#these two need more love and recognition they deserve | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

lassiie · 1 month ago

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Power Play.

sub!boss Jake x Co-worker!dom reader

CONTENT ↠ nsfw! smut, sub Jake, dom/sub dynamics, dominant reader, needy sub Jake, strong depiction of fantasies, power play, sexual tension, worship kink, consensual power exchange, denial, servitude kink, head recieving, overstimulation, degradation play, slight violence, fluff (what should i say i'm still hella romantic in a way...)

WORDCOUNT ↠ 8k~ (didn't proof read the way i wanted...)

MDNI / Before you dive, read the warnings. don’t like it, don’t read.

Jake Sim is the human equivalent of a TED Talk on professionalism — all pressed suits, smiles, and PowerPoints that make managers almost tear up. Three months since his transfer from the overseas branch and the office still hasn’t recovered. They call him golden boy in the group chat—half-joke, half-worshiping honestly. Because, fuck, he’s too perfect. Too polite. The kind of guy who probably apologizes to doors after walking into them, and makes you forget he’s your boss.

And you? Poor you…You’ve been paired with him as his second in executive, which should've felt like a promotion. But didn’t even scratch the surface of your indifference. You didn’t need to sparkle like him to command attention. You’ve earned every inch of your place with blood, sleep deprivation, and the kind of ruthless efficiency that doesn’t beg for recognition. The office knew how you were : nice but ice-edged. They knew not to interrupt when you’re typing, not to hover near your desk unless summoned, and not to try you with weak jokes or wandering hands unless they’re craved the kind of career-ending evisceration you delivered to the last manager, as you buried him six feet under and salted the earth.

But still, interns loved you. You took good care of your team, made sure everyone was at ease, comfortable and heard in any situations. which bringed respect.

And Jake? Jake saw you long before you saw him.

First time was one of those insufferable corporate mixers, drowning in stale champagne and fake smiles, where you emerged across the room, wrapped in silk, fine jewelry and sharp liner. You were flawless that first time, you were impossible to ignore. And all the others too, actually.

You didn’t glance his way more than two to three times, and that cold distance only made you more magnetic, to Jake—the kind of woman who moves through rooms like no one deserves to know her but somewhat not mean. And Jake ended up eyes on you every other gathering, everytime a step further, a bit more small talk, a glass of champagne offered, his eyes fixed on your silhouette like it was a masterpiece he’d never be worthy enough to touch, let alone own.

Then that promotion opportunity came. So he transferred because he worshiped you, because you were the kind of woman who made him want to kneel, to be the loser he always wanted to be for his woman. For the impossible humiliating chance to breathe in your orbit every day, to stand beside you in meeting rooms pretending he’s your equal. But in his mind, you're not just his colleague. And he’s not even your superior. Oh babe, you're his goddamn sovereign. And he’s never felt more alive than when, in his thoughts, he’s kneeling, mouth open, waiting for commands you’ll never actually give.

He tried to act normal, pro, detached. But every clipped instruction from your lips feels like a test of endurance, every click of your heels across the floor a reminder. He watched : How you open his water bottle at meetings without sparing him a second glance, like he was a child. How you hand him reminders post-it like you’re feeding a dog out of habit, never cruelty—but never kindness either. It devastates him. Your effortless dominance. Your divine neglect. How you were a natural.

And it only got worse.

He started to make mistakes in your presence—every misplaced file, every stammered report, every too-long pause before answering your questions or request—was laced with intent. Because he wants you to be disappointed in him. He needs you to sigh, to call him out, to scold him with that glint in your eye that says you could gut him with a sentence if you wanted to.

In his dreams, you’re pulling him into his office by the tie, shoving him to his knees, using him like something cheap and temporary—like a thing. He imagines you telling him he’s beneath you, that he’s useful for nothing but kneeling. Most of the time, like three hours ago, he ended up beating his meat in a bathroom stall, panting and low moaning those fantasies, agreeing, sobbing, begging you to ruin him in front of the team, to make an example of him. He imagines you laughing as he licks you beneath your desk, sobbing because it’s not enough.

But none of that ever happens.

Because in reality, Jake is a coward. A gorgeous, trembling, painfully nice coward who sits quietly, worshiping you with slight glances, calling it professionalism. Hoping—foolishly—that one day, you’ll notice him not as a coworker, not as a man, but as the thing he wants to be: your property. Your toy.

So Jake found himself lucky to get to travel with you in the name of the company, even if it’s more like you got to travel with him.

You’ve always had a thing for rooftop dinners. Velvet skies, free-flowing wine, fairy lights strung above your head like some Pinterest board fever dream. You’re halfway through a glass of red you can’t pronounce, listening to a group of executives over-intellectualize Shark Tank, when you realize Jake’s gone.

Not that you noticed right away. You were too busy being charmed by some VP with a Rolex and too much cologne. But on the way to the restroom, your steps slow.

There—by the bar your ex-manager stands. The one who should’ve been fired, but instead got quietly "transferred"l. He’s hunched over a whiskey glass, already too loud for the setting, and—of course—he’s found Jake. And Jake’s just… sitting there. Letting it happen. You don’t catch the whole thing, but what you do hear lands like a slap.

“She’s cold, huh? Don’t take it personal, new guy. That bitch just needs a firm hand. Or maybe some good dick to set her straight.”

Classy.

You’re not fragile. You’ve sat through worse. But the worst part isn’t him. It’s Jake. Jake—who’s supposed to be different. Jake, who’s tilting his head like he’s actually considering it. Your heart doesn’t break. It just…

Lowers its expectations. Because of course. Of course the one man you thought might actually get it—the one who made fumbling attempts to earn your respect instead of demanding it, and the one who seemed like he worked as hard as you did to get where he was—turns out to be made of the same recycled garbage as the rest.

You almost walk away. Almost. When Jake moves. Your ex-manager lifts his glass for a toast to misogyny, and Jake spills it all over him. Deliberately.

No apology. No more honorifics. He just, like that, made the golden boy vanish.

“Let me tell you something, you piece of shit,” he says, voice flat.

“She’s one of the most capable, intelligent, and dedicated professionals I’ve ever met. If you think she owes you warmth just for existing in her line of sight, maybe that’s why you’re no longer her superior. Or anyone’s, really.”

And suddenly, the bar quiets a bit.

“God forbid a woman doesn't tolerate bullshit. She’s earned more than the team’s respect. She’s earned admiration. Mine. And the higher-ups’, too. So here’s some advice: next time you think about speaking her name, do us all a favor and don’t.”

Your ex-manager, predictably puffs up like a drunk peacock about to throw a punch.

That’s your cue. You stride over, grab Jake by the wrist, and step between them. Not for Jake. Not even for the ex. But for you. Because you’re done letting men discuss your worth like it’s a goddamn cocktail special.

“You’re going to shut your fucking mouth.”

It leaves your lips like a knife thrown with perfect aim—smooth, deadly, no hesitation.

“No one here wants to hear the rot that curdles in whatever’s left of your brain.”

He blinks. “You—”

Stunned. Good. Let him choke on it. He always feared you a little, but now? Now that he’s been stripped of rank, status, relevance? Now that he’s nothing but a cautionary tale with a half-empty drink? He’s pathetic. And god, it suits him.

So you smile, slow and cruel, like you’re savoring it.

Because you are.

“Your career didn’t end because women stopped smiling. It ended because you couldn’t keep your dick zipped and your mouth shut. And now look at you—bitter, balding, washed-up in a suit that screams clearance rack. Shit, I’d feel bad for your wife if I didn’t know she was already contemplating divorce papers.”

You step closer, watching his throat bob like he’s trying to swallow the truth—but it sticks.

“How about I send her your HR file?” you murmur, voice dropping low and poisonous. “Maybe she’d enjoy seeing the long list of every intern you've “mentored”. Wouldn’t your kids just love knowing daddy’s a predator with a pattern?”

He doesn’t say a word. He doesn’t have to. His face curdles, and that’s enough for you.

You turn, already done with him, gripping Jake’s wrist like an afterthought—like he’s yours to take with you. And he lets you. Doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t question. He just follows, eyes wide, mouth slightly open, dragged up to your rooms’ floor like a kid being led to bed.

Once the elevator dings and you’re back on solid carpet, you realize: you’re still holding onto him. Tightly. Nails half-embedded into his skin.

You drop his hand like it burned you. “Shit—I didn’t mean to grip that hard. Sorry—”

And then he whimpers.

A real, breathy, aching sound that does not belong to a man sober in thought. His hand is trembling, but it’s not from the pain. No. You think that’s Jake’s flushed. His eyes are glassy; his lips parted like he’s seconds from begging; and he’s not hearing a word you’re saying.

Actually, he’s still stuck in the bar, at that moment. Still reeling from the version of you that stepped in, grabbed him strongly. The version that protected him while threatening to ruin someone else.

And fuck, he liked it.

He could fall to his knees right here, in the hallway, under the hum of those fancy hotel lights, in front of the security cameras, the staff or any stranger possibly walking by from their own room—and he wouldn’t care. He’s hard. Pulsing through his slacks. You can see it. Can you ? Fuck he hopes you can’t.

He’s too drunk… Past his limit for sure, since he never really drinks. But this isn't just alcohol.

This is you.

“Mr. Sim?” You call for him again, in his daze.

Why the hell are you so pretty tonight ? And why’re your nails so clean? Why do they gleam under the light like they were made for him to fidget with ? To leave marks on his back? On his throat?

He's a man standing on the edge of fantasy, and you—well, you’re just standing there, breathing, and it’s too much.

“Mr… Jake?”

His eyes dart.

“S-sorry, have a good night, m-miss.” He stammers it out, then bolts like he’s escaping a fire. Or running from a wet dream that got too real.

And you just stand there. Stunned. What the hell was that?

🕗

You’d showered. Paced. Changed into something softer—something that didn’t scream professional, but still whispered respectable enough to knock on your boss’s door past midnight.

And now, here you stood in front of Room 707 with a travel-sized first aid kit and a mind spiraling in loops.

You told yourself this was about the wrist. About decency. About clearing the weird air that was left behind. Not about the way Jake’s eyes had clung to you like you were divine retribution in heels. Not about the ache under your ribs every time you replayed the way he stood up for you like it meant something.

Nope. Definitely about the wrist.

You knocked—firmly, like you weren’t praying he didn’t answer. But of course, he did.

And god help you.

Jake’s shirt : rumpled, sleeves : shoved to his elbows, no tie, no belt, just that top button undone like a tease. He looked half-finished or half-undressed. Either way, your brain short-circuited for a half-second too long.

“Hey,” you said, lifting the kit like a peace offering. “Thought I’d fix your wrist. Since I mauled you earlier.”

He didn’t say anything, just smiled softly and nodded before stepping aside to invite you.

Inside, it felt strange—quiet, warm, domestic in a way that shouldn’t have felt intimate but absolutely did. Jake moved around like he was trying to impress you in silence: fluffing the cushions, adjusting the lights, even pouring you water like it mattered, with that cute stressed expression.

You sat. He sat closer. And you started dabbing the ointment gently on the red welts your nails left behind.

“Sorry again,” you murmured. “Didn’t mean to dig in that hard.”

Jake just hummed, with the softest voice, almost a moan. Like the pain was holy now.

Then he asked, barely louder than a breath:

“You okay?”

And somehow, that cracked it all open.

You didn’t mean to spill. But it poured out anyway. Every time your ex-manager had belittled you, laughed too loud at meetings, but still stolen your credit. Every time his eyes lingered too long. Every time you’d swallowed the rage, because you couldn’t afford to be seen as “too emotional” in a room full of mediocre men who failed upward.

Jake listened. Like, really listened. He’d heard some of it. But your version made him exhale like he couldn’t take it.

“I should’ve broken that asshole’s nose,” he muttered, low and taut.

You stilled. The words hit deeper than they should have. Not because of the violence, but because of the intent. Jake wasn’t trying to play savior. He was just... angry for you.

Your hand lingered on his wrist softer now. “Thank you. For earlier. For saying all that. I know I act like it’s whatever, but it... wasn’t.”

Jake’s eyes stayed on you like you were speaking scripture.

“You don’t have to explain yourself,” he said. “I saw the kind of woman you are from day one. You’re smart. You don’t kiss ass. Guys like him can’t handle that. Because they don’t have the vocabulary for powerful.”

Something tugged tight in your chest. And lower. Warmer.

“I really should’ve punched him,” Jake said again, more to himself now. “No man like that deserves to say your name.”

You let out a laugh—one that tasted like relief.

“Honestly? I should’ve done it. Slapped him. Right in the face. Just once. Not even for like, feminism or justice or anything—just for me, for the satisfaction.”

You were smirking before you even realized it. Jake was grinning too, loose and genuine, like this moment was undoing all the knots inside him and you. Then something flickered behind his eyes. A wild idea taking root.

“How… How about you try it.” he said.

You blinked. “What?”

“Slap me,” he said, voice light but firm. “Come on. Let it out.” He smacked his own cheek lightly, then grinned at you like a lunatic.

Your jaw dropped. “Mr. Sim—”

“You’ll feel better.”

His cheek was pink now. His eyes dared you.

And your hand... your hand actually rose, by instinct. You stopped halfway. Fist clenched, nails digging into your palm. What the fuck were the two of you doing? Was it the adrenaline? The leftover fury? The wine? The way Jake looked at you like you were both priest and punishment? Either way, your heart pounded. Your hand hovered. Very much tempted, but terrified. And Jake just sat there, unblinking. Waiting for you. No, begging for it.

Jake’s hand wraps around yours like it’s his first taste of something forbidden—gently, reverently, like he’s convinced himself your fingers are a gift he doesn’t deserve but still needs to worship. He doesn’t just hold your hand. No—he kisses it softly, unfolds it, spreads your palm. His voice, when it comes, is low, breathless, and so fucking sincere it borders on stupid.

“It’s okay,” he murmurs, pressing your open hand to his cheek like some sacrificial lamb ready to be offered up. “I don’t mind. Say what you want. Slap me how you want. Curse me. Pretend I’m him—I’ll take it. I’ll be him, just this once. For you.”

And god help you—something about the way he says it, all shaky and soft-spoken, makes your jaw tighten and your thighs twitch. Because of course he’d say that. Of course Jake fucking Sim would offer himself up like a stand-in for your trauma with bedroom eyes.

You hesitate for a second, because sanity demands you to—but then your palm lifts and falls.

The first slap is light, really. Nothing to write home about. But the way Jake shivers under it? The way his breath stutters and his eyes flutter half-lidded like you just whispered something obscene directly into his bloodstream? That reaction alone makes something dangerous spark inside you.

And when you laugh—half from nerves, half from the ridiculousness of the whole thing—he laughs too, like he’s high off the sound. Like you just gave him a hit of something addictive.

“You’re a pathetic coward,” you whisper, almost shy to curse him but the words feel good leaving your mouth, like steam venting from a pressure cooker.

SLAP.

“You ever do your own work? Or just ride other people’s backs while jerking off to the sound of your own voice?”

SLAP.

“Useless piece of shit—god, you couldn’t lead a fucking team of toddlers without crying.”

SLAP.

Jake’s mouth parts like he’s drowning and your voice is air. His hips twitch beneath you, subtle but undeniable, a reflex he can’t hide anymore.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, like a prayer with cracked knees. “I’m… I’m sorry.” The way he says it—shaky, shame-drenched, utterly sincere—does something awful to your insides. Your cunt clenches around nothing

“Sorry?” you echo, voice rising just enough to cut the air like silk pulled taut. “You think that’s gonna cut it, you filthy little fuck?”

SLAP.

“Yes!” Jake gasps, and his voice is so wrecked, so gone, it nearly makes you moan. “Yes—I’m sorry!”

And then suddenly—without any warning—he pulls you on top of him, like his body just knows where you belong. You straddle him instinctively, the move so fluid it feels choreographed, and now you’re above him, your dress riding up your thighs, your weight grounding him to reality like some punishing fever dream.

The couch creaks a bit under you, but neither of you care. Jake lies back like an offering, eyes half-lidded and lip trembling, hips pressing up in slow, helpless thrusts like he’s trying to fuck through his slacks and into your core without permission.

Every slap now lands with purpose, with rhythm, your palm stinging and his face pinked with marks that scream I want this. And he’s moaning for each one—hands clutching your thighs like he’s scared you’ll vanish, like he’s trying to burn your shape into his memory.

“P-please,” he whines, eyes rolling back just a little, “please, don’t stop, keep going—fuck—”

You realize then you’re grinding into him rhythmically, like your body figured out what it needed long before your brain caught up. Your panties are soaked, dress bunched above your hips, and his cock—hard, thick, fucking twitching—presses up against you in the most delicious way.

And god, the sight of him?

He’s ruined.

His hair’s a mess, his shirt wrinkled like it’s been gripped and yanked—by you—his face flushed, eyes glazed over, lips parted like he’s seconds from begging with tears in his lashes. He looks like a man hanging on by a thread, and you’re the one holding the scissors.

Your hand finds his throat. Not to squeeze—just to touch, trying to own. Your fingers brush that frantic little pulse at the base of his neck, and Jake gasps—one of those sharp, gut-punched sounds—and tilts his head back without hesitation, baring himself like he’s got no shame left. And maybe he doesn’t.

Your thighs clench around him, hips still grinding slow and firm, your smile turning downright predatory now, because fuck, this man is beautiful like this. Ruined, desperate, and utterly yours.

And the sickest part? The part that makes heat pool in your stomach and twist behind your ribs like fire licking up your spine?

He’s smiling too. Like he’s finally found where he belongs.

You're straddling the line of a terrible mistake, and you know it. Jake Sim—your boss—is now lifting you as your legs close around him, carrying you through his room, to his bed, just to kneel between your thighs like a worshipper at the altar, and somehow, you’re the one in control. Not because you should be. Because he needs you, he wants you to be.

His lips brush your ankle, soft and trembling like he’s afraid you’ll pull away. His kiss isn't a declaration—it’s a plea. And you let him. You let him, because deep down, you've always known Jake didn’t want a woman who waited for his command—he wanted one who would ruin him.

You cock your head, letting the silence stretch. “So that’s what you like, Mr. Sim?” The mockery in your tone is gentle, like silk hiding a knife. “You want to be punished? Humiliated?”

His body jerks. Visibly. Shamefully. He nods, almost moaning from the idea of it. The sound is broken, needy, and completely unfiltered. He nods—frantic. Eyes wide, pupils blown, gorgeous lips parted like he’s about to confess something filthy and forbidden.

“Undress.” you order, and the sight of this grown man stumbling on unbuttoning and getting out of his pants is the cutest shit you ever saw suddenly.

You lift your heel to his cheek when he knelt back—still tender, pink from earlier—and drag the sharp arch of it down his throat, tracing the vein pulsing beneath skin. He doesn’t recoil. He leans into it, breathless. Then, with a shift of your leg, you press the sole of your shoe directly against his chest and push. Hard.

He gasps, then groans—like he wants to beg but can’t choose between pain and praise.

“You like that?” you murmur, increasing the pressure.

“Yes—fuck, yes,” he pants, squirming under your foot. “Don’t stop. Please…”

Your gaze drops to the dark patch blooming at the front of his boxers. Pre-cum stains the cotton, making it cling to every thick vein and curve of his cock. He’s twitching—throbbing—with desperation. It’s obscene, really. You haven’t even touched him, not really, and he’s already soaked like a teenager with a forbidden crush.

"God," you exhale, voice thick with amusement. "You’re soaking through for me, aren’t you, Jake?"

He chokes on a moan. The sound is pitiful. His hips jerk against the heel of your foot like he’s hoping for just enough friction to make him cum like a dog. And when he starts to kiss your leg—soft, reverent kisses that trail from your ankle to your thigh—you freeze him with a single word.

“Stop.”

He stiffens instantly. His face—red—jerks up, guilt shining in his eyes. You don’t say anything at first. Just stare at him. Let him writhe in the silence.

“Take my shoes off. Now.”

He obeys immediately—scrambling like a man whose life depends on it. Kissing the strap, whispering apologies as he unbuckles each heel. His fingers shake the whole time. You can practically feel how hard he is without looking.

Once bare, you remove your panty, spreading those legs, letting him see exactly what he’s begging for. His eyes darken instantly. Mouth falls open. He looks ruined already—and you haven’t even let him taste.

“Eyes on me, Jake.”

Fuck keep using his name. He loves it.

He nods slowly, almost reverent, eying you and your cunt like he couldn’t choose who gave the orders. His hands ghost up your thighs—asking silently, needing permission like his life depends on your mercy. You don’t grant it, but don’t stop him either. You just watch as his fingers reach closer and closer producing that electric feeling, till he reaches your folds, his breath catches audibly.

