight of his cum slowly dripping out of you and down towards the couch, before he scoops it up with a couple fingers and pushes it back inside. You grip his wrist tightly, but you weren’t stopping it, that motion of him plunging it all back into you.

“Want a taste?” he asks, casually.

“Mhm,” you nod, face looking flush.

He pulls his fingers out of you, coated with sex, then plugs your pussy with the fingers of his other hand because he kinda likes the idea of you walking around all day with him inside of you, so he doesn’t want it getting out. He’s then pushing his other fingers past your lips, pleased to find he’s met with not even so much as a grazing of teeth, and he grins, “bet you take a dick in your mouth as good as you take it down here.”

Your furrow your brows at him, the pout of your lips seen in the way they were puckered to lick his fingers off clean, and when you release the suction with a smack of your tongue and his fingers were wet from your saliva now, his eyes narrow with desire. You push his face away with the heel of your palm to his forehead. “Flattery won’t make me suck your dick.”

“Alright. So? How is it?” he jerks his chin towards your face, pushing against your hand with his forehead until he’s hovering over you again, “taste good?”

“It’s cum, Satoru.”

He shrugs. “Bad?”

“No,” you say, and you can’t make eye contact, “good.” You sigh. “Hot. I don’t know. Salty, sweet. I’m the sweet. You’re the salty. And this conversation is obscene.”

He kisses you, capturing your lips softly, tongue darting out to taste what’s on yours. “I like it that way. Dirty. Nasty. Obscene, whatever.”

There’s the slam of a car door heard from the driveway, and the two of you instantly make eye contact with round eyes.

“Sa—” you stutter, “Satoru.”

He gets up off the couch in a panic, and heads to the window of the living room fully butt-ass naked, then peers through the blinds to see—

Your mom was making it up towards the front door, rustling with her keys in her purse. And the last thing he sees before he turns around to face you is her pushing the keys through the lock.

“Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, shit,” he cusses, finding his boxers off of the floor, hopping on one foot with his cum & slick coated dick flapping around and slapping against his thighs unceremoniously as he tries to get one leg in through them and then the other. You’re trembling as you hook your panties back into place, pull your shirt back down your torso, and even in his extremely panicked state, he’s still sad he can’t freely stare at your tits anymore. You’re rummaging for your skirt in a haste, looking everywhere for it, and he finds it underneath the coffee table before tossing it to you and then he side-to-side hops towards the coat closet while he pulls his sweatpants up over his ass, in time for you to quickly run and shut the door of the closet closed just before the front door of the house swings open.

The inside of the coat closet is dark, barely enough space in there for a six-foot-four two-hundred-and-twenty pound man, but it’s better than being balls deep inside his boss’s daughter on the couch when said boss just came home from work.

He hears conversation on the other side of the door, albeit muffled, and he presses his ear to it to hear better while he tucks his dick into his boxers from where it was hanging over the waistline.

“Mom! You…you’re home so early,” he hears you squeak out.

“Yes,” your mom says, “The rest of my meetings today are online, so I figured I’d come home when there’s less traffic.”

Gojo feels you lean against the coat closet door.

“I see, I see, how was your day at work?” you ask with a tremble in your voice.

“Fine.” And then nothing. The silence could mean that was all she had to say, since your mom wasn’t really a woman of many words, or it could be a silence that means she’s suspicious about something. “Darling, why is your skirt flipped up and tucked into your panties? Your whole butt is showing.”

Through the wood of the door, he hears you softly gasp. “Oh, um, I just went to pee. Must’ve—…must’ve got caught when I pulled it back up.” 

“I see,” your mother says, and Gojo can hear her dropping her heels down near the shoe rack at the entrance. “You know, I really don’t like those short skirts you wear often. Maybe it’s just your generation, but I think it looks tacky and cheap.”

“Mom,” you say, in as stern of a voice as you can manage without sounding embarrassed.

Your mother sighs. “In any case, where is Satoru? I still would like him to go pick up Yuuji. I don’t have the patience to sit in preschool & daycare traffic right now.”

“Oh gosh, I don’t know,” you chirp, and then he hears you let out a small oh no before you lean even more weight against the door, this time somewhere lower, and he realizes you’re pressing your ass against it. His eyes narrow with a small frown, and then he realizes— his cum must still be trickling down your thighs. You couldn’t put your panties on fast enough. 

Shit. That’s hot. A little fucked up, but hot. He feels his dick harden against the fabric of his boxers, and he rests his forehead against the door, fringe stuck to his forehead with sweat as he slips his hands down his sweatpants and then gives his cock a firm squeeze. The thought of you discretely swiping his cum up your inner thigh and smearing it against your thin panties so your mom doesn’t catch sight of it dripping down your legs has him slowly working up to a rock-solid erection, and he almost lets out a broken grunt from the feeling.

“What?” your mother says, “what do you mean you don’t know?”

“I’ve just been watching TV this whole time,” you say, “last time I saw him…he was…um, in the backyard pulling weeds?”

He lets out a small scoff through his nose at your cover-up. Cute. And not bad. 

Your mother sighs loudly, and he glances down at the strained veins on his dick as he tugs it through his hand, the tip rearing and appearing flushed and dripping with precum. God, you were just on the other side of this door. Less than a few inches away, and he’d be inside of you. 

“I’m going to take a shower. Go find him and tell him to pick up Yuuji soon. But before then, change into something less revealing,” your mother says in a more or less detached tone, and he can hear the stomps of her footsteps up the stairs from above him in the coat closet.

The two of you wait at least a solid minute, and just when the coast is clear, he hears you turn the knob of the coat closet and slowly crack it open.

“Okay, I think she’s in the shower, I hear the water running,” you whisper at him, “you can go now—” You glance down towards his groin, your jaw dropping. “What—…Satoru, why the fuck is your dick staring at me right now?!” you whisper-hiss at him.

He pulls you into the coat closet, pushing your front against the door to where it clicks shut, and you gasp when his hands pin your wrists crossed behind your back and his dick presses into the plush of your ass.

“You talkin’ to your mom while your pussy’s stuffed full of my cum was the single hottest thing that’s ever grazed my lizard brain,” he tells you, flipping your skirt up and hooking your panties to the side, his index finger briefly brushing against your entrance to find it still leaking from the way your walls were pulsating from his words. And then he aligns his tip to your entrance. “Now keep quiet while I do this, ‘kay?”

“Oh—” you gasp, your cheek pressed against the door as you arch your back and push your ass out for him, “okay—” you say, barely vocalizing the first syllable before he’s already stuffing himself inside of you with one solid glide of a push, making you yelp loudly and he has to instantly cup a hand over your mouth.

“Shhhhhh,” he hisses at you, immediately starting to pound you from behind, “told you to— fuuuck,” he catches sight of his length covered with a mix of your glassy arousal and his white cum, now starting to cream at the base of his cock, “jesus christ—” he breathes out, squeezing the flesh of your ass harshly with his other hand and you let out another yelp, “I told you to fuckin’ keep quiet.”

“I’m—mff,” you muffle against his palm, “I’m trying but,” your hips move back in time with his, “feels good, feels too good,” you mewl, and his hand desperately yanks up the fabric of your shirt so he can squeeze at your breast.

“Yeah?” he grunts, hypocritical for telling you to keep it down when he was slamming his hips against your ass with so much fervor he wouldn’t be surprised if the sound was reverberating across the entire house, “you like it when I fuck you while your mom’s all clueless just up the stairs?” His rhythm falters, feeling his release building, and his hand reaches in front of you to rub your clit, making you drop your head against the door with tightly closed eyes. “Gets— you—wet, doesn’t it?” he torments you, his lips near your ear as he slams his hips against you harshly with every enunciated syllable. 

“Mhm, mhm,” you easily agree, or maybe that’s because it’s all you can really articulate, and he angles his hips up so his balls slap more fervently against your clit, making you scream into his palm while he picks up the pace of the circles he draws on your clit and in one, two, three— beats of his pounding heart, he feels you come undone around his cock, gushing wetness leaking out of you, he can feel the mess of fluids splattering on the skin of his thighs due to each of his heaving thrusts as he cusses out a fuuuuuuckkk before spilling his cum inside of you, a short-lived and thicker release this time that has you mewling from overstimulation, and in a few following thrusts, he’s given you everything he had to give.

His eyes open, he wasn’t even aware he had shut them in the first place, and he glances down at where the two of you were joined. Rings of arousal coat the length of his half-pulled-out dick, and the second he retreats all of it, a bulging push of his cum seeps out of you, dripping and pooling all over the hardwood floors.

“Holy shit, I wish I could take a picture of this,” he says, taking a step away to commit the sight to memory, your legs trembling and still slightly spread, ass pushed out and when you wiggle it a little, he lets out a huff of an exhale because he just can’t believe how sexy you are. Are all college girls like this? He’s never been to college, his old man’s been trying to get him to go for years, but maybe this is what finally convinces him.

“No pics,” you breathe out once you catch your breath, standing up straight slowly, “that’s my one sex rule.”

He takes a step closer to you, flipping your skirt back over your ass while you shimmy your shirt down to cover your chest. “That’s the only rule you have? Anything else goes?” he asks.

You spin around to face him, his eyes briefly flitting down to the still exposed skin of your midriff. “I have a feeling I’d be making up more specific rules if it was with you.”

He smiles, his hands grabbing your hips before pressing you up against the door again. “I also had a rule. It was to not fuck you. Wait, no, to not flirt with you. Which, technically, I didn’t do.”

You blink your eyes at him. “You’re kidding, right?”

“What?” he asks, genuinely confused, “I didn’t.”

“Huh—” you scoff, “how do you think we got into this situation in the first place?? You didn’t just say wanna fuck? You were insufferably flirty with me.”

“Nahhh nah nah nah nah, baby, that’s not flirting,” he tells you, thumb running circles over your hips, “that’s, like—…I don’t even fuckin’ know how it worked on you to be honest, I was just being stupid.”

“Oh okay so I’m stupid.”

“I never said you were stupid?”

“Well you said you were being stupid so me falling for it must mean I’m stupid.”

“Pshhh. You’re cute. Pulling weeds, by the way? Adorable.”

Your hand slowly roams up the front of his shirt, the fabric bunching at your wrists until you uncovered up to his collar bone, and you stare at his skin. He tries to not let the way his heart’s beating faster show through the heave of his chest. 

“Why do you have all these scars, anyway?” you whisper to him.   

“Too many girls tryna stab me,” he tells you.

You roll your eyes. “Seriously.” Your thumb traces the one you had left on him. 

“I—” He stops himself.

Does he tell you? Should he tell you? What, just because he’s seen you naked and you took his dick like a queen he’s supposed to open up to you about these things now? He doesn’t know. Maybe he could? Maybe you already suspect what he does at night. And if not, at the very least, I’m an underground boxer might make you think he’s hot? At the very worst, you’ll report him to the cops and he’d get fired as your little brother’s babysitter then thrown into jail, but not before the busted cartel gets him first.

“Maybe I’ll tell you some other time,” he says, his hand wrapping around your wrist and pulling it from his chest, “no hyper personal details until you’ve had my dick in your mouth at least once or twice. That’s my one rule.”

You snort. “I could’ve guessed that rule from a mile away.”

He hums. And then there’s the sound of steps creaking down the stairs above the two of you.

You both make eye contact, eyes widening, internally yelling at each other: how the fuck did we get into this situation twice?!

This time, Gojo opens the door and stumbles out of the closet, leaving you inside of it, just in time for your mom to come down the stairs.

“Satoru. I was looking for you,” she says as she rounds the post. “Have you picked up Yuuji? He has to go for his swimming lessons soon.”

“Ah, nope, was just about to head out,” he says, letting out a cough to diffuse tension, “sorry, I was—” he points his thumb over his shoulder to behind him, “…pulling out some gnarly weeds.”

She narrows her eyes at him. “I see. Well, thanks. If you want, I can add a gardening stipend to your paycheck. Let me know.” And he’s not sure how to respond because he’s not sure if she’s joking. 

He heads out the door, the keys to your mom’s minivan in his palm as he throws them up into the air and catches them a couple times. And just before he gets inside the car, he turns on his heel to face the house and pulls his phone out of his pocket to type in a message for you.

3:22pm Gojo Satoru: Send over those me-specific sex rules soon

.

.

.

[the end]

a/n. hope u enjoyed im shitting bricks posting this bc i haven't posted a oneshot smut since february but thanks so much for reading i appreciate u!! i got way too invested in the whole underground boxer thing 😂😂 but the fact i managed to keep everything under 12k is an accomplishment to me bc if u read my other fics you know i’m a yapper LOL i have another kind of a similarly written smut oneshot n it’s a lil angsty (totally different au tho) i’ll probs post that one next but yea i really like, hmm, i really like exploring entire characters within a short amount of time i enjoy writing the obscure lore drops xd it’s been kinda fun so far anywho much loveee hope to see u around! <3

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@verystrawberryhottub @iheartshopping @peonysfordayz @dreamsxmerci @aishies-stuff

@milkm4nz @athinasaurus @sashisuslover @welldamnsatoru @aeriiixhh

@crystalymin @dcvilxswish @miakxn @satxoru

[tehshelaroxx]

After I get done sorting through old shirts tonight, Wizard of Gore and sewing time it is!

[koskela-knights]

Hop on my strap-on

https://archiveofourown.org/works/55970872

Ship: T-Jaakoppi x C-Kesä

Some PWP to end the day

--

Preview:

The saloon Sheriff Aleksi Kesä visits is notorious for illegal businesses. Prostitution and gambling included, of course. Around these places, people don’t ask questions and they don’t look each other in the eye too much. But for Kesä’s goal tonight, he does have to do the latter. If he is lucky, he’ll lock eyes with a handsome boy or an attractive man.

Kesä did not expect to lock eyes with one of the infamous Huotari brothers. Jaakoppi, to be exact. In a reflex, his hand reaches for his gun holster with the loaded gun but the taller man makes no suspicious moves.

Instead, he just stupidly smirks at the Sheriff of Watery before getting up from his place and walking into the bathroom but not before giving Kesä a look that the Sheriff can only describe as inviting.

[barbieaemond]

Religion

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x wife!reader

Warnings: mild angst, misogyny, banter, pregnancy, childbirth, oral sex, p in v, fingering, orgasm denial, dry humping, overstimulation, brief lactation kink, breeding kink, manipulation (to get some), some good ol' tying up, slandering of the Gods lol

Author's note: this is the third and final part following And I dream of a grave and A curse for a curse but can be read as a standalone. Just keep in mind that Aemond did not cheat on his wife while in Harrenhal. He used Alys only for her visions.

Word count: 13k. Ye have to suffer for your smut darlin'

MASTERLIST | English is not my first language.

taglist: @multyfangirl @ladystarksneedle @arcielee @darylandbethfanforever9 @zaldritzosrose @alphard-hydraes-blog

Her mother had come to King’s Landing three days after she gave birth. Peering through the door, the Princess didn’t know if the woman was more surprised to finally see a baby safely tucked between her daughter’s arms or to witness that she was still breathing. She had chosen to believe both.

Since she was a little girl, she had been instructed in what was coming, for her and all the girls like her: how to serve men, how to serve the Realm. She knew pregnancy could be a time of great distress, physical and otherwise, and for her, it turned out to be nothing more than that.

She spent the first moons plagued by sickness, glaring at the Maesters who told her that morning sickness was perfectly normal. It would've been, if only it had lasted the hours the sun was at its highest. Instead, she couldn’t keep down her breakfast, just like her lunch, or dinner. She had lost weight, she couldn’t stand any kind of smell with the risk of rushing to her pot and empty her stomach.

Then, on one fine morning, while she was walking the gardens with two of her maids, she had suddenly bent over, hissing with pain while clutching her maid’s arm, dreading the trickle running down her thighs.

The Maesters said occasional bleedings might happen, that she only needed to rest and take some tonic to strenghten her body. But that day signaled the end of her peace and the beginning of her confinement.

Because clearly, at the first sign of something going wrong, slipping out of his control, Aemond would panic, albeit showing none of it, standing as tall and stoic as ever and somehow more than he’d ever done now that the Conqueror’s Crown weighted on his head. But she knew better. She knew how to look through all his walls. She knew he was scared—for her, for the baby, for his sister, for his whole family. It was simply too much for a single person to carry all of that on their shoulders. And it was precisely for that reason that she didn’t object to any of his orders. After all, she couldn’t. He was the King now, even if he didn’t choose to style himself as such.

Thus, her chambers became her prison.

Cobwebs didn’t have time to grow because she was quick enough to point them out to the servants. She was aware of the slight drop in the stone tiles just behind the terrace, as of the strategic point where to linger to gain some cool breeze from the sea. She knew the baby liked to sleep upside down in the early afternoon, occasionally kicking hard as he, or she, settled comfortably in her womb.

Aemond had picked some books for her, mostly about history, having her yawning at the third page. She had tried needle work, putting all her good will into it for the sake of doing something, and she had deliberately chosen to believe she was undeniably good at it. But that was a very generous lie. 

“What is that supposed to be exactly?” Aemond asked one day, peeking over her shoulder as he reached her on the terrace.

She didn’t look up, keeping her eyes fixed on her embroidery tambour, working the needle in and out. “Isn’t it obvious?”

He leaned down until she felt the long silver strands tickling her head and even without turning, she could feel him grimacing. “A bird?”

At that, she had raised her head, reading all the disbelief on his face. “It is a dragon. For the cradle.”

Aemond had simply furrowed his brow, unable for the life of him to consider what he saw as something even remotely resembling a dragon. But he thought better than to anger his pregnant wife, given her late sour spirit, but especially in light of how fiercely she had started to stick the needle in, likely picturing to stick it into him instead. He had built the most fake pleasant smile he could master and said “Very well. Excellent work, my love.”

“Thank you, husband.”

The trouble was that, as time went by, she only became sourer. She grew more and more uncomfortable, too tight in her own skin. Her back hurt, her breasts hurt, and she was starting to believe she was carrying a real dragon, with fangs and all; she had no other explanation for how hot she constantly felt, forced to lie in a thin white chemise all the time, despite the winds carrying the winter.

But maybe there was another reason why her spirits were so low and sour. She had come to learn that pregnancy affected every aspect of her life, including the most pleasant one.

She would grow wet for a kiss. She would close her legs and rub them together upon seeing him rise from the bathtub. She would moan into his mouth if he so much as grazed her nipples with his knuckles. But as she grew bigger and bigger, along with the discomfort, kisses and some intimate brushing were all she would get from him. Aemond had grown distant, not only with his presence, due to all the duties he had to fulfill wearing the Crown, but even when he was there, in their chambers, sleeping next to her, she felt him leagues and leagues away.

“Pregnancy is a very hard time for a woman.” The Dowager Queen had said to her “It is overwhelming to think that you are never alone and yet...somehow you are.”

