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iniquitousyearning · 5 months ago

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SLYTHERINSLUT0’S KINKTOBER

october 28th. theodore nott. lorenzo berkshire — humiliation / degradation

KINKTOBER MASTERLIST. | 2024.

summary: never let enzo berkshire find out about one of your kinks. unless….

warnings: 18+, SMUT MDNI, halloween ghostface costumes, threesome, fwb!theo, bestfriend!enzo, reader is involved in a bet unbeknownst to her, mask kink, humiliation on high, degradation, fingering, denied orgasm, oral m!rec, PIV, dirty talk, manipulation.

"Black cat mask?"

You shake your head, barely sparing the thing a glance.

"Mm, no. Too unoriginal."

"Right," Enzo sucks his teeth, tossing the mask back into the bin you're both half-heartedly rifling through. "Orange cat, then? That's far more fitting for you anyways."

"Enzo—no cats, please," you mutter, running a hand through your hair, staring down at the disheveled heap of plastic. None of it catches your eye, none of it sparks anything. "It's Halloween. I want something...scarier."

"Of course. Only day of the year you get to pretend you're as terrifying as me." He croons—half-laughing through the words. The tease itches in your mind, and you're halfway to some retort when he's already holding up another mask. "How about this one?"

You glance up, ready to dismiss whatever nonsense he's holding this time, but the sight of it stills the air in your lungs. A Ghostface mask. Stark white, hollow eyes staring back at you—it's grimace cast in a faded glow under tired shop lights. It's nothing—just a mask, just a piece of cheap plastic in Enzo’s hand—but your heart skips, stumbles, clutches at your ribs, and you can't look away.

And there's no goddamn reason for it, no logic—but you're already seeing it, aren't you? Your current fwb—Theo, standing over you; his face hidden, mask in place of those half-lidded eyes that you’ve learned to read so well. And you know—you know the thought is fucking absurd—yet, it knots something in your stomach, spreading heat like a fuse just lit.

"You alright there?" Enzo's teasing pulls you out of your thoughts, and you realize he'd been staring at you that entire time. "You're looking a little...hot."

Hot. Right. Of course he'd notice—of course your best friend would notice the way you went still, frozen in place as if someone struck you with Glacius. You're no good at lying to him, not even on a good day—and right now, your mind is in shambles, already too far gone into the fantasy and—

No. No more of this.

You tear away, fumbling for the edge of a cloak that suddenly seems like the most fascinating thing you've ever seen, your fingers tracing the fabric as if it can save you.

"It's...fine—it's nice," you blurt out, too quickly, too forced, the words tumbling over themselves. "Just—no, not really my thing."

But Enzo knows better. He can spot your lies from miles away. You hear him shift, the quiet rustle of the mask in his hands—and then, he's pulling it over his face, tilting his head just to spite you.

You don't have to look to know he's smirking behind it.

"Bullshit." He steps closer, casually closing the distance, but you know it's deliberate. "You're into this, aren't you?"

The warmth on your face feels like fire now, prickling heat across your skin. He shifts closer again, and for a moment you consider jinxing him—mind scattering into dark, unbidden places—filthy, wild things, flashing behind your eyes, too real. Enzo tilts his head the other way now, letting the mask catch the light, letting it grin.

"Should I get it?" He asks, as innocent as a serial killer. "For Nott, of course."

"No."

It scrapes out of your throat, barely audible, far too small to hold truth. You’re sure he can read you right now—all your depraved thoughts in the rasp of your voice, painfully transparent.

There’s a huff, a snort of sorts. "Are you sure? I think he'd love it."

Despite his insufferableness, he’s probably right. Theo has never shied away from indulging your kinks before. That’s what no strings is about. Maybe he would love it, you know you certainly would—gods how you’d love it—even if you’d rather die before admitting it.

The cloak—you focus on the deep purple velvet, the dark lace edging. "I'm sure. Put it back."

"You don't sound so sure." Gods, he's such an asshole—point only proved further as he takes another step closer. "Does this...does this turn you on?"

"Enzo—For Godric's sake, stop." The humiliation is suffocating. This is just a glimpse at your future should you ever decide to disclose this information to him. Relentless and bloody insufferable. "Let's just—pick something and go. Please?"

A pause, then, and you don't dare look up. The mask slips from his face with another soft, satisfied hum—you don't need to see him to feel the damage done. He knows.

"Sure, angel," he says, trailing as he turns