Fuck, You’re soaked. His eyes flutter shut, like the sight alone sends him reeling. But the second his fingertips twitch forward—

“No fingers,” you say.

He freezes. His voice is nearly a whimper. “C-can I use my mouth?”

You pause, mischievous. Tilt your head like you’re thinking about it. Like the wet heat of your pussy throbbing for him isn’t already an answer enough.

“You can try. But you stop when I say. Understood?”

“Yes. Anything.”

And then he dives in. There’s no finesse. No gentle buildup. Just hunger. Jake eats you like a man starved, no like a freaking golden retriever—face buried between your legs, licking and sucking like every inch of your pussy is holy and he’s dying for it. His moans vibrate against your clit, tongue sliding in messy, frantic circles, sloppy and chaotic like he can’t think straight.

He’s a total mess, with like, no experience. And it’s perfect.

“You’re terrible at this,” you mutter, thighs trembling and back arching despite the insult. “Is this how you always eat pussy, Jake? Like some starved dog?”

The moan he lets out is devastating. Deep, guttural. He shoves his tongue into you like he’s trying to answer with action, not words. You curse, “fuck, FUCK !” His big nose grinds against your clit with every thrust, and the heat building inside you is blistering.

Then he breaks the rhythm—again. Too desperate. Too frantic, trying to breathe a bit. And you almost came by being denied. You want him in you. Now.

“Jake—stop.”

But he doesn’t.

He wraps his arms around your thighs, locks you in place, and devours you some more. His hips are literally fucking helplessly into nothing but thick air. His mouth chants his devotion, tongue trembling from the effort as he fucks you with it, drowning in your slick.

And your orgasm hits you like a thunderclap—sudden, violent, raw. You cry out, thighs squeezing around his head suffocating him, voice cracking on his name like a command and a curse all at once.

"Stop! Jake! Fuck!"

He doesn’t. He moans against your cunt like he’s proud of breaking you, lips and chin soaked, tongue still lapping at the mess you made for him.

You shove him back with a kick—heart still thundering. He looks up at you, dazed and smiling like a boy who just won the lottery. His face is wrecked. Hair a mess. Cock visibly leaking like he might’ve come just a little from tasting you.

You grab him by the back of his hair, yanking his head up, your lips cruel inches from his.

“You didn’t listen, Jake.”

He winces. Nods. But his cock twitches. He freaking loves this.

“I told you to stop,” you say, voice hot, “You didn’t, so…” You smile slowly and mercilessly. “You don’t get to come.”

His face crumples. “What? Please—please, I just wanted to make you feel good—”

You lean in, let your lips brush his.

“No. Good night Jake.”

Jake looks pathetic. Absolutely wrecked, lips swollen, cheeks flushed like he’s run a marathon instead of just begging to come. His hand darts out, trembling like he’s on the verge of cardiac arrest, and he wraps his finger around your wrist.

“Don’t go,” he whispers, voice shredded. “You don’t have to touch me. Just… stay. Please. I won’t ask for anything.”

Right. Because that’s worked so well for him so far.

You glance down. He’s sprawled out like a cautionary tale—cock twitching uselessly, leaking against the waistband of his briefs. His hair is damp and curling at the edges, eyes wide and wet. And, God, the way it turns you on should be illegal in at least five states.

You sigh. It’s performative, but you let it be. “Fine,” you mutter. “But I’m showering first.”

“I’ll do it,” he blurts. Too fast and desperate. “I-I’ll wash you. Please.”

You should say no. You should. But instead, you tilt your head, curious. Maybe it’s the power trip still humming in your bloodstream. Maybe you just want to see how far he’ll go. So you let him follow.

You undress—slow, deliberate, aware of every inch of skin as it’s revealed. You’re not shy, not really, but there’s something oddly fragile about it. Like this version of you—this one he sees—is a new animal altogether. Jake touches you with his desperate eyes. He watches, jaw slack, eyes like you’re the first woman he ever saw.

In the water, he’s reverent and very careful. Lathers your shoulders, your back, your gorgeous breast. His hands shake when they reach your thighs. But he never slips. Never tries. Not where you ache. Not where he’s dying to be.

It's sick, how good that makes you feel. And it pleases him like nothing else to see you like that, breathing heavily at every touch. Holding onto the bathtub when his hand slides down your thigh.

When it’s over, sadly, he helps you into a robe. Like some kind of tragic gentleman. But his cock—still hard, still untouched—presses against your ass as he wraps the fabric around you. Just for a second. Just enough.

You don’t flinch,don’t comment, cause of course you’re dying to have it in you right now. But of course, he panics.

“Fuck, I’m sorry—I didn’t mean—”

“Does it hurt?” you ask, voice flat, pretending you don’t really care. Jake nods into your shoulder like a punished schoolboy. “It’ll die anyway,” he mutters.

Spoiler alert : it did not. After shower, in his new briefs, he’s doing a poor job hiding just how painfully alive he still is. He crawls into bed next to you, still like this. He doesn’t try anything, doesn’t speak. Just folds himself against your side, forehead to your belly, arms wrapped around you like you’re some human security blanket. You card your fingers through his hair, lazy, soothing. Like he’s a dog you’re rewarding for good behavior.

“I love this,” he whispers, voice raw, earnest. “I love being under you…”

You don’t respond right away, you just keep stroking. Letting the silence stretch. Then, finally you speak : “I guess this makes us dom and sub now, huh?”

His head snaps up. Eyes huge. Like you’ve just freaking proposed to him. “Y-yes! I mean—only if you allow it. If that’s what you want.”

You look at him. Really look. This man—flushed, panting, cock caged and aching—would probably crawl across glass if you asked right now. And he always felt… Different. So…

“Yeah…” you say slowly. “But I’m not… Like… very… experienced, you know ?”

He lights up like a fucking Christmas tree. “Believe me,” he says, “you really, really are a natural.”

And that's how it started. The very next day you woke up like being a dom was a task on your to-do list. You made sure to tell Jake that nothing would happen until you were prepared. And “prepared�� had its own definition for you. You documented, watched a lot of porn and blogs about it, visited shops after specialised shops to buy some accessories. For you it was serious, or at least you wanted it to prove to him you where. But three days became a week. And a week two, clueless of how pant up Jake was, waiting, observing you from so close but not even sparing him a glance.

Until he booked a meeting with you. a five minute before hour. It almost made me laugh. How many grammar faults he made and how the hour was strangely badly chosen. still you clicked on “accept”, and added a comment :

Be prepared. It’s gonna be the real thing.

🕗

And that night when you enter his office, Jake is on his knees.

Literally. Hands clutching his thighs like his own body might betray him at any second, head bowed low. You pause at the door, heels clicking against polished tile, and glance behind you—because what if it wasn’t you standing there? What if some clueless intern wandered into this fever dream instead?

It’s almost tragic how far gone he is. Almost...

He hasn't even looked up. Poor baby’s probably been like this for twenty minutes, edging himself in anticipation alone. All because you told him this meeting would be the real deal. That today would be official. He must’ve short-circuited from the promise alone.

Well, time to step into your role.

You close the door gently behind you. The satisfying click echoes like a gunshot in the quiet office. Your black dress is obscene — tight enough to leave nothing to the imagination, short enough to start a scandal, and paired with the same high heels he once moaned into as he kissed each pointed toe like a prayer.

and Jake? He’s visibly hard from the sound of your footsteps alone.

You walk toward him, and his thighs tense at the sight. He doesn't dare look up. Doesn’t need to. He knows who it is. You crouch down beside him, slow, calculated, a predator humoring her prey. Your fingers thread through his hair and gently pat.

“Good boy.”

He whimpers. Actually whimpers. You smirk when you feel the full hardness beneath his slacks with your hand..

“Pathetic,” you murmur, clicking your tongue in his ear. “Getting hard just from the sound of my heels?”

“I’m sorry…”

Your voice drops. “Are you in your right mind, Mister Sim? Should we reschedule this meeting for a time when you’ve got some self-control?”

“No, no, no—I-I’ll behave, I promise,” he rushes out.

You laugh, soft and dangerous. “Come here.”

You stride to his desk—his desk—and make yourself at home in the chair he usually owns like a throne. Now, It’s yours. He stands, hesitant, and when he sees you sitting there, legs crossed, perfectly composed—his expression crumples with want. Fuck he wants to crawl to you directly under the desk to serve you, but he walks and sit in front of you.

You reach into your branded bag and produce a thin stack of papers and two small boxes.

Back to business.

“Here’s the contract,” you say, voice clipped and professional, like this is just another quarterly strategy meeting. “I marked everything I’m willing to do or try in blue. You’ll go through it, mark your interests in green, and we’ll see where we align. I’ve included safeword options, conditionals, limits... all the usual.”

He blinks at the paper like it’s his acceptance letter into heaven. He takes it, reverent, then actually starts reading — not just flipping through, but really absorbing it. You watch his mouth part slightly at the sight of all your “X”s. Fuck keep it together, you need to look cool.

Bondage:Leash and collar – X.

Gag – X.

Cuffs – X.

Genital cage and toys– X.

Impact and Sensation Play:Biting. Hair pulling. Slapping. Sensory deprivation. Asphyxiation. All X. All yes.

And when he skims to the intimacy section, his whole posture shifts — hips twitch, breath hitches.

Unprotected sex. Orgasm. Kissing. Fluids. All marked. You didn’t even flinch.

But the part that breaks him?

The "I want to feel like..." and "I don’t want..." pages. You were for real. Letting him feel vulnerable out in clear, responsible terms. The aftercare checklist is long, thoughtful, even tender.

It’s the final confirmation: you didn’t do this on a whim. You mean it. You want him. Like this. His eyes shimmer slightly. Your boss. On the edge of crying from a form. Then he hesitates shyly. Circles two spots you left uncrossed.

You lift a brow as he gives back the form for you to consider.

“Golden shower and Exhibition “ you sight “I’m… not sure… But we can discuss it later.” you admit.

“That’s okay,” he replies too fast, nodding like a bobblehead on a bumpy ride. “That’s—totally fine.”

You hand him the smaller of the two boxes.

He opens it. A sleek, delicate pair of glasses. Not prescription. Just a look — something dignified, calm, an elegant reminder of his submission. “You wear those when you’re mine,” you say. opening the second box, “The collar’s only for play. But the glasses? That’s the symbol for our daily life.”

He slides the glasses on immediately — no hesitation, no second thoughts. They sit perfectly on his face, softening the sharpness in his jaw, giving him the exact look you imagined: cute, obedient, and just a little wrecked.

“So… that means I’m yours now?” he asks, voice barely above a whisper, trembling with hope. It’s the kind of question you’ve already answered a thousand times without words by now, but you nod anyway — slow, steady, deliberate.

Pride blooms in your chest when his whole body slumps in relief.

He rises to his feet with shaky hands and then—without warning—sinks again. This time not to kneel, but to wrap both arms around your leg, hugging it with childlike desperation. And maybe it's the shortness of your dress. Maybe it’s just the way he clings, forehead resting against your thigh like it’s his new religion.

But when he shifts slightly… his face buries right against your heat. And you forgot one crucial detail.

No underwear.

You hear the shaky gasp he lets out when his lips brush against bare skin. Like the air’s been knocked out of him.

Then he’s groaning. Mouthing at you through the fabric, or lack thereof, completely unhinged, trying to kiss your cunt like a happy dog. His hands tighten on your hips. One thumb hooks the edge of your dress and tries to push it up like he has to see it—like looking might kill him but not looking is worse.

He moves back a little and what he does almost kills you from chock. He literally starts to act like a dog, tongue out, heavy breath. heavy leed begging eyes. his tongue licks your thighs, giving eyes to your cunt, sending the message.

“Let me give you pleasure mistress—” he pants like a dog, “I’ll be good.”

God, you want to. Your legs twitch with the effort to stay composed. But instead, your hand fists in his hair and tugs him back—not roughly, just enough.

“Drive me home. Now.”

The tension follows you too in the elevator. He takes your hand— this time with fingers laced with yours. As if the act alone might earn him another kind word. Halfway down, his head dips into the crook of your neck and stays there. You hear the shaky breath he takes, then another.

“You smell like... so good,” he mutters.

You scoff. “And you smell like desperation.”

He chuckles, but the sound dies in his throat when his arms wrap around you from behind— tight, possessive —and his hips press into you instinctively. Grinding a bit, even. Like he can’t help himself anymore, he wants you so bad.

“Jake,” you warn, as he jerks back.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I... Didn’t mean— I just—”

You don’t look at him, but your smirk is visible in the elevator’s reflection. He wants it so bad.

In his car, he speeds.Of course he does. Your legs are crossed in his passenger seat, the scent of you still thick in the air, and his hands tap on the wheel like he’s one red light away from losing his mind entirely.

“I'll gag you if you keep speeding.” The words drop just to tease him for your fun. And you don’t need to look to know his cock twitches.

“You’re still speeding, Jake.”

“I—”

“Keep going and you’re going to be punished for real, just telling...”

🕗

Jake's practically vibrating out of his skin the second you walk through the door.

Eyes locked on you like a dog waiting for the bell to ring, panting through his nose, fists clenched at his sides like if he doesn’t get your hands on him in the next thirty seconds, he might combust right there in your hallway.

And maybe he would. Maybe you should let him. Instead, you toss your bag to the side and kick your heels off without ceremony, not sparing him a glance. His cock’s already hard. You can see it straining under his slacks like it's got a heartbeat of its own.

Pathetic.

“Bedroom,” you say without looking. “Now.”

He scrambles. Actually stumbles. Nearly trips over the threshold like his legs aren’t working right — and you, patient thing that you are, grab him by the tie and spin him around so hard his back ends up smacking open the door of your room.

He gasps.

You don’t give him time to recover. One hand in his hair, the other squeezing his jaw until his mouth opens like instinct, and then you're kissing him like punishment — bite, tongue, zero softness. You bite his bottom lip until he whines, and it’s only then you really look at him.

Glasses crooked. Tie wrinkled. Pupils blown out like he’s five seconds away from begging.

You smile. Good.

“You said you’d behave,” you say, dragging the tie like a leash, walking him toward the bed like you’re guiding a fucking lamb to slaughter.

“I tried,” he pants, already flushed. “I—I swear, I tried. I Didn’t touch myself once. Not since last time. Not since” you grab his hard on, “—fuck—please—”

He’s babbling.

You shove him flat on the mattress and climb on top of him in one smooth motion, thighs framing his hips, your weight pressing down on his cock. He bucks up like a reflex. Dumb move. You slap his cheek — not hard, but enough.

He gasps. Blinks. Nods.

“Good boy,” you murmur, tone razor sharp. “Keep your hands to yourself or I’ll break them.”

He doesn’t even argue. Just melts. Spreads his arms out above his head like he wants to be tied down. So you do —his belt. You grab, and tie him up. His breathing’s already shaky, cock twitching where it presses against you. You lean down, letting your tits graze his face. His tongue sticks out like instinct, trying to lick, suck, anything— but you yank back. Now he can’t move.

“No.”

He whines. Actually whines. It’s disgusting.

“You wanna touch?” you ask, voice sweet and awful. “Want it?”

“Please,” he chokes. “Please, I’ll be good. Let me—fuck—let me leave marks, I want you bruised, I want to fucking bite you—”

You laugh, throwing your head back. “You?” you mock, grinding down against his cock. “You can barely speak without begging. You think you’re gonna do anything without my permission?”

He moans. Loud. His cock twitches violently under you, and you can see the panic settle in his eyes. He’s close. Way too fucking close.

“Haven’t even fucked you yet,” you whisper, dragging your nails down his chest. “And you’re already about to cum like a virgin on prom night.”

“I—fuck, I can’t help it—please, if you slow down—just a second—”

You plant your knees on either side of his head and sit on his face. He cries out with a smile on his face— muffled, frantic — and latches on like he’s starving. His tongue is wild, sloppy, more desperation than technique, and you grind against his mouth like it’s yours — because it is.

“This is where you belong,” you groan, hips rolling. “Under me. Crying. Leaking. Useless unless I’m using you.”

He moans, so loud it vibrates through your whole body. His cock? Red and angry and twitching untouched. He thrusts into the air, desperate for friction, and you just press down harder on his face. He chokes. It’s beautiful.

You ride his tongue until he’s crying and slows down.

Then you finally slide off, and he gasps like he’s coming up for air after drowning—because he was. His face is wrecked. His glasses are somewhere on top of his head. His mouth’s slick with spit and slick and somehow pride. His chest heaves.

You grab his face with your hand, waking him from his daze.

“Focus.”

He moans like you kissed him and you untie him.

“Collar,” you demand.

He fumbles for it with shaking hands, holding it out like a fucking offering, like you’re a god he’s trying to appease. “C-can you put it on me ?”

You snap it around his throat without ceremony. He shivers.

“Good. Now lie back and don’t move.”

You climb up, pull your dress over your head, bare and wet and glowing, and he’s practically crying just from looking.

His cock leaks like it’s apologizing. You press your foot down — slow, cruel — on his cock and balls, and he howls.

“W-wait—please—don’t—if you—if you keep doing that, I’ll—I’ll cum—!”

You press harder.

“Don’t,” you whisper. “Don’t you fucking dare. Not until I tell you.”

“I’m trying—fuck—I’m trying—”

You lean in — breath warm against his ear, one hand wrapped around his throat, firm but teasing, just enough to make him shiver.

“You’re lucky I don’t blindfold you, tie you up, and edge you for a fucking week,” you whisper, slow and mean. “No cumming. No touching. Just my voice in your ear while I whip you until you cry for it.”

He whimpers. It’s not even a sound anymore — just breath and broken vowels. His eyes roll back, his cock leaking like it’s begging to be used, untouched and pulsing like it could burst if you so much as looked at it too long.

You spit in your palm, rub yourself raw until you’re soaking, then sink down in one brutal drop.

He screams.

Not a moan. A scream. The sound punches out of him like you knocked the wind from his lungs.

And then you ride.

Hard. Fast. Messy. Punishing. Like you’re trying to fuck him into the mattress. Like your orgasm is more important than his survival. His hands are useless — clawing at the sheets, at the air, at nothing — because you haven’t let him touch you, and he knows better than to break that rule now.

He’s moaning too loud. Too desperate. You slap a hand over his mouth just to muffle the chaos spilling from him. Your hips don’t stop — bouncing, rolling, dragging him to the edge with every ruthless grind. His cock’s buried so deep you can feel it in your gut, and the way he looks up at you — glassy-eyed, mouth stuffed full of your palm, pure reverence — it’s enough to send your stomach twisting.

And then it shifts. Something flips in the air. You catch yourself leaning in, just a little too close. You’re still in control — you always are — but something about the way he’s watching you now, fucked-out and worshipping, makes your rhythm falter. Just once.

Jake sees it. Of course he does.

You see the exact second he realizes: you’re falling, too.

And he fucking loves it.

He’s chasing your orgasm now like it’s the only thing that matters. Like if he gives it to you, maybe — just maybe — you’ll kiss him.

You don’t say it. Don’t ask for it. But he knows.

He flips you with shaky hands, your legs locked tight around his waist before you even land. He fucks into you like he’s losing his mind — sloppy, desperate thrusts, slamming into you like he needs you to feel it.

“I’m close— fuck— I want you to cum too—”

“Me too,” you gasp, wrecked and ragged. One hand slams against the headboard as the other claws at his back. “Harder— Jake, please—”

And he delivers.

His rhythm turns frantic, almost cruel. You’re a mess beneath him, crying out, moaning his name in broken syllables.

“C-can I stay inside?” he begs, barely able to speak. “Please— I— fuck—”

You nod, frantic. “Kiss me.”

And he does.

He dives in like he’s starving for it, lips crashing into yours, moaning into your mouth as he cums — thick, hot spurts, wave after wave, his hips stuttering through it, unable to stop. The kiss is wet, messy, all teeth and breath and desperation. His cock twitches inside you, still buried to the hilt, still pushing in shallow little thrusts that make you shake.

It’s too much. Too wet. Too hot. Too full.

And it tips you.

You cum on his cock with a strangled cry, nails digging into his arms, your mouth still on his, tasting him, gasping into him as your whole body tightens and then breaks.

But you don’t stop kissing. Not even then.

His lips stay on yours through the aftershocks. Sloppy, slow, still trembling. His head dips to your neck, mouthing at the skin, soft kisses, little groans as he licks at your pulse.

You twitch under him every time his mouth moves, still too sensitive. He hisses at the way your walls pulse around him even now.

“Was I good?” you ask, breathless.

He nods into your neck like a kid, voice hoarse, cracked. “Yes. You— You’re perfect. So fucking perfect for me.”

You grin. Can’t help it. Can’t hide it.