She’d never understood what her good mother meant until she was confined to her chambers, alone with her thoughts and her fears. She didn’t expect Aemond to do something, this was women’s business. And she knew his reluctance to lie with her rested solely on concern and love for her.

No matter how much he craved to take her, he had decided to put his husband’s rights away for the delicate final moons until the baby was born. He still felt guilty, for Harrenhal, for the witch, for forsaking her only to get drunk on visions and prophecies. Yet, those visions turned out to be true. He had shut that voice in his head and tried to make amends. But they didn’t have the time to mend themselves together, to knit all the distrust and suspicions into something good; the baby was coming, and it seemed he or she did nothing but grow them more apart. 

He saw how tired she was, how some days she couldn’t even get out of bed. And how useless he felt when he would catch her crying, like that night when he found her all alone on the terrace at the hour of the owl.

She was sitting on her chaise filled with cushions when Aemond walked around her. Given the state of his white shirt and hair, he had likely just awakened and hadn’t found her beside him.

“What are you doing out here? You will catch a cold.”

“I cannot sleep.” she had kept her eyes far, on the Black Water Bay, far from him. But he saw them anyway, her reddened eyes.

“You cannot stay here in your condition.” He said almost tiredly, but when she didn’t even blink at his words, he called her name, with the tone he used in the Throne Room.

“Aemond, please.” She whispered, turning her head. “I—” she bit her tongue, unwilling to put this on him, but she knew he wouldn’t let go until she was safely back in bed. So, she said “I don’t want to hear her.”

It took him less than a moment to understand what she meant. Helaena. Helaena who lost a child, who saw her flesh and blood horribly murdered before her eyes. Helaena who couldn’t stop wailing in the dead of night.

She had looked at him, seeing that torn thing, broken and raw like a split wound; shame and guilt and rage all at once. Then, he lowered himself onto his knees until he took her cold hands and squeezed them tight. His mouth opened, but she was faster. “Don’t say it.”

You cannot keep such a promise, you cannot keep us safe. No matter how many times you say it. But she wouldn’t take that solace away from him, not that plainly. The more he said it, the more he seemed to believe it. So be it.

“Is there anything I can do?” he asked, and there was a beautiful, heartbreaking desperation in his hushed voice. “Tell me what to do.”

She had built a convincing smile, running her hand through his loose hair and pushing some strands back. “Go back to sleep. I’m fine.”

Her spirits during the day would slightly improve. And between the Council and some hearings in the Throne Room, he always saved some time to go visit her in their chambers. She didn’t seem to enjoy being watched like a toddler, but deep down she cherished his concern. She cherished the way his hands would gently hold her own, or caress her hair, her belly. She found it hard to believe those hands could bestow such reverence and violence at the same time. And even in his absence, he managed to ensure she always had anything she needed. Even blackberries in early autumn.

“Myra, where have you been?” She asked in a late afternoon, when one of her most loyal maids entered her chambers after disappearing for the whole day.

The young girl had an awful look. She seemed exhausted, as if she had walked the entirety of Flea Bottom, twice. “Apologies, my Princess. It took me quite a while to find blackberries.”

“Seven Hells, it is only a craving. You did not have to go all the way through King’s Landing to find me blackberries.”

"No, I-I ought to.”

The Princess paused, frowning at the young girl. “Did someone else tell you that you ought to?”

“Well…yes…” the maid said, sinking her gaze to the floor “The King—uhm Prince Regent.”

She sighed deeply, and with heavy steps, she walked towards the terrace; her maid was immediately at her side to help her. “What did he tell you?” the Princess asked as they reached the chair outside.

The girl waited for her to sit, slowly and awkwardly given her big belly; then, a little timidly, she said “He…ordered me to go look for blackberries and not to…bother coming back if I didn’t find them.”

The Princess rolled her eyes in quite an unlady-like manner, “How in the name of Seven did he know about it?” She asked, grimacing as she desperately tried to find a comfortable position. “I have barely seen him this morning.”

The young maid helped her, fixing some cushions behind her back and whispered “The White Cloak at the door…I suspect he reports everything to his Grace.”

The notion didn’t seem to strike her that much, or maybe she was too tired, too uncomfortable and too hot to comment on the matter, or even scoff at it.

She grabbed a fan from her maid’s hands and unceremoniously shook her shoes off, placing her swollen feet on the cool tiles. Closing her eyes, she basked in that small relief; the floor was cold, the sun was about to set, and the baby was sleeping.

According to the Maesters, her time was close. She was eager to meet this little person but in truth, she just wanted it to end. She hated having no control over her body, her spirits, her marriage. She missed being a wife and being treated as such, not just as the mother of his child. She had come to think that, deep down, any woman felt that way, but they were forced to hide everything behind a joyful smile while sinking to their knees to thank the Mother. Wasn’t that the sole purpose of any girl in the world? To bleed on a birthing bed? Wasn’t that the way men measured women’s value?

She swallowed hard as the question spun in her head. Am I finally worthy of you, Aemond?

She wouldn’t dare ask him. 

“What is it? Are you unwell?”

She was too lost in her thoughts to even hear his footsteps on the terrace. As her gaze flew up, she read the deep concern on his face, all lumped in the steep furrow between his eyebrows. He must’ve seen her grimacing, thinking she was in some pain. She was, but she was too much of a coward to tell him.

She resumed her fanning, averting her gaze and stretching her legs out further on the floor. “I feel like I’m boiling.”

“Yes, I can see that.” He deadpanned, raking his eye over her disheveled state; sprawled on that chair with her legs slightly open, her white chemise all crumpled and unbuttoned, and a bead of sweat on the forehead, in the crevice of her swollen breasts. He thought the times when a mere look at this woman would make him hard were gone once the novelty of having a wife, someone rightly and thoroughly his, had dissipated. He was wrong.

“I’m well aware of my lack of decency.” She replied, seeing how he was staring, the little inquiring curve in his eyebrow. “I’m afraid I care very little about decency at this moment. Blame it on your son.”

His lips curled up, watching her gather her loose hair with one hand while she kept fanning herself quickly with the other.

“Are you still inclined to believe for certain that it’s a boy?”

“I know it’s a boy. Only men can be this insufferable.”

That little smile on his lips lingered, deepened, and then he moved, going to stand behind her. “Let me.” He said, and took her hair between his hands. She couldn’t see what he was doing but got the gist as she felt his deft fingers moving and her neck free to get some air. When he walked around the chaise to sit beside her, she saw that his hair was loose. He had tied her hair with the black lace he always wore to prevent the silver strands from ending up in front of his eye.

She loved to see him like this: hair loose, eyepatch lost somewhere in a drawer, sitting next to her, even without saying a word. The sapphire seemed to match his eye, glowing a soft violet under the setting sun. She felt that familiar lump in her throat, as she stared at him, a restless thing flowing through her whole body, demanding to be released only to be trapped under her teeth, biting down her lower lip, starved and yearning.

“A little bird told me you put a hound on my trail.” she said at one point, shutting her little fan.

Aemond didn’t look surprised to acknowledge that she knew. He had actually ventured with himself about how long it would have taken her to realise he was spying on her every move.

“You are well aware of my duties now.” He said, turning his head to look at her. But not quite. His eye seemed to linger everywhere at once, fleeting, snatching a look here and there, her legs, her sweated neck, her belly…his own testament, as if she wasn’t one already.

You left your mark on her just as she did on you. Those were Alys’ words, at which he had ugly sneered. And she had laughed at the sight, eerily, as someone who owned the truth. I’m your spoil of war and yet, you speak to me ten paces away. What are you afraid of, Kinslayer? That your skin would burn like brimstone if you touched another woman?

“Besides,” he resumes “any lady would be flattered by her husband’s genuine concern.”

“You could flatter me in different ways.” was her prompt answer and she moved incredibly fast, given her impediment, getting close to him until she filled his nostrils. She smelled different since she was pregnant. A thick smell, musky. She tasted differently. Sweeter and somehow sourer. He swallowed at the mere memory. “We have talked about this.”

“And I’ve talked to the Maesters.”

His head spun around, forcing her to stifle a smile at his ever strictly reserved nature.

“They said there’s nothing wrong, or remotely dangerous, if we…engage in our conjugal duties.”

He tried to ignore her hand, her fingers traveling up his arm like a spider’s legs. “Did you need the Maesters to learn that?”

“No, but you do. You hang on their lips…I wish you hung on mine.”

Aemond heard her voice dropping a tone, and dropped his chin down, looking at her hand roving on his chest, shamelessly slipping beneath his dark green doublet, skin to skin. She glided on his planes slowly, making sure to trap one of his nipples in the little hollow between her index and middle.

“I don’t need them to know about my private matters.” He said mindlessly, trying to hold a grip on his thoughts.

“Seven Hells. It baffles me to witness how prudish you desperately want to appear while I perfectly know how debauched you really are, to the bone.”

“My debauchery is confined to these four walls.”

“Oh, is it? What about that time on our way to the Grand Sept?” She tilted her head, so she was talking almost in his ear. “Do you remember?”

Her hand on his chest was burning, or was it his own skin? His own flesh simmering wherever she touched him.

“Don’t do that.” She whispered when she saw his long legs cross. “Let me see. You have condemned me to do nothing else.”

His eye chased her hand as she grabbed his knee and pushed to uncross his legs, so that she could see, the outline of his cock through the breeches, see how he ached for her. “Do you remember what you did in the wheelhouse?” She asked again, looking at him; the sapphire was the only thing flashing violet now. His eye was pitch black.

“You put your hand beneath my gowns…” she said and her hand slid up against his thigh “you grabbed me, harshly.” And she did the same, forcing his mouth open and a shallow breath out of his throat. “And you grinned…because my garments were soaked.” he closed his eye for a moment, perhaps recalling, or maybe because her hand was moving, palming all his length through the breeches.

“And then you slipped your fingers underneath…” and again, she did just so, unbuckling his belt and sinking her hand in. He opened his eye, and basked in what he saw: that sort of silent, desperate plea in the little wrinkle between her eyebrows, in her heaving chest, in the way she was rubbing her legs together.

Thus, just when she was about to grab him, he grabbed her wrist instead and crashed his mouth against hers with a low growling sound. She could do nothing but moan, giving him open room to slip his tongue in and taste every corner, driving his body closer and closer, but not too much as to crush her.

She, on the other hand, felt free, finally, to roam, to rummage. Her hands grabbed and pulled everywhere, at his doublet, the collar, the buttons, the thin white shirt underneath it all, until everything was loose, and she was free to touch him, all the while making the sweetest wanton sounds, close to desperate whines. “Please, Aemond…” she begged freely, holding his face “just this once…please…”

He shushed her with another harsh kiss and with a free hand, he clutched her white nightgown into his fist, pulling up, enough to stick his arm between her legs. She spread them for him, panting with anticipation, and stopped breathing altogether when he cupped her core with the large palm of his hand. Aemond trapped her lower lip with his teeth, biting softly upon feeling how wet she was, dripping on his fingers, so much that he wished to fall on his knees and wipe it clean with his tongue.

“Please…” she breathed, barely rocking her hips to urge him to touch her.

“Hush.” he said, and curled his fingers, brushing his fingertips against her centre, gaining a delicious wince from her. “Tell me of the wheelhouse.”

She smiled breathlessly, her eyes hungry and heavy, full of lust. “It was the first time I wore green.” she started to tell. “We were still betrothed. I wanted to impress you.”

“Hmm. You certainly did.” He remarked, watching her closely while rubbing his index pad against her entrance, teasingly, making her squirm. “Go on.”

She felt like burning, her face hot for the sun, the baby, the ache in her lower belly, stirring and coiling. “You told the White Cloak to take another round…” she said, breathing with her mouth open. “You grabbed my waist and forced me on your lap.”

“And you pushed me away. Twice.” he’d laughed, flashing a grin that made her willing to shove him away, to pull him closer. “What a farse you put on.” he continued, leaving a chaste kiss on her neck that resulted in her writhing some more, pushing her pelvis against his hand. “I had to cover your mouth for your mewling. You were so fucking loud.”

It was then that he finally granted her some mercy, slipping one finger inside her drenched lips, spilling a long gasp from her.

“No. Not quite.” He observed cruelly and slid another finger, this time gaining a proper loud moan. “That’s more like it.”

His two fingers started to pump slowly, and yet she was making the lewdest sounds he’d ever spilled from her, arching her back as far as she could, scrunching her face almost in pain and pulling at his collar, twisting, as if he were torturing her instead of giving her pleasure. She made his cock stir painfully, his teeth grind for the ache, for the fact that she was coating his whole hand. “Easy now…” he warned her, his tone all husky. “You don’t want to come already, do you? ‘Tis the only thing you’ll get from me, sweetling…you better make it last.” 

She whined in annoyance, forcing another grin on his ruthless lips, and with that same ruthlessness, he slowed his ministrations, only to cup one of her breasts with his free hand, squeezing softly until the thin, silky fabric slipped down, revealing her pink, swollen nipple. “I must say…I’m relieved you will summon a wet nurse…so these will be all mine.”

She had to stifle a breathless laugh at that. “Being jealous of your child is a bit too much, even for you…”

“Oh, my love” he crooned, freeing the other breast “I am jealous of the clothes on your skin.”

Wasting no time, he wrapped his lips around her nipple, causing her to arch against him once more, one hand flying down his shoulder, fisting his doublet, twisting it as he swirled his tongue and hummed with delight dripping from his tone, as if he were tasting honey, and the sweetest ever made.

His fingers resumed their frantic rhythm, sinking deep inside and stretching, hitting that special spot that made her sight go black, reduced to a mess of sweat coating every inch of her skin and a string of moans growing hoarse and high-pitched.

“Are you close? Hmm?” he rasped “How about another? Can you take another for me?”

He slipped a third finger in, causing her to wince and cling to his shoulders with her mouth open in a silent scream. “Good girl.” He praised at the sight. He wished he could savor it for a little longer, he wished to keep doing that again and again, until the sun went down and rose again, until there was nothing but ruin around them.

But she was so close now, he could feel it in her tensed arms around his shoulders, in her clenching walls around his hand, and quite frankly, the ache in his breeches was unbearable, twitching at every moan and squelching sound of his fingers inside her flesh. 

She came loudly, curling her ankles on the ground and writhing in his hold as if in a delirium. He kept her still, his hand buried inside her, feeling the quick pulsing that rivaled the one in her heart. And he watched her, gasping for air and throwing her head back, utterly spent, hair all sticked to her forehead. In his eye she had never looked this beautiful.

He pulled his fingers out, making her wince slightly, and brought them to her mouth, smearing her spent desire on her own lips, like the final touch to a painting. And then he kissed her, humming at her bittersweet taste. He held her face gently, grabbing her jaw and angling her head to taste her better, eliciting a blissful sigh from the back of her throat that made his hardness throb. As if she had felt that, her hand had slipped between them with purpose, sinking past all his layers and taking hold of him.

She rejoiced in the little whimper he gave her, and started to work her hand up and down, making it impossible for him to kiss her any further, if not for a sloppy and panting mess of spit and teeth. 

Given the unbearable pressure building past his navel, he knew he wouldn’t last long. And she knew that too. But she didn’t want to have him this way. Awkwardly, she stood up and spread his legs to make herself some room, but as soon as Aemond, despite the lack of blood in his mind, caught her intentions, he stopped her, grabbing her arms firmly.

“No…” he croaked. “Not on your knees.”

She couldn’t help the little surprise on her face. Aemond had never been this considerate, especially in bed. He could be gentle in his own way, subtly. Little hidden things in the way he would run his fingers through her hair once she had reached her peak, the way he would regain air once he’d spilled inside her, breathing into her neck and running his lips lazily against her skin. But most of the times, he was very diligent, all focused in giving her and himself the pleasure they both craved; he was somehow harsh, ruthless, a mirror of who he was outside the bedroom, possessed by some kind of urgency that would break her in the most beautiful and cruel way and put her back together at once.

But then again, she imagined the promise of his heir living inside her was affecting even one of the most ruthless of men.

She sat down again and watched him stand up, his breath labored and open-mouthed as he looked down at her, working the few laces of his breeches still tied. She didn’t need an invitation, an order, a mere tilt of his chin to sit upright and put her hands alongside his snatched waist.

She looked up, and he found himself swallowing hard, cursing silently at the sight of her looking straight into his eye with his cock a breath away from her, all hard and glistening on the tip. Shamefully, he thought that would have done it for him.

A coarse grunt left his lips as soon as she wrapped her mouth around it, teasingly swirling her tongue on the slit without ever averting her gaze from him. He hissed painfully when her lips started to travel along his length, trying with all his might to hold back and not spill into her mouth so soon.

She, on the other hand, seemed eager to watch him come undone, just as he had done to her a few moments earlier. She started to suck him eagerly, like a starved creature, because on all those nights and days when he had taken her apart, learning every inch of her and how to bend it to his will, she had done just the same.

She knew how to make him wince and moan openly, while on her knees on their bedroom floor or on a fucking terrace during a late afternoon, with likely anyone to walk on them at any moment. With the Gods watching.

She didn't care. The Gods didn't care for them anyway. Let them see to whom she fell to her knees.

He couldn’t stop looking, how pretty she was like this, swallowing him whole, up to the hilt, hitting her throat with a gagging sound. So lecherous, so holy.

He was so close he had to bite his lip to restrain himself, letting out a string of curses until he felt the pressure growing stronger, and then, he thought, he might as well have it his way.

“Stop…” he croaked, grabbing her cheek but delicately, slipping out of her mouth and running his thumb over her sore jaw. She closed her slicked mouth, a drop of spit running down her chin and she looked at him, with such devotion he thought he had nothing to envy the Gods.

“Let me…” he pleaded, wiping her chin clean with his finger. “Let me fuck your mouth, sweetling. Would you?”

A question that needed no answer. Indeed, he wasted no time and grabbed the back of her head, tilting it slightly up for a better angle. He sheathed himself all the way in, gasping deeply at feeling the hot walls of her mouth, her cheeks hollowing.

His fingers curled into her hair, but never in a hurtful way, enough to keep her still as he started to move his hips against her face back and forth, his open mouth quivering as the pleasure began to build where it left off.

“Fuck—” he cursed once, and then twice, fucking her mouth faster to chase his peak, pulling ever so slightly at her scalp until he went still altogether, pushed his waist hard against her, and grunted loudly, in a pretty uncharacteristic way, as his cock twitched and spilled down her throat until the last drop.

Panting harshly, he pulled himself out and watched her close her mouth, eyes fixed on him, working her cheeks and making no mystery of the white essence on her tongue before swallowing it, thoroughly.

Aemond let himself fall on that chaise and she watched, she drank that sight: his hair all disheveled and damp with sweat, a shade of pink on his cutting cheekbones as he slowly pulled himself together, breathing through his open mouth while buckling his belt and breeches.