“So fucking perfect, huh?” you echo, teasing. And he kisses you again. And again. And again. Little kiss bombs, dotting your cheeks, your lips, your jaw — and you finally grab his face and still him.

Your smile twists into something darker.

“This is only the start,” you purr, your voice all breath and promise, panting into his mouth. “I have so many things I want to try.”

He nods — fast, frantic — like he needs it.

Like he wants to be wrecked. Used. Owned. And maybe, if he’s lucky — loved.

You’re going to give it to him. Every filthy, fucked-up fantasy.

Again. And again. And again.

Part.2

Author’s Note:

Finally here for the comeback, lol!! It took me so long to post this because I kept second-guessing if I really loved every part of it...

But then I thought: just do it, fighting girl! 💪💗

@veilstqr — knowing you were waiting for it seriously helped me push through and finish it~

Hope I didn’t disappoint!

Don’t just lurk, darling. Reblog it. Leave a comment. Let me feel you. Your silence is not nearly as thrilling as your reaction.

So go on... show me you're watching.

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senascoop · 7 months ago

Text

SENA’S FAVOURITES ᶻ 𝘇 𐰁 TAG GAME

Ꮺ by @iovestuck and I might've added-edited some questions to my liking. all of these answers are genuine and not with the bias of some of them being my moots. also, extremely sorry if I didn't add you on here. most of them are nsfw so... minors please do not interact. (💌)

001. WHAT ARE YOUR FAVOURITE FANFICS?

HOW I MET YOUR MOTHER — @i2sunric

i already yapped a lot when I first read her fic but this was personally really really cute to read and I loved heeseung’s and the reader’s bickering a lot.

THE PERFECT COPY — @florestalio

if this fanfic was a person I'd date them lol. this was something new and easily secured a seat in my favs.

STILL INTO YOU — @i2sunric

another one of casey’s work that I love a lot.

COULD I BE MORE OBVIOUS? — @rkvriki

this was written like a year ago and is still really good. especially the way it actually captured the “rich ceo husband” vibes.

BUT DADDY I LOVE HIM — @heechwe

what were you thinking when you wrote that lexi? i couldn't find a single bad thing about the fic when i first read it and ngl it still remains as one of my fav.

FIXED COMFORT — @paarksunghoon

coming back to read this after a bad day and this never fails to bring a smile on my face even if I've already re-read this a lot of times.

002. FANFICS YOU'VE READ RECENTLY?

haven't read much lately but this has to be my list — heehoon jerking off together while thinking of the reader. part one, part two not sure if there's more parts, sharing = caring , and then this mind-blowing fic by casey, heavenly , i personally found this one cute, and then I've read this smtg about toxic situationship heeseung, then this one from mochiwonz which made me laugh, this from yuvany, reader is mean in this one but it's good, little lamb ... I have more but I can't exactly add all of them here—so if you're looking for fic recs, you should check @senascoooop

003. WHAT FANFICS DO YOU THINK SHOULD GET MORE RECOGNITION?

PUPPY ANTICS — @florestalio

I always re-read this because well... no reason-just the descriptions and the scene (though I hate angel for cutting it short...)

YOU’RE LOSING ME — @i2sunric

y'all are missing out on a lot of good stuff if you haven't read this angsty angst fic.

CORPSE BRIDE — @yuvany

start to end-just perfection.

BEWITCHED — @p4ranormaluv

to describe this fic in one word would be #wtfdidijustread? In a good way ofc. this deserves way more notes than it has right now.

TIL DEATH DO US PART — sena

TIED UP IN YOU — sena

self promo lol but I actually like these two of my works and they might as well be my best ones till now.

HOW TO LOSE A GUY IN 10 DAYS — @flwrstqr

a really fun fic to read, especially with the way both the reader and heeseung’s goal was definitely not to fall in love... but the two anyways did so.

VENOM — @gyuuberryy

the tension in this one and half way transformation of jay was just wowwww.

HORROR — @starryjake

the smut was rather really... cute alongside the ending...

666 — @simpjaes

a big fan of dark fics. and this was absolutely flawless!!

Not really a fanfic but rather sfw niki audio by @vanesycho part one, part two, part three, part four. I usually listen to these when I'm feeling down or can't fall asleep.

004. FAVOURITE AUTHORS?

all of my moots ofc lol but other than that ,

@i2sunric — all of her fics are hits and i personally really really really love them.

@florestalio — first found out about her through the fic “human or not” and I liked it from the go. and nevertheless-even if it's been a little time, I think we match the freak nonetheless.

@yuvany — she was in my favs the second i read corpse bride. then there's miss ugly duckling and her recent jay fic... absolutely amazing.

@p4ranormaluv — do I even need to have a reason for her to be here? she's really talented with the way she writes. Though I hope she's enjoying her break <3

@heechwe — every time you think someone can't get more sweet... lexi replies. even her fics are chefs kiss.

@gyuuberryy — she's my hype girl (ofc I'll add her on here and also bcz her fics are a big mwahh)

@mochiwonz — we aren't moots or anything but her works (smaus) randomly came in my for you page and i actually enjoyed a lot of them (so I'm adding her here too)

@paarksunghoon — every time a hard thought of hers comes into my for you-i know my evening's not gonna be so boring. y’all should read her fixed comfort and you plus me fic. 100% recommended.

@starryjake — another author who's also really good at making hard thoughts and fics :)

005. WHICH AUTHOR/READER DO YOU ADMIRE/ADORE THE MOST AND WHY?

all of my readers and moots ^^

but aside from them, i admire casey (i2sunric) & jazmine (p4ranormaluv) a lot and sort of started to write after reading their works <3

now I adore a lot of authors and readers but angel (florestalio) and ady (gyuuberry) have a special place in my heart. and I've actually gotten used to seeing some frequent readers which I absolutely notice and adore but the loud ones so far would be @zyvlxqht @flowerwinds (thank you so much for showing nothing other than love to me and my works) 🫶🏻💗

NOTE FROM SENA , i don't really read a lot which might explain why I don't have some more popular fics or authors in the recs. I'm also very sorry if I've forgotten someone (totally not intentional) this was really fun to make...thank you rain (iovestuck) you're another sweetie I found on blr :)

ᶻ 𝘇 𐰁 tagging anyone who wants to join

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loudstrawberryblizzard · 1 year ago

Text

Izumo and Kotetsu need way more love and recognition they deserve especially the headcanons and boyfriend scenarios like these. 😊

Naruto boys Dirt talk headcanons

Nara Shikamaru

Shikamaru loves to talk dirty to you. All the time. He's gotten in trouble at the mission desk and the office for saying dirty things to you in front of others. He would definitely have a degrading kink and does it on purpose because he wants you to punish him. He has many kinks and is definitely a brat.

Hyuuga Neji

Neji would say he’s not into it and wouldn't be a huge fan but he melts every time you whisper praise into his ear. He's way too uncomfortable to stay anything dirty to you and would be too uncomfortable to roleplay.

Kotetsu

Kotetsu may seem like the one more into dirty talk but he's only into it if you are. He's very easy to embarrass but will like when you talk dirty to him during sex more because you enjoy it. He would be willing to roleplay if you're into it.

Izumo

Izumo seems so sweet and innocent but when you're in bed with him, he's so dirty. He loves talking dirty and when you talk dirty to him. He would be very into kinks and roleplaying.

Yamato

Yamato would be uncomfortable at first but very into it. He probably won't say anything but loves when you talk dirty to him. He would definitely have a praise kink and is very into wood puns.

Gemma

Gemma loves teasing you all the time. He would also get in trouble for saying dirty things in front of his superiors. With him its in bed, out of bed, and even in public. He’ll love it even more if you tease him back.

Iruka

He may seem so straight lace while he's working but once you two are alone, is another story. He would like some light roleplaying and talk during foreplay but hes not as vocal during sex.

Hatake Kakashi

Kakashi would be very into dirty talk and he would have a huge praise kink. You tell him he’s a good omega and he would just melt under you.

Shikaku

Shikaku would definitely be into dirty talk. He would also definitely have a degrading kink and be a brat only he keeps those things private for the most part. He would be very into kinks and willing to try anything you were into as long as you were willing to try things he’s into. He would also definitely send you notes during the day with dirty things in them for you if you worked in the hokage offices near him. Everyone knows that they are dirty but you know not to read them in front of people after the first few times, as they quickly get worse and more detailed.

Inuzuka Kiba

He would be very into it. Kiba would have a huge breading kink. All he wants you to do is tell him how pregnant you’ll make him and how hot he would be pregnant.

Uzumaki Naruto

Naruto would be very into it. He’s loud and proud about it too, though he’ll tone it down once he’s hokage.

Rock Lee

He gets very confused by dirty talk. He likes it and tries to talk dirty back to you but it's either really sweet or doesn't make any sense.

Maito Gai

Gai would have a youth kink (is that even a thing? It would be for him at least.) he would talk a lot during sex, not exactly sure you could call it dirty talk.

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ara-the-great · 2 months ago

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Cw: Allusions to suic*de, depression and self isolation.

Authors note: this is purely written in self interest if you aren't comfortable with it please don't read it. There is nothing gory but just sad.

Sylus had not heard from you in three days now. It might not seem like much to anyone else but knowing the relationship between you two, it was unnatural. It was completely unheard of. Something was wrong. He tried texting, he tried calling, he tried emails, letters, mephisto and even hacking into the security system of your apartment. But to no avail. Mephisto found all your windows locked and curtains drawn shut. The security cameras never showed you leaving your apartment.

Sylus feared the worst. By the afternoon of the third day he was in front of your door. When you didn't open the door for the doorbell or knocking, his desperation took over. With a flick of his wrist he opened the door, his evol swirling around him- as if to shield him from anything he might find in your apartment. A few steps is all it took for his keen ears to pick up on the sound of you crying from inside the house. A few steps is all it took for him to start sprinting towards your broken voice, for his heart to beat like a war drum- ready to lay waste to whoever hurt you.

Sylus might have unintentionally broken the door off the hinges if it wasn't already wide open. When his eyes fell on your crumpled form his heart broke into a million little pieces. There you were curled up in the corner of your bathtub, softly crying. Your eye shot up to him.

You didn't want him to see you like this. Weak, broken and pathetic. You wanted to reach out to him so many times over the last few days, you wanted to hear his voice, you wanted him to find you. But not like this. Not like this.

His step faltered for just a second before he scrambled to your side. "What is it my love, are you hurt? Where? What happened? I'm here. Tell me what happened? Wh-" His voice was strained trying to be soft enough to comfort you and to suppress the vengeance bubbling inside him again whatever or whoever hurt you.

"Sylus- " it was all you could manage before fully breaking down sobbing into his open arms. He picked you up off of the tub and held you close to him. Confusion plagued his mind as he tried to figure out what was wrong.

"Look at me my love, I need to know if you are hurt. Please, y/n- please " his voice cracked as he he held your face tenderly trying to get you to respond.

All you could do was weakly shake your head. And all he could do was hold you closer.

After a while when you had calmed down a bit, you tried to wipe off the tears soaked into his shirt in a desperate attempt to erase the pathetic picture you painted for him. "I'm sorry, I ruined your shirt" you croaked

"Are you really worried about a silly shirt right now kitten?" He said wiping the rest of your tears off of your face. "Do you want to tell me what happened?"

You didn't respond. How could you respond. What would you say.

"You know, I was worried that a little kitten got hurt and was hiding away to lick her wounds. It seems like I was right to worry." He said wiping the tears that stained your cheeks.

"I'm sorry." You whispered, your voice broken beyond even your own recognition. You couldn't look at him so you looked at the object previously in your hand that was now laying at the far end of the bathroom

"Wh-" Sylus followed your eyes to see the glinting object on the floor.

A knife.

His blood turned cold as the realisation hit him. You were drowning in much more than you had let on

"Kitten? Why is there a knife here" his normally smooth voice wavered - begging for you to prove his assumptions wrong. But you didn't.

You didn't speak, rather couldn't speak. Silent tears rolled down your delicate features.

"Y/N answer me. Please wh-why?" He choked

"I am tired Sylus. I'm so tired. I wasn't made for living. I wasn't meant for all this. I don't deserve you- I'm sorry" you finally met his eyes wildly looking for some forgiveness and all you could see was him falling apart.

And all he could see was you vanishing from his arms. He softly covered your eyes- which were too wild and restless, too hurt, too hopeless for him to bare. He placed an ever tender kiss on your forehead and he whispered "Rest. I'm here for you. We'll be ok. I'll make sure of it. Life will bow to our whims my love. You can rest and as long as I live, you won't have to worry about what is, has been and will be. I'll always be here, with you and you, with me." Tears silently fell from his eyes, tearing his soul apart to see you drown and it is then he vowed to give you everything you could ever hope for and more.

#love and deepspace #lads #love and deepspace sylus #sylus #sylus x reader #sylus headcanons #soft sylus owns my heart #l&ds #oh lord this man #sylus angst #lads angst #send halp #sylus fluff

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getouyuri · 3 months ago

Text

every single song is about you!

pairing — gojo x reader x geto, poly satosugu x reader

summary — SPECIAL GRADE, a band consisting of four powerhouses, takes the world by storm. after geto quits, you, gojo and geto’s childhood friend, take his place— and their hearts.

content & warnings — sfw, suggestive at the end, m4a, gender neutral reader, gn!reader, angst, pining, normal modern au, band au (aka the SPECIAL GRADE au), frontman!gojo, rhythmist!reader, producer!geto, alcohol, cigarettes, eventual poly / eventual polyamorous relationship

author's note — thought about mari’s ask while I pondered this (this is your fault 🫵🏽🫵🏽 I heart you) but producer!geto x rhythmist!reader x frontman!gojo is on the mind. quick drabble to get this out of my headddd but i lowkey wanna write a long fic about this. this was proof read only Once so I hope there’s no mistakes 😭🙏🏽. full masterlist here.

writing © getouyuri. fanart © satosugu572. dividers © bernardsbendystraws. wc: 3k.

‘gojo and geto,’ two halves of the whole of SPECIAL GRADE.

there’s their killer bassist of course, yuki gold and glistening like the sun in the rearview mirror, adored by all but especially by the girls who love girls. she’s praised endlessly for her occasional bass solos that are as rare as they come and her background vocals that make gojo’s shine that much brighter. their drummer, sukuna, is in his own tier, heavy and loud, weighty boots announcing his presence if that cackle of his doesn’t broadcast it first. fawned over by the girls and guys who like ‘em mean, he beats his drums black and blue, all rough and tough and untouchable.

but it was always ‘gojo and geto’ in interviews following their big break. the two who started it all in geto’s garage with a rat trap in the corner, a worn-down karaoke machine that gojo wielded the plastic microphone of, garageband at geto’s fingertips and guitars in both of the boys’ hands. they could laugh it off as much as they wanted to, seamlessly interject that they’re four, not just two, yuki and sukuna deserving recognition as much as they do, but even the other band members credit everything to them and wait their turn for questions.

‘gojo and geto,’ the indomitable duo. calm and chaos that go hand in hand.

but before gojo and geto, it was always geto and gojo and you.

you, with your bright smile and encouraging words that pushed them to greater heights. you, who tried and failed to make sure gojo’s ego didn’t get too big for his britches (and giggled whenever gojo peacocked around, singing that he’d wave at you from the TV screen some day) and reasoned that geto’s reserved and calm nature could be harnessed for not just peacemaking, but glueing together a group of musicians and standing as a vision of dark, untouchable beauty that his future groupies would chomp at the bits for for years to come.

you, who laughed with geto and gojo, busted them out of trouble and shopped with them and tagged along to study at their sides over candy and soda, who carved your name into a tree in your neighborhood alongside theirs.

you, who buried yourself in high school and college textbooks as the boys threw themselves into making music with yuki and sukuna, becoming smaller and more distant but promising you’d always be there when it mattered. when they needed home and not a crowded venue.

geto thinks of you a month into his departure from SPECIAL GRADE. the internet was still in tears over the quote unquote breakup. everyone zoomed in on the grainy photos of geto’s smoothened brow and gojo’s twisted, hurt frown outside of the KFC they fought in front of, trying to read lips and find an explanation that wasn’t geto’s plain tweet of ‘i’m tired of it. i’m tired of it all.’

as if cutting out his piece of the pie from the whole of it would have a grander, more explosive reason than just… exhaustion. a healthy dose of paranoia and a bone-deep want to find himself outside of the glaring spotlight.

the industry and their record label fought to mold SPECIAL GRADE into something generic. a product to drain dry, pluck off the shelf and sell, exploit until there was nothing left. geto couldn’t take it— he wanted to make music from the heart, not because of some corporate bottom line. even worse, the attention from the media and fans made him feel like a mouse in the spotlight of a thousand cats’ eyes. the pressure closed in on him, fangs to his throat, until he squealed.

geto tried to drown it out, convince himself that everything else was just noise, but he knew he had to make a hard decision. to leave for his own sanity— so he did. breathing comes easier now that he’s sitting in his own corner out of the way without the shackles that used to tie him down.

geto texts you while drunk, eyes growing hot over your simple ‘u okay?’ instead of a ‘are u guys okay?’, your follow up of ‘ur still the greatest. don’t listen to anybody else but urself and everyone that cares for u. i’ve got ur back.’

gojo thinks of you, too, not even an hour after geto does— as if their brains are linked.

gojo still doesn’t get why geto walked off. like, he does, because even he gets fed up with all of it. but he pushes through it and ignores what people expect from him and the other members of SPECIAL GRADE.

music is a form of self-expression, an outlet to let oneself go and bare one’s soul through lyrics to the beat of the accompanying piece. a way to connect with others on a level deeper and more complex than the anatomy of a singular cell. the energy of the crowd that screams their songs back to them, the high of playing with the three people he considers his family, it’s all gojo’s ever wanted. everything is at his fingertips when he grabs his mic and presses his palm to the throat of the world in warning, reminding it that this? this is all his. he could never give it up.

music has always been their thing. geto’s and gojo’s, gojo’s and geto’s. watching his partner leave him felt akin to someone clawing gojo’s kidney out with their bare hands.

yuki’s been pushy in that caring way of hers and sukuna just grinds his jaw and stares him down, saying more with his eyes than that fiery mouth of his. their record label and manager demands he fix what gojo swears he didn’t break, his fans tweet at him constantly and chase him down in public for answers, the media is up his ass… but you’re not.

you’re patient and kind when he knocks on your door, feeling small on your doorstep without another shoulder brushing his and deep purple eyes flickering over at him as the boys share twin smiles. you let gojo in. you make him tea and set his head straight. you call them both idiots and gojo finally smiles.

“i’d die without you. really,” gojo tells you earnestly, fully convinced that it’s true.

you laugh it off. “you wouldn’t. now shut up and let me help you compose a text to geto,” you say, making grabby hands at him.

you’ve always been the one that glues the three together. you’re indispensable. a priceless treasure without a tag.

you were never one for stardom. you were content to follow your own path that lingered in the shadows. but a year after geto shakes off his woes and discards his cigarettes and bottles and becomes a producer, you visit his home studio with half-finished tracks downloaded onto your phone.

“can you help me out?” you ask from your spot on geto’s doorstep, scratching the back of your neck. “i know you’re super picky with your clientele and you’re probably gonna think this is ass— oh my god, wait, I didn’t even schedule an appointment with you—“

geto raises a hand and you quiet down. “come in,” he invites with a smile.

he helps you beat your songs into shape and properly walks you through music theory for months. you mess with his old rhythm guitar, the one he played in his parents’ garage until the neighbors would shout at him and gojo for the racket, and he finds you’re not half bad at thumbing the strings and learning rhythm guitar licks. so he opens up the glass case on the wall of his studio and hands you uzumaki— a beautiful, dark blue guitar with lazy swirls drawn into it— and lets you make magic.

you blow geto’s mind. and your debut single, produced by no one other than himself, blows up the internet.

it’s a little unusual for a newly fledged popstar like yourself to eventually go from manning the stage on your own to joining a goliath of a pop rock band, but it’s you. you’ve always been unpredictable, even if you hid it behind years of being a steady presence in geto and gojo’s lives. you hop in the deep end with SPECIAL GRADE, taking geto’s former spot that multiple contenders dipped in and out of because gojo, yuki, and sukuna could never find someone as good as geto.

you mesh with the band in a crazy way. you play rhythm guitar with the energy of a musical savant, graceful fingers darting up and down the fretboard like the devil itself is sitting in on your performance and you have something to prove. you press your back to gojo’s as he sings with the voice of an angel and brings entire stadiums to their knees, provide chord progressions and harmonic supports and rhythm that intertwines with yuki’s bassline, perfectly follow the beat and tempo that sukuna paves for you with his drumsticks.

it’s like you were meant to be part of SPECIAL GRADE.

the band seems so much brighter with you now in it. especially gojo himself— he turns into the summer sun incarnate when you smile at him and teasingly flutter your lashes mid-interview or during shows that are broadcasted to millions. people talk about their chemistry on and off stage as much as they did geto’s and gojo’s when geto was still in the limelight.

geto doesn’t necessarily feel left behind, per say, but he feels something akin to it watching you and gojo playfully squabble in the live room of geto’s home studio while geto sits at his soundboard in the control room. you bounce off of each other perfectly, complimenting one another like red and blue and shading in the spaces that the other doesn’t fill with different ideas for this song and that song, x and y. yuki beams, feeding off of yours and gojo’s energy as she tunes her bass, and sukuna hides a half smirk, half genuine grin when he barks at you to hush up and get to playing.

is this how you felt when you pursued your degree and watched geto and gojo’s backs get smaller and smaller as they ran off into the sunset, searching for their place in the world with gojo’s guitar on his hip and geto’s slung over his shoulder as their story unfurled? geto isn’t sure, so he sits back at SPECIAL GRADE’s third album release party with a red solo cup in hand, purple eyes trained on you and gojo as he tries to unravel what must’ve been on your mind all those years ago.

it plagues him. eats at him like maggots to a corpse.

one night, geto dreams of performing again.

he misses playing with the band, with gojo and off of gojo’s boundless energy, matching that mad genius stride for stride, even though geto’s never regretted taking a step back. they stand shoulder to shoulder before a sea of nothingness that drops off the stage, the frontman with his rhythmist and backup singer. the indomitable duo. uzumaki is warm and familiar beneath his fingertips as geto breathes life into the strings until they’re vibrating with kinetic energy. behind them, yuki wields her bass like a weapon. sukuna’s arms flex as he slams away at his drums.

inexplicably, you’re there too even though you joined long after geto exited stage left.

your rhythm guitar is no uzumaki. it’s beautiful and sleek but chaotic— frantic paint streaks racing along and around it, twisting and coiling. the color of it shines brightly. you take geto’s other side, sandwiching him between you and gojo, who happily hoots before throwing himself back into singing the lyrics that boom through the empty stadium.

it’s perfect.

geto’s left breathing heavily in the wake of the dream after waking up with a start, smiling stupidly in the dark and holding his heaving chest. his heart thrums beneath his palm.

that feeling that he felt before in the control room morphs into something else, a caterpillar formerly cocooned emerging as a butterfly, when he cracks on the last night of SPECIAL GRADE’s tour. the band spent the whole summer overseas, bouncing from city to city and performing with everything they’ve got— geto heard all the funny anecdotes and shit while on call with gojo, you chiming in from time to time in the background.

but he hadn’t actually seen concert clips until tonight— a quiet, lonely night that he spent on his couch answering emails on his laptop until he got bored and opened twitter. an app he never really checks unless he needs to retweet promotions that the many artists he produces music for post.

he hits the trending tab, fingers stalling when he sees rows upon rows of similar results that are up in flames. you and gojo. you. gojo. SPECIAL GRADE. #1 on the trending page is a quote: ‘i’m sorry, every single song is about you.’ when geto checks out the tag, briefly avoiding videos in favor of staring in befuddlement at all the fans tweeting out the quote like rabid dogs, he sees it. a name.

geto. geto suguru. suguru.

suguru.

he’s so distracted by his name that he doesn’t register the all-caps tweets saying ‘OH MY GOD THEY’RE DOING IT AGAINNNBTKAHRKSJQ’

(little does he know, you and gojo do this every show.)

heart in his throat, geto finally checks out the first video in the tag. it’s perfect quality, shot up close and personal from the VIP section. he can practically smell the sweat lathered on gojo’s face and neck and collarbones that makes him glisten beneath the wild lights, feel the raggedy gasps that puff out from your lips that are quirked up in a brilliant grin as if you’re breathing into geto’s neck. yuki’s waving at fans and blowing kisses to them. sukuna’s in the background spinning his drumsticks, keyed up and waiting for the next song. they all look perfect.

for some reason, though, yuki’s disassembling the formation, backing up until she’s near sukuna and leaving you and gojo center stage. that makes geto sit up a little straighter.

gojo turns as if searching for someone. his magnetic blue eyes land on the phone camera in the hands of the fan, and he’s laughing as he strides forward with a crooked finger before swiping up the phone with a promise to give it back. he holds it up high above his head as if readying himself for a selfie and ushers you into the frame. gojo squishes your sweaty cheek against his and holds the microphone between them.

yours and gojo’s voices paired together are devastatingly clear and rife with longing. “i’m sorry, every single song is about you.”

the responding roar of the fans nearly blows out his eardrums. they kick off their next song with that earth shattering bang as gojo relocates the fan and hands them their phone.

geto immediately knows what they’re talking about. who they’re talking about. and he spirals.

what songs are about geto?

all the ones that SPECIAL GRADE released after you joined them?

the ones released following geto leaving SPECIAL GRADE when it was just gojo, yuki, sukuna, and some unnamed rhythmist?

the first song that he and gojo ever constructed in geto’s garage, when gojo penned the lyrics with a hopelessly sweet smile on his face? “i guess you could call it a love song,” gojo mused at the time while tapping the eraser of his pencil against a stray piece of paper, blue eyes alight with something profound.

does geto have to go through their entire discography again and read further into the lyrics, seeking out which ones could be a call to him? yeah, yeah he will. geto’s already opening spotify, hitting the first SPECIAL GRADE song that pops up and reading the lyrics as gojo’s voice fills his living room.

fuck, did geto unknowingly produce any songs that you or gojo wrote about him?

geto doesn’t know.

he calls you. it goes to voicemail. he hangs up before he can hear the obnoxious beep that signals his time to speak. he hovers over gojo’s contact but doesn’t press it.

geto ends up leaving a few voicemails for you and for gojo respectively after a few drinks because he needs to get borderline shitfaced before he can speak his truth, desperate and shaky but gentle. reverent.

wine is good, he thinks as he drinks more of it. wine will make geto forget.

not that you let him. geto jolts awake at dawn to banging on his door, picks himself up from where he was curled up like a cat in his cool, lonely silk sheets, and stumbles to go answer it.

you and gojo are bright and alive on the other side of it. “took you long enough,” gojo sighs as if he’s been waiting for this, sweeping in with the self-importance of a storm that you can’t avoid, kicking his shoes off and carelessly tossing his jacket aside. an arm slings around geto’s shoulder, warm and welcoming, a sweet kiss pressed to his cheek.

you’re immediately at geto’s front, binding the three together with a hand on geto’s waist and your other arm atop gojo’s. “hush,” you click your tongue at gojo, but your eyes are full of adoration as you gaze at the grinning frontman. that adoration doesn’t leave as your gaze tilts up to meet geto’s star struck one. “it’s okay, though. we would’ve waited forever for you.”

“yeah. we would’ve,” gojo agrees. fully sincere.

eventually someone, and geto doesn’t remember who (maybe it was him. maybe it was you or gojo), murmurs, “we need to make up for all that lost time, though, don’t you think?”

“how many songs are actually about me? surely not all of them,” geto finds it in himself to say a few hours after he was pinned against his mattress, his hidden-away insecurities plucked apart by yours and gojo’s fingers. they replanted love deep into his marrow.

gojo, in all his naked, cat-like glory, is heavy atop geto’s prone form, snuggling into him. you’re glued to geto’s side, using his forearm as a pillow, one hand ghosting along gojo’s bare back and making his fine white hairs raise and the other tracing hearts into the centers of the hickeys dotted on geto’s skin like notes on sheet music.

you and gojo share a look. “all of them.”

author’s note: who up feeling insane (meeee)

tags: @libr4sonsa @spirit-kat @kaitospo @m1nrrva @enchantinghonymoon @exc3llentshot @dairyfaerie

i love u stsg poly i love u band aus. ARGH

how i felt writing this nonsense in less than 2 hours:

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cainetarot · 21 days ago

Text

PICK A CARD: Random general messages

⚠️MY READINGS ARE EXTREMELY ACCURATE, TAKE IT WELL AS IT RESONATES, MY BLOG CHANNEL DO NOT SUPPORT SUGARCOATING STRICTLY ⚠️

PILE 1

Powerful! U have something under ur control but ur not realising it.

Abundance, money incoming soon 🤑🤑

Stay calm, grounded, become more giving and helping.

Don’t be afraid to try something new, start taking RISKS💡

A big karmic shift is occurring.

Someone important is watching u, and u might get an opportunity soon 😋

If u feel like something or someone is not serving u as u deserve, then consider letting GO.

Some people from ur past are noticing some sort of changes in ur life, INDIGESTABLE!😳

If ya'll have exes.....OBSESSED! Feels like he lost the best thing he ever had 💫 ( lowkey poo behavior )

*Suddenly DMs u with “I had a dream about U.” No, mf u had a NIGHTMARE 🤣

A close friend/bestie still gossips behind ur back..JEALOUSY JEALOUSY 💀💀

U are not who u were.

U are intimidating to the weak 🥵🥵

Inspiring to the silent,

Irresistible to the worthy,

Keep going..

The Wheel is turning.

Old cycles are breaking.

The divine is intervening and it’s in your favor 🔥

But what's next in love? FOR EXTENDED/PERSONAL PAID READINGS DM ME STARTING FROM JUST 2.99$

PILE 2

People might think ur being quiet, distant, or “off” lately, but silence is ur power right now.

If there’s someone who hurt u, ghosted u, or manipulated things silently. Dawg they know exactly what they did 💀💀

Ur next source of income might come from something spiritual, creative, or healing related 🌸

Don’t overshare, don’t explain. Just MOVE in silence.

Keep up to "I dont chase, I attract" era 😋

U be giving off mysterious, "I don’t owe anyone my energy" vibes to people rn 🔮

Someone suspects ur in love or involved in some love situation or an ex is still LINGERING in ur energy (wow as soon as i thought about it, i channeled that song "mine" by bazzi).

Someone is in damn LOVE with u, is either confused or scared to approach 🫠

*suddenly everyone’s in ur DMs like “you alive?”, but then u launch ur new life and it accidentally goes viral* now they know u are 🤣

Ur about to attract abundance + true connections.

Either a new job, financial opportunity, or creative project IS ON IT'S WAYYY! 💋🔥

Best love advice for u right now? FOR EXTENDED/PERSONAL PAID READINGS DM ME STARTING FROM JUST 2.99$

PILE 3

DUDE, atleast lemme start...I already channeled one song 😭 LMAO

Ngl but I was feeling sooo nervous and blushing throughout, this is an absolute HOT one 🥵

Someone is interested, obsessed, and wants to win u (maybe two people) 👀

*U were listening to music and crying in a towel, ended up accidentally manifesting love* and now you have two crushes fighting for ur attention 💀💀

One who’s bold and romantic, is giving SEXYBACK energy 🔥

People may have assumed u were confused or behind but ur SMARTER than you act and people are finally realizing it 😶

Ur becoming “that girl / guy", entering a stage of financial glow up, self sufficiency, and public recognition.

Someone is either entering ur life or re entering can be an ex, but u'll know if it’s genuine or not 😏

Stop mentally living in the past. Emotional baggage is not ur luggage ANYMORE.

U are the blueprint 🫵🏻

The strategist.

The MAIN character!

But who's ur next love interest? FOR EXTENDED/PERSONAL PAID READINGS DM ME STARTING FROM JUST 2.99$

PILE 4

WOW

TF BRO..

Ya'll attracting soulmate or higher level commitment energy 😳

Ur in a powerful rebirth, relationship, identity, or some perspective has ended.

Let the past go, someone wants the real DEAL with u 🔥

Major transformation is either underway or just happened, those relationships, jobs, habits, and emotional baggage that no longer serve ur evolution needed or needs to be put down.

A mentor, close friend, colleague or an ally will help you build something sustainable🌻

Expect collaboration, and commitment soon🌟

U already know what you need to know. Stop doubting your intuition 💅🏻

*Someone tries to lie to u and u hit them with a High Priestess STARE that scares their ancestors* 🤣🤣

wait wait also..

U say “I’m done with love” and suddenly 3 people text u out of nowhere.

One of them is an ex. One of them is married.

One is your SOULMATE in disguise 🫣

Damnn I channelled those lyrics "yk baby i adore u" OMGG, take a look at it ❤️‍🔥

Ur ready to move again.

The fire is coming back⚡️

Who's that one longing for u? FOR EXTENDED/PERSONAL PAID READINGS DM ME STARTING FROM JUST 2.99$

Make sure to follow me, and DM for paid personal/extended readings

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orellazalonia · 1 month ago

Note

Hey!! I would like to request a Bucky Barnes x reader fic where their daughter shows up from the future. Bucky and Reader aren’t dating or really even know each other that well yet (maybe they share mutual friends on the team or are friends but just dancing around each other a bit??), so this could be a surprise to them. You could have it that she keeps saying she can’t share information about the future but then accidentally drops information like they have a pet cat named alpine and she has three siblings (Bucky deserves a big loving family) without even totally realizing it. Idk if this is even a great idea, but I like your writing and thought this could be a fun request. Thank you for sharing your writings with us!! <3

Hello there, dear! This was such a cute request, thank you for it! I do admit it was a challenge figuring out how to seamlessly combine each element. So, I hope I did well and that you enjoy! Happy reading!!! ♡

Out of Time, Into Our Lives

Summary: A teen girl suddenly appears at the Avengers compound claiming to be from the future. While she tries to avoid revealing too much, she accidentally and subtly drops hints about her life, her siblings, and the deep bond she shares with you and Bucky Barnes both. (Bucky Barnes x reader)

Word Count: 2.7k+

Main Masterlist | Part 2 | Part 3

It started like any other morning at the Avengers compound. Quiet, a little too quiet. You were nursing your first real cup of coffee, leaning against the counter in the common room kitchen while chatting lazily with Wanda about her latest attempt at baking banana bread.

Bucky entered halfway through your sentence, nodding politely at you before making a beeline for the fridge. You and he had been doing this little dance for a while now. Friendly, respectful, always a step or two away from crossing into something more. You liked his dry humor, the way his voice softened when he asked how your day was. But neither of you had made a move. Not yet.

Just as you took a sip, FRIDAY’s calm, robotic voice interrupted:

“Alert. Temporal breach detected. Unauthorized presence in the compound.”

You and Bucky both straightened at the same time.

“Temporal breach?” He muttered, already halfway to the hall. You followed.

It wasn’t often something genuinely strange happened anymore, but what you found in the hallway outside one of the research wings made your breath catch in your throat.

A girl stood there, around seventeen. Messy hair pulled into a loose braid. Her clothes didn’t look particularly futuristic, but there was something… off. Like she didn’t belong. She wasn’t panicking, wasn’t aggressive. She was just staring at a portrait of the original Avengers lining the corridor wall, head tilted slightly.

When she noticed you, her eyes widened but it wasn’t fear that passed over her face. It was recognition.

Her gaze locked onto Bucky first. Then shifted to you. And something in her face softened.

“Oh,” She breathed. “It’s earlier than I thought.”

You frowned. “Do we know you?”

“I’m… not supposed to say anything,” She said quickly, straightening. “I mean, I can’t. It would mess with… everything. I wasn’t even supposed to be here. I didn’t mean to come through. The rift just kind of… swallowed me.”

“Rift?” Bucky echoed, stepping closer.

The girl put her hands up, showing no threat. “I know how this sounds. But I swear, I’m not dangerous. I’m not here to hurt anyone. I just need help getting back.”

You gave her a once-over; she didn’t seem injured, but she looked like she hadn’t slept in a while. Underneath the brave exterior, she seemed a little lost.

“Okay,” You said gently. “We believe you. Let’s just take this slow. What’s your name?”

She hesitated. “I can’t tell you that.”

Bucky raised an eyebrow.

“I’m serious,” She insisted. “If I tell you who I am, it could screw up the timeline. I mean, it already is screwed up if I’m standing here. But I really can’t afford to make it worse.”

Wanda appeared in the doorway, her expression unreadable. “She’s not lying,” She said quietly. “She’s scared. But not of us.”

The girl nodded quickly. “Thank you. I’m just… trying to wait it out. The breach will reverse itself. Probably. Eventually.”

You crossed your arms. “So what are we supposed to call you?”

“Uh. I don’t know. You can give me a fake name?” She offered with a shrug. “That feels safer.”

There was a long pause, awkward. You opened your mouth to say something, anything, but she beat you to it:

“Is Alpine here?”

You blinked. “Alpine?”

Bucky looked up sharply. “How do you know about Alpine?”

The girl’s face went pale. “I mean. I—uh—I read about her? In the files. Maybe. Probably.”

Bucky’s frown deepened.

She let out a tiny groan and rubbed her face. “I told myself not to say anything specific. Ugh. Okay. Look. I’m just going to sit in a corner, be very quiet, and not ruin anything else, okay?”

You sat beside her, slowly, noting how carefully she avoided looking at Bucky too long. Not out of fear, but something heavier.

She tugged her sleeves down over her hands. “This was easier when you were already married.” The words slipped out of her mouth like a quiet sigh, too casual for how much they weighed.

You and Bucky both stiffened.

He stared at her. You weren’t sure he was even breathing. “What did you just say?”

She blinked, realizing. “Oh. I mean, I didn’t mean it like that. I shouldn’t have said anything. Please ignore that.”

You frowned. “Wait… what do you mean, already married?”

“I’m not answering that.” Her voice sharpened slightly now, trying to backtrack. “Sorry. I really can’t say anything else. Like, actually can’t. This isn’t just me being dramatic, it's literally against every single future protocol. I’ve already said too much.”

Bucky stepped forward slowly, his tone low but steady. “You said you came through a rift. Do you know how that happened?”

She looked grateful for the change in subject, nodding. “I was working with someone back there, on uh, stabilizing temporal energy. I wasn’t supposed to be anywhere near the live field, but things got weird. And loud. And then everything just… cracked.”

“Cracked?” You asked.

“Yeah.” She hugged her arms around herself. “Like a window splintering. I fell through. And now I’m here. Too early. Way too early.”

You tilted your head. “Too early for what?”

She looked at you, then at Bucky, and something softened in her expression. Like she knew the two of you better than you knew yourselves. Like there was something unspoken that pained her to keep secret.

But she didn’t answer. Instead, she whispered, “I shouldn’t even be talking to you yet.”

FRIDAY’s voice interrupted gently. “Should I notify Director Fury?”

“No,” Bucky said sharply. Too quickly. Then he glanced at you. “…Not yet.”

The girl looked surprised. “You’re not sending me to a cell?”

You offered a faint smile. “We’re not monsters.”

“And you’re not dangerous,” Bucky added, quieter now. “At least not yet.”

She snorted. “Wow. Thanks, I guess.”

Wanda stepped closer, watching her closely. “You’re scared,” She murmured. “But you’re also… relieved. Why?”

The girl didn’t answer right away. She just looked back at the wall, where a photo of the original team hung in a dusty frame. After a long silence, she whispered, “Because I missed this. Seeing it again. Seeing you all… before everything changes.”

Her voice cracked on that last word. You saw it, just barely: the tension in her jaw, the sheen in her eyes she was trying to blink away.

“I can’t stay long,” She said, turning her face away like she didn’t want either of you to see the emotion creeping in. “So just… let me be here until the breach resets. Then I’ll be gone, and this’ll be nothing more than a strange footnote in someone’s mission report.”

You looked over at Bucky. His brow was furrowed, mouth slightly open like he had a thousand questions on the tip of his tongue but no idea how to ask any of them.

She noticed, smiled a little, sadly. “You always look like that when you’re overwhelmed.”

His lips parted, but she cut in quickly, raising a hand. “Nope. Not answering anything. I’m very good at not answering.”

A long silence settled between the three of you.

Then she yawned. A real one. Unfiltered. She rubbed her eyes like a kid, her exhaustion finally catching up.

“Can I… take a nap somewhere not surrounded by broken lab equipment?”

You smiled despite yourself. “Yeah. We’ll figure something out.”

Bucky’s voice was low. “You hungry?”

She paused, like she hadn’t considered that. “Kinda. Do you still make those-“ She caught herself. Froze. “…Never mind.”

But the warmth in her eyes didn’t fade. She didn’t say it. But it was already there, written in every look she gave the two of you:

She knew you. And she loved you both.

Even if she couldn’t say it.

The girl slept for twelve hours straight. You'd offered her the spare room near the east wing, technically meant for visiting guests, but it had soft blankets and a window view, which she seemed to appreciate.

You sat outside her door for most of the first hour, just in case she tried to run or vanished the way she arrived. But she didn’t.

Bucky checked in at least three times too, though he pretended he was just “walking by.”

When she finally emerged the next morning, hair sticking out in wild directions and wearing one of your old sweatshirts you’d left folded on the chair, she looked younger. More like a kid playing dress-up than a displaced anomaly from the future.