“I think I’m going to take a bath.” She said at one point, clumsily standing up. He had mumbled something in return, still caught in the throes of what they had done, but before she got back inside, she turned and said “Oh, just so you know…all of this was a ploy.”

She smiled cunningly at his frowning. “I never had any cravings. And I knew about the White Cloak at the door since the first day you put him there. You are not as subtle as you think you are, my love.”

A man of few words, but loud actions.

Her pains came during a peaceful afternoon.

In haste, nursemaids began their frantic rounds in and out of the Princess’ rooms like soldiers, carrying hot water and boiled rags. The Dowager Queen abandoned her perch beside Queen Helaena, or what was left of her, and went to assist the Princess. Having borne four children, she had quite a bit of advice to dispense, things she had learned on her own skin, things that any Master would never have told her because oblivious and convinced they knew what happened to a woman's body at such a delicate time based on how deep they had buried their nose in an old dusty tome.

Alicent helped the Princess rise from the bed, clutched her arm firmly and helped her walk. She said it was vital to walk, that it would ease her pain and help the baby come sooner. She told her to squat when the pain hit. She rubbed her back and wiped the sweat off her face as if she were her own daughter. It felt like that. Even though the Princess seemed to face it all with a stiff lip, Alicent could see that she was scared and in terrible pain, that she probably wished for her mother to be there. She had wished the same, no matter how many times she had faced it.

“Your Grace?” The Princess asked after another wave of pain had come and gone.

“Yes, child?”

“Do you think your son would forgive me If I said this one is both the first and the last?”

The Queen had smiled at that. “If the Gods bless you with more children, it will be easier, I can assure you. The first time is always rough. But it shouldn’t be long now.”

Well, her good mother turned out to be wrong. Because the pain plagued her for a full night, giving her no peace. At the hour of the nightingale, the nursemaids forced her to bed, and she gladly went. She was exhausted, she could no longer walk without hissing at every step, and by that time she was so used to the pain she no longer whined or anything, only scrunched her face and ground her teeth.

The servants stripped her bare and replaced her sweat-soaked nightgown with a fresh one. They dabbed her face with a wet cloth, but she could barely register anything, floating into unconsciousness only to be brought back to the present as another pain choked her breath.

“Perhaps some Milk of the Poppy?” One of the nurses said at one point.

“No.” the Maester said. “She may need to start pushing any moment now. We need her vigil.”

Her heavy-lidded eyes opened, wandering helplessly around the room. Useless research, for she knew he wouldn’t be there. She didn’t expect him to be. The birthing bed was no place for men, save for the Maesters, although she was starting to doubt their real usefulness when all they could do was pull her nightgown up, take a close look and shake their heads. They might as well let Aemond be there.

She imagined he must’ve been waiting outside, or in the Council, and yet she ached to see him. She closed her eyes and searched for him in her mind, clutching the sheets in her fist as if she could clutch his hand instead. And then she felt someone’s hand closing around her own, loosening her grip. Alicent, smiling down at her, and holding her hand tight.

It was holding her good mother’s hand that, at the first light of dawn, she gave birth to her child. A boy, healthy and all screeching as soon as he was out of her womb, clad in blood and grease.

Aemond had decided to name the child Aenar, if it was a boy, after the first Targaryen Lord, and she couldn’t quite believe her eyes or force her tears back when he was finally admitted to their chambers and took their son in his arms for the first time. 

Alicent was beaming at the sight, squeezing his arm. “Congratulations, my son.”

But Aemond didn’t seem to even register her mother’s words, or presence, utterly enraptured by his little creature. He cast a look at his wife, a secret little look that told her how proud he was of her, how relieving it was for both to have come this far after all that happened, to have this little thing, this little ounce of peace amidst all the chaos of war.

What she didn’t know at that time was that Aenar was not exactly a peaceful child.

She had believed there had finally come the time when she could be herself again. But from the earliest days, Aenar proved not to be an easy child to deal with. The newborn cried and cried for hours, plagued by belly aches, and seemingly able to calm down only when in his mother’s arms. They had obviously called on a wet nurse; highborn ladies did not feed their children themselves, let alone a Princess. But Aenar had categorically refused to latch onto his wet nurse’s breasts. Alicent had proposed to summon another one, but as they dawdled and wavered, the Princess felt her heart break into pieces each time she held her little baby in her arms, all red in the face, hungry and in pain, turning his head towards her cleavage, desperate for her milk. Thus, she had put aside ceremonial court and all of that and chose to feed him herself.

But it was a strenuous task. The Maesters had warned her it would be tiring, sleep depriving, but she really had no choice. She had to do it every three hours, sometimes less, because being latched onto her breast seemed the only thing that would prevent the baby from screaming at the top of his lungs all day long. The nursemaid had recommended fennel and chamomile for belly aches. And, instantly, Aemond had ordered an astounding amount of both to be delivered to the Red Keep’s kitchens.

Queen Alicent taught her to hold the baby on his stomach, to rock him, but not too fast. They told her to take several breaks during breastfeeding, to make the baby belch often and prevent air from his belly. In the first week after Aenar was born, her mind was all but a vessel of do this, do that. No, not this way. Don’t ever wake the baby when he’s sleeping. Try to sleep when he does. Don’t eat spicy dishes.

In the midst of all of this, Aemond turned more and more suffocating in all his well-hidden, self-consuming concern. A handful of white cloaks, the most trusted by Ser Criston, were constantly guarding the door, day and night. He had a secret passageway that led to his rooms walled up, and she could swear he slept with his dagger beneath the pillow. Evidently not at peace with such extreme measures, he had the cradle moved to his side of the bed, within his reach, so that every time she had to wake up because the baby was wailing, she had to walk around the bed and pray that she would not tumble to the floor in the dark.

However, she was at least grateful to have Aemond’s support, for the little he could do. If he wasn’t occupied with warfare or hearings, he spent all the time he had with her and their child. And in those moments, no matter how exhausted she was, she would always find the strength to smile at the view when he held their baby, tracing his long fingers over the velvety grizzled skin of Aenar’s small hands; even when he’d speak to him in Valyrian, at which she had frowned at first.

“You do realise he’s one week old?”

“”Tis never too soon.”

“Mh. What’s next? Bring him to the skies on dragonback?”

“I’ll have you know Vhagar is perfectly safe to—“

“Over my dead body.” 

He had smiled and stood up, going to place the baby in her arms. Aenar immediately began to fuss, whining and turning his head against her chest. She had started to unbutton her chemise but then stopped, looking up, where Aemond stood still like a sentry, and watching.

She raised an eyebrow. “Am I putting up a show?”

“Usually, you do.” He drawled. “Am I not allowed to watch? It seems my son and I already share a few interests.”

She looked away, smiling, and then she freed her left breast, watching as the baby immediately latched onto it. A moment later, Aemond took her chin in his hand, forcing her to look at him. He stared at her, and she saw that familiar glint his eye.

He trailed his thumb over her lip, barely breaching inside. “Soon?” was all he asked.

“Soon.” Was all she answered.

The soreness and the bleeding were reducing, and she was back in her tight flesh.

But the Gods must have cursed them some more, because that “soon” never seemed to become “now”.

The sickness didn’t seem willing to leave the poor child alone, along with his parents and the entirety of the Red Keep who had to suffer through his heartbreaking cries day and night.

The Princess had started to feel hopeless and guilty, no matter how many times the nursemaids, and even Queen Alicent, told her it was not her fault, that it was natural. No matter how many times she tried to convince herself they were right. Her heart broke any time the baby cried, wriggling desperately in her arms, in Aemond’s, in the cradle. She would end up crying too as she tried to soothe him, caressing his back with her cheek resting on his timidly silver-haired head.

She was working herself up to exhaustion, often falling asleep with the baby still latched onto her breast. It was Aemond who would take the baby to the cradle, it was Aemond who would button her chemise and pull up the blankets.

She hit rock bottom two weeks after Aenar’s birth, when she realised she hadn’t bathed in four days. Even Aemond, she could swear, was starting to look a little ragged around the edges. You don’t want to be King and take decisions in the middle of a war only to come back to a screaming infant at night.

But then, like a curse lifting, the sickness stopped. Amidst all those days she had stopped counting or even being aware of which was which, Aenar stopped crying. She was ashamed to admit that the first night he slept peacefully in his cradle, she had gone to check on him five times, to see if he was still breathing. 

She began to gradually return to her former self, able to enjoy motherhood with a more rested mind, at least. Physically, she still felt worn out, given how much time she spent breastfeeding or rocking the baby to sleep. But now she was strong enough to take the baby out, walking the gardens with her maids and smiling proudly as the court ladies stopped to congratulate themselves and say how beautiful her baby was.

By doing this, though, she also became aware that she had lived in a bubble for so long that she had almost forgotten there was a war raging, there were battles being fought across the realm.

Reality hits her one day when Alicent goes to visit her and her grandson, bringing the news of a very important victory near the Honeywine, a large river flowing in the Reach, thanks to Prince Daeron Targaryen who had arrived all victorious on that very morning, riding his blue scaled dragon, Tessarion.

The news stuns her for a moment. She had no idea of it, partly because she had been too caught up with Aenar, but also because Aemond had not told her. Yet her family came from the Reach, they lived there, not very far from the Honeywine; her older brother fought for the Green Army. Still, not a word from Aemond.

Taking advantage of Aenar sleeping and the fact that Alicent offered to watch him, she leaves her chambers and heads for the Council. There’s a bustle of lords coming out of the door when she gets there, barely paying her any attention as they hastily babble about armies and supplies and men; always more men to be sent to slaughter.

She stops at the door, widening her eyes at the silver head crossing the threshold, one she hadn’t seen in a long time. “Prince Daeron.”

The youngest son of Queen Alicent and late King Viserys was nothing but a boy. But war had taken its toll on him too. He stood like a man, a Prince, and more than anything, a skilled dragon rider.

“Princess.” He says, tilting his chin down.

She curtsies and sees an immediate gentle smile softening his Valyrian features. “I believe some congratulations are in order.”

“Well, in all fairness, you shall be the most celebrated, my Prince. I’ve just heard of your recent victory.”

His gentle smile lingers, but loses its sparkle. “I must say I much prefer to celebrate life…rather than…the death of innocent men and women.”

There can’t be objections to such a statement; she just nods and casts a distracted glance inside the Council.

“Please…” the Prince says then, making room to let her pass “I won’t keep you away from my brother.”

She turns her head and smiles, tightly. “I’m afraid it is your brother who keeps himself away from me.”

“Heavy is the head that wears the Crown.”

“Indeed.”

The Prince bows to her and leaves.

Closing the door behind her, she glances at Aemond sitting at the head of the table, in the King’s chair, with such effortlessness that he seems to have been born exclusively for that purpose.

“I thought I heard you.” he says absent-mindedly, scribbling down a small piece of parchment. She slowly walks to the windows, casting a single furtive glance down, but she can’t possibly make out what he’s writing, or to whom.

“How’s—"

“Aenar is fine.” She cuts him off. “He’s with your mother, sleeping.”

He stops scribbling, glancing up for a moment. Her voice is tight, cutting. He knows that tone. It’s the same one she used in Harrenhal, as if he should have fallen to his knees and be grateful for the mere fact that she was speaking to him. But he doesn’t have time today to circle around her like a coiling snake, so he goes straight to the point. “Is something the matter?”

“You didn’t tell me of the Honeywine.” She says after a moment, gazing at the Bay.

Aemond sighes, a sign that he was expecting such a question. “You were looking after our son.”

“And?” she’s quick to rebut, quick to reach him at the table and stare down at him. “You didn’t deem it appropriate to inform me of a battle raging in my family lands?”

“I am your family.” He says, stoically, as if common law, and she has to stifle a bitter laugh. The nerve of him. “That is a very lovely concept. Strange how it got lost on you in Harrenhal.”

“Enough!” he barks, and the sudden harshness makes the quill pierce through parchment. “I thought I’d made myself clear.” He warns. “I don’t want to hear another word about the witch. Ever.”

She obediently looks down, regretting having said that, but not entirely. Perhaps she has spent so much time beside him that she, too, can’t let go of her grudges.

“I did not tell you, for I did not want to upset you.” He says, resuming his collected tone. “You were worn out by the baby, I didn’t want to put more weight on your shoulders.”

She knows he’s sincere. Still, her nod is stiff as she looks away, biting her cheek. She is just so sick of it all. Of being regarded as a cunt to be bred at first and now a weakling nailed to a cradle with an infant sucking the life out of her. She knows she’s not the first, and she won’t be the last.

Aemond leaves the quill and stands up, circling until he’s close to her. “Your family is fine.” He tells her, lingering behind her. “Daeron spoke to your brother this morning.”

She keeps nodding, keeping her gaze down on the table, all scattered with maps and little dragon-shaped tokens, some black, some green. She frowns, letting warfare soothe her petty spirits. “What is this?”

“Our next move. A defense plan…which happens to be an attack plan too.”

“A pincher?”

She turns just in time to see the little surprise on his face. “My brother talked of nothing else when we were children. He slept with warfare books as pillows.”

“Hmm.” He muses, and takes a step closer, slipping his arm around her waist and resting his chin on her collarbone. “Show me.”

She shudders at his sudden proximity, at his breath blowing on her neck. She shudders at anything these days. A hand on her back, his legs fumbling beneath the covers and casually brushing against hers. She’s tight as a fiddle string.

“A pincher is nothing else but a decoy.” She explains. “You let your enemy believe they have you trapped…” and in saying this, she grabs his hand and moves it across the map. “And then…at the right moment…” she makes him hold a green token between his fingers and brings it near a little division of black ones “you strike on both flanks.” And with a swift flick of her wrist, his hand scatters all the black tokens across the table. To do so, she must lean over the table, accidentally brushing her lower back against his bulge. He’s not hard, yet, but it thrills her to feel the lightning quick effect she has on him.

“Hmm. Good. Very good.” He praises next to her ear as she withdraws her hand; his voice is so low it makes her spine shiver. But she keeps herself grounded and asks “When will this happen?”

“Soon.” he whispers, placing his hand flat on her stomach. “There’s another Small Council shortly but Aegon wanted to be present. They went to fetch him.”

“Well, then I shall retire to my chambers. I feel a bit lightheaded from all the thinking.”

He ignores her jab and keeps her still by the arm when she tries to move. There’s a little sly smirk pulling at his lips. “I have some time to spare.”

“And how do you propose we spend it?”

“Enough with your pantomimes. I can feel your legs squirming.”

Curse him.

He slips the other hand straight into her corset, cupping her breast and humming with delight at how full she is, how it fills his large hand entirely. “Are you wet for me, my love?”

His teeth sink down her lobe, and at the same time, he pinches her nipple between his thumb and index, forcing an indecorous whine out of her. “My, my…” he laughs darkly, torturing her sensitive skin until he feels something wet on his fingertips, probably milk. “I could make you come just by doing this.”

Powerless, she yields, leaning completely against him, rubbing her lower back for some friction. “What if someone enters?”

“We’ll make it quick.”

“But I don’t want it to be quick.” She pants, grabbing his hand on her breast and squeezing; the other crawls behind her back to try to feel him through his breeches. 

Hissing, when she starts to palm him, he says “Then we let them watch. They get to see how pretty you look when you come on my fingers, or my cock. Which should it be?”

“Both. Anything.” She answers hastily, pulling at his collar to bring him close enough to kiss him. He hums contentedly when she does, twirling his tongue around hers. It soon gets messy, each of them fighting for dominance, winning and losing in turn, until he spins her around, so he can look at her and with both his hands, he seizes her gowns and pulls up, furiously rummaging through them.

“How many fucking layers have you on?”

“I’m not pregnant anymore.” she points out, unbuckling his belt.

“Pity. Perhaps I should fuck another one into you to keep you in your skimpy robes.”

“Don’t you dare, Aemond—” 

“Gods be good, brother! That eager to make another one?”

They both startle like little children caught doing something naughty, turning their heads towards the door, where two servants are carrying King Aegon on a chair. Aemond sighs annoyingly, letting go of her gowns as she does with his belt, trying to compose herself.

“My King.” She says, greeting her good brother with a tight little smile.

Aegon’s appearance has improved since Rook’s Rest, just as the burnings, but he carries with him the smell of Milk of the Poppy and rotting skin everywhere he goes. 

“Good-sister. What are you doing here? Apart from being ravished by my brother... should you not be breastfeeding?”

Aemond gives him a level stare and then looks at her, hoping she will not take the bait. Aegon and his wife never got along well, to say the least. Things had only escalated with time, to the point that whenever they found themselves in the same room, one of them would wisely leave, his wife most of the times, lest they start to hiss at each other like two cats fighting for territory.

“What if I intend to stay and attend the council?”

Aegon giggles, as the servants put down the chair, and after a quick glance below her neck he says “I’m afraid you would be a little distracting. And my brother is not one for sharing.”

Before she can ask what in the Seven he is blabbing about, Aemond takes her arm and makes her turn, shielding her from his brother and the Lords coming through the door.

“You should retire.” He curtly says.

“Are you taking his side again?” she asks, wriggling her arm to free herself from his hold.

“You’re leaking.” He informs her, flatly. 

At that, she frowns and dips her chin down, watching the front of her dress practically soaked in milk. “Oh.”

“I shall join you when I’m done here.” He tells her, and lets her out through the side doors.

Aemond did not join her.

The council lasted until the evening, a recurring thing when Aegon attended. Aemond was stern and concise in his decisions. Aegon liked to laze around, enjoying the wine in his cup, rattling his younger brother’s nerves. Deep down, she was convinced that Aegon did not really want to attend the Council because really interested in what to do, but only to remind his brother that he was still breathing and that the Conqueror's Crown on Aemond's head was a temporary measure.

But it didn’t matter. She would join him for the banquet in honor of Prince Daeron.

She was thrilled to go. It was not a proper feast. Since Helaena had fallen into grief, the atmosphere within the walls of the Keep had become rather austere. But a banquet still meant an occasion for conviviality, and after weeks and weeks spent locked up within four walls, the Princess was eager to spend some time outside her chambers. She had felt like a terrible mother at the mere thought. She loved Aenar, how could she not? But she also loved herself, her family, her marriage, Aemond. Especially Aemond.

Once she had put the baby to sleep, she had ordered her maid to prepare one of her favorite dresses, a green one, and to tie her hair in an elegant braided bun. When she had looked in the mirror, she had almost grunted. The scarce and troubled hours of sleep were all evident in the dark circles under her eyes, but it was nothing a little egg-white couldn't temper.

When she arrived at the banquet, Aemond was already there, standing in his usual soldierly stance, intent on talking to his mother. She approached them from the side, Aemond's blind side precisely, so that when she announced herself, he had to turn his shoulder to look at her. He cast a glance at her hair, ran his eye over her entire figure. She wasn’t expecting any kind of sappy words, and certainly not in front of his mother, nor did she desire them. She could feast on that look alone.