She padded into the kitchen barefoot and blinked at you, rubbing her eyes. “You’re making eggs.”

“Good morning to you too,” You said with a grin. “Hungry?”

“Starving.” She yawned and flopped down at the counter like she’d done it a hundred times.

Bucky entered a moment later, nodding to you both. “Morning.”

She perked up when she saw him, then quickly forced her face back into something neutral, like she’d caught herself.

You passed her a plate. “Toast, scrambled eggs, hash browns.”

She dug in immediately. “Thank you. Food here’s just as good as I remember- I mean, as I hoped it’d be.”

You bit back a smile. “Smooth.”

She glanced at Bucky nervously, but he didn’t press. He just poured himself coffee and sat across from her, watching her with quiet curiosity.

“So,” you said lightly, “What should we call you?”

She hesitated, then shrugged. “Call me…” She looked around the room, clearly stalling. “Jules?”

You tilted your head. “Is that your real name?”

“Nope.” She smiled a little too innocently. “Which makes it perfect.”

Bucky took a sip of coffee, eyes never leaving her. “Alright, Jules. Mind if we ask a few things?”

“As long as it’s not timeline-altering, catastrophic, or classified by future standards, maybe.”

You exchanged a glance with Bucky. “Okay,” You said slowly. “How old are you?”

“Seventeen,” She answered, mid-bite. “Chronologically. Time-wise… eh. Don’t ask.”

Bucky leaned forward slightly. “Do you have a family? In your… original timeline?”

Her chewing slowed just a little. Her expression flickered. Then she nodded. “Yeah. I do.”

Silence fell again. After a moment, she added, “It’s… a big family. Messy. Loud. Someone’s always yelling, someone’s always drawing on the walls, and someone’s always pretending they didn’t start it.”

You smiled softly. “Siblings?”

She paused, eyes widening like she just realized what she said. “I didn’t—wait. That wasn’t—I mean—”

Bucky raised a brow. “You have siblings?”

She groaned and put her face in her hands. “Dang it.”

“How many?” You asked, voice careful.

She peeked through her fingers. “Three.” Then flopped back dramatically in her seat. “Ugh. I knew I’d slip up. You two are too nice. It’s disarming.”

Bucky chuckled quietly. “You don’t have to tell us anything else.”

“No, it’s fine,” she mumbled. “At this rate I’ll blurt out the entire family tree before lunch.”

“Do you like them?” You asked, curious.

A slow smile spread across her face. “Yeah. I love them. They're chaos. But the kind you miss when it's quiet.”

Bucky studied her like she was a riddle. “Are they older than you?”

She looked down at her plate. “Some. Some younger.”

And that was it. She shut down after that, turning her attention fully back to her breakfast. You let her. The moment felt like something private, like she’d tugged back a curtain for just a second and now needed it closed again.

But later, when she wandered into the rec room to find Alpine curled in a sunbeam, she sank to the floor and whispered something to the cat that made Bucky freeze in the doorway.

You didn’t catch the words. But you caught the tone: nostalgic, fond, like she’d said it a thousand times before.

And when Alpine, notoriously selective, climbed into her lap without hesitation, she just stroked her fur like it was the most natural thing in the world. Like she belonged.

The days that followed were strangely easy.

She, Jules, settled in like a half-remembered song. Not quite a stranger, not quite someone you knew, but comfortable. Familiar. You found her sitting on the kitchen counter in the mornings, legs swinging as she ate cereal straight from the box. You caught her once talking softly to FRIDAY, as if the AI were an old friend she’d grown up with.

Bucky never said much. But he was there. Quietly hovering, checking if she was eating enough, if she was sleeping okay. They started watching movies in the common room, not speaking much, but it was something. The space between them had stopped feeling like distance. It was anticipation now. Recognition.

And then there was the night Bucky found her on the roof.

You followed the scent of cold air and firewood up the metal stairs and found them sitting side by side, backs against the railing, stars overhead. Jules was hugging her knees, wearing one of Bucky’s jackets now. It was too big for her, sleeves past her fingertips. But she looked warm. Safe.

You stayed back, watching quietly from the door. Listening.

“I didn’t think I’d meet you like this,” She admitted softly. “This early. I wasn’t ready.”

Bucky didn’t respond right away. Just nodded once, slow and heavy.

“You remind me of her,” She glanced up at the stars. “Not just the way you look at people, but the way you don’t. The way you… hold back. Like you’re always waiting for someone to decide you’re worth staying for.”

Bucky’s jaw tensed. “And did they?”

She looked at him. “Mmm, maybe.”

He turned toward her. “Did I?”

There was a heartbeat’s pause before she whispered, “You never left.”

Then she flinched, realizing again what she’d said. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have—”

But Bucky didn’t press. He didn’t need to.

The silence that followed was full of things neither of them could say.

You all started tiptoeing around the inevitable after that. Jules hadn’t poofed back yet, but every hour felt borrowed. She stopped sleeping as much. Kept checking corners for changes in the air. Listening for that hum she said she’d felt right before the breach opened.

On the fourth day, it happened.

You were in the kitchen, scrambling eggs again, same as the first day. She was mid-laugh, telling you something vague and harmless about a prank her “friend’s little brother” pulled once involving holograms and Steve’s shield. You didn’t even notice the shimmer at first.

Then Bucky’s face changed.

You turned and saw it. A distortion in the center of the room. Like heat rising off pavement, but colder. The air around it began to swirl. And her smile fell away.

“It’s happening,” She said quietly. Not surprised. Just… resigned.

“No.” You stepped forward. “Wait! We didn’t get to-“

“It’s okay,” She said, standing quickly. “It’s time. I knew I couldn’t stay long.”

Bucky took a step forward, fists clenched at his sides. “You said it would reset eventually. You didn’t say it would be this fast.”

She smiled at him, eyes glassy. “You never like goodbyes.”

You were about to speak, to say something, anything, but the light started pulling at her edges. Dust and static flickering around her limbs.

She looked at you both, eyes shining now.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I didn’t mean to cause trouble. I just… I wanted to see you. Before everything.”

“Before what?” You asked, your voice trembling. “What changes?”

But she only gave a tiny, knowing smile. And this time, she didn’t say anything else.

She just looked at Bucky one last time and softly said, “Don’t wait too long.”

And then she was gone. No flash, no thunder, just a breath pulled from the room. One second she was there. The next, empty air.

You stood frozen in place.

The bowl she’d left still sat on the table, cereal soggy in milk. Her mug still half full of cocoa. One of Alpine’s toys, she’d apparently been hoarding them in her pockets, sat on the floor near the couch, a little mouse with a frayed string tail.

Bucky picked it up slowly, didn’t say a word. You looked over at him and could see it in his face now, what she saw in him. The cracks. The strength beneath them.

Later that night, you and Bucky hadn’t said much since she vanished. There wasn’t much that needed saying. But the silence wasn’t empty anymore. It was full of what came next. Neither of you quite knew what the future held. But now, you both knew who it held. And someday sooner, maybe, than either of you thought, you’d meet her again; for the first time.

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes #bucky x reader #marvel x reader #bucky barnes fic #marvel fic #thank you for the request!#thank you for the ask!#request fulfilled

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eddiemunsonw · 1 year ago

Text

Gossip in town

Steve Harrington x fem!reader

Summary: You and Steve love a good gossip. There's some joy in talking about other people's misery to distract from yourself from your own miserable dating life, right? Besides, that's what friends do. Right? 'Cause that's what you are. Friends.

CW/Disclaimer: Uhhhh some s m u t. Other than that just romance, banter, cute shit. Maybe the cute shit deserves a warning too.

Author's note: We love to say that Steve enjoys to gossip, so I figured I'd drabble something out. Turned a little longer than planned!

Words: 4983

“You need to make him stop coming in here, he’s ruining our brand!”

As you heard Romaine, your colleague, complain, a smile plays on your lips. That could only mean one person.

Steve.

Romaine glared at him from behind the table she was folding clothes at and he raised his brow with little interest. His sailor outfit was a stark contrast to the high-end fashion you sold in the store you worked at and you thought it was the funniest thing ever. The first week, Steve had been too embarrassed to even leave the ice cream parlor. By now, he couldn’t give two fucks. And knowing Romaine hated it only made him come by twice as often.

“Y/N, Y/N!”

His impatient calls made you giggle and you revealed yourself from around the corner to put yourself into his field of vision. He gave a nod of recognition and then started to approach you with big steps.

“I’m taking my break,” Romaine announced, in an attempt to keep you from going anywhere. One person always needed to be in the store, and it was just you two that day. Steve knew about this rule by now, so he rolled his eyes, grabbed your wrist and pulled you towards the fitting rooms.

“Still technically in the store,” he mumbled, flashing you a grin as he took note that none of the fitting rooms were being used. With one smooth move, he pulled back a curtain, nudged you inside, followed and closed the curtain again behind him. He was a little out of breath, either from excitement or because he fucking jogged to your side of the mall. Must have been a sight for sore eyes.

“You were fucking right,” he hissed, not wasting a second as he spilled the tea. You covered your mouth to prevent a gasp and he pulled your hand away as he nodded. He needed not to tell you what, or who it was about. It had been the main topic of your latest gossip, so it was obvious he was talking about Ben Swimmer, one of his old classmates. Steve rested his palm flat on the wall behind you, kind of locking you into the corner of the fitting room.

“Yes, yes keep that mouth open, cause there’s more.”

His excitement was mixed with disgust, given by his expression. His fingers tapped a rhythm on the wall. You swallowed. Not sure if that had to do with the story at all, as you looked up at him.

“No… What is it?!” you asked impatiently. Steve smirked, loving to keep you on edge, and leaned a little closer because that’s what you do when you gossip.

“He wasn’t just cheating on Tessa with Vivian, but also with Brenda…”

“No…” you whispered, giving him a look of disbelief, mouth in fact still agape. Steve cocked his hip to the other side and nodded several times in a quick motion.

“Oh yes. He came into Scoops with her just now, in broad fucking daylight. And guess who also popped up at the mall?”

“Tessa. Of fucking course.”

Steve nodded.

“Tessa. So they’re sitting there eating their ice cream with two spoons, all gooey and sickeningly adorable if he hadn’t been a dick… when Ben sees Tessa, but she hasn’t seen him yet. So I’m watching, right, and suddenly Ben looks at me and tells me to let him go out the back with Brenda.”

“Oh now he wants to talk to you. Dick.”

Steve clapped his thigh with his free hand and made a gesture.

“Right?! So I said that was against company policy and that I unfortunately couldn’t help him. And then I walked forward and accidentally knocked a chair over,” he grinned as he replayed it in his head, “gathered a bit of attention, so weird,” his eyes widened as he spoke, “Tessa’s attention too. You should’ve seen it. I wish you could’ve seen it.”

His sigh filled the small space as he leaned his head back against the thin wall of the fitting room. He knitted his brows together and dropped his hand from the wall to your shoulder, closing his eyes momentarily as he let his brain catch up with his mouth. He seemed a little lost in thought, with his hand gently massaging your shoulder and his chin tipped up towards the ceiling. He didn’t move his head as he looked down at you and you wondered if he had any idea what he looked like right now. Somehow all the adorable-ness his outfit gave him was taken away and replaced for something else by just that one glance along the bridge of his nose.

“Was she mad?” you asked.

“Oh, she was seething. Shouted all sorts of shit at him. I had a lot of cleaning to do after she threw her milkshake in his face, but it was worth it. According to Ben I’m dead by the way. So now you know who to name as a prime suspect, should I ever disappear.”

“He better not.”

Steve shrugged.

“Would be worth it.”

—

The bell above the door of Family Video clanged as you rushed in. Robin lifted her head but was clearly still counting some tapes in her head as she gave you a vague greeting and immediately focused back on her task at hand. Steve on the other hand, immediately poked his head above an aisle and approached you even before you could reach the counter.

“Jake’s gonna ask Trisha to marry him after graduation.”

You gasped and immediately punched his chest, causing him to “oomph” and giving you a look of disbelief. Before he could ask why you punched him, you gave him the answer.

“I came all the way here to tell you that! How’d you even find out?!”

Steve grinned and grabbed the hand you punched him with as he noticed you were subconsciously rubbing your fingers over your knuckles.

“Overheard Brenda and Kate talk about it here earlier,” he said with a nod towards the romcom aisle.

“Ugh,” you groaned, “for once I thought I would have something good to tell you…”

Your pout deepened as you crossed your arms, shaking off his touch. Steve simply replaced it by putting his hand on top of your folded arms, his fingers walking a path from your elbow towards your wrist.

“You did! I just knew it already,” Steve said with a chuckle. He watched you pout for a little longer as his fingers played with the hair tie on your wrist absentmindedly. You were too focused to keep up the play that you didn’t notice his hesitation.

“Hey, wanna watch a movie tonight?”

Just then, as if on cue, Robin poked her head above the horror aisle.

“Yes!”

Steve glanced backwards and smiled softly at Robin, though as he nodded his expression looked a little off. He was chewing on the inside of his cheek until he saw you nod and released some of the tension he was subconsciously holding.

“Yeah let’s. Which movie?”

Steve shrugged. He hadn’t really thought of that. By now he had watched too many to count and there were only so many times you could watch the same movie in a week. He picked up the hair tie between his fingers and let it snap back on your wrist as he bit back a smile. You glared at him playfully, looking for something you could do in return. For a moment, he watched you in stunned silence as you brought your hand up to his neck, trailing your fingers through until you reached the back and yanked at it. Steve gasped and grabbed your hand, twisting you around until he had both your hands behind your back, his chin tucked into your shoulder.

“Caught you.”

As you relaxed in his arms, his breath tickled your neck. Somehow, neither of you had noticed Robin rounding the aisle and as she stopped in front of you, an impatient huff left her lips.

“Well? What movie, guys?” Steve froze around you for a moment and you slowly felt his grip loosening until he stepped aside to check out some of the movies they had.

“Uh…”

You held onto your own arms, realizing your cheeks were heating up and you took a quick few steps towards the door.

“I’ll let it be a surprise, see you tonight! Your place, I assume?” you asked Steve without looking at him.

“Yeah, sure.”

You left and Steve busied himself browsing through the movies with his fingers without remembering any of them.

“You seemed disappointed when I joined movie night.”

Steve gave her a harmless glare.

“Huh? No I wasn’t.”

Robin gave him an empathic smile.

“If you say so.”

Steve shook his head with a laugh.

“We’re just friends, Rob. It’s not like that.”

—

3 years later

It was a Saturday night and you sat on the couch in Steve’s apartment, where you spent so much time you should honestly start paying rent. Not to mention all the products that you had in his bathroom, and the spare set of clothes in his closet. It was a little much, but your home was cramped, and it had been hard to find a place of your own that you could actually afford.

Steve had found a part time job as a basketball coach and filled the rest of his time either with you, Robin, the kids or his failed dates.

But mostly you.

“Do we really have to watch this romantic piece of bullshit?” Steve groaned, flipping over the tape in his hand. It looked small when he held it, somehow.

“Hey now,” you shushed him, “just because Jillian didn’t let you get into her pants doesn’t mean romance is a no go now. Besides, it’s my day to pick.”

You got up to put the tape in and when you sat back, his arm was already waiting for you. His blunt fingernails teased your shoulder as you settled against him.

“She would’ve let me, I was so sure of it. But after she came back from the bathroom she suddenly acted so fucking weird…” Steve mumbled as he thought back on it.

“Maybe she suddenly got her period?” you opted. That surely was something that could make you want to flee out of nowhere. Steve rolled his eyes.

“So? There are pads and tampons,” Steve sighed. They were yours, or so Steve had said when you had asked why there were pads and tampons in a little basket in his bathroom. So you didn’t have to bring your own all the time, had been his reasoning. It was sweet.

“Yeah, well, I don’t know.” “Or maybe she thought you had a girlfriend you were cheating on,” you offered gently. Steve groaned and leaned his head all the way back on the headrest.

“Robin said the same. But if I had had a female roommate no one would bat an eye, so what’s the big deal you’ve got some of your stuff in here?”

“Well, because you don’t have a roommate, I guess?” you suggested with a shrug. His fingers lay flat on your shoulder now, giving it a light squeeze on occasion as he was thinking.

“Whatever. I don’t want a girl that can’t communicate anyway. Like, remember that whole ordeal with Nigel and Yessica? All that drama when it could’ve been solved if they had just asked each other rather than leaving it up to the town’s gossip?”

“Yeah, well… at least it gives us something to discuss.”

Steve nodded, but it seemed that he already was too lost in his own thoughts.

“I want someone who’s straight forward. Honest but kind. Funny. Warm. Also witty, sarcastic… just someone I can spend all day with without being bored. Where I can fully be myself without worrying about anything,” Steve mumbled.

“They’re out there, Steve, I’m sure of it.”

He glanced at you, face a little too close for comfort.

“What about you, then? When was the last time you dated?”

“Uh… Rick.”

Steve scowled.

“Rick.”

“He was fine.”

He rolled his eyes.

“Oh please. If you told me he had bodies buried in his garden I’d believe you.”

This time you rolled your eyes, sitting up a little so he had to remove his arm.

“Yeah, of course you would, because you hated him for no fucking reason.”

Steve’s lips thinned a little but he gave you your space. Leaned back a little, though he kept his thigh against yours.

“I had many valid reasons. For one: He sucks.”

You laughed dryly and shook your head.

“That’s an opinion, not a reason. You basically chased him away.”

“For the better! You know I’m right.”

“If it were up to you, none of the guys are a good fit for me.”

Steve watched as you got up from the couch to grab a beer and wordlessly asked for one too. You sat down on the far end of the couch, away from Steve. He took a sip without removing his gaze from you and lifted one leg on the couch so he could turn to face you.

“Because they’re not.”

“So it’s me.”

Steve frowned and shook his head. Somehow he had shifted closer on the couch without you noticing. His knee touched your thigh.

“What? No. It’s all of them.”

“My standards are just too high, I guess.”

Steve shook his head, his hand finding your knee.

“Shut up, they’re not. You deserve someone who actually appreciates you. All of you.”

A silent implication there, considering he knew all about your dating life. After Rick, you hadn’t even bothered. You dated them only to numb the pain of listening to Steve’s date stories. And since for some reason Robin refused to listen to them, you were the designated person to tell.

Thanks, Robin.

“Yeah, well, so do you.”

He gazed into your eyes, his face so much closer than you had anticipated when his finger lifted your chin gently.

“I appreciate all of you,” he said softly. You watched him silently as you connected the dots of his earlier spoken words to his current ones. His thumb caressed your cheek as he chewed on the inside of his cheek.

“You’re… we’re friends,” you said softly, too scared to trust what his words implied.

“Can’t we be more?” Steve asked, his voice soft as silk.

“Can we?” you whispered.

Steve nodded, his gaze dropping to your lips as he leaned in closer.

“Yeah.”

He cupped your jaw a little stronger as he kissed you, as if he was scared you’d slip from his fingers the moment his lips brushed yours. You leaned forward, his hand resting on his chest. He let out a sweet sound when your fingers happened to brush his nipple and you used that leverage to swing your leg over his lap. His hands found your waist easily as he teared away his lips from yours to explore your neck.

“Ah, Steve,” you whispered, encouraging him to continue. You let your hands roam over his chest until that wasn’t enough and you let them dip under the hem of his shirt. He broke his attack on your neck to look at you hungrily as he lifted his arms above his head to take off his shirt, followed by a hesitant brush of his fingers along yours. With a nod, you gave him the permission to take it off and the look of appreciation at the sight made you feel warm inside. His hands found your waist again as he buried his face in your chest, licking the crevice of your boobs all the way up to your neck.

You felt how hard he was when you shifted your lips and a groan left him.

“Steve… when you said, more, what did you mean?” you asked softly.

Steve leaned back to look at you, eyes searching your face with urgency.

“I— Like, everything? Sorry— Did I… is it too much? Am I too much?” he rambled, a sudden nervosity taking over his system as his hands dropped from your body.

“No! No, Steve, you’re never too much, silly,” you told him quickly, smoothing out the frown in his forehead with your thumb. “I just wanted to make sure this isn’t like a… friends with benefits thing, for you,” you grunted out, cheeks heating up.

Steve let out a relieved sigh and his hands found your waist again, gently digging into your pliant skin.

“I’ve been your friend with benefits for all I can remember. Your kindness, sarcasm, wit, humor, honesty… all of that and more I have benefitted from for the longest time. I just… I’d want, like, to be your boyfriend with benefits. To have it all but to have all of you as well. Want you to be mine, Y/N. Mine only,” he told you sincerely. His eyes slowly turned a little mischievous as your smile relaxed and he moved his hands up to squeeze your boobs as he bit down on his bottom lip with a smile.