Queen Alicent excused herself to give order about the banquet, and they were left alone, while some musicians gathered in a corner of the hall.

“You said you would join me. I thought they abducted you.”

“More or less.”

“Ah. Yes, I'm sure it must have been so hard for you to listen to the lords snapping like little soldiers at your command.”

“It pains me to acknowledge how little you know me, when you think I'd rather talk war with those wimps who can't even hold a sword than fuck my wife till dawn.”

“That was your plan?”

“We have some unfinished business, don’t we? And don’t play dumb. You’re wearing green. You’re not as subtle as you think you are either.”

“Good. I’m sick of subtleties. So, are you going to ask me to dance?”

Aemond rolled his eye and gave her a stare that told her he’d preferred to walk barefoot on lava.

“Still not fond of dancing, eh?”

Prince Daeron suddenly appeared between them, with his cheerful manner and his head of silver curls, dressed in dark green just like his older brother. “Strange. You were the only one listening to the lessons when we were children.”

“Yes, because you and Aegon acted as court jesters the whole time.”

“I’ll have you know, brother, I have refined my dancing skills in Oldtown. So…may I dance with my good sister?”

Aemond gave him a simple nod, and Daeron bowed to her gallantly, raising his palm up.

She kindly accepted the invitation and placed her hand on his. “Don’t sulk too much.” She whispered to her husband before following his brother.

Aemond watched closely as they started to dance, stealing all the attention, and despite that little primitive tug at the sight of his woman dancing with another man, even though that was his brother and there was absolutely nothing malicious in his or her intentions, he was glad to see her like this, spinning and twisting around instead of lying still in the cold with dread eating her alive.

When the dance ended, Daeron escorted the Princess back to Aemond and took his leave. “Remind me again,” she asked as she watched the young Prince leave “How is it that your brother is still unmarried?”

Aemond sighed deeply and took her arm to escort her to the table. “I’d give you one week before you’d get bored of him.”

While they waited for dinner, the lords and ladies of the court were obviously very eager to hear Prince Daeron. Alicent in the first place, after so much despair, and after being separated from her youngest son for years, seemed to smile with her eyes every time she heard him speak.

“Hear, hear!” one of the lords cheered after listening to Prince Daeron’s retelling of the Battle of the Honeywine. “A brave soldier and a brave dragon rider! I propose a toast.”

At once, everybody stood up, raising their glasses. “To Prince Daeron, to House Targaryen!”

“And to House Hightower.” The Prince proudly stated, raising his glass towards his mother.

As they sat back, the Queen ordered the servants to serve the dinner. The table was gradually filled with a great variety of dishes, many of them Prince Daeron's favourites, specifically ordered by his mother to make him feel at home. It had been weeks and weeks since such a banquet had been seen at King's Landing. Prince Daeron seemed very pleased and grateful, as did all those present who watched the rich dishes crowd the table, and lastly, the huge tray of fresh fruit that a servant laid in the middle.

“I can’t quite believe my eyes. Blackberries? This far in the season?” said Lady Bracken.

“I’m afraid that is entirely my fault.” The Princess chirped, catching Aemond’s attention from across the table.

“I had a sudden craving, while I was carrying Aenar.”

“I had one too with my first.” Lady Redwyne joined in. “Plums, specifically.”

“Did you find them agreeable, Princess?”

“Oh, very much indeed.” She stated, casting an innocent glance around, but lingering for just a moment longer on her husband. “I devoured so many…I still feel the taste on my tongue.”

Devious woman, he thought, fighting back his cursed smirk. He had half a mind to excuse themselves and retire to their chambers, if he managed to endure it all the way and not take her in the middle of a hallway.

She seemed able to read his mind, judging by the way she was looking at him, unfurling a napkin on her lap. He knew her well enough to foresee when she was in a teasing spirit, and he was all in for it.

But then, just when they were about to start eating, her trusted maid came in, going straight to the Princess. “Apologies your Grace.” she said to her ear “but the Princeling is awake.”

Aemond saw the concern instantly widening her eyes and then a shadow passing over her face. “Yes…” she said, and stood up talking to all the present. “My apologies. I must retire.”

“See?” said Lady Bracken as Aemond watched his wife leave the hall. “This is why I refused to breastfeed. No matter how my second would scream…”

By the time she had done breastfeeding, her chest hurt so much that the maid had to place some rags soaked in cold water directly on her nipples; the instant relief had made the Princess close her eyes and almost moan. She had planned to go back to the banquet as soon as Aenar had had his fill but as she gained relief by pressing those wet rags to her breasts, she realised her son wouldn’t let her get away that easily.

As soon as the maid had taken him, trying to put him to sleep, he had begun to fuss and wriggle, whining in what she knew would soon turn into a high-pitched, deaf inducing crying.

Perhaps he’s cursed too. She had thought exhaustingly, promptly kissing his silver little head.

She gave up on her plan to go back to the banquet and rocked the baby herself, pacing before the windows while whispering sweet soothing words.

As soon as he had dozed off, she put him in his crib and absent-mindedly grabbed a book from Aemond's desk, lazily leafing through it while rocking the cradle with the other hand.

Aemond finds her like this when he opens the door on his way back from the banquet. She looks up from the page and sees him striding purposefully towards her, snatching the little book in her hands and throwing it on the bed.

She’s shocked, to say the least. One might say he treats books far better than his subjects.

“What—“ she tries to say but he takes her hand and pulls, forcing her to stand up and follow his steady gait.

“Aemond?” she asks down the corridor, a girlish grin climbing on her lips. “Where are you taking me?”

He doesn’t bother to answer but she doesn’t have to wait long to find out. They stop before a door down the corridor opposite to their chambers, Aemond pushes her inside without so much grace and shuts the door behind them. 

She looks around briefly; the room is warm, the fire in the hearth is lit, as the candles scattered all around. This is all familiar. “These are my old chambers…” she says with a little frown, turning to him.

“Quite the observer, wife.” He drawls, and takes a few steps. His stride is different now. Slow, contemplating, as his gaze raking over her, as if he in the first place doesn’t know why he brought her here and he’s assessing what to do. A war map, and he knows where all the faults lie.

“I thought we could spend some time together” he starts, walking past her to go sit near the fire “Alone.” he adds once he leisurely sits down, crossing his long legs and resting his hands on the armrests. “What better place than a vacant room? No one will come looking for us here.”

She tries as hard as she can to stop the little smirk at the corner of her lips; she walks closer, stopping right in front of him, staring down. “They might hear.” 

“Hmm. And that is much of a trouble for you, isn’t it?” he asks with the most fake genuine tone, taking a cup from the nearby table, and then “You sucked my cock on a terrace and begged me to fuck you in the Small Council…I thought I told you to quit your act.”

She smiles openly now, watching the wine pouring in the cup, his eye fixed on the liquid as his eyebrow shots up. “Besides, I know exactly what to do to muffle your noises.”

“You should be proud of my noises.”

“I am.” He says, taking a sip of wine, his eye piercing through her above the cup’s brim. “But for once, Aegon is right. I’m not one for sharing.”

His arm moves to put the wine aside but she takes it, only to feel his hand pulling the cup away from her. “You cannot drink.”

“Fine.” She concedes, leaning on him. “I’ll have it my way.”

She holds his face and with her left hand she glides her fingers on the left side of his face, delicately but with purpose, pushing the eyepatch off. And then she kisses him, eagerly, licking his lips and then breaching inside to taste the wine on his tongue, on the roof of his mouth.

She sighs deeply when he locks his tongue with hers, and feels his lips curling.

“Did you hear it?” He says breaking the kiss, breathing into her mouth. “That one is my favorite.”

“Your favorite what?” She asks mindlessly, chasing his lips but to no use, because he tilts his head back, his cursed smirk ghosting.

“Noise. It’s a little thing…” he tells her, locking one hand around her neck “in the back of your throat, close to a sigh but not quite…” his fingers trails against her throat, chasing her swallowing “It tells me you’re dying to.”

“To do what?”

“Fall on your knees for me. Be a supplicant.”

She grabs the back of his neck, driving his head close and looks down at his arched mouth “You cannot live without God, can you?” She looks up, her mouth open to breathe “Seven of them seem to have cursed me. I had to find my own.”

His eye widens at that. He looks straight into her eyes, so devoted, so raw. She’s right. The Gods would curse her some more if they saw she looks at him the way she should look at the Gods.

“Then do it.”

“What?”

“Flatteries don’t work on me, sweetling. You should know that.” With his hand on her neck, he slightly pushes her away, making some distance between them. “You will have to show me.”

“What would you have me do?”

His hands let go of her completely, resting on the armchair. The gemstone glints blue, and yet it’s nowhere near the bright cursed thing in his eye. “Get on your knees for me. Now.”

She should be ashamed of the pull in her bones, the muscles willing to move on their own accord and fall to the ground. But why, why does it have to be sin? Why can it not be religion?

When her knees hit the ground, she sees his chest rise, his long fingers spreading flat on the armchair. But her eyes fly back to his face as soon as he speaks, as soon as he commands. “Take off your dress.”

His eye sinks down, watching her hands work the corset, steadily. It’s the only sound in the room, this tugging, at the dress. But she tugs at his cock too. She tugs between her own legs.

When the dress is nothing but a pool of green on the ground, she goes to pull down her white chemise, but she suddenly stops. Aemond uncrosses his legs and the air hitches in her throat as his hands go straight to his belt, unbuckling it.

He revels in the little lump in her throat. Perhaps later he will let her have what she’s craving, but not so soon. “Give me your wrists.”

“My—”

“Don’t make me say it again.”

Swallowing, she keeps her eyes on him and raises her hands, like an offering. Aemond takes off his belt and leans forward, enough to take her hands and cross her wrists. She shudders at the sharp tug when he wraps the leather around, tying them tight.

“On your feet.”

And up she goes, testing her hands briefly but finding soon that she cannot move them, at all.

“Come.”

It takes one swift movement of his leg, bending the knee while the other rests loosely on the ground, for her to get the gist and walk closer, sitting on his knee, sideways.

“No. Like this.” Quite harshly, he grabs her hips and turns her so that she’s straddling his thigh. He can hear her little gasp when he pushes his thigh firmly against her core. He can feel her warmth through the fabric, stirring his cock. But he pays it no mind, for now.

“What now?” She asks, poised precariously on his thigh. 

Aemond tilts his head, and he just looks at her. In the spur of a moment, a boyish one that doesn’t sit well with how he’s built, he thinks he might be quite contented by merely looking at her. Because she’s beautiful and mine, mine, mine.

But his hands are burning, they might fray and wither if he doesn’t touch her. He unties her hair, running his fingers through them as they fall around her shoulders. The Maiden. The Mother. And yet something better, something worse. Because her eyes are hungry, her mouth is starving for air, for his flesh.

“You must toil to find God.” He says, and then he grins. A savage thing, full of promise. “Bring yourself to come.”

A flash of thrill lights up her face, darkens her eyes and Aemond tilts his head again, biding all the time in the world, for he knows she will.

Tentatively, she pushes her body down, against his thigh, feeling a timid shot of pleasure traveling up from her core, ending in a short, labored breath.

That noise, that might be his second favorite.

Soon, her hips start to move back and forth, each time trying to push herself down as hard as she can, making little breathless cries each time she fails to give herself the friction she needs. She has little balance due to her tied wrists, so she rests her palms on his chest to gain some leverage. And that seems to do the trick.

She tilts her head back, moving faster, doing little jumps on his thigh, panting harshly as sweat lumps on her forehead and pleasure coils in her belly.

Aemond hikes up her chemise, watches her cunt brushing back and forth against his leg, leaving a trail of wetness on the fabric of his breeches. He has to choke down a growl. “Gods, you’re soaking me…”

She looks down at him, her cheeks pink, her lips open in a little o. He can’t help himself. He sticks two fingers inside and how relishing it is that she waits for no invitation or order. She laps, twirls her tongue around his fingertips, sucks them.

“Look at you…” he croons, taking his fingers out, leaving a trail of saliva down her chin. “But you can’t, can you? Perhaps I should fuck you before a mirror, so you see. You see how pretty you are when you’re desperate for me.”

His hand travels down her neck, tossing her hair back and then grasping the strap of her chemise, pulling it down, revealing her swollen, turgid breast. He leans forward immediately, cupping it in his hand, and takes the nipple into his mouth, crooning contentedly and then some more when he feels her wince and cry out loud.

Her tied wrists writhe in their merciless hold and he stops her, gripping both her hands with one of his own, keeping her still, lapping and sucking at her nipple until he feels something wet and saccharine on his tongue, humming all the better. He grazes his teeth over the sensitive bud, and she cries out again, bucking violently against him, turning sloppy and frenzy as she feels the fall close.

He feels it too, feels her thighs trembling around him, and that’s when he takes her hips in a tight hold and forces her to stop altogether.

“Did you think I would make it so easy?” he asks spitefully, seeing her dazed expression. Wasting no time, he holds her firmly close to him and stands up. It takes him only two of his long steps to reach the bed and place her above. In a moment of illusive freedom, her tied wrists fly to his breeches, to his evident hardness, but he’s quick to stop her, bringing her arms above her head, keeping them there with a firm hold. “Stay still.”

“Aemond—“ she pleads.

“Hush. Spread your legs.”

She obliges, eager for him to do something, anything to stop the aching. Aemond wets his fingers on his tongue and brings them down, breaching inside her with two of them, watching her gasp, arch her back and twist her wrists in his hold, uselessly. “Easy…” he cruelly laughs “I have just started.”

But she hasn’t. She’s a few steps away from the precipice of her previous denied peak, it would take him so little to push her over the edge. Instead, his torture is so slow that the whole coiling in her belly falls apart and she must climb her peak again.

His two fingers slip in and out ever so easily, their wet sounds echoing through the room, mixed with her panted breaths and his own. He aches for her to touch him, he aches so much that his cock is pulsing, painfully, but this is just too thrilling. Now he knows exactly how she felt in Harrenhal, when she had him chained up to a chaise.

Her hips rock frantically against his hand, trying to speed him, to get there faster. Mumbling nonsense, her legs tense like iron, her cunt clenches and sucks his fingers in like a vice. “Yes…yes, please…Aemond…please don’t stop—‘m so close…”

And just like that, he slips his fingers out; a dark pleasure dances on his candle-lit features as she writhes and whines for the loss of his fingers, swinging her lower back and forth, desperate for the barest friction that would end her misery.

“Aemond, please…” she says, and even with only one eye, he can’t mistake the tears of frustration at the corners of her eyes.

“What, my love?”

“Plea—” she’s cut off by his hand, pushing his sticky fingers inside to make her clean up her mess.

“We said enough with subtleties, did we not? Speak. Tell me…what you need me to do?”

“Let me come please…please…”

At that, he finally lets her wrists go, and she almost winces in pain, for the time she had them tensed above her head. He stalls for a moment, unsure, running his eye over her whole body, sweating and feverish, and so beautifully plump because of motherhood. He unbuttons his doublet, and then his shirt, his breeches. He bares himself completely, catching her eyes following his deft hands everywhere, breathing heavily.

He kneels between her legs, spreading them. And it’s embarrassing, really, the way she tumbles as soon as he puts his tongue flat against her drenched folds. If only she cared.

It takes only a couple of twirls of his tongue around her lips, and she comes undone, shaking all over, canting her slit against his face. He helps her ride out her climax, by not stopping at all. Instead, he doubles his efforts like a man possessed, pushing his mouth open against her cunt as if he wished to devour it, sucking harshly until she whimpers hard, choking on a loud sob. “Aemond—wait—I can’t—”

She cannot take more so soon. But he’s utterly deaf to her complaints.

He feasts on her, lapping and dipping his tongue in, parting her folds to go as deep as he can, humming while drinking all of her; his voice reverberates through her flesh, it makes her bones rattle.

His long nose rubs against her bud and he looks up: she trashes about the sheets, cutting herself as the belt leather scratches her skin. She tries to push him away with her tied wrists, to no use. She clamps her legs around his head, in a desperate attempt to chase him away, sobbing for the unbearable stimulation. And yet…and yet her hips move on their own whim, bucking with sharp jolts until the wave starts to rise, higher and higher, and she drowns in it, letting go a high-pitched cry, clutching his scalp with both her tied hands, scraping, pushing him against her as she rides her peak against his face.  

He swallows everything, licking her clean, moaning softly at feeling her pulsing on his tongue.

“Enough…I—Aemond you have to stop…” she rasps breathlessly.  

“Why?” he asks, finally rising from where he had perched himself; he climbs on her, until he speaks to her face. “I am only making up to you. Wasn’t that what you wanted?”

She can smell herself on him, she can see herself, glistening on his mouth, chin, even his cheekbones.

“Answer me.” His hand grips her jaw “You said you wanted everything.”

She chokes down a whimper when he leans completely on her, feeling his cock against her cooling flesh, while he’s hot and hard and heavy.

“I will give you more.” He says, brushing a strand of her sweat-soaked hair from her temple. “I will give you another child. Keep you all aching and wet for me while you swell with my child. Do you think I don’t know? How you ached for me? D’you think I didn’t?” he presses himself down, so she can feel it thoroughly, furrowing her brow as her body already answers to his call.

 “I can feel you in our bed…” he keeps rasping “rubbing your legs together. And you know how much that bothers me. Your pleasure is mine to take…and to give.”

Her lips part, gasping roughly. She was so hung on his lips that she hadn’t even registered that he had taken hold of himself, bending her knee on his left hip, and guided himself in.

She arches against him while he slowly sheathes himself all the way in, moaning with long-awaited relief. He stays still for a moment, adjusting, but also because he takes her wrists and sets her hands free.

Thrilling as it was, he wants her hands on him, he craves her touch.

He wants her to cling to his shoulders as she always does, digging her nails down.

He wants her to clamp her fingers on the back of his neck, scraping and pulling his hair to keep him close enough to moan into his mouth.

He wants her hands on his back, sliding down, to push him even deeper while rutting inside her.

And she does all of that. She finds God.

[seraphdreams]

JJK MEN AS YOUR PERSONAL TRAINER. | TOJI FUSHIGURO, GOJO SATORU, CHOSO KAMO, SUGURU GETO.

𓏲 ࣪₊♡𓂃 — synopsis. having private sessions with the men prove to be an experience. what type of trainer are each of them?