“And if that means I also get to, kiss you and stuff, all the better,” he said with a cheeky grin.

“And stuff, huh?” you mumbled affectionately, your thumbs finding his nipples to rub slow circles. Steve’s eyes rolled back and he nodded as he bit back a groan.

“Uh-huh,” he sighed, “god, keep doing that.” A beat. “Please.”

You smirked and rolled your hips slowly against his.

“So polite,” you murmured as your lips found his neck.

“I - ah - would like to say I was raised that way but I guess I’ve just always had it in me,” he said with a chuckle while his hands toyed with the sweatpants resting on your hips still. You laughed softly and hummed in agreement.

“It’s a little too hot for these sweats, don’t you agree?” he asked then, a finger teasing along the waistband.

“Yours too.”

“Can I keep my socks on?”

You leaned back and gave him a glare as he burst out laughing.

“See?! Rick was not fine at all.”

“Shut up. What about Layla with her “call them mommy milkers” spiel?”

Steve bit his lip with a smile.

“That never happened, actually. Tried to make you jealous and failed.”

“You thought that would make me jealous? It just made me reconsider my crush on you.”

“Ouch?”

“Just not big on the whole mommy thing.”

“Yeah, well, me neither.”

Steve kissed your collar bone and let his hands slide down your back to grab two handfuls of your ass. You let out a sweet noise, edging him on.

“Back to point one…”

“Back to Rick with his Star Wars socks during sex…”

He pushed you against him, rolling his hips just in time. Not even Rick with his socks on could ruin this feeling for you. Steve moaned softly into your neck as he found just the right angle for the best amount of friction.

“He came within a minute.”

“Assumed as much. Could tell you were lying your tits off when you said it was somewhere between two and five minutes. As if anyone times that.”

“You said you could last fifteen.”

“Cause I can!”

“So you timed it,” you told him dryly.

Steve rolled his eyes and pushed down your sweats, making you get up to take them off so he could do the same.

“I can last as long as you need,” he promised you, “and look, my socks are off.”

“Still wearing too much clothes,” you mumbled as you snapped the waistband of his boxers. Steve laughed and turned you around so your back was facing the couch. His lips traveled down your chest as he unclasped your bra with one hand, not wasting a second to circle his tongue around one of your nipples as his fingers squeezed the other not too gently, eliciting a yelp from you. You yanked at his hair and he laughed breathily around your nipple.

“Like it when you do that,” he admitted. “Nearly had me chub up when you did it that one time.”

He didn’t need to tell you which time. It had been the one and only time you both had let it come a little too close for comfort. At least, too close to keep up the pretense that you weren’t into each other.

“Could tell. Your cheeks turned pink.”

Steve’s lips explored your stomach while his hands squeezed and fondled your curves. He hooked his fingers around your underwear and easily pulled them down while his lips followed the fabric until there was nothing covering your pussy. He barely let you step out of them before he pushed you down on the couch and lifted your legs over his shoulders. He took his sweet time kissing up your thighs, though you could feel through the tremble of his fingers that he was as impatient and nervous as you were. You had been watching him worship your thighs with his eyes closed, but the moment his lips wrapped around your clit he gazed up at you through his lashes.

“Steve…”

He grinned against your skin and slowly licked a stripe along your swollen lips, gathering juices to slicken up your clit with. Your hand was back in his hair before you knew it, his head bobbing as he started to eat you out hungrily. Noisily. Hands digging into the plush of your thighs as he opened them wider for better access. That fucker knew he was good at this.

Your hips bucked up to grind against him in tune with your moans and he strengthened his grip to keep in control of the pace, which he then brutally slowed down. You were about to complain when suddenly he went to town on you at full speed, his nose hitting your clit just right. The grip on his hair was none too gentle and you felt his warm moans vibrating against you. His tongue lapped at you impatiently, eyes focused on your flushed expression. He relished in the feeling of your thighs tightening around his face when you came all over his tongue.

He bullied your clit a little longer, smirking against your thigh before kissing it as you pinched his cheek to stop him. When he got back on his feet, you noticed his boxers had disappeared without you noticing. His cock was hard, the head slick from precome.

Wordlessly, you shifted on the couch and grasped his thighs to pull him close. He cupped your cheek, unable to hold back a moan as you wrapped your lips around the head and sucked none too gently. Soon enough, his hand was holding your hair in a makeshift ponytail despite letting you decide on the pace. You loved taking control. When you looked up as you bobbed your head noisily, he threw his head back with a groan. He needed to look away if he wanted this to last longer than a goddamn minute. You smirked around his cock and picked up the pace, relentlessly taking more and more of his length until your nose brushed the coarse hair above his base.

“Jesus Christ, Y/N…”

He couldn’t help himself, his grip tightened on your hair and you felt him quickly thrust his hips. You let him and absently realized this was the first time you enjoyed the salty taste of his come in the back of your throat. He broke it off halfway, giving your cheek a sweet caress before turning around to grab a condom that he apparently stored in the drawer of the coffee table. You impatiently slapped his ass, making him yelp and accidentally tearing the first condom.

“Menace, that was a perfectly fine condom,” he complained with his back to you, and you could tell he was smiling. You shrugged and leaned forward giving the spot you slapped a kiss instead. And then a nibble.

“Your ass looks biteable, y’know that?” you mumbled, kneading his ass with a longing sigh as you remembered all the times his ass had looked so good in his jeans.

Steve laughed.

“Yeah, well, so does yours.”

He turned around, condom wrapped and ready, though Steve seemed to hesitate.

“Second thoughts?” you asked, unable to filter your worries.

Steve scoffed and shook his head.

“Of course not, silly. I just— Come on.”

He grabbed your hand to pull you up and started guiding you to the bedroom.

“Want you to be comfortable,” he explained, and if that didn’t make you melt…

He propped up some pillows just perfectly and made sure you were comfortable before he positioned himself above you.

“You’re so beautiful,” he said softly, leaning down to kiss the part of your body that covered the heart that carried so much love for him. His hand slipped between you two, playing with you some more so he was certain you’d feel good once he’d go inside. He kissed you deeply, slowly, really taking his time compared to your first kiss. You both loved kissing. It was one of the many things you had shared complaints about when your dates weren’t into it as much. You had lost count how many times you had mentioned you could kiss for hours, secretly thinking of the other person.

Steve gazed into your eyes as he pushed inside slowly, his breath hitching as the sensations overtook his body. He moved without a rush, relishing being able to watch your expression as he fucked into you. His moans escaped from his lips whenever your lips weren’t against his to silence them. His tongue darted out to lick your ear and a gasp left you as he moved down and bit your neck. Your nails scratched his back as his thrusts became harder, your moans no longer contained by the press of your lips. You wrapped your legs around his hips, allowing him to fuck deeper. Sweat dripped from his forehead, mixing with yours as droplets found a way into your hairline.

“Y/N… baby, fuck…”

Slow, hard thrusts helped him ride out his orgasm while his hand flicking over your clit got you clenching around his cock until you knocked over the edge. The muscles in his arms were shaking as he kept himself from collapsing on top of you, so you poked his side to make him collapse anyway.

“Oof,” you groaned, followed by a laugh.

“I was trying not to crush you,” Steve mumbled into your neck, humming pleasantly as he inhaled your shampoo.

“Maybe I wanted you to crush me. Needed some pain to know if this was all real.”

“Sure hope it’s real. Never came this hard.”

You snorted.

“It didn’t take fifteen minutes, though,” you told him, even though you had no idea.

“I told you I’d last as long as you needed me and uh, by the way you tried to clench my dick off I think I did just fine,” he responded cockily through a giggle.

“Touché,” you mumbled.

“Mmmm.”

Steve gave you a kiss, slowly, sweetly. He rested his head next to yours, slowly moving his body off of you in favor to pull your leg over his waist as he cuddled you close.

“Would it be too soon to tell you that I love you?” Steve asked, looking at you with what you could only describe as love in his eyes.

“Normally that’s a definite red flag, even you said so,” you said teasingly as you combed your fingers through his damp chest hair. “But if I said I love you too, then that would make two red flags, and two negatives is a positive, right?”

Steve shrugged, a smile spreading on his face.

“I’m sure there’s an argument against that, but I was never good at math anyway.”

“Me neither.”

Steve smiled and put his hand on top of yours.

“I love you.”

You leaned in for a soft kiss.

“I love you too.”

He watched you quietly, content and happy. At least, until a frown formed on his forehead and he cursed softly.

“What is it?”

“I lost the bet.”

You pushed lightly against his chest.

“This better not be one of those movie plots where you pretend to fall in love with someone for a bet and then supposedly actually fall for them and shit,” you tell him with narrowed eyes, although you knew Steve would never do that.

Steve laughed and shook his head.

“Nah, Robin bet me that I’d sleep with you the moment we’d confess our feelings to each other, and yes I say each other because she was convinced you liked me too and I did not believe her. So I said bet, because I thought this,” he said as he gestured between you both, “was never gonna happen. So… yeah. Well. No regrets, though, obviously,” he mumbled, stealing another kiss.

“What did you bet for?”

“Taking her shift every Saturday, even if that means a double shift for me,” Steve groaned, “and you know what she said? She said: ‘It will be for the better, because I know you two. I don’t wanna be around when you fuck like rabbits in the adult section.’ as if we’d ever—”

You gave him a look.

“Okay, she was probably right but still! Ruthless, that one.”

“She’s gonna be soooo smug…” you mumbled.

“Yeah, it’s gonna be hell.”

“I’ll just ravish you on a random Tuesday to torment her,” you shrugged and Steve laughed.

“I like the sound of that.”

“Thought you would.”

His hand wandered over your thigh and he smirked slowly.

“Wanna take a shower? There’s a girl who left basically all her toiletries here so I’m sure there’s something you can use.”

“How convenient.”

“Very.”

Steve’s gaze was absolutely smitten, and you were pretty sure your expression matched his perfectly.

FIN

If you enjoyed reading this, please know that comments and reblogs are highly appreciated :) Likes are lovely but sadly do nothing to spread the fics around! Help your favorite writers (not saying me - in general) out like that so you can continue to enjoy consuming the free work they put out, it's a win-win.

#steve harrington #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington x fem!reader #steve harrington fanfics #stranger things fanfics #joe keery

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adragonprinceswhore · 9 months ago

Text

Make You Feel My Love I Teaser

Aemond Targaryen x Ex-Girlfriend

Summary: A few months after you break things off with your boyfriend, Aemond, you start receiving strange messages and phone calls from an unknown number. Things escalate when you’re sent a video secretly filmed half a year ago, of you and Aemond having sex.

Warnings: 18+, dark themes (mind the tags!), obsession, stalking, exhibitionism, blackmail, threats of violence, emotional manipulation, smut

A/N: Based on this request by anon. Another spooky fic for the spooky season! 🖤

Aemond’s fingers tap restlessly against the rim of his coffee cup. The twitch in the corner of his mouth tells you he's annoyed, and the speed of which his eye darts around the coffee shop, refusing to look directly at you, lets you know it’s your fault.

You’re not sure if he can see the tears shining in your eyes, he’s barely looked at you since you came. He always saw crying as a sign of a weak mind, and so you do your best not to blink, scared a tear will fall and reveal just how pathetic you feel.

It’s not like you’re doing a good job hiding it anyway. The dark circles under your eyes and the paranoid pleading in your gaze betray all your recent troubles.

“I-, I’d like to thank you for coming here after how things… ended”

Your voice is steady, yet there is a thickness in your throat that makes you sound a bit strange, like you’re trying too hard to remain neutral. A performance you’re not quite pulling off, despite your best efforts.

“Mm”

He’s still not looking at you, stern face reflecting both disinterest and agitation. The relentless tapping of his finger continues, practically screaming at you to hurry up and confess why you asked your ex to meet up.

“I’ll get straight to it. Yesterday, I received a video of… us. At that party where we-”, you search his face for recognition, chase his eye so it meets yours. Your voice lowers, practically a whisper,

“-you know”

“No, I don’t”

“Aegon’s summer party… We snuck off to the guest room and-, you know”

Aemond finally lets his gaze meet yours, inspecting your features with a narrowed, suspicious eye.

Does he not believe you?

Before he can call you crazy, or dismiss your clear distress with a condescending laugh, you pull out your phone and show him the video. It’s a bit dark and gritty, but it’s clear that it’s the two of you, Aemond’s head between your legs, your own thrown back on the bed in bliss.

“Do-, do you know who could’ve done this?”

Aemond takes your phone and watches the video closely, pausing and zooming in on your half-naked body. He’s seen you bare and crazed with desire countless times when you were dating, yet your cheeks heat up and you feel unexplainably vulnerable as he carefully examines the video.

After a few moments of contemplation, he hums again and hands your phone back,

“I’ve no clue. I’ll ask Criston for the guest list, probably just one of Aegon’s insufferable friends having a laugh”

He stands to leave, and you momentarily panic at the thought of being alone again. Just as he turns towards the door, your hand desperately grabs the fabric of his coat, and those tears that had been threatening to spill from your eyes do just that,

“Aemond, please, I have more”

You sound so small. So defeated.

He looks at you with the same harsh, unimpressed look even as you silently cry.

So cold.

Maybe it’s what you deserve?

“I need you, Aemond. Please just stay for a few more minutes and let me explain”

He’s frozen for a while, contemplating whether he should indulge you or leave, surely eager to dismiss you just as you had done to him, only a few months ago.

With a sigh, his features soften somewhat, and he steps back, once again taking the seat opposite you.

Full fic coming on November 1st!

#aemond targaryen x you #aemond targaryen fanfiction #aemond targaryen imagines #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond one eye #aemond targaryen #aemond targaryen smut #aemond x you #aemond x reader #modern aemond #my fics

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atyourmerci · 1 year ago

Text

☀︎To the light is to the darkness✩

Abby X reader X Ellie

Prologue to vengeance (can be read alone)

☀︎ ☀︎

Summary: Abby is your childhood best friend, you did everything together, taught each other everything. You were utterly infatuated with each other until Ellie Williams enters your world.

Warning: smut, MDNI, porn w lots of plot, innocence arc, mutual pining, lots of sexual tension, mutual masturbation (in the same room, together), fingering if you squint, useless lesbians, lesbian love triangle, abby needs a hug, phoebe bridgers as her own warning, no use of y/n, no physical description of reader

A/N: okay so holy fuck did I get carried away with this one. I didn’t want to leave yall on a cliffhanger but this dynamic deserves more and I don’t want to rush through it. I hope yall enjoy. This chapter is mostly just abby but there will be lots more Ellie in the next chapter promise :)

✩ ✩

“Someone you couldn’t lose. You said we’re not together, so now when we kiss I have anger issues.”

She asked when it had all started. The truth was you weren’t really sure. There was no definitive date or period of time that signified the beginning or end of it.

A relationship that felt more of interlacing two souls into one that resided in two structures. Shared autonomy of mind, breath, word, and body. Unspoken feelings, touches, and stares.

What started in green fields of pink flowers and brown roots ended in dark rooms and pining embraces. Hand shakes turning into interlaced fingers, laughter filled glances turning into tense stares, and experimental pecks turning into open mouthed pants.

The first time you meet abby was at school at 15. Bright eyed and bushy tailed still untainted from the reality of the world around you. You were quite shy in those years, keeping yourself away from the wild hairs of children ready to grow up and take charge. You were okay with the stability of childhood, the sticky sweet feeling of safety and uncharted terror.

Before Abby’s dad had died, before the muscles and long locks of golden blonde hair she was reserved too. Abby was wrapped in a bubble of comfort, a loving community that doted on her. She felt no need to join the crowd of chaos when she had everything she needed.

Well she thought she did…and then she met you.

In class you had your face shoved into a notebook doodling away of ferns and dandelions you had seen in the fields early that day. If it were up to you, you’d spend every last dying breath in the fields, soaking in sunlight and trailing your fingers through the rows of flowers.

Abby sat next to you in class, always too shy to speak up to you. You always seemed so busy, either reading, drawing, or with your head in the clouds, never truly listening to the lecture ahead. She admired your creativity, attention to detail, and the utter sense of unawareness to your surroundings. She wondered why you didn’t talk to the others, you were so inviting, so pretty. She once wished to look like you, how effortlessly magnificent you looked.

She grew too curious, over zealous at the thought of being close to you, understanding you. She knew she had to speak up.

“H-hey you draw pretty cool- I mean- it’s really good…what you draw.”

You had never taken more than a glance at the freckled girl until then. She always seemed just as busy as you, so you never bothered her.

You let out a bellied laugh at the now crimson red faced girl- completely embarrassed by her attempt at recognition.

And that was that. The two of you were inseparable, attached at the hip from then on out.

Abby seemed to understand your weird quirks and odd fascinations. Even when she didn’t, she was there open minded and wide eyed to hear your lengthy ramblings on about nothingness.

Sometimes it felt like you did most of the talking. Not that it was one sided or you wouldn’t let her butt in, but rather she was completely enamored by what you thought. Sometimes all she wanted to do was to hear you talk, you were her favorite person, the own mold of herself.

She wanted to think what you thought, feel what you felt, see the world through your eyes.

As the years went on you only seemed to grow closer to abby as she grew fonder of you.

Some could call it an obsession, the way you treated each other. Not a single thought went by that the other didn’t know. If you were there, so was abby. If you knew something, so did she.

Everyday she would follow you to the fields after school, your special escape you’d learn to share with the other half of your being.

You’d make her lay across the flower ridden fields so you could draw her glistening hair kissed by the whisk of wind. She let her hair grow longer since you’d ask to braid it for her every morning. She liked it short but she wanted to let you have room to make intricate designs and lace them with weeds you’d found.

Abby would playfully nudge you when you’d draw the hump on her nose in the drawings, but you loved it too much to not appreciate it. You loved all the things she couldn’t in herself.

You two spent hours out in the field daily, even when it rained you’d make her dance around like fairies as mud splattered across your shins. Anything you wanted, she’d do as long as it was with you.

That’s when you asked her to try kissing, she’d obliged.

“Have you ever…kissed anyone?” You ask staring off into the cloud painted sky, tall grass framing your bodies.

She lets out a breathy giggle, “no… you would know if I did.”

You shrug, shoulder crashing gently into hers, “I don’t know, maybe it was too embarrassing to say.”

She trails off, “h-have you?”

“No dumbass you would know…” you push your shoulder into her turning to give her a toothy smile, “what if I’m not good when a boy kisses me?”

Her eyes remained trained onto the pillowy cloud, “you can try on me- I-if you want to.”

It was a good idea, she wasn’t going to judge you, she was your best friend, she was only there to help.

“Okay.” And without a second thought your upper body shot up and lent over hers, pressing your lips into her plush pink ones. It was gentle, only a placement amongst the flesh, yet so charged. Butterflies fluttered through your stomach and up to your throat, something you had only felt once before when you and abby went swimming.

Closeness you thought. Being close to someone causes that. How nice it was to be so close to your favorite person, maybe one day you could feel close to someone again.

After that you continued to experiment kissing. At sleepovers you’d talk about the boys you wanted to kiss, then show each other how you would kiss them. It turned into an innocent routine, pecking her before she would leave, kissing her in the fields when you felt the butterflies.

You’d told her about them- the fluttering in your stomach. Whenever you felt them she told you that she wanted to feel them too. Transferring them through the soft pink flesh, she’d say she’d feel them after.

Soon she’d tell you when she got them, to which you’d return the gesture back. As time went on, the butterflies came more often.

People were starting to notice the relationship, started talking about how close the two of you were. You’d shoo off the irrational comments and over zealous accusations, but abby never did. She just didn’t respond.

“Who am I to ask for more? But you’re breathing in my open mouth. You’re the gun in my lips that will blow my brains out.”

Abby started spending the night daily, she practically lived in your room at that point. After her dad died your relationship grew stronger than ever. In such a treacherous time she clung to the only person who truly understood her. Many a nights she spent huddled into a ball in your lap weeping as you smoothed the hair behind her ear and rubbing circles into the grown muscles in her back.

Abby had taken to working her emotions out in physical labor. Now being a solider full time out of school she had grown muscular and more rough. Her heart was still the same for you, but had grown caged off to the people around you.

Her pleasantries for the rest of the community had grown stale, only allowing a few to get near her. But you… there was always an indefinite spot inside her for you.

Since abby was always around now, in the darkness of every night, privacy had flown right out the window. Not that you had minded- there wasn’t much of really anything abby didn’t know or hadn’t seen.

But when that eery sense of familiarity crept up, when the butterflies would come at night.

She had started out sleeping on the extra bed in your room. Before she had practically moved in she’d sleep with you, but since her stay turned to no vacancy she’d taken to given you the last sense of space, even when you hadn’t asked.

In the middle of darkness as the crickets chirped outside the window you’d tell her the feeling had come back, and she’d always agree, and the room would fall silent again.

“Abby?” You call out to a darkened room, illuminated by the shine of the moon.

“Yeah?” She’d call back from the other side.

“Do you ever…fix the feelings of the butterflies. Like make them go away?”

“Uh yeah- sometimes…when it gets bad.”

“I think mine are…bad right now,” it felt embarrassing almost, there was nothing she could do to help, fix your issue. Transferring the butterflies to abby only made them worse sometimes, and you were boiling.

“M-mine too,” she admits.

“You can fix it- if you need to.”

“A-re you going to stop yours?”

“Is that okay?” You say reluctantly into the tense air coating you. Every slight move felt with a million nerves.

“Mhmm,” she responds, a rustling heard coming from her direction.

Soft hums filled the air from the feeling of release you had allowed yourself in the presence of your best friend. Abby’s breathy moans would only follow quickly after your own, never before.

Dual release become a routine. Allowing the sticky sweet sensations of climaxing in the same bedroom of your other half. It became another thing you shared with her, another check on the list of the endeavors you’d participated in with her.

Talks of the butterflies and the unleashing of them never left those four chipping walls. Some things were meant for just Abby’s ears. All best friends must do the same. You’d never heard of others talk of sorts so you sealed your lips, a secret kept like a bird in a cage.

As you both had grown accustomed to the routine things gradually got more intense. Sometimes you couldn’t get the butterflies to fly away even when you tried for hours, panting out whimpers of frustration. Even when they would go away sometimes they would crept back in immediately, your body unable to be satiated.

Abby begun sleeping in the bed with you, to calm the frustrating unnerve you felt after no avail. She’d tell you she wish she could help you, make them go away. She’d do anything to make you happy.

That’s when you started touching yourselves next to each other. The routine was upheld for so long that it felt natural to do it even when she was right next to you. First fully covered, then in undergarments, to finally completely bare.

Seeing Abby’s bare flesh only made it worse. You weren’t stupid, the pieces were falling into place before your eyes. But you hadn’t seen anyone else naked before, maybe it would be the same. Her flesh so pale, her nipples shades of pale pink roses, and the hair that trailed down to her folds as golden as wheat. You had never seen something so magnificent, so beautifully crafted.

That was something you didn’t share with her. The drawings of her bare flesh. You made sure to memorize each chisel, line, and freckle to be as accurate as possible once you got to your notebook. With every piece of her revealed opening thousands of opportunities to draw her art. She was so fucking beautiful.

“When was the first time?” The auburn girl had asked you.

It all had meshed into a blur, what had happened and when it did. When you and abby had started sleeping together it started on opposite ends. Heat not close enough to sting your flesh but the air still tense enough to be cut clean with a blade. As time grew on and the routine becoming daily, the space between you started to close in. Knees brushing as your legs wavered, arms transferring sticky sweat in the blistering heat of arousal.

The inevitable placement of foreheads touching as you watched each other fall apart, watching the butterflies flutter out of her throat with every pant.

From what you could call the ‘beginning’ of sorts, rather an act of mercy, came from her.

You found yourself in the familiar position of unnerve. Rubbing aimless quick circles on your abused clit. It became a matter of principle at the point, needing to fulfill the urge even knowing the outcome would leave you more helpless than before. Abby’s butterflies were far gone, now rubbing lazy stripes down her slit in attempt to not let you feel alone. She never wanted you to feel like she wasn’t completely enthralled by your every move.

Your leg sprawled across her own, wide open, bucking your hips into the air as you let out frustrated grunts, eyes sealed shut in concentration. She just watched. She loved watching you touch yourself. Abby felt like the luckiest girl in the world getting to watch you, kiss you, feel you. She wanted to feel more of you, every atom in your body she’d kiss if you’d allow it.

“Let me help” she said, eyes trained on your open mouth.

Your brain was too fuzzy to even comprehend the depth of the act, so pent up and eager.

“Mhmm,” was all you could muster up. As her calloused fingers transferred from her skin to your abdomen, your body jolted up. You had never been touched by another. Not like this. She took her time running the tips of her fingers from your side to the mound, taking your hand and moving it your thigh so she could replace it with her own.

Something deep in your belly erupted when you felt her fingers meet your clit. A flock of doves released from their cage, a gasping goldfish meeting water. An exaggerated sigh of relief came out as a depraved moan. Every nerve in your body heightened by her gentle touch.

She drew cautious and attentive swipes across the newly swollen bud, watching for when your breath would hitch.

“You’re so warm,” she said studying your face as it contorted in pleasure. Your chin raised high, burying your scalp into the frilly pillows below. She had then studied the flesh around your neck, oh why had she never noticed that. How thin the skin was there, how close she could get to you in that space.

“I-it feels b-better when you do it,” you admit to her, water in her hands, hips grinding into the soft touch of her. “Y-yeah really?” She says, perking up, so pleased with knowing she could make you feel better. She’d do anything to make you feel better.

You let your stagnant hand run down her chiseled chest to meet her mound, her sticky slit pooling at her core. You meant to return the favor, an eye for an eye. “It’s okay- just let me help you.”

You shook your head in agreement, but let your hand rest on the pulsing flesh, you wanted to feel her like she felt you.

With every gentle circle she took you closer to release. It was so much faster when she did it. When you did it together before you would lie there for hours flicking at the raw skin to no avail, but in minutes she had you tipping at your edge.

Her strokes felt akin to the ones on your notebook, gentle and cautious direction, seeking a desirable outcome. You’d thought to picture this, able to recreate this on paper shielded from her eyes. What would she think if she saw them? Maybe you’d grown too fond of the other half of your heart.

“Abby!” You scream out, nearing your pending release.

“Y-yeah? D-does it feel okay- are you okay?” She perks up in concern, helplessly worried she had hurt you.

“Yes- Yes! It- it’s coming,” you pant out, body slick with sweat as your arousal pools below you. A sloppy mess of bodies interlaced with remorseless pleasure.

“Let me feel them, I want to feel them,” abby says inches from your face, intently watching the contortions of your face below her. The butterflies, oh how she wished she could flutter in your tummy as they do so effortlessly.

You cave shamelessly, pressing into the soft pink flesh. You try to keep them stable, but as you reach the cliffs edge you can’t help but moan pathetically into her throat. Your hips thrust into the calloused fingers, chasing the lasting feelings of her, escaping your doom and passing the burden through your lips onto hers.

You did draw of this, and every time after that. It became an obsession, mental images snapshotted to accuracy for replication later.

The routine increased in frequency and intensity. Exploring each other’s most sacred places. She would let you touch her sometimes, but only when she was touching you. Abby seemed more interested in your pleasure than her own. But she cared about you, she never wanted you unsettled. She wanted to be your salvation.

“I ask you how you’re doing and I let you lie. But we don’t have to talk about it, I can walk you home and practice method acting. I’ll pretend being with you doesn’t feel like drowning.”

“Does she make you feel them?”

She asked when it had all started. The truth was you weren’t really sure. There was no definitive date or period of time that signified the beginning or end of it.

Ellie Williams was so…vulgar, erratic, a ticking time bomb. The pieces of the puzzle connected at last when you lied eyes on the auburn haired girl.

She had entered the WLF as gentle as a bomb to a building. Fiery hot attitude, a chip on her shoulder, and drowning green eyes. At first glance she utterly captivated your ever fleeting thoughts.

When she first walked through the corridors of the stadium your eyes fixed on her, staring rudely at her every move. “Who is that, the girl?” You ask the unfazed blonde next to you, too busy working at sharpening a blade, “names Ellie, they say she’s trouble. By the looks of her, checks out.”

“What did she do? Why is she here?” You continue your glare, taking note of the pink scare rippled along the crest of her eye.

You had never drawn anyone other than abby, but the girls features were so strong, the strokes would come naturally in your grasp. A secret muse possibly, even from a far.

“I don’t know- stay away from her. She reeks of trouble,” she’d remark, finishing off the blade and leading you off to a pending mission.

You tried, you really did. She was so compelling, and you? You were a bee to honey. Was she soft unlike her features? Did she speak of the world beyond her? Did she like to watch the clouds mesh into unlikely objects? Did she know of the butterflies and their ever present existence in your lungs?

Your notebook grew of only her, the short frayed hair, the pink scare, the freckles that littered her face. So effortlessly magnificent she was, unknowingly your own secret work of art.

Until abby found them.

Related to this work

Song lyrics: casual , waiting room , cool about it

Moodboard

If you enjoy the childhood best friend trope with abby highly recommend this fic by @kieranscaren she writes beautifully and gave me great inspiration for this work:)

Taglist: @wishbones999 @bookpagecandlescent @littlegingerperson5 @lookforthelight1 @fict1onallyobsessed @shewantstoknow @a-little-bit-of-everybody

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mochinomnoms · 1 year ago

Note

So uhhhh...... what other kinks would octavinnle have 😗

🦩

I already went into one I think Jade would have, so I'll list three new ones for each and a brief thing as to why, though it's not their only ones I would say it's some of their top ones.

Azul

Oral fixation: Azul has a refined palate, he can note each ingredient used in dishes with just his tongue! He's learned to put that tongue to good use, so it's logical to assume that he'd like to taste you as well. And Azul does love it so. There is no treat taster than you and your cum on his tongue, and while he's not one to indulge in his meals, for you he'd make an exception. I do hope that you are willing to keep your legs open for a quite some time, after all you wouldn't want to deny him of a treat, would you?

Praise kink: Let's be real, because of his childhood, Azul thrives on recognition and praise for his hard work. When he decides to go into something, it's never half-hearted, especially regarding his love and affection to you. So, praise him! Tell him what a good job he's doing, tell him to keep hitting that spot right there, oh god, Azul, you make me feel so goood~ It makes him feel so so good knowing that only he gets to make you feel like this, that only he gets to hear your voice praising him. It gets him off, so keep doing it at all times, whisper in his ear about how smart and wonderful he is in all aspects, the sweet tone in your voice gets him hot and heavy, turning into a need to keep hearing those honeyed words and show you just how deserving he is of your praise.

Breeding: Out of the trio, he is technically the only one with a mating season (two actually). And while he can usually get over those seasons on his own, with you at his side he instinctually develops a need to breed you silly! Who knew he had such a desire to become a daddy, you'll help him won't you? As his mate? Regardless of whether or not you can actually get pregnant, when the late spring and early fall come, he needs to fill your tummy with so much cum that it hurts! You'll spend at least two months out of the year with bent over or in a mating press until you're shuddering and twitching as milky white fluids are dripping from your hole. Now now, Azul can't have that, so won't you let him fill you just one more time? (It's never just one more time.)

Jade

Shibari: Jade thinks it's fascinating how humans don't have long, winding limbs to wrap their mates and make due with soft, pretty colored ropes. It's even more fascinating seeing the fat of your skin bulge against the ropes. Your chest, thighs, hips, all straining the ropes as your hands are tied against your back, helpless to his poking and prodding. Call him sadistic, but he loves seeing you so helpless underneath him, pretty eyes begging for him to use you and make you feel good. It makes him feel a sort of way to hear you beg to free your hands so you can hold him, dig your nails into his skin as your orgasm inches closer and closer. Jade does love having you be so helpless under him, free for him to use as he sees fit.

Service kink: Jade likes taking care of things, to be depended on. After all, he's so good at being a dependable partner, so why not place all your pleasure into his very capable hands? Be warned, though, Jade can be quite sadistic, and once you place your pleasure into his hands, it belongs to him and only him. There's no need to touch yourself when he hands long, nimble fingers to use, a long furling long to sink into your heat, and attentive eyes that watch and study every single moan, twitch, and breath you take. Jade will make sure that your lust filled brain will be drawn to him, immersed with the mind-blowing rapture he provides. All to the point that you'll only be able to cum through him, whether it be his mouth, hands, or dick. It's fine, Jade does love depend on, especially if it ruins you for anyone else after him. That's if you can bring yourself to leave, after all you'll never find another quite as attentive and caring as he. Jade's made sure of that.

Roleplaying: This plays a bit into Jade's service kink, but he does love dressing you up in cute outfits and making you play a bit. Perhaps he is a butler, and you're his master, bringing yourself down to ruin by a lowly servant as he fucks you into oblivion. Perhaps he's come to collect collateral from you for a deal, and you can only offer yourself. Maybe he's a big bad sea monster, and you're a sweet little human that drifted too far off into the sea. In any case, he loves playing into any of his roles, teasing you as you start of shy like an actor with stage fright. It's wonderful when Jade finally gets to see you lose yourself into your role, all for him. Though, don't be surprised if he decides to turn the table a bit, and dresses you up in a maid costume with a leash and collar. As much as he loves playing his usual role, Jade does also love seeing you coo and tend to him (and his dick) like the pretty, sweet spouse he knows you will be. Go on love, get on your knees and make him feel good. It's your responsibility to clean up the mess of slick you've left on his dick after all.

Floyd

Overstimulation: To no one's surprise, Floyd has plenty of energy to go around once he's interested in something, and you are very interesting to him. He wants to see just how much you can take of him and what he gives you until your crying and begging him to give you a break. But unless you give him your safe word, that delicious orgasm he just gave you is blending into the next as he seeks his own euphoria. But don't think that he won't just ignore his own overstimulation, because he will. Just feels so good for both of you that it almost hurts. And yet, Floyd just can't help and keep going. That yummy high on cloud 9 is gonna keep going, even through your shrieks and cries for a break, the rhythmic slap of skin, the shuddering breaths. He just can't stop, even if he wanted to, oh please Floyd! It's too much! It feels too good-AAAAH~ He'll keep going until you both pass out from sheer sensory overload and exhaustion, his dick still in you and ready to go when you wake back up.

Dumbification: This is a bit surprising, or maybe not, but Floyd loves fucking you until you're so sex-brained that all you can think about his him and his dick. He wants you to love his cock so much that you're bending over and spreading yourself open for him with hearts in your eyes. No thoughts, head empty except for Floyd and his cum. He wants a pretty smile with your tongue lolling out. He wants you to see him taking pictures of him fucking you with your hands forming a heart. He wants you to ignore anything and everything else except for him, because you're his little dummy that can only think about him and his pretty dick that's bruising your insides and shaping you for him. And only him.

Dacryphilia: This should actually come as no surprise, but Floyd gets really horny at seeing your tears streaming down your face. But not from being upset, no, he loves the tears that come from him overstimulating you. They're just so pretty! You're so cute, and he's so big, too big for you, but you try so hard! So forgive him if he's a bit mean, a little rough, and dragging out orgasm after orgasm from you so that you're whimpering and sobbing. Such a sweet sight reserved just for him, as only he can guarantee that these tears come from feeling good and not from something more sinister. Plus, Floyd really likes how you pout at him. It's just so cute!! And he just looooves cute things.

#mochi asks #twst #twisted wonderland #twisted wonderland x reader #twst x reader #twst smut #twisted wonderland smut #jade leech #floyd leech #azul ashengrotto #jade leech x reader #floyd leech x reader #azul ashengrotto x reader #jade leech smut #floyd leech smut #azul ashengrotto smut #!nsfw #!breeding kink #🦩 anon

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claramelooo · 2 months ago

Text

CHECKMATE (7/20)

Fuck!!! Uggggh, I love this chapter!!! We are getting close to the kiss...

Enjoy!!

MINORS MUST NOT INTERACT

Warnings: Carol's participation, smooth, a jealous and very annoying Agatha

Pairing: Governor! Agatha Harkness x Fem Reader

Summary: You present your idea, and you don't expect Agatha to like it so much.

Bishop

It's a long-range piece, but can only move along diagonals and cannot jump over other pieces. Each player starts the game with two bishops.

You were surrounded by notebooks, loose notes, post-its stuck to the carpet, the tablet, and even your own arm.

The living room floor looked like an open mind. A chaotic map of ideas, arrows, keywords, and small nighttime obsessions scribbled in black ink.

The sky outside was starting to lighten. The cold dawn light filtered through the blinds, bathing your skin in that pale tone that only exists between the end of the night and the beginning of the day.

You were still in your sweatshirt and the dark circles under your eyes gave away what the clock no longer needed to prove: you hadn’t slept.

The sound of the door creaking pulled you out of your immersion. Carol appeared with slow steps, hair flattened on one side like she had fought with her pillow.

She stopped at the entrance to the room, blinking her sleep-swollen eyes, and she sighed.

“I can’t believe you didn’t sleep.”

You looked up, a pen still held between your teeth.

“Neither can I.” You murmured, pulling the pen out and stretching your neck until it cracked.

Carol went straight to the kitchen, withholding further judgment. The sound of the coffee machine filled the silence, along with the quiet thrum of your own heart, which sped up every time your eyes landed again on the top of the page.

But deep down, you knew.

This wasn’t just about young voters.

It was about her, about proving that you deserved to be there—at her side.

That you were good.

Good for her.

Carol came back with two mugs, handed you one without a word and sat on the couch with the other, observing the organized chaos in front of her.

“This looks like NASA’s bunker.” She took a sip. “You need to chill. How about going out on Saturday?”

You sipped a bit of the liquid, thinking. Going out with Carol wasn’t exactly relaxing but maybe she had a point.

“As long as you’re paying. Fine.” You shrugged.

“Excuse me?! You should be paying! Spend your first paycheck!”

“A deal’s a deal!”

“Ugh, whatever…”

You knew Carol hated spending money, and you hoped she would forget about you.

[…]

You arrived earlier again, with the plan printed on paper and digitized on the tablet. You had put on lipstick. Nothing excessive, just a red touch, and chosen a button-down shirt that made you look smart, and a short skirt that made you seem younger and more effortless. Like someone who thinks fast and well, but doesn’t care about taking credit.

You opened the office door with a racing heart and froze.

She was already there.

Agatha Harkness.

Sitting behind the desk, brown hair parted to the side, a gray blazer draped over her shoulders, those square glasses that were so her and a lot of papers everywhere.

Two advisors were speaking at once, and she was ignoring them masterfully. One hand held a pen; the other, a black coffee cup—the third one, judging by the stack of empty mugs on the counter.

You lit up, just like a needy puppy seeing its owner come home. And then you cursed yourself for it.

Pathetic, you thought. Pathetic and needy, she hasn’t even noticed you.

But she had—by the way her eyes found yours and the way she looked you over, head to toe, assessing your outfit, she liked what she saw.

Agatha didn’t smile, didn’t say good morning. Just… looked at you. But the look was enough. It was recognition, validation.

You walked up to the desk trying to appear professional, even though your legs were still a bit shaky.

“I… I created a plan for the youth voters.” You said, your voice almost steady.

She extended her hand without looking, and you placed the tablet into it carefully. Agatha skimmed the first few lines, then quickly scrolled to the middle and you watched every microexpression of hers like you were reading vital signs.

A jaw muscle, a slight wrinkle in the brow, eyes lingering just a second longer on a suggestion you had written at three in the morning.

“An Instagram profile called… ‘MotherHark?’” She looked at you over her glasses.

Laughter broke out into the room, and you shrank a little. You hadn’t realized how stupid it might sound out loud.

“Well…” you began, swallowing your insecurity, “based on the comments on social media… Young people like your strong, assertive demeanor. The body language, the firmness. I… ran a test last night, just to see the reception…”

You swiped on the tablet and played a short video.

Fifteen seconds of a clip of her putting the host in his place during last night’s interview.

In the background, the cheeky, punchy beat of Breakin’ Dishes by Rihanna. And right when Agatha said: “In that case… let me know and I’ll change the channel,” the beat dropped. The wink, the lethal little smirk—timed perfectly to the rhythm.

An edit worthy of going viral.

She watched in silence, but you saw it.

The almost smile at the corner of her lips. As light as a secret. As warm as a sunbeam on a cold day.

Goddamn.

She was hot.

“I posted this anonymously on TikTok. It’s been less than 24 hours. It’s already hit a hundred thousand views, twenty thousand likes… ten thousand comments.” You said, swiping to the next screen and mirroring it to the TV.

The comments popped like silent applause:

“Who is she?”

“She’s SERVING.”

“Slayyy”

“Mother is MOTHERING.”

Now everyone in the room was reacting, surprised. Finally understanding what this could mean.

Agatha read silently, slowly repeating.

“Mother is… mothering?”

Each syllable came out as a mix of mockery and wonder. Like she was discovering a new language and maybe liking it a little too much.

Shit.

She was so cute!!!

“Yes.” You chuckled softly, now that you had proven your point. “Young people want someone who commands respect… and at the same time, makes them feel like things are under control. Someone who’ll protect them, but without mercy. They want to be taken care of by someone strong.”

You looked at her, steady.

“And that’s who you are. A great mother. The powerful kind, it seems.”

Silence.