𓏲 ࣪₊♡𓂃 — cw. smut, edging, degradation, praise, dry humping, fellatio, switch!choso, overstimulation, emo boy!choso, cervix fucking, unprotected sex, they are all whores. mdni <3

𓏲 ࣪₊♡𓂃 — word count. 3.1k

𓏲 ࣪₊♡𓂃 — dolled up! oh em gee ?? headcanon format ? yup! i originally wrote this as a little joke since i started pilates but then my mind wandered and it wasn’t a joke anymore. other than that, ino was supposed to be on the list but he couldn’t make it :( something about being busy .. regardless, comment / reblog if u like ! it would make my day, thank u ♡

TOJI — THE CORRUPT TRAINER.

there must’ve been a clear distinction as to why your trainer only allowed sessions from 9pm up until midnight, but your desperation when it came to relentlessly searching for a personal trainer didn’t leave enough room in your mind to think deeper about the true nature of its shadiness. all you needed was a spotter, and toji’s services claimed to provide just that.

and what happens when you combine height, a monsterous build, superhuman stamina, and a handsome face? well, you get toji fushiguro in all his abhorrent glory.

his chiseled body virtually doubled your frame with biceps the size of your head, shoulders wide enough to emphasize the narrowness of his waist, and veins crawling up his limbs even when the muscles weren’t flexed. a mean looking man with a scar over his mouth like some battered veteran. whatever he got into during the day was truly nothing you’d want to take part in.

inviting him over to your home gym was one thing, but it was looking to be another when his “help” took the form of sensuality; his large hands running along the back of your thighs when he’d seemingly fold you over with your legs on either side of your head for warm-up stretches, or even the occasional groping of your ass when it came down to squats, he was barely doing his job, what you paid a hefty price for, and yet you loved every bit of it.

“c’mon, you can take more of it, cant’cha?” toji’s gruff voice goads, watching the way your tiny cunt struggles with swallowing the head of his wrist-thick, bulbous cock. you were put in the awkward position of doggy, yet another one of his sessions derailed and he deemed this new workout could help you build up some much needed endurance. you were going to need it if you planned on keeping him around.

it surely seems that way when you’re practically running from the pleasure he pistons into you, thick cock kissing your cervix with each skillful, angled thrust of his. large hands were wrapped around your waist, keeping you in place for him — because if there was one thing your personal trainer was strict about, it was form. and your form was beyond perfect.

“‘s just too good.” you mindlessly whined, attempting your hardest to grip onto the thin cushion of the yoga mat beneath you. toji lets out a deep scoff at your vocables, driving his hips against your ass once more, this time a bit sharper with a hint of fervor as its aftertaste. “and you’ve been training with me for how long now?” his question came out in a mocking tone as his lips stretched wide in a crooked smile, that of a statement rather than a query.

“t-two weeks .. fuck.” you respond, mind going hazy from the gaining intensity of his potent movements. the feeling was all too much, it came as no surprise when pleasure began to surge from your spine to coil at your core, building up that high you've been chasing for the past hour, that grumpy ol’ toji continued to rip away from you.

pressing a heavy hand to the small of your back, he arches you forward, groaning at the sight of how swiftly you position yourself for him, your face pushed against the mat.

maybe his training has paid off. . “two weeks and you’re still struggling to take my cock?” he pulled your hips back against his, leaving you defenseless in the ministrations. “guess i need to train this pretty little hole of yours more often.”

with the end of his sentence, he snakes his thick arm around your waist, the pad of his thumb finding your achy, puffy clit, rubbing the nub in tight, harsh circles. if your moans weren’t already loud enough, you were sure the whole town could hear you by now, crying out his name like no tomorrow while your legs trembled with your impending orgasm. “‘m cumming! so hard!” you cry, drooling into the mat as he fucks you through your orgasm.

it wasn’t until soon after that he finally reached his high, sending hot and sticky ropes of cum into your womb. not once had a session with toji ended with him shooting his cum in a more responsible way, with a rubber. it was clear to you since the very first time you allowed his fantasies to come to fruition — toji didn’t believe in condoms.

your body went lax as soon as he pulled out, and he tucked his cock back into his pants, hovering over your sad frame with an amused smirk on his scarred lips.

“good session. i expect $800 wired to my account by the mornin’.”

GOJO — THE ENABLING TRAINER.

when you first showed up to the private room of your local gym in search of your assigned instructor for the night a.k.a “the strongest,” you were expecting some big burly man with a cocky attitude — someone you didn’t particularly get along with. but much to your surprise, instead, he was handsome; fluffy white strands of hair that strayed upwards and a million dollar smile with just the charisma, the charm to back it up.

gojo stood over 6 feet tall, and although he was on the lankier side, there was no denying the lean muscles that peeked through his skintight black top. he smiled, throwing a loose cloth over his broad shoulders.

“you ready to get started?”

your eyes greedily took him in, scanning over the finer details of his gorgeous build. it wasn’t until about thirty seconds of daydreaming about what he’d look like unclothed that you finally gave him a response in the form of a nod and hum.

of course satoru wasn’t an idiot, he could tell from how dazed you were during the first few minutes of instruction that you were focused on something else, not that he minds though, it’s truly an honor that a girl as pretty as you is capable of fawning over him, just as many others do.

after having to shake your thoughts whenever it came to watching him take a large swig from his water, droplets of the liquid streaming down his chin to graze his prominent adam's apple, or the soft appraises he’d coo when you finally got the hang of his workouts, it was the end of yet another vigorous session with him, sweat dripping from your chin down to your chest that was scantily clad in a baby pink sports bra. you held on taut to your water bottle as satoru carried conversation with you.

“you improved so much in just an hour. i’m proud.”

his praises barely reached your ears before you looked at him with adoration glossed over those pretty eyes — there was something about him that you just couldn’t get over, but you knew you needed him badly. you dabbed perspiration from your forehead with a matching pink towel, soft smile forming on your doll-like features.

“thank you,”

he nods his head slightly before starting, “you seemed a bit distracted today, though. something on your mind?” his query pulled you from your gojo-induced hypnosis, causing you to blink away the embarrassment pooling up within you. were you truly that obvious?

“hm? there’s nothing, i’m fine,” your reply came out low and sheepish while your eyes struggled to find anywhere else to settle besides those bright baby blues. he took it upon himself to inch closer to you, studying your features until you gasped softly once your back hit the wall. “nothing?” he asks for confirmation, and you affirm. “nothing.”

“all you gotta do is use your words if you need me.”

gojo’s hands found their way at your thighs, creeping them upwards underneath the thin spandex of your shorts. his touch felt hot against your skin, each brush of his fingertips along the expanse of your inner thigh causing shivers to trickle down your spine while he watched with mirth at your pitiful attempt to keep your whines at bay.

“i think .. i think i need you.”

with that, satoru smirked and lifted your leg up just enough so that it fell over his arm. his lips met yours with a salacious that only the whorest of whores could possess, skilled tongue angling its way inside your mouth to gently clash with yours in the sweetest harmony that had you buckling underneath the frame of his body.

it must’ve been a spur of the moment when you found yourself rutting your hips up in search for satoru’s, a pitchy moan sounded into the kiss when he matches your ministrations, grinding his sweatpant clad and half-hard, leaking length into the seat of your shorts; creating the most delicious sensation as the tip nudged against your clit.

his free hand took purchase at your cheek, his thumb rubbing ever so gently against the heated skin while his movements increased in greediness. your mind’s too hazy to make out anything besides the pleasure and build up of your orgasm — so much so, that it pulled you back to reality as soon as it hit, your sloppy kisses coating gojo’s soft lips in a thin sheen and the seat of your shorts sopping wet from the release of your high.

yet, gojo kept at it until he too came to a falter, cumming an ample amount in his sweats while groaning deep into your mouth. he separated from the kiss for just a split second before he took it upon him to goad,

“we can add 30 more minutes and i’ll give you more than just a taste.”

CHOSO — THE INTIMIDATING TRAINER.

a pierced tongue, some tattoos running along both veined arms, and a deep, monotonous voice were a recipe for your timidness when it came to the kamo, who you’d invited over for your very first home training session. it didn’t help that he was on the quieter side, responding to whatever small talk you’d make with one or two words while his intense eyes would follow every move you’d make as he’d help with your form.

he truly wasn’t a bad guy, or so you thought. even now, during your session with him, his praises were appropriate, he wasn’t too handsy nor did he seem to have any ill intent; being with him felt surprisingly comfortable and refreshing just as the crisp, cold water you two were currently drinking, made fresh from your refrigerator’s tap.

“was it too intense?” he’d asked in regard to the exercises you had just completed. intense was an understatement, you didn’t know how you could move your body in such ways that you did, which wouldn’t have been possible without his expertise. choso set the chilled glass of water down onto your coffee table, feeling coy from sitting on your couch, something he’d never done even with his regulars, and in response, you shook your head at the query, settling yourself by his side.

there was truly no denying how absolutely stunning you were, like some angelic being brought to him from the heavens up above in the form of the sweetest thing he’s ever met. he was afraid that if he blinked too hard, you’d vanish.

the more his eyes focused on your lips when you talked, how you’d massage the sore muscles of your thighs and even let out cute whines because of the fact, the more he found it harder to contain his thoughts, rapidfire in his mind. those perverted thoughts that only some horny teenager could have, not a well off adult like him.

yet, it wasn’t enough to stop him from getting hard in his sweats, a dark grey patch spreading at the crotch, what he’d hoped you’d mistake as spilt water.

“shit,” with that of a husky sigh, he ran his hand over his face, tinges of pink battering the tattooed scar across his nose and cheeks. “i’m sorry.”

oblivious to his situation, you were quick to express your inquiry. “sorry about wh- oh.” the head of his cock practically peeked through the barrier of the hem of his sweats while he made a futile effort to cover himself with one of your pillows once you had realized.

he looked cute like that, embarrassed by something so natural that it even spurred on your arousal, the thought of him getting worked up over you doing virtually nothing. “i-it’s okay.. i can help you if you want.” you offer, moving your position to sit between his thighs.

violet hued eyes widened from your newfound boldness, the clearing of his throat being the only true source of sound he could make in that moment.

“nah, nah. it’s-“ before he could inch out the words, you were drawing featherlight circles at his tip over the fabric, causing his breath to hitch and resolve to falter.

choso wasn’t someone who’d allow himself to be in such a pathetic situation, yet the thought of you carrying out his perfect porn plot fantasy was all he needed for that internal morality to fly straight out the window.

you chuckled at the way he hiked himself up when you finally took him from his bottoms and into your hot, wet mouth. just the sight of his cock disappearing past soft, glossy pink lips has his temperature rising, feeling as though he could pass out.

it’s hazy for him — your hand at the base, the rhythmic bobbing of your head slowly while gradually picking up speed. he never would’ve thought the job he took on for extra cash to fund his college textbooks would end up with someone as gorgeous as you giving him a chance. every pump of your hand around what couldn’t fit into your mouth had him groaning, bucking his hips up as gently as he could without battering the back of your throat.

though, he wouldn’t mind if he did.

staving off a gag, you ultimately increased your pace, determined to get him off while your other hand fondled his plump balls.

from the faint touches alone, he could feel his high approaching, embarrassingly quicker than usual. yet, he couldn’t help it when you started to grow sloppy, a mix of spit and precum dribbling down his shaft.

“w-wait, fuck.. ‘m gonna.”

it took no time for him to shoot his seed into your awaiting throat, his head thrown back against the headrest while he bucked his hips to jettison every last drop. you swallowed all he had to offer before pulling away, watching the gentle rise and fall of his chest.

maybe he wasn’t as intimidating after all.

GETO — THE CHARMING TRAINER.

you were his favorite. you had to be. even in the long line of women waiting to have their own turn with him, you were always a top contender. he had always made time for you, and you alone.

geto’s popularity made perfect sense in your mind. he was tall, handsome with narrow features and dragon tattoos strung along both arms, a man ahead of his time. not to mention, his docile, gentle demeanor. he was charming as all get out and you were beyond aware of your superstar status of being the only one he wanted.

“are we actually going to get some training done or is there something else you want to do?” he straps his fingerless gloves around his palm, tank top tight around his torso, carving out each and every trace of his abs while looking over you, a pleasant smile quirked at his lips.

you felt sheepish under his sharp gaze, a feeling that comes all too natural with expert trainer, suguru geto. “i’m fine with whatever you have in mind, sugu.”

if you didn’t know any better, you’d swore you saw his cheeks dust in the lightest shade of pink at the endearing nickname. you were cute, too fucking cute and perhaps, that was the reason he kept you around.

“i’m thinking we test that stamina ‘nd see if you can hold up riding me?” he hooks his finger under your chin, tilting your head up just slightly. “no help, all on your own.” in all honesty, you could definitely take up his challenge. how hard could it be to take some dick?

or so you thought.

“fuck, sugu! ‘s too much!”

you wouldn’t want to be caught dead in the miserable state that you were in but it ultimately did seem as though geto’s lessons had gotten you nowhere. the tip of his cock wasn’t even an inch past your cunt while you rested your hands on his broad shoulders, pathetically trying to take what was the easiest part.

he smirked at you, resting his hands behind his head. “i’m not helping, princess. i meant it.”

you continued to try and sink yourself down onto his unreasonably thick cock, a soft crack of a whine tumbling past parted lips when your pussy engulfed another half inch of him. “but-“

“if i have to help you, we’re not finishing until you’re a mess.” he grits, not harsh enough to come off as daunting but stern enough to warn you. yet, the warning fell to deaf ears when you began to whorishly beg pleas of “help me, sugu. help me.”

from that, he let out a low groan, his hands on your waist sinking you all the way down to the base before he gained stability, flattening his feet onto the floor and fucking his cock into your fluttering cunt.

with the way he moves, you were almost positive you had the wind knocked out of you from those first few thrusts alone. soft babbles resonated throughout the room while you clung to his body like it’d comfort you in the hell that was his potent ministrations.

you felt far more sensitive than you ever felt, white hot pleasure coiling within you in no time, your pussy tightening around his shaft in such a suffocating way, geto felt as though he couldn’t breathe either. “s-so tight, princess. i know you wanna cum, cum for me, baby.” he goads through a strained voice, his thumb now working between your folds to find purchase at your clit, rubbing the puffy nub in moderate circles.

“if you do t-that, i might—“

and before you knew it, you were gushing around his pretty cock, face twisted in the prettiest picture of pleasure. the aftershocks of your orgasm were way more intense as you were fucked to overstimulation, a sly grin on his lips.

“told you we weren’t stopping, darling.”

[hoshifighting]

Two words. Dilf Cheol. (I am on the brink of insanity thank yewww)

dilf!seungcheol

WARNINGS: smut, fluff, crying, marriage, his kid loves u, shy dilf!seungcheol at the beginning.

oh man, dilf!seungcheol though? i think about it every single day, i swear. and yeah, it all starts with that awkward-ass moment at the café. he’s standing there all buff and shy, trying to work up the nerve to ask for your number, his daughter hanging onto his leg like she’s his bodyguard. her big, curious eyes peeking out at you while he stumbles over his words. “uh… I just… I thought maybe you’d… uh,” seungcheol scratches the back of his neck, all nervous—like he isn’t the size of a tank. “you know, if you’re not busy… you could give me your insta?” he’s waiting for you to laugh at him, probably thinks he’s gonna get rejected because, you know, he’s got a kid and all. like that makes him less attractive or something. but you’re all heart-eyes the second his little girl pipes up with, “daddy thinks you’re pretty.”

dude nearly dies on the spot. he’s so red, you could probably cook an egg on his cheeks. but you just crouch down to her level, giving her the same sweet smile you flashed at the waitress earlier, and say, “well, I think your dad’s really handsome, too.”

game over. you’ve got him hooked, right there.

from then on, you’re texting nonstop. it’s almost like a high school crush thing, except the guy’s a full-grown dad who still somehow makes your stomach flip like you’re sixteen again. his insta’s basically a whole love letter to his daughter, like, every other post is her: her in some princess costume, her making pancakes (or trying to), her at the park with him, her with his dog. sometimes, you’ll scroll through his feed just to see him smile because, damn, it’s so rare he smiles like that anywhere else.

but then there’s the gym photos. god, those gym photos. all sweaty and pumped up, and you swear he’s showing off just a bit for you now that he knows you’re watching. his arms look like they could crush you, but the way he talks? it’s like he’s this big ol’ teddy bear wrapped in all that muscle.

“you eat today?” he texts you at like, 2 p.m., no greeting or anything.

you text back, “noo :(( too busy.”

not even a minute later, you get a notification from some food delivery app—he’s already sent something to your place. he’s like that. doesn’t even ask, just takes care of it. if it’s cold out, he’s dropping off a coat. if it rains, a brand new umbrella’s somehow at your work's door.

one night, you're scrolling through insta, and there’s this photo of him at some fancy work event, all dressed up in a suit and tie. goddamn, you think, biting your lip, because who knew seungcheol could clean up like that? the suit hugs every muscle, and it’s wild how he can look that good in anything from sweats to formalwear. you double-tap, and not two minutes later, he’s texting you.

“you like that one?”

you don’t even bother playing coy. “nah, I loved that one.”

there’s a pause, and you can almost picture him blushing on the other end, even though you’re the one getting all flustered.

“well, maybe you’ll get to see it in person soon,” he shoots back, and there’s a teasing edge to it, the same one that’s been driving you absolutely crazy since you started talking.

you roll your eyes, but your heart’s doing that dumb fluttery thing again. “maybe,” you reply, playing along.

and it’s like, you’re not even sure how this all happened so fast, but seungcheol? he’s always making sure you’re good, like his whole day revolves around making you smile, checking in, making sure you're eating, keeping warm. it’s low-key intense but in the best way possible.

and somehow, between all the little text convos and the insta stalking, you’ve found yourself seriously catching feelings for this dad with the cutest kid, the sweetest heart, and a whole-ass gym routine that’s absolutely unfair.

and you wonder: how the hell did you get this lucky?

seungcheol's always been like that—taking care of you like it’s second nature, probably because he’s used to being in dad-mode 24/7. you kinda feel spoiled, in the best way possible. he’s always looking out for you. it’s not that he’s overbearing; it’s just that this is how he shows he cares. but you know it goes both ways.

so one day, you decide to return the favor. you find this pink polo, something that screams him but in the softest, most endearing way. you know his daughter will love it too, ‘cause she’s all about pink and matching with her dad. you send it to him without saying much, just a little note saying, “thought this would look good on you.” the next time you see him, he's wearing it, and yeah, the shirt hugs his body perfectly. he’s acting like it’s no big deal, but you catch the way he blushes when you compliment him. “didn’t have to do all that,” he mutters, rubbing the back of his neck, but his eyes are softer than usual, that little glint of he’s falling harder than he planned.

but what really seals the deal is how u handle his daughter. every time you two try to plan a date, something comes up—his mom’s busy, or the babysitter falls through, and suddenly, the whole night’s flipped. instead of a fancy dinner, you’re headed to the park or some kid-friendly café, making sure his little girl has fun. and somehow, you end up having more fun on those “ruined” dates, watching seungcheol let loose, running around with his kid while you cheer them on. it’s like you get him, get his life, and he’s not used to that.

and then, finally, one night, the stars align. his mom takes the kid for the weekend, and it’s just you and him. alone.

and oh god, does he reward you.

he’s been holding back for weeks—months even. all that pent-up frustration, that tension from constantly having to play the responsible dad while trying to not let himself get too attached to you, it all comes crashing down.

he’s rough, no question about it. but it’s the kind of rough that makes your whole body sing. his hands are everywhere, grabbing, holding, pressing you up against walls and furniture like he’s desperate to feel every inch of you at once. he’s strong, and he knows it, lifting you like you weigh nothing, carrying you from one spot to the next without breaking a sweat.

the first time, it’s almost frantic. he’s pounding into you like he’s afraid the moment’s gonna slip through his fingers, grunting into your ear, his breath hot and uneven against your skin. your legs wrap around him, but you can hardly hold on—he’s relentless, hitting that spot over and over until you’re crying out, body shaking violently.

you don’t even realize your legs are spasming until hours later, when you try to stand and nearly collapse from how shaky you are. but seungcheol’s not done. oh no. he’s far from done.

before you can even catch your breath, he’s down between your legs, eating you out like a man famished. this time, it’s slower his tongue doing things that make you arch off the bed, hands fisting in his hair as he drags you to the edge again, then pulls you back just to do it all over. every time you think you’re about to lose it, he eases up, grinning against your skin like he knows exactly what he’s doing.

and yeah, maybe it’s been ages for him, but fuck, the man knows how to destroy you. by the time he’s done, you’re a complete mess, legs trembling, heart flying from your chest, your body so sensitive that even the thought of him touching you again makes you shudder.

seungcheol though, he’s the type to take his time. slow and unshakable, like he’s gotta be absolutely sure before he makes any big moves. but with you? he’s struggling. there’s this itch under his skin, this need to lock it down, put a ring on your finger, make it official. and yeah, he’d never say it out loud, not yet. he’s got too much pride to come off that desperate. but every time he watches you with his daughter, every time she calls you her “best friend” or shows you the drawing she made of you three as a family, he’s fighting the urge to drop down on one knee and ask you to make it real.

he hides it well, though, keeps up the usual routine. he keeps taking you out on dates, some with his little girl tagging along, others just the two of you. and he’s always scolding you whenever you show up with yet another gift for her.

“y/n, you’ve gotta stop,” he groans, shaking his head as you hand his daughter a set of pink hair clips that match her favorite doll. “she’s gonna expect something every week at this point.”

but there’s that soft look in his eyes, the one that betrays how much he loves seeing you spoil his kid. he’ll roll his eyes, but you notice how he always says “my girls” now, so casually like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

you and her. his girls.

one day, he takes you to her father’s day presentation at school. you’re not sure who’s more nervous, seungcheol or his daughter. but when she walks on stage in her tiny tutu, all giggles and shy smiles, it’s seungcheol who completely loses it. you’re sitting beside him, watching him tear up before she’s even started dancing. by the time the performance is over, he’s full-on crying, holding his face in his hands as you rub his back, trying to calm him down.

“it’s just… she’s growing up so fast,” he sniffs, looking up at you with watery eyes, completely unashamed of the tears streaming down his face. and you can’t help but love him more for it, for how much he loves his daughter, for how raw and real he is when it comes to her.

your intimate life? that’s been steady too, despite how busy things get. with a kid around, it’s not always easy to find the time, but seungcheol makes sure you’re never left wanting. there are the quickies, yeah, when his daughter’s asleep and you’ve got the living room to yourselves, stealing a heated make-out session that somehow ends up with your back pressed against the couch cushions, his hands roaming under your clothes while he kisses you senseless.

but if things get too feral, you two will sneak off to the laundry room or the closet, anywhere you can get a little privacy. he’s fast, efficient, but still so thorough, making sure you’re fully satisfied every single time. it’s like, no matter how quick things have to be, he’s always got this laser focus on making you feel good.

but even with all the passion, he’s still got that soft side. sometimes, it’s just enough to make out on the couch, your lips swollen from kissing, the weight of him pressed against you. and in those moments, there’s this quiet comprehension between you two. you don’t need the sex to feel connected—sometimes, just being close is enough.

but it’s getting harder for him to hold back. every time he sees you playing with his daughter, every time she asks if you’re coming over for dinner, he feels it. that pull. that urge to make you his. and one night, after his daughter’s fallen asleep and the two of you are tangled up on the couch, catching your breath after another one of those wild, stolen moments, he looks at you, really looks at you, and the words just fall out of his mouth.

“marry me.”

it’s not planned, not rehearsed. hell, he hadn’t even thought about it until the moment the words slipped out. but once they’re out there, he realizes he’s never been more sure of anything in his life. his hand tightens around yours, and he’s staring at you like you’re the only thing in the world that matters, like he’s already bracing himself for the answer.

and all you can think is, finally.

[sapphire-writes]

this was so delicious!! I loved every second well done!! 🥵💗

Beneath the Prince Regent

Aemond Targaryen x fem reader

Word count: 2.6k+

Can be read as a one shot, but reads best as part 2 to Midnight Passage

About: After your little disturbance in the Prince Regent's study, Aemond finally comes to bed.

Includes: Explicit sexual content! (the holy trinity of fingering, pussy eating, and p in v, with the continued theme of finger sucking)

Note: Hello lovely reader! No one asked for a part two to this, but you're getting it anyway because I'm self-indulgent and wanted to do it for myself. As always, please enjoy! ♥

-

You looked so pretty sleeping in Aemond's bed he almost felt bad for waking you up. 

Almost.

Passed was the hour of the owl – when you'd disrupted him with your neediness and he released his spend on your face and chest – and the hour of the wolf wasn't quite here yet. It was a quiet space between. Dark. Eerie. The halls of the Red Keep were nearly hollowed of guards, for there were only a skeleton crew of them at this time of night.

The edge of Aemond's bed dipped slightly beneath his weight as he sat beside your sleeping form. With an affectionate tilt of his head he ghosted the backs of his fingers across your hairline, cheek, down your neck, and over the slope of your shoulder. How pretty you looked, truly, like a doll. From your shoulder he grazed down your arm until he reached your hand. There, he lifted it to lightly kiss the top. Low embers from his hearth barely illuminated the amused suspicion of his eye. Repeating the motion with your other hand, the prince regent found himself smiling all to himself.

There wasn't a trace of your arousal on either of your hands. Upon your departure he said he would know if you touched yourself; he wholly meant it.

You were always so good for him. His good, sweet girl. So pathetically patient for his praise and reward that you didn't give in to the beast of your arousal tonight, even as it thrashed and roared and snapped its hungry jaws.

No. Not you. Not his good girl.

Laying your arm gently where it previously rested, Aemond pushed the blanket off your body and reveled in the sight of it only covered by his yesterday's shirt. Your thighs looked impossibly soft below the hem; warm and inviting. He pushed one palm up them, the pressure slow and steady, until his fingertips brushed the top of your smallclothes. He bent his head to kiss your jaw. Your neck. That little spot behind your ear. 

Finally, you stirred. 

"Wake up byka kēlītsos little kitten," he whispered in your ear, his breath tickling the sensitive reflex there.

You hummed sleepily as your eyes fluttered open. "Aemond? You're finally here." Sleep clung heavy to your voice. "Unless I'm still dreaming…," you added with a satisfied sigh.

"I assure you I'm quite real," he replied with quiet mischief. "As is the hunger you woke in me earlier. I sat debating if you're an elaborate spy to distract me from my duties for longer than I care to admit." Fingertips slowly eased passed the ribbons of your smallclothe's waistband, tugging them loose.

Any other time you might have blushed with his words. Now, still groggy with slumber and his touch at your hips, you giggled softly and bit into your bottom lip. "I listened," you admitted, a shudder of excitement building up the back of your legs to the top of your spine. "Being under your blankets wasn't enough. I had to find your shirt, too."

"I know, sweet girl," he cooed, placing his free hand above your head for support; you were beneath him, caged by him, enveloped by him. His eye dragged up to your eyes from your mouth, his own curling with a proud smirk. "You did so well for me. How will I ever be able to scheme in my study without thinking of you kneeling like that?" The question edged with condescendence as his chiseled features oozed with silent taunts. 

Desire blazed to life with his attention. The ache of your needy core had finally relaxed, and now it returned with a vengeance as he slid your undergarment down the lines of your legs. "Please don't tease me. I can't handle it," you nearly stammered as another shudder ran up and down your spine. Goosebumps pebbled your skin. If he accused you of spying and witchcraft, he was the highest of sorcerers to put you under his spell of lust.

A soft hum came from his thoughtfully pressed lips, head tilting once again. The ends of his hair brushed over your neck and cheeks. "I don't think I will," he said before meeting your mouth in a kiss. "Do you want my fingers?" He asked against your lips, eye cast down to find yours barely open. The pads of his fingers brushed over your mound, testing you, teasing you, circling upwards until he reached your clit. 

If you could hear it you knew he could hear it. The lazy circles of his touch were echoed by tiny wet sounds from your cunt. You were already soaked. A hot blush burned your cheeks as your body craved him. "Yes."

"Spread your legs," he said, surprising you by removing his hand from your center and up to your mouth. "And open your mouth," he added, features glaring with a smirk.

You obeyed, gasping, hips immediately arching up to the memory of his touch.

One by one he pushed his fingers into your mouth. "Be a good girl and get them all slobbery, hm?" He pressed down on your tongue and twirled around the little muscle, coaxing saliva to collect around him. "There…"

One finger, easy. Two? Not bad. Three? A challenge, especially when he flexed and splayed them apart in the small confides of your maw. You gagged. It was when he pushed his pinky inside that you felt another gush of wetness collect in your exposed center. You pulled your shirt above your breasts and immediately squeezed over them: the need to be touched too great as your hips squirmed for any sort of friction. The soft mounds were marked by his bruises from this morning. 

His hand left your mouth and went right to your slickened folds. Middle finger sunk effortlessly into your saturated walls, the length of his digit lazily swirling around in you. A soft growl rumbled in his tightened throat. "I don't think you could be any wetter," he said huskily, voice graveling over your senses in the best ways. "Been thinking about this since you left," he added as his index finger joined his middle in your heat.

A broken moan escaped your throat. Your eyes unfocused, lids fluttering, body wrapping around his digits. You started to mumble something up at him until his thumb circled your clit. He grazed over it and replaced whatever you were going to say with a sweet moan that jolted right to his cock. Those sounds only increased as he began to pump in and out of you. Squelches were all the more obvious in his quiet room. "F-uck..! Yes! Please don't stop…"

Unable to resist the way your tits bounced in sync with his movements, he dipped his head to catch your nipple and sucked at the pebbled flesh. He hummed around his mouthful. He released it only to repeat it to your other, fingers and thumb never easing with their lovely assault.

You arched your breasts up into him, gasping at the new waves of sensation tingling beneath your skin. He kissed, licked, and sucked over your chest, fingers curling up inside you in tandem. "Fuck!" You panted, warmth and tightness knotting in the low muscles of your belly. "I'm close! Please keep going… feels so good…," you whined, desperate.

"Give your pleasure to me. I want it, byka kēlītsos. I need it. Soak my fingers. Soak these fucking fingers." His voice was soft, hushed, raspy with his own need. He slipped a third in.

You came undone beneath him. Orgasm rushed through your muscles and flooded your blood with the utmost pleasure. You squirmed, grounding yourself to the moment by gripping onto whatever part of him you could reach. The bliss was so high, and your mind so momentarily clouded, that you didn't even realize he slid down the bed until you felt him. "A-Aemond..!" You cried, hands flying down to his head between your thighs.

His tongue dragged up, and over, and across your clit, kissing and sucking at your pearl while his fingers remained inside you. "I love when you're swollen here like this," he panted up at you, his eye black with desire. He lost the eyepatch on the way down and his sapphire glimmered up at you. Handsome mouth wrapped around your little bud again and he pumped in and out of your cunt with a renewed pace.

With him lavishing you so soon after your peak, your body was deliciously sensitive and he was perfectly relentless with his pleasure. Your hands in his hair didn't deter him. Your fingernails on his scalp and his ears didn't make him flinch away. If anything it all seemed to spur him on even more. Even as you rolled, squirmed, and twitched under him, his pressure or pace never wavered. Greed for your bliss clouded his mind. The combined sounds of your approaching peak, along with his lapping, sucking, and contented sighs, made for an obscene symphony of carnal delights.

"You're close," he groaned up at you, free hand palming and squeezing over your breasts. "Gonna soak my chin like you did my fingers?" He asked, eye glinting.

"Mhm," you mumbled as he went back to your pearl, tongue gentle on the sensitive little thing. He pinched and tugged at your nipples and it was the sweet edge of pain that pushed you over for a second time. Your thighs replaced your hands at the sides of his head. You barely covered your mouth in time to muffle your cries of pleasure; you had to be quiet in Aemond's room. Warmth, and tingles, and lightheadedness rushed over you as you melted into his mattress.

He allowed your body to relax before slipping his fingers free, standing up. "One day I will allow an artist to watch you reach peak so they might be able to recreate your likeness. You're so lovely like this. Blushed, and sprawled out, and pleasure drunk," he said adoringly as he undressed.

"You'd let another man watch you fuck me?" You asked dreamily, the sweat atop your skin cooling. 

He laughed. "No. It'd be a woman. No other man is to ever see you like this." There was no humor behind his laugh or words. It might have sent a coil of darkness around another woman's gut, but not yours. You liked it.

A smile flashed across your face before you sat up to finally take your shirt off. You leaned back on your elbows. Looking up at him you tipped your head to the side, biting your lip. "Come here, my prince. Let me wrap my legs around your waist." Your legs bent up at the knees to playfully flash him where you wanted him to be. 

With a smirk, and as smooth as water, he crawled across the bed to you, cock bobbing. His lean hips fit easily between your thighs. You both groaned as he pressed the exposed tip of his cock against you. He teased your still sensitive bud – grinning despite his loosened jaw – before sliding himself lower to your eager opening. 

The resistance of your body made both of you shudder. He sunk into you further and further – your toes instantly curling – until the solid length of him was wholly engulfed by your saturated walls. No matter how many times he took you, the first push and stretch of him never failed to take your breath away. "Oh Gods, Aemond…," you drawled, head tipping backward.

"So fucking wet for me. Wetter than even this morning. How is that? Such a needy little cunt," he mocked, pushing his weight into you so his cockhead sent a bolt webbing throughout your senses. "How desperate you'd be without me…," he groaned, pulling out to snap back into you. "Only able to be satisfied by your prince's cock." He set a pace, now, the hair on the topside of his thighs rough against the smooth underside of your own.

"Yes! Just like that..!" You moaned, barely able to keep your eyes opened to meet his. Your ankles crossed behind his back and the heels of your feet dug into the firm curve of his ass. The flex of your legs wasn't tight enough to keep him from thrusting how he liked, but was enough to keep him close and there where you wanted him.

"You're going to have to be quieter. Can't have guards coming to see what the matter is, hm?" He asked in a hot whisper, a gutteral sound building in his throat at just how tight, wet, and fucking perfect you felt. "So loud. Filthy girl." He drove into you harder, skin slapping lewdly together. 

Your moans and cries of pleasure were beyond your control, then, body on the brink of yet another climax. You began to flex and contract around him. 

He grabbed your discarded shirt and balled it up, stuffing it over and into your mouth. Your eyes widened above it. He smirked once more. "If you can't be quiet then I'll make you be. Gonna soak my cock this time, byka kēlītsos?" He fucked you at a different angle, now, one hand keeping the shirt over your mouth while the other squeezed firmly at your bouncing tits.

You nodded, and whatever you had to say was muffled behind the cloth. It didn't matter; it would've been unintelligible as your third and final orgasm of the night washed over you. You crumbled beneath him, eyes rolling closed, as your thighs squeezed roughly around his middle. Your walls convulsed around him and the sound that ripped from his throat was enough to make you whimper under his hand. 

With a deep rolling groan and praise of your name, climax overtook the prince. Pleasure slackened his sharp jaw; pale brows melted in a way only sex could grant. His hips shuddered, cock twitching, as he stilled inside you. His breath was heavy as his hand eased from the lower half of your face. Finally, you were able to get a true lungful of air. Sweat glistened on both your bodies. He rarely looked more handsome than he did right now; spent, sated, and panting. 

You could lay with him like this forever. You were sure your expression said it, too, with how you gazed reverently up at him; face blushed, skin sheened, chest rising and falling.

"Mmm… you make me feel so good, byka kēlītsos." He eased out from your center and from between your legs. Grabbing his shirt he walked across the room where a basin of water sat atop a table near the fire. He dipped a portion of it and came back to you, offering the wet cloth.

"Thank you," you sighed contentedly. Despite him being in front of you, the image of him walking there and back, naked with his hair free and loose, played over and over until it branded on your memory.

"There's a couple hours left before dawn. Sleep with me. I want to hold you for awhile." His voice was thick with exhaustion. It'd been a long day and he'd spent himself multiple times since waking with you this morning. He laid on his back beneath the blankets, inviting you in.

After cleaning yourself, you replied, "happily, my prince. Sleep well." Smiling, you laid upon your side, head on his chest and legs tangled with his, with an arm draped over his abdomen. 

The last thing you remembered was his arm scooping around your back and his soft mouth kissing the top of your head.

-

thank you for reading! if you enjoyed, please consider a follow and reblog as I have plans to create and share more writings ♥

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[thevillainswhore]

Loverboy

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x F!Reader

Word Count: 4.3k

Summary: Bucky, a lovesick, pining super soldier, vows to keep his feelings for you a secret — no matter how obvious his crush may seem. Those plans are ruined between a meddling Sam, an embarrassing fall, and a visit to the medbay with you.

Warnings: Avengers AU, Bucky’s POV, fluff, crack (my lame attempt at comedy), suggestive thoughts (no smut), just our boy being a lovesick little bean with a big ol’ crush.

Author’s Note: Dividers by @saradika. Proofread by @buckys-wintersoldier, thank you so much sweetie, I love you!! This was inspired by a wonderful request from @prettyboy56, thank you so much! Hope you enjoy x

“Hi, Bucky.” 

Instantly, he sputtered over his mouthful of cereal, eyes watering from his food going down the wrong way. 

Bucky knew that melodic voice before his gaze even reached its owner. You entered the kitchen, wiggling your fingers at him in greeting. 

Clearing his throat, he swiped his bowl to the side, his breakfast now forgotten about, and directed his attention solely onto you. “Hi—um h—hello, doll.” 

The muscles of your cheeks lifted up to your eyes in a smile that made Bucky swoon. Hard.

Your eyes fell to Sam then, who stood in the corner, fresh from a workout with a shit eating on his face. “Good morning, Samuel.” 

“Mornin’, beautiful. How did you sleep?” 

Bucky fought the growl rising in his throat, the unprecedented possessiveness caving its way through its internal barriers in your presence. 

You grabbed a bottle of water out of the refrigerator and closed the door, leaning your back against it to take a big gulp. 