Her gaze met yours. Intense, indecipherable. And she smiled. A sly smile, no teeth—just for you.

You knew she liked it.

“And how do we make this work?” She asked, voice low but firm. A challenge disguised as curiosity.

You almost sighed, but you straightened your shoulders and lifted your chin.

“We can start by building the visual universe. Layout, fashion forward color palettes, narratives. Then connect it with behind-the-scenes content, well edited, of course. TikToks from backstage, her reactions during debates, spontaneous interactions with the team. Show the Agatha no one sees. The human one. The ‘Mother.’”

She crossed her arms, intrigued.

You continued, increasingly excited.

“After that… impactful Instagram reels, iconic quotes. Strategic merch. Like mugs that say ‘change the channel’. And the cherry on top: the hashtag. We already have organic engagement with #MotherHark. We can capitalize on it without losing elegance or sounding forced.”

“And how does this help us against the opposition?” One of the advisors asked.

Her eyes never left you, of course.

“Right. No videos tearing down other candidates. I believe this works better if we convince people that candidate Harkness is the best. Show the reason she’s leading the campaign.”

The man jotted down notes, nodding.

She watched you like she was watching a storm take shape.

“And the TikTok?” She asked, still testing the edges of the idea.

“It’s already in beta. We’ll launch an official profile with a special video: your first direct address to the camera. Natural and intimate. Like you’re speaking to… well, your digital babies.”

She raised an eyebrow.

“My… digital babies?”

You laughed.

“It’s just a metaphor. I promise I won’t make you dance.”

“Better not,” she replied, dry. But the smile was still there. “And this first video… who writes the script?”

You hesitated for a second.

“I can write. I can draft something and you tweak it. Or… if you’d rather, we can write it together.”

God, yes… you really did want to be alone with her a little longer.

A comfortable silence lingered in the air for a moment. She looked over at her assistants again, whispered something to them. Then, back at you.

“I like that.” She said simply.

It was like a bell rang inside your chest.

She likes it.

You nodded slowly, trying not to blush. Trying not to look so happy. So needy. So obvious.

But inside, you were bursting.

You were good.

Even if she never said it out loud.

[...]

You were alone.

In your improvised office, as Billy liked to call it, “the idea closet” wrapped in a delicious quiet, filled only with the sound of laptop notifications, scribbles on post-its, and the soft hum of the AC.

The glass wall reflected your silhouette sitting on the floor, surrounded by graphic materials, slogan prototypes, and open folders. A sea of chaotic creativity.

You were so focused on reorganizing an engagement spreadsheet that you didn’t hear the door open.

“Are you working or plotting my murder?” Said a deep voice, laced with elegant irony.

The air thinned. Again.

You turned your head slowly.

She was there, leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, the blazer draped over her shoulders, and that gaze that seemed to cut right through you. As if she could read your thoughts or worse.

“The first one,” you said, swallowing hard. “I need the algorithm to love you as much as the public does.”

She stepped into the room slowly, eyes scanning the scattered papers. The faint rustle of her tailored pants as she moved.

“I’ve been thinking about what you said. About image and setting trends.”

She stopped beside you, crouching down with feline control.

“How would that work, exactly?”

It took you a second to remember how to breathe.

“Well… sometimes what sticks isn’t what’s said, but what’s seen,” you spun your laptop toward her, opening a slide deck. “It can be something as simple as a color. An accessory, a recurring detail. Something that sticks in the public’s mind. Like Ocasio-Cortez’s lipstick. Merkel’s blazer. Or Michelle’s bun.”

Agatha raised an eyebrow, her face was too close to yours now.

“And what did you imagine for me?”

You tried to look calm, professional. But your knee brushed hers and you had to pretend you didn’t feel it.

“Purple,” you said. “Powerful, noble. Feminine, but not romantic or tacky like pink. If we included a purple piece every time you appeared publicly, it would create a visual pattern. Something people recognize without realizing. A symbol. An emotional visual identity.”

She didn’t respond right away. She picked up a random post-it from your pile, read something you’d scribbled at 3 a.m.

Strong enough to lead. Real enough to feel.

And then, she placed it back down without a word. Her eyes returned to yours.

“And who decides what’s emotional?”

You blinked, caught off guard by the question.

She was looking into you now. The kind of look that doesn’t just ask about colors and hashtags. The kind that wants to know who you are and why, exactly, you’re breathless.

“Whoever feels it.” You answered quietly.

She nodded once, slowly.

“You really had to be good, huh?” She said, looking at you with a mysterious smile.

Your cheeks flushed red, and it was funny how after just one night, you didn’t hate her with such intensity anymore and had stayed up all night just for her recognition.

“What? You saying that just because you can’t get rid of me?” You joked, nervously. But luckily, she didn’t seem to notice.

“Exactly,” she said, eyes drifting to a fixed point above your shoulder, lost in thought. Then, coming back to herself. “Stick with the purple,” she stood up. “And send me some wardrobe ideas. Nothing obvious or theatrical. Just… inevitable.”

She turned to leave, but paused at the door. Without looking back, she said:

“And wear a lighter perfume when you work with me. Yours… is too much.”

The door closed.

And you were alone again.

Except for the sound of your heart hammering too loudly in your chest.

Too much?

What the fuck??

Right. You couldn’t afford to dwell on that now. You had to finish your work and head back to class.

Your academic life wasn’t going to wait.

So you closed the laptop, took a deep breath, and got up like someone tucking a secret into their pocket.

Two hours later, you were sitting on the steps of Building H, with a coffee in hand and a Indigenous rights article open on your tablet. Trying to concentrate. Trying to pretend the world hadn’t shifted in the past few days.

But of course, someone had to notice.

“Well, look who’s back from Olympus,” Billy said, dropping his bag next to you with his usual flair. “The goddess of chaos’s favorite.”

You let out a dry laugh.

“She’s not a goddess.”

“But definitely chaos,” he grinned, sitting down. “Come on, spill it. What’s it like working with the chosen one?”

You pretended not to get it.

“Chosen?”

“Hurricane Harkness, duh,” he said, like it was obvious. “She’s everywhere, every timeline, every interview clip, every meme. ‘Mother is mothering’ is trending on my TikTok, by the way. Congrats, personal image assistant.”

You rolled your eyes, hiding a smile.

“I just gave her an idea. She’s the one who put on the show.”

“Oh, and what a show.” Sharon joined in, lounging on the step above you. “That video of her with the Rihanna song? Iconic. I didn’t know she was that… hot.”

You sat up straighter, a little uncomfortable with the comment. Something bubbling in your stomach.

You pretended to keep reading, but it was pointless. They were looking at you like you were… different, like you’d crossed some kind of portal.

Billy nudged your arm.

“Tell me something. Is she really that cold in person?”

You hesitated.

Your mind flashed back to the emergency exit. Her intense stare. The ever present tension. The precise words. The heated kisses. Her hot, pulsing pussy.

Fuck.

Definitely not cold.

“She’s… focused,” you answered carefully. “And very demanding.”

They both looked at you with a sly grin.

“You know, Sharon and I have a bet going about how long it’ll take for you to develop some kind of twisted crush on your boss.”

Oh.

If only they knew.

“Are you guys insane?” You looked up from your tablet at last. “She’s my boss. Older. Way older.” You tried to sound firm.

Billy’s face was serious now, like he was listening intently.

“Okay. Now say it like you hate that.”

You rolled your eyes.

“Billy… come on.”

Then it was Sharon’s turn.

“Seriously, wipe here.” She pointed to the corner of your mouth and you did it automatically. “You’re drooling, sweetheart.”

You rolled your eyes again as the two of them high-fived in front of you.

“What is this? A setup?”

“I just want my twenty bucks.” Sharon said, backing off.

“And I want mine,” added Billy.

“Wait, I didn’t bet anything…” you protested.

“You heard it!” Billy shot back.

Shit.

You owed them forty dollars.

Definitely owed them.

By the end of your classes, you were already at the café across from campus. After the chaos of the past few days, you deserved a break.

The café was the kind that had a small library in the back. Quiet. Perfect for chilly days. You loved it there because… you were invisible.

You read your book carefully. The hot chocolate was like a kiss on your tongue.

Until…

“Well, well, well… what a coincidence.”

That voice…

Agatha.

She wore a wine-colored trench coat, dark sunglasses and a casual tone that felt rehearsed when she approached your table.

Coincidence, my ass.

She sat down without asking. You slowly closed your book, pulse quickening.

“Do you frequent this place?” You asked, disbelief laced with irony.

“You don’t have to say everything that pops into your head. You know that, don’t you, sweetheart?” She smirked, watching your cheeks flush.

“Sorry,” you looked away, even though her eyes were hidden. You knew she was watching, and that alone was enough. “I just wouldn’t have pictured you here. Especially right now… Shouldn’t you be with your aides in some boring meeting?”

She laughed. Really laughed, and the sound warmed your chest.

“I should… but…” she shrugged, like it couldn’t be helped. “I felt like reading.”

Reading… sure.

That usual firm, no-nonsense tone was still there, leaving no room for questions, but you always, always pushed past it.

“And what are you reading?” You asked, like someone with no survival instinct.

Agatha studied you for a moment, and you immediately regretted wearing your Care Bears sweatshirt as your emergency coat.

“Haven’t decided yet,” good old Harkness, always quick with a comeback. “Any suggestions?”

“Have you tried a classic, Governor? What about Pride and Prejudice?” You squinted playfully, earning a laugh—half amused, half incredulous.

She drew a breath before starting:

“‘I have many flaws, but not in understanding, I hope. As for my temper, I can’t guarantee it’s very good. I believe it’s a little too harsh for the world’s conveniences. I can’t forget the madness and vices of others as quickly as I should. Nor the offenses they make against me. My feelings don’t flare up with the slightest effort or attempt. My temperament could be called resentful. Once the good opinion I have of a person is lost, it’s lost forever.’”

You were impressed. She recited Mr. Darcy without blinking. So fucking charming! She must’ve read it dozens of times.

“I was studying Jane Austen before you were even a thought, girl.” She said, challengingly.

And you liked that… How she never shied away from emphasizing her age, her experience.

“‘This is truly a flaw,’” you began theatrically, setting your own book aside. “‘Relentless resentment is a trait that marks a character. You’ve chosen your flaw well. In fact, I can’t laugh at it. There’s no need to be afraid of me.’”

She looked at you and her eyes are smiling. You've never seen her like this and Agatha seemed to glow.

“‘Oh. I believe that in every temperament, there’s a tendency toward a particular form of evil, a natural vice that even the best education can’t extinguish.’” Agatha raised her eyebrows, amused by your scowling expression.

“And I’m supposed to believe your flaw is revealing your questionable character during emergency exits?” You muttered, sarcastic.

“You love playing that card, don’t you, sweetheart? It’s getting boring.” She sighed dramatically.

You clicked your tongue, leaning in a little.

“You know… Mr. Darcy was a bit insufferable at first. But you’re more like Katherine from The Taming of the Shrew.” Your tone was teasing, but your voice had dropped, almost intimate.

Funny how naturally your verbal sparring morphed into shared literary references. Classics always hit during the worst moments and by the look she shot you, Agatha definitely knew who Katherine was.

She let out a short, nervous laugh, removing her sunglasses with defiance. “And who would you be? The stubborn brute Petruchio?”

You smirked, wickedly.

“Well, I don’t usually cast myself in the male role, but since you brought it up… Katherine ends up tamed and married to Petruchio.”

Your implication made Agatha lick her lips, an obvious attempt to restrain her growing irritation.

“Are you implying I can be tamed? Like I’m some wild animal?” Agatha growled, low and bitter. She looked like she regretted coming.

You watched her closely, every feature. Her furrowed brow, her clenched jaw. She was stunning, furious and magnetic. Your gaze dropped to her mouth. Your heart raced, the desire to kiss her almost unbearable.

“Not a wild animal, but you can definitely be tamed.”

The provocation was clear, but your eyes betrayed something deeper.

“You’re so fucking insufferable.”

She closed her eyes, searching for something. Patience, maybe Self-control?

“Did I win?” You whispered, referring to your battle of wits.

“Oh, give me a break!” She rolled her eyes, exasperated and you laughed softly.

A silence settled between you. Not as heated now, but no less intense. Your eyes kept meeting.

“And what are you reading?” She asked suddenly. You turned the cover toward her, and she squinted before picking it up. “Fingersmith?” She asked, flipping through the pages. “What is this, lesbian self-help?”

You let out a breathy laugh, incredulous, and snatched the book from her hands.

“Something like that.”

She smiled.

“By the way, your idea got approved by Barkley’s board.” She said casually.

You blinked.

“Really?”

“Yes,” she nodded. “They’re positively enchanted by the idea of having such a progressive young woman on their side.”

She made a grand gesture with her hands.

She seemed…

Uncomfortable.

She placed something on the table. A small, perfectly wrapped box.

“What’s this?” you blinked.

She stood up, putting on her sunglasses and tying the belt of her coat.

“It’s appropriate.”

And walked away.

“Wait, but the book…”

She was already gone.

Only then did you really notice it was perfume.

Cuir Béluga by Guerlain.

You smiled.

Unbelievable.

It didn’t take long before you searched up the price of that tiny bottle and your jaw dropped when you saw it cost $500.

God.

She spent her money on that, her time.

Inside the box, there was a card. Elegant handwriting on fine paper.

“If you’re going to be by my side, don’t smell like cheap chocolate.”

Ouch.

You liked your perfume…

But there was something about smelling like whatever Agatha Harkness had chosen for you that made you feel special.

Not a nothing.

[...]

The next day, the atmosphere in the office was… strange. As if someone had sprayed optimism into the air vents. People were smiling more. Even the interns seemed less tense.

You frowned when a coworker, whose name you didn’t even know, showed up with a cup of hot coffee with your name scribbled on the lid.

“Well, well, look who’s the star of the hour!” He grinned, holding up his hand for a high five, way too excited for a Tuesday morning.

You hesitated, but gave his hand a light tap, already scanning the room behind him, looking for Billy.

Billy was staring back at you from across the floor, arms crossed. His expression mirrored yours.

What the hell is going on?

“Oh, and Barkley wants to see you.” The guy added before bouncing off with his headphones on.

You glanced at Billy again and he just shrugged.

With a sigh, you headed to Barkley’s office.

The door opened to reveal a room buzzing with cheerful voices, clinking glasses, and an absurd bouquet of flowers on the center of the conference table.

Everyone was there. Directors, coordinators, people too important for you to remember their names. But your gaze froze the second she came into view.

Agatha.

She wore a deep purple dress, tailored to perfection. Her hair fell like perfect waves, makeup subtle, and a brooch pinned to her dress.

Your heart stuttered, like something inside your chest had clenched. She looked like a walking spell.

And unlike the others, she didn’t smile when she saw you.

“There she is!” Barkley exclaimed with that typical energy of someone who loves to pour gasoline on fires. She gestured grandly like she was unveiling a relic. “Ladies and gentlemen, this is the mind behind the candidate’s new communication strategy. A true rising star. A fresh perspective. And only… how old are you, darling?”

You gave a small, awkward smile, feeling the heat climb your neck.

Agatha crossed her arms.

“Twenty,” you answered stiffly.

“Twenty!” Barkley repeated, clapping like she’d just discovered the cure for cancer and was saying hallelujah. “And already redefining political discourse for a new generation. We’re in good hands, people.”

Applause followed. And you saw Agatha looking away, tense, her jaw tight.

After several minutes of speeches, toasts, and clapping you weren’t sure you deserved, the meeting ended with more promises than decisions. People began filing out, laughing and chatting. You turned to leave as well, until…

“You.” Agatha’s voice. Low and sharp like a blade.

You turned.

She walked toward you slowly, her eyes cold.

Right.

Agatha.

Your boss.

Not the woman who was with you last afternoon in the library.

Should you thank her? For the perfume? For the note?

“I’d like to know why you’re wasting time at social meetings instead of reviewing the speech for Friday night’s event.”

It hit like a slap.

You blinked, confused.

“But… I… Barkley invited me. She said…”

“Oh, of course! Show your face. Smile for the investors. Win allies with that charming college student act…” her voice was low, controlled, but the venom was unmistakable.

Something in it unsettled you.

You frowned.

“What’s wrong with that?”

Agatha sighed, like your question was childish. She ran a hand across her forehead. Elegant, but impatient.

“Don’t you see you’re being used as bait? Barkley loves doing that. Picks someone young, attractive, well-spoken… sells them as a symbol of politically engaged youth. But deep down, she doesn’t care what you think. She only wants what you represent.”

You knew that. You’d read all about Jennifer before stepping into this mess.

Was she… defending you?

Or attacking you?

“So you think I’m not good enough? That I’m just a pretty face for the boardroom?” Your voice came out louder than intended.

Agatha stepped back, straightened her posture, chin lifting.

“Don’t put words in my mouth, girl,” her tone was glacial. “But if you want to stay on my team, stop playing the backstage star. You have a job, a very specific one. Stay focused.”

She sounded logical, rational. But she wasn’t. You knew she wasn’t. Her team? Of course you were on her team. She was paying you. Everyone here was on Agatha’s team.

“You’re mad because of this?” Your voice softened, now genuinely confused. “Because I got attention? Because people liked my proposal? Because…”

You paused.

Her eyes sparked.

Silence.

You continued, barely breathing.

“Because I was smiling at other people?”

She took a moment.

One beat, two.

“I don’t have the time or age for this,” that was all she said before turning away. “And I expect all speeches I’m delivering this month, plus the merchandising plan for the marketing team, on my desk by Thursday.”

“But that’s impossible…” It was impossible, it was unethical. It was so many things…

She turned to you, studying your desperate expression.

Then smiled.

“I thought nothing was impossible for Barkley’s golden girl.” She said, the title dripped like poison.

And just like that, she left.

You stood frozen in the middle of the room, trying to make sense of it all.

How could one woman be so complicated and so hot at the same time? You were definitely going to lose your mind.

[...]

Time passed, and you got home with your head spinning, already pulling out your notebook and trusty tablet to keep working. Hours went by, and you didn’t even notice when Carol walked in.

“Hey, Bear!” She shouted, waving her hand in front of you.

“Carol! Hi!”

“What world were you in? Working from home?”

“Sorry, too much on my mind!”

“Look, I brought Chinese food.” She said, pointing to the takeout bags on the counter. You sighed in relief.

“You’re an angel. I’m starving…”

And as you both ate in silence, she dropped it.

“You’ve been really distracted lately. Like… your head’s somewhere else,” she said, using her chopsticks to poke at her noodles. “Is something going on?”

You chewed slowly, processing the question.

“It’s nothing serious. Just the internship, college…”

“Bear, you’ve always been a terrible liar,” she chuckled, her eyes finally locking with yours. “Seriously, what’s going on? You can tell me.”

“I’m fine, Carol. Just tired.”

“Is this about America’s favorite candidate, isn't?” She asked, tone laced with quiet sarcasm, like the name left a bad taste.

“Candidate Harkness?” You replied, almost in panic. God, were you really that obvious? Or did Carol just know you too well?

“No, of course not.”

“Bear, come on,” she set the chopsticks down and leaned across the table. “You’ve been different ever since you started that internship. Like… you don’t laugh the same. You seem obsessed with this job. That's not healthy, you know, right?”

“Carol, I—”

But she was already too close, leaning over the table. Your breaths mingling.

“You know I hate being ignored, right, Bear?” Her voice was soft, teasing. And her eyes—so different from Agatha’s—held that old familiar spark of desire.

“Carol…” You whispered, feeling her come closer, her face inches from yours.

You didn’t want to kiss her again. No matter how safe it felt, no matter how comfortable.

Because it wasn’t her kiss you wanted.

And that’s when someone knocked at the door.

Short, sharp and impatient.

You jerked back as if burned.

“Who the hell knocks at this hour?” Carol muttered, annoyed.

You peeked through the peephole and your heart stopped for a full second.

It couldn’t be.

But it was.

Agatha Harkness.

Wearing informal clothes. No makeup, with that unreadable look as always in her eyes.

You opened the door.

“What are you doing here?”

She looked at you for a moment that lasted too long, as if the question didn’t matter.

Or as if the answer would set you on fire.

~*~

MotherHark huh? I bet you would fall in this marketing smiling lmao (me too)

It's not cool to have sex with your boss for that reason, you know Lol instead of a hate office sex you'll receive more and more demands

Can this be considered a cliffhanger?? If yes, I'm sorry loll

Tag List <3

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#agatha all along #wlw post #checkmate #agatha harkness x fem reader #agatha x reader #agatha harkness #domme mommy #mommy k!nk #lgbtq #lgbtqia #agatha harkness x reader #mommy knows best #dom mommy #bdsmkink #bdsmdominant #older woman younger girl

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