“Not bad at all.” You licked your lips, ridding the dryness that came from a long slumber before your eyes lit up. “Oh, by the way! I drank some of that tea you recommended. It’s helped a bunch—”

Bucky zoned out while you continued to express your gratitude to Sam. He couldn’t help the way his eyes dilated as he rested his head in the palm of his vibranium hand, a lovesick sigh escaping his lips. You were just so gorgeous – a deity in human form right in front of his own very eyes. Bucky had never considered himself so lucky in all his time on earth to be within your vicinity. 

In his own world of oggling, Bucky didn’t notice how the conversation fell short between you and Sam. Neither did he realise how the two of you were staring at him; you with concern and Wilson smothering his laughter with his hand. 

“Bucky? Sweetheart?” He finally registered that you were speaking to him and almost choked, again, on his own spit.

“Mhm?” Bucky murmured, drunk off your attention. 

You smiled once again, so devastatingly beautiful that his left arm whirred in stupor. “Are you okay? You feeling alright?” Not waiting for a response, you walked over to him and Bucky almost let his eyes roll to the back of his head when you lifted your wrist to his forehead. “Jeez, you’re a little hot, Buck.” 

Sam keeled over in hysterics, unable to keep his composure any longer. Meanwhile, a bright red blossom of colour rose up from the skin of Bucky’s neck all the way up to his cheeks. 

Had Bucky not been embarrassingly infatuated by you, the throwaway comment wouldn’t have had any effect on him. But this was you. The woman who had the ability to make him melt on the spot. 

While logic and a basic level of common sense screamed at him that you were talking about his temperature, his mind could only conjure up the fact you had called him hot. 

Bucky saw your mouth moving, however he couldn’t concentrate on the sound of the words coming out of it. You were still touching him, patting his cheeks and sweeping the tendrils of hair that had fell out from behind his ears out of his face. The close proximity of your bodies threw him through a loop and without even realising, his thighs spread further, subconsciously begging you to forego all boundaries and smother yourself against him. 

Gently tapping his nose three times, you managed to gain his full attention again. “You seem out of it, sweetie. Maybe you should go down to the medbay. See if you’re coming down with a fever or something.” 

Sam blew out a breath of air. “Yeah, because that’s what’s wrong with him.” 

You threw a lighthearted glare his way before bringing your eyes back to Bucky. “Promise me you’ll get seen to?” 

How could he refuse when you asked so sweetly? “Anything you want.” He vowed sincerely. 

Scrunching your nose, you chucked his chin and whispered under your breath, “Good boy.”

Bucky almost whimpered when you withdrew your hands and stepped back. He so desperately wanted to follow you and nudge your arm until you paid attention to him once more. Your touch was fire and a cool breeze all at once. Electricity that created static across his stubbled cheek, yet also stoked a warmth through his entire body.  

Peace. He’d never felt anything like it. Never before felt drunk from just the delicate essence of a perfume or experienced the loosening of his limbs, relaxing until his legs felt like jelly whenever you so much as cast him a glance. 

You grabbed a piece of fruit from the table, ready to go down to the gym and train. “Catch you later, Sam,” you called over your shoulder. Meeting Bucky’s eyes a final time, you winked while you headed for the elevator. “Bye, sweetheart.”  

Bucky’s gaze was glued to you, following you out hopelessly until you were completely out of sight. 

He was fucked — well and truly out of his depth. 

Sam crossed his arms and smirked. “You are down bad, man.” 

Bucky swiped a hand over his face, sighing deeply. “Fuckin’ tell me about it.” 

“This is serious.” Sam sobered up, his lips softening into an honest smile. 

With an embarrassingly loud thud against the island countertop, Bucky let his head drop. “I have no idea what to do, Sam. I thought this crush would have passed by now but it’s been months.”

“Well,” Sam raised an eyebrow. “Have you even tried asking her out?” 

“And why would I do that?” Bucky asked, genuinely confused. 

Sam sputtered over his words. “What do you mean—Because that’s what people do when they like someone, you dumbass!” 

Bucky had lost enough braincells daydreaming about you constantly. He didn’t need to be told what he already knew. But the pressure of asking you out to then have a chance of being rejected? He would never come back from that. “Yeah, no thanks,” he mumbled.

“Come on, man. What’s the worst that could happen?” Sam asked. 

Bucky lifted his head up and huffed sarcastically. “Oh, I don’t know. Maybe she could turn me down and rip my heart out into little pieces, so much that I would hide out in my room for the rest of eternity never to be seen again?” 

“Now you’re just being dramatic.”

Bucky sighed longingly. “Let me wallow in my misery alone, Sam.” 

“Why? So you can spend your days staring at her with your googly eyes and drooling over her.” 

“I have never drooled over her,” Bucky snarled. 

A twinkle shone in Sam’s eye, a mischievous grin donning his face. “Then what’s that on your chin?” 

Bucky’s eyes widened and he quickly brought his hand up to his face to check if he did in fact have any wetness coating his mouth. Finding none, he looked back to Sam with a scowl. “I hate you.”

Sam shook his head with laughter. “You shouldn’t make it so easy to tease you, loverboy.”  

With a growl, Bucky lifted from his seat and stormed out of the kitchen. 

The irritating voice followed him. “Don’t forget training tomorrow morning, loverboy!” 

The sun was shining over the compound the next morning and so came the bright idea from Steve that all exercise activities should be held outside. While the recruits in training buffed up on their sparring with the Captain, the rest of the avengers worked out as they saw fit. 

As usual, Sam took any opportunity possible to annoy Bucky, which brought them together, running laps around the outdoor track. 

“When are you gonna man up and ask her out then, Cyborg? Pretty girl ain’t gonna be available forever.” 

Bucky wasn’t entirely sure why he didn’t run ahead of Sam. It wasn’t as if he couldn’t. Maybe the pace he kept alongside Wilson allowed him to stare at you so clearly in your tight workout leggings and sports bra as sweat sensually rolled over your skin. Maybe. 

“I’m not asking her out, Sam. Drop it.” 

Sam huffed out an annoyed breath. “Listen, man. It’s not as if you’ve got nothing going for you. As much as you’re a grumpy shit, you’ve got them blue eyes the chicks love. Gets them all gooey when you give them intense eye contact, y’know?” He reluctantly added, “And they dig the brooding, bad boy, leather jacket vibe.”

Bucky let out a rare smile within the presence of Sam. “You tryna hit on me, Wilson?” 

“Look, all I’m saying is you have a chance.” Sam slyly glanced over the field. “And if you don’t quit fuckin’ around, that chance is gonna disappear.”  

The smile instantly dropped from Bucky’s face. “What do you mean by that?” 

Sam’s signature smirk came back with vengeance. “Your girls lookin’ kinda cute today. So I’m not sure if you’ve noticed, but you ain’t the only one who’s got their eye on her.” 

Naturally, Bucky followed his instinct and let his eyes look over at you. You were a fucking wonder, of course he knew that. But heeding Sam’s ominous warning, Bucky allowed his gaze to venture out, only allowing you to blur into the background for a couple of seconds while he took stock of the other male, and female, recruits. 

Low and behold, plenty of other people wantonly stared at you while you completed your circuit, almost salivating over their barely concealed pining. As much as Bucky hated to admit it, the fucker was right. You were the pinnacle of everyone’s attention. 

With the way you were bending over, squatting and looking like an angel amidst the perspiration the sun brought on, Bucky wasn’t sure if he could actually blame anyone for it. 

That didn’t stop the ugly, green eyed beast within him that wanted to tear everyone’s eyes out for daring to glimpse at you. 

It was silly, he knew he had no right to feel any sort of possessive nature for you. Unfortunately, you didn’t belong to him. Still, he couldn’t control the deep rooted urges that whispered the kinds of fun he’d have gouging out eyeballs that looked where they weren't supposed to. 

Knowing he had stirred the pot enough, Sam figured it was time to try and hit the final nail in the coffin in order to make his friend move his ass. “Y’know what gives you an advantage though, man?” 

Bucky continued to death stare the surrounding agents, while keeping up with his steady jog. “What’s that?”

“Guess who’s making eyes at you right now.” 

At breakneck speed, Bucky snapped his head back around to you, only to indeed find you staring at him with a fire in your eyes and your bottom lip trapped between your teeth. 

A violent shudder ran down his spine and for a moment, the whole world stopped on its axis, allowing Bucky to revel in a daydream brought to life. 

That was until his mind snapped him back into the present. The super soldier was majestic on his feet in a fight, graceful yet utterly dangerous out on the field even with the pressure a mission came with. 

However to his utter bewilderment, you happened to be the most dangerous being he had ever come across, because in all of his years as a trained, professional assassin, Bucky had never, never, tripped over his own feet. 

And so, inevitably, Bucky’s face ungracefully met the asphalt of the outside track with an audible thunk. 

A collective of gasps, oo’s, and ah’s, rang around the large group. Bucky could physically feel the coating of red, hot embarrassment climbing up to his now scratched cheeks.  

Bucky couldn’t see the look of shame and pity on Sam’s face as he dropped his head into his hands. All he was capable of was fantasizing faking his own death and moving far, far away where no one who witnessed his fall could ever find him.  

With a painful, deep groan, Bucky managed to roll himself over. He couldn’t bear to open his eyes and allow himself to accept reality yet and so he kept them closed, waiting for the ground to swallow him up or for the beaming sun to slowly incinerate him, melt him into the ground with his shame and dignity. 

But instead of either of those, a shadow casted over him, the harsh brightness behind his eyelids dulling down. Slowly, he peeked an eye open, only for mortification to kick him in the gut when he found you standing over him. 

“You alright there, Soldier?” Your hands were set on your hips, those deliciously curved grooves of your body that he had shamelessly stared at one too many times during gym sessions. 

“Mhm,” he gulped, his Adam’s apple bobbing roughly. “Just peachy.” 

Even though you’d just seen him eat dirt, in front of hundreds of learning recruits and the rest of the avengers, your smile was kind as you held out your hand. “Need some help?” 

Bucky took your offering, sliding his clammy palm into your dry one and hoisted himself up with your grip. He hadn’t needed your help, he was a super soldier with a metal arm; an agility and strength beyond normal human ability. But he wouldn’t pass up an opportunity to feel your soft skin against his. 

He couldn’t look you in the eye as he stood up, aware of your gaze glued to him. “Th-Thanks.” 

“It’s not a problem,” you said. “Although, you’ve got a few nasty looking cuts on your cheeks.” 

Bucky brought his left hand up to his face, hissing when the cool vibranium stung the open wounds. “Ah, it’s nothin’—don't worry about it. Nothing a few hours won’t fix.” 

You shook your head fondly. “Well, how about I walk you to the infirmary and we get some ointment on them? It wouldn’t hurt to be cautious.” 

Bucky choked on his own spit and snapped his eyes to yours. “W-We?” 

Your smile was blinding — so beautiful with an ability to stop time. At least for him anyway. “Yeah, why not? It looks like you could use a hand—y’know, since you’re a little clumsy on your feet today.” The cheeky smirk that followed your words almost sent him to an early grave.

His cheeks blazed. Bucky was sure he looked utterly stupid, with his mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. But he couldn’t help the effect you had on him. “I um—I— ha, I guess.” 

Your eyes glinted mischievously. “I’ll take that as a yes?” 

Not trusting his voice to hold steady, Bucky simply nodded. 

“Great,” you approved. “Just one question though, are we going to keep holding hands on the way?”

Looking down to the space between you, Bucky felt his mouth dry when he saw that he hadn’t yet released his hand from yours. “I’m—oh fuck—I’m so sorry.” 

Still, he made no move to slacken his grip. 

You tightened your lips, and he knew you were willing yourself not to laugh for his sake. Sam would have a fucking field day with this. 

Though to his surprise, instead of pulling away like he expected you to, you began pulling him along, hands still interweaved. “Let’s go get you cleaned up, Bucky.”  

His name on your lips was akin to a siren singing her song; dragging helpless seamen to their deaths. A thought crossed his mind then, that he didn’t think he would mind so much if he sank to his reckoning, not if your voice was the last thing he ever heard. 

“Okay.” Bucky followed you blindly, eyes glued to your conjoined hands and disbelieving of his luck. 

You had led the way towards the medbay and found a cozy, private room that the doctors used for small injuries. Bucky sat impatiently on the side of the medical bed, twiddling his thumbs and fidgeting restlessly. Never had he been so close to you, alone. 

Bucky internally prayed with all his faith that you couldn’t hear the rapid staccato of his heartbeat. He was sure if he was hooked up to a monitor, the doctors would be thoroughly concerned about his health. 

Finally having gathered all the supplies you deemed necessary along with a first aid box, you walked back over to the bed and dumped everything next to him. 

“So,” you began, an uneasy conspiratorial tone to your voice that weirdly reminded him of Sam. “Wanna tell me what happened out there?”  

“I—,” Bucky sheepishly scratched the back of his neck while his cheeks bloomed crimson red. “I must’ve just tripped over my own feet.” 

He tried to shrug off his nonchalance, but he knew by your raised eyebrow you didn’t believe him. “Somehow, I have a hard time believing a big, strong super soldier such as yourself has any trouble finding his footing.”

Before Bucky could muster up any other excuse but the truth, you ripped open the packet of a medical wipe and warned him, “I’m sorry. This is gonna sting.”

“Nothing I can’t handle,” he said with bravado. 

Bucky wasn’t prepared for the twinkle in your eye as you mumbled under your breath, “I’m sure it isn’t, Sargeant.” 

The breath got knocked out of his lungs. Oh did that do things to him. 

Suddenly, vivid images of you spread out on his bed wearing nothing but his old army hat while you screamed out his rank ran wild in his mind. 

Luckily, you were too preoccupied with cleaning the dried blood of his wound to notice him discreetly palming the bulge in his athletic shorts, trying to hide the effect you had on him. 

“Are you certain there is absolutely no other reason as to why I’m playing nurse right now, then?” Your feline grin was sexy and scary. “No possible distractions that led you off path?” 

There was no way you could read minds, right? Bucky doubled down on his denial, shaking his head from side to side and letting the length of his hair hide the truth in his eyes. 

“I’ll take your word for it then.” You finished up and reached for the healing gel. “I know the serum enhances your ability to repair the cuts, but I’d still like to use this.” Looking into his eyes, you asked, “Only as long as you’re okay with that, of course.” 

Time stopped and the two of you were caught in the other’s gaze. It was such a small gesture, one you probably didn’t even realise meant the world to him. But you asked him for permission on something that would affect his autonomy and if Bucky didn’t already have a hundred ways he was falling for you, that would have been the cherry on top. 

“Yeah,” he breathed airily. “Yeah, I’m good with it, doll.” 

Unseen to him before, you ducked your head and sweeped your hair behind your ear and if Bucky didn’t know any better, he was sure you were shy. 

He couldn’t help the large grin he sported. He was always so enamored with you, quick to falter in your presence and become unsure of himself. Right now though, a small bout of bravery returned. “Ready when you are,” he cheekily murmured. 

You hastily rushed to compose yourself. Clearing your throat, you squeezed the tube of gel, allowing a small drop of the cool liquid on the tip of your finger and stepped between his legs to gently dab it onto his cuts. 

“Okay, you’re all fixed up now.” With a last swipe of his forehead, you smiled. “Don’t worry, Buck. You still look handsome.” 

He tugged his plump bottom lip between his teeth. “You think I’m handsome?”

You giggled. “I would be blind if I didn’t.” 

Bucky blinked at you slowly, still processing your words and trying to calm the excited bubble rising in his throat. 

You rolled your eyes playfully. “Oh, don’t act all coy, Bucky. You must have heard the whispers of the recruits. They stare at you all the time, whispering and giggling to each other.” 

With the most confidence he had ever mustered up, he responded, “Truthfully, I’m too busy staring at someone else to notice, doll.” 

The shock of his sudden boldness was glaringly obvious on your face — it was you this time who held your mouth open, lost for words. 

Bucky’s body screamed at him to tell you that he was in fact head over heels for you. That had he known falling over in front of the full compound would lead him within a hair’s breadth away from you, he’d do it all over again. 

But you seemed to recover after a couple of seconds, clearing your throat and making yourself busy to avoid his eyes. “So, I’ve got another question.” 

“Oh?” Bucky cocked his head. 

“Yeah.” You smiled while placing everything back into the first aid box as you found it. “I’ve been hearing a few rumours around the compound recently.” 

Bucky’s stomach dropped with dread. 

“You wouldn’t know anything about those, would you?” 

“I—” Bucky swallowed the lump in his throat. “I have no idea what you mean.” 

“Oh,” you hummed. “So it’s not true then? You don’t have a crush on me?” 

Fuck.

Panicking, Bucky scoffed, though it came off sounding too pathetic, too breezy. “Me? Have a crush on you? That’s—Ha! Nope. No way. Not at all.” 

He watched as you nodded to yourself. Internally, he was begging for the floor to swallow him while he cringed at his own stupidity. 

“Well,” you shrugged. “That’s a shame, I guess.”  

Bucky’s head shot up, eyes wide and shock written over his features. “E-Excuse me?” 

“Oh, it's nothing really.” There was a sparkle in your eye that screamed trouble. “You said you didn’t have a crush on me, so it doesn’t matter.” 

Within seconds, Bucky jumped off the bed and leapt towards you, not even noticing how he had grabbed your hands. “Doll, please. You can’t leave a guy hanging like that.” 

Playfully rolling your eyes, you dramatically exhaled and decided to put him out of his misery. “Leave you hanging? Damn, Buck. It’s not as if I’ve been waiting patiently for you to ask me out for months or anything like that.” 

The air became humid and stuffy and suddenly the clothes attached to Bucky’s body felt too tight and restricting. “You—What now?” 

You rolled your lips inwards, trying to smother your laughter. “Bucky, honey,” you gently murmured. “I’ve heard what the others have been gossiping about. I’ve definitely heard Sam telling the team about your crush on me.” 

Bucky squeezed his eyes shut and groaned. “That fuckin’ punk.” 

You squeezed his hands reassuringly and offered him a warm smile when he looked at you. “I’ve just been waiting to hear it from the horse's mouth himself.” 

Bucky’s eyes darted between yours, trying to find any hint of decievement. “You’re serious.”

“Mhm,” you whispered. “Deadly.” 

It took him a couple of seconds to let the new information sink in. Clearing his throat, Bucky untightened his fierce grip on your hands and hesitantly slid them down to latch onto your waist. “So,” he mumbled. “Say if I asked you out to dinner tonight… You wouldn’t tell me I’m a fool and break my heart into a million pieces?” 

Butterflies erupted in Bucky’s stomach at the sensation of your hands sliding over his chest to rest against his neck. “No, Bucky,” you chuckled. “I would tell you that I’m looking forward to our first date, tonight. Nowhere fancy, just casual. Six o’clock sharp.” 

Bucky smiled, all beaming and ecstatic. “I wouldn’t dream of being late.” 

“Good.” You leaned up onto your tip toes and ghosted your lips over his ear. “See you very soon then, Sargeant.” 

Tingles shot down Bucky’s spine and his eyes rolled to the back of his head. He fought tooth and nail to crush the moan that rose up his throat and in his internal struggle, he missed how you’d sneakily slipped out of his hold and started to saunter towards the door. 

He almost begged you to come back; the thought of having to wait for you until the evening was unbearable. But those pesky butterflies that invaded his stomach came back strong and fierce as his gaze became glued to the sway of your hips and the sweet perfume that lingered in your exit. 

“Oh,” you stopped suddenly at the doorway and looked over your shoulder. “One more thing. Don’t go tripping over again, you hear me?” You raised an eyebrow and grinned. “Can’t have you falling for me.”

Your damn smirk was intoxicating and Bucky thought himself the luckiest fella alive to be the one taking you out. He licked his lips and crossed his arms over his chest. “I’m afraid I’m gonna have a little trouble with that request, Ma’am.” 

The clench of your thighs was unmissable. The way your eyes dilated called to him. Bucky had more game than he realised and he kept that new information tucked safely into the corner of his mind for a later date. 

You didn’t reply. You didn’t need to. Your actions told Bucky everything he needed to know and so he wiggled his fingers with a huge grin locked onto his face and watched you longingly as you left his sight. 

The minute he couldn’t hear your footsteps any longer, Bucky pumped his fist up into the air and began dancing on the spot. 

In his own bubble of happiness, he didn’t hear the footsteps of a new person entering the hallway. Only when an amused clearing of the throat echoed from the doorway did Bucky abruptly stop his dancing and slowly swivel to the intruder. 

Sam stood there, all cocky and mirthful with a shit eating grin on his face. “About time you bagged the girl, man. Dont’cha think?” 

Instantly, Bucky growled and grabbed the closest apparatus. With a pair of medical scissors, he charged towards Sam, who was quick to wipe the smirk off his face and skid out of the room with a scream. 

[strang3lov3]

Clean

Joel makes a mess on you, then keeps you in the bathtub until the water goes cold. (3k)

Tags - dark!joel, one shot, smut, fingering, come shot, manspreading, masturbation, overstimulation, forced orgasms, dubconnnnnn, daddy kink, innocence kink, inexperienced reader, biiiig girthy yet unspecified age gap, weird feelings and some good ol' fashioned shame, hitting, Joel is fatherly in a hot and disgusting way, calls himself 'your old man', gratuitous use of the nickname 'kiddo'. Say the affirmation with me: The ickier it is, the harder I nut.#bushnation, MORE DEPECHE MODE REFERENCES. TRY AND STOP ME. Like car sex, I write bathtub sex uniquely in that I’m not bound by bullshit ass physics or logic so yes, both people fit in the tub and everything is fine. Reader is bathed by Joel, her hair is washed and finger-combed by him too, but length and texture are not described. This was a decroded fic for me to make i can't lie Fic help - @endlessthxxghts, thank you for always seeing my disgusting visions and giving me your eyeballs A/N - thank you for all the birthday wishes, dear friends in my phone! I celebrated with you all last year when I was writing Mall Rats and it’s special that a lot of you are still with me today, but some I have new friends too ❤️ I love you. Having readers like you in my corner all this time has been beyond special and so rewarding and I hope you know I mean it when I say that I love you.

You’re washing the dishes tonight, your least favorite of the chores Joel makes you do. You prefer doing laundry or plucking the weeds with him, because he lets you collect flowers and put them in vases. He even taught you how to press them between heavy books, and how to frame them nicely. 

Joel calls your name from upstairs. You quickly wash and dry your hands, then scurry up the steps. His door is closed almost all of the way, just a small sliver of light peeks from his room into the dark hallway. “Joel?”

“In here, sweetheart. Need ya for somethin’.” 

You push open the door the rest of the way, and Joel’s naked and sitting upright on the edge of his bed, cock in hand with his bare thighs spread wide. He’s grunting as he squeezes the base, the tip all flushed and swollen. “C’mere. Switch me spots.” 

You don’t yet obey his order. You’ve seen Joel’s cock before, seen him masturbate before, too. Despite that, it still makes you feel nervous to see him and be with him like this. It gives you that icky feeling in your gut and makes you breathe funny. 

“C’mon. You know it ain’t gonna bite ya, kiddo.” Joel stands up  and pats the spot on the bed. “Sit,” he says, his tone sharper than before. “Need somethin’ pretty to come on.”

 Joel doesn’t like repeating himself. You won’t make him ask a third time. 

You sit on the bed, the covers warmed and slightly damp by Joel’s body heat don’t comfort you. He stands in front of you, rock-hard cock bouncing in his loose grip. “Why don’t you give me a hand this time,” he says, reaching for your wrist. He pulls it up to waist level, then wraps your palm around his member, closing your fingers tightly. “Ohhh, fuck,” Joel groans from deep in his chest. Loudly, he breathes in and out through his nose as he twists your hand up and down his shaft. “Jus’ like this. That’s a good girl.” 

This is, however, the first time you’ve ever felt his cock. All of your firsts with Joel have never gone the way you thought they would. The first time he saw you naked, touched you, or that you saw him - it was all surreal and rather abrupt. Joel tells you things like this are always a little new and funny at first. 

His cock feels heavy in your palm. You think about the things you like about it - the warmth, all of his veins and ridges, how smooth and soft the head is. But it’s a little sticky, too, which is unexpected to you. 

“Alright, alright. S’enough,” Joel says, pulling your hand away. “Lift up your shirt.”

You lift your shirt, pushing it up your torso until it’s bunched just beneath your breasts. “Nuh-uh. Like this,” Joel murmurs, pushing the garment up above your chest, exposing yourself entirely to him. He rubs his thumb in circles over both of your nipples so that they pebble under his touch, then gropes and squeezes your flesh. “Lie back,” Joel says, pushing you down on the bed. “Attagirl.”

You watch as Joel pumps his cock above you, the end of his fist slapping against his softened belly repeatedly. He breathes heavily, and his dark eyes are wild like an animal as his gaze is fixed on your naked form. Joel breathes quicker as he approaches his release, grunting a slew of swears he doesn’t allow you to say. “Fuck, goddamn. Oh, goddamn,” he hisses as ropes of his hot come spurt onto your body. He covers you like a canvas; his favorite painting, and for his eyes only. 

Joel collects a bit of his spend up with his first two fingers. “Give it a taste,” he says. “Want you to try it.”

You open your mouth, and Joel pushes his calloused digits inside, painting your tongue with his come. “Suck,” he says, and you do. You furrow your brows at the salty, bitter flavor, how it tastes dissimilar from its scent. “Don’t like it?”

You shake your head. “I don’t think so.”

Joel chuckles, cupping your jaw and rubbing his thumb along your cheekbone. “S’okay. Y’don’t have to.” Joel yawns then, patting your cheek gently with his weathered hand. “C’mon, kiddo. Bath time. Daddy made a mess a’ ya, didn’t he?”

Joel walks you to the bathroom with him, holding your hand the whole time. He puts the little rubber stopper in the drain of the bathtub, then turns the water on. “Warmer, pl-”

“Don’t need a reminder, sweetheart. Know you like it hot. Daddy won’t let you freeze.”

“And bubbles.”

“I know, baby girl. I won’t forget your bubbles.”

As the bathtub fills, Joel opens the oak cabinet under the sink and pulls out the old bottle of bubble bath, the one he’s been refilling just for you. He pours a capful under the water, bubbles immediately building. It smells mostly of nothing, but a bit of that original bubblegum scent remains. Your image reflected in the mirror begins to blur as steam fills the bathroom, and when the tub is full, Joel shuts off the water. He helps you undress and then gets in the tub first, carefully lowering himself until he’s sat with his back against the wall. “Jesus, s’hot. Gonna turn us both into soup,” Joel laughs. You smile shyly. 

 He spreads his legs, then outstretches his arm to you. “C’mon. Hop in.” You take Joel’s hand, squeezing it while wobbling a little on your one foot as you step into the bath. “I gotcha, kiddo,” he says. 

The water is warm on your feet, nearly burning you but you enjoy the tingle. Joel helps you down, lowering you until you’re submerged in the water, your back against his warm chest, his thick package pressing against your ass. 

Joel fills an old, plastic measuring cup with the soapy bath water and brings a hand to your chin, tilting your head back so he can rinse your hair. The hot water feels soothing on your scalp, and Joel repeats the action until your hair is soaked all the way through and dripping down your back. 

You giggle at the noise the bottle of shampoo makes when Joel squirts a bit into his hand. He lathers it between his palms, then scrubs your scalp. “Eyes closed, kiddo. Don’t wanna hurt ya,” he whispers. 

Your eyes flutter shut as Joel works the soap into your hair, scrubbing your scalp all over. He alternates between scratching you gently with his dull nails, to massaging you with the tips of his fingers. He uses his thumbs to rub the base of your skull in circles, the other four fingers of each hand drawing lines up and down and all over. Once Joel’s built a thick lather, he uses the same plastic cup to rinse out the shampoo.  

He conditions your hair next, working the cream into the strands. He uses his fingers to loosely detangle, “Ow, daddy,” you complain as he tugs on a knot. 

“I know, I know. M’sorry, baby girl.” Joel presses a kiss to your forehead. “Was an’ accident. M’tryin’ to be gentle.” He rinses out the conditioner next, “Grab me that bar of soap, will ya?” he asks. 

“Mhm.” You lean forward and reach for the orangish, rectangular bar of soap in front of you on the shower niche, then grab it and hold it over your shoulder. 

Joel takes the soap, “Thank ya kindly, darlin’.”  He dips it in the soapy bathwater before lathering it between his palms that are already beginning to prune. Gently, he pushes you forward to scrub your back and your neck, then pulls you right back into himself. “Gimme an arm,” he says, a slight rasp in his voice. You raise your arm for him and he washes you with the lather, “An’ the other,” Joel adds, now washing your other arm, massaging you with his strong hands. “Here-” Joel taps your shoulder with the soap. “Your daddy’s gettin’ old,” he grumbles. “Can’t bend like he used to. Wash your legs f’me, sweetheart.” 

“Okay,” you murmur, taking the soap back from him. You lather the soap just like Joel did, then wash your legs one at a time, bending them at the knees. When done, Joel reaches over you to take the soap back. He pulls you back against his soft middle and puts his soapy hands on your torso, sliding them up and down your skin, washing off his now dried spend. He groans quietly as he washes your breasts, kneading the flesh there and circling your nipples with his slippery fingers. You feel his cock twitch against you. 

Joel washes down, down your stomach. “Spread ‘em,” he says, and you part your legs wider. Your stomach jumps when his hands rub past your pubic hair and he washes your folds, that soft, private place between your thighs. You whimper when his thumb catches your clit. 

“That feel nice, kiddo?”

Your breath hitches in your throat as you search for an answer. 

“I-”

“You can tell your old man. I know it does,” Joel coos, rubbing his thumb left and right over your clit. You lean your head back and turn your head to the side, burying yourself in his bicep as you whine. “You don’t take much at all, do ya, sweetheart?”

Joel’s made you come before. It’s one of the first things he did when he brought you home, actually. But you amaze him every time, how quickly and easily you fall apart on his fingertips. He thinks about tasting you for the first time, how sweet you’ll be on his tongue. Or his cock, down your throat or between your thighs and splitting you in two. God, you’ve so much to learn, and Joel gets to walk you through it all. His favorite innocence. 

Joel adjusts you both so that you’re sitting more upright and he can reach around you with both hands. “Rest on me,” he says, pressing the side of your head against his so that his scruff is tickling you, but not scratching you. It’s too long for that.

 Joel peers over your shoulder to watch what he’s doing, and to watch how you react. Your soft tummy rising and falling with big breaths, thighs twitching. Joel circles your clit with his middle and ring fingers, patiently working you up. “How’s that feelin’?” he asks, “Can you tell daddy?”

“Mm,” you hum, “Yeah…”

Joel chuckles, dragging the tip of his aquiline nose along the side of your face. “Use your words, baby girl,” he instructs. “Good girls use their words, hm?”

“Feels g- feels good,” you whimper, voice breaking as Joel works you. He rubs your clit faster now, and you’re rocking against his palm, splashing the water a little. 

Joel brings his other hand to your core and lines two fingers up with your entrance, slowly pushing in while he massages your clit. You wince in pain, squeezing his bicep as he pushes them in further. 

Joel hums in sympathy. Being in the bath means you’re not a slick, slippery mess like usual. “Know it hurts, kiddo, but you gotta get used to it.” Joel’s fingers are all the way inside you now, and he pulls them back out. “You’ll get used to it,” he drawls, now pumping those fingers in and out of you, slowly. “You’re bein’ so brave for me, baby girl.” 

The ache of Joel’s fingers stretching you out dissipates eventually, and he changes the action - instead of drawing his fingers in and out of your cunt, he curls them repeatedly inside of you - Joel knows you love when he does this to you. 

You moan freely, relishing in the pleasure. Joel’s right, he’s always right. You’re used to him now, and he feels so good. Swirling his fingers around your clit, stroking that sweet spot inside you with the other hand - it takes no more than five minutes until your breathing turns ragged and you feel that hot, sticky feeling in your gut, the one that feels both bad and good all at the same time. 

“Ask for it,” Joel mumbles, reminding you of your manners as he senses how close you are. “Be polite.”

“Please,” you say, “Can I come?”

“‘Course you can, sweetheart. Of course.”

The orgasm washes over you quickly. You come with a symphony of breathy moans, saccharine in nature. Joel’s never heard anything like it, and he’s grateful he has enough of his hearing left to be able to. 

With his weathered, wrinkled fingers, Joel fucks you through your climax until the last of it courses through you. You come down, but Joel doesn’t stop touching you. 

Maybe he thinks it’s not yet over. Joel keeps doing those same tight circles on your clit, and you start to squirm. “Joel–” you wrap your hands around his forearm and attempt to move him, but his strength is far too great for your efforts to mean anything at all.  

“Sit still. You’re givin’ me another one.” 

Joel keeps your back pinned tightly against his hairy chest, your legs spread wide with his hand in between them, patiently swirling his middle and ring fingers around your swollen and over-sensitive clit. Your hips are starting to ache and the sensation of Joel pleasuring you has turned uncomfortable, downright painful. 

“I wanna be done, Joel. I can’t do another one,” you whimper, voice shaking as tears well up in your eyes. There’s nowhere to run, and you know you just have to take it. “I can’t.”

“Yes, you can,” he whispers soothingly, his ministrations on your pussy unfaltering. Joel’s holding you back. You’re not supposed to tell him no. “Know you can.”

His words serve more to frustrate you than encourage you. “I. Can’t,” you huff as you try to pull away from him and close your legs shut in the now lukewarm and soapy water, but Joel keeps you in position in his vice grip. 

“Knock it off,” he growls. Joel has to hide his amusement. You’re quick to anger, just like he is. Just like your daddy. “Jus’ relax.”

You’re close, and whether you realize it or not, Joel does. Your twitching legs, the way you’re breathing. Release is right around the corner if you’d just calm yourself down. Poor thing. You always did struggle with regulating yourself.

“Get - I told you-“ you interrupt yourself to groan, “You’re not listening to me, daddy. I said I c-can’t fucking—” you don’t finish the sentence and instead seethe in frustration, jerking and splashing bath water onto the floor. “F-”

Joel slaps your cheek, hard. “Easy,” he scolds, “I didn’t raise you to speak to me like that.” Joel his nose against the side of your head and bites your ear, the way a dog does with a pup. A warning. “An’ I don’t have to listen to you. You listen to me,” he adds. “Adjust the fuckin’ attitude and try it again before you piss me off.”

Your voice cracks as you whimper Joel’s name, a sob then escaping your chest. Your cheek stings and tingles, like you never stopped feeling the impact of Joel’s hand meeting your skin. 

“Don’t start cryin’, just breathe. Breathe. Go slow,” Joel instructs, pleased when you inhale steadily. On your exhale, Joel whispers, “You need me to talk you through it?”

You nod against him, sniffling. “Then I’ll talk you through it. Focus on my voice, focus right here, kiddo,” he tells you. “Relax, just a minute. Calm yourself.”

You rest against Joel, and he pauses his ministrations on your clit. “I can’t do it again, Joel,” you plead. “I don’t think I can.” 

“I know what you think. It don’t matter, ‘cause it ain’t up to you, sweetheart. We’re tryin’ it again.” 

Joel restarts, circling and massaging your clit with that same pressure from before. And just like before, it’s uncomfortable. It hurts, and you don’t like it. 

“Lean into it, sweetheart. Let it ride.” 

Frustrated, you shake your head. “Daddy–”

“You need to let it happen. Got all night, sweetheart. Water’s gettin’ cold.” 

“Joel.” Your voice cracks.

Joel ignores you. He pumps his fingers, focusing specifically on your g-spot as he knows how sensitive you are there. Your protests begin to quiet, replaced by soft noises of pleasure. “There it is,” Joel purrs. “Make those pretty noises for me. You’re doin’ good.” 

Pleasure begins to build, just like Joel said it would. It almost makes you mad, mad that he’s right. Always right. Mad that Joel knows your body like the back of his hand, better than you do. The stubborn part of you wants to stave off release, but a bigger part of you doesn’t wanna fight Joel on this. You don’t like to fight with him anyway. You always lose. So, you allow yourself to bask in the pleasure Joel knew you’d feel.

“You gonna come one more time? You gonna come on daddy’s fingers?”

“Yeah,” you nod. Your eyes squeeze shut as the feeling builds, almost exponentially. Your gasps and moans halt and there it is - Joel’s pulled another orgasm from your body. More powerful than before, the feeling washes over you like the tide, waves of warmth and electricity flowing over your body with each movement of Joel’s fingers. “Yeah, attagirl,” he breathes. “Manners, sweetheart. What do you say?” 

“Thank you,” you whisper, out of breath. 

Joel rinses you with the water as you come down from your second orgasm of the evening. He taps you twice on the hip, “Up,” he says, and you stand up on shaky legs. 

Joel reaches for an old, floral-patterned towel and dries himself off first, then wraps it around his waist, thick belly bulging over the edge of the fabric. He grabs another towel for you next, drying your legs and arms one at a time before wrapping the towel snugly around your shoulders. 

“You finish those dishes?” Joel asks, pulling the drain stopper out of the tub. 

“Not all of them,” you answer. “I’m sorry.” 

“Nah, don’t you worry ‘bout it. I’ll do the rest, hm?” 

You wear a small smile, “Okay.”

“An’ I was thinkin’ that I could make us popcorn, like you like. Put on a movie. One of those girly ones I picked out for you, huh?”

Your smile grows. “Yeah,” you answer. 

Joel smiles too. “Good. Let’s get you dressed, then.” 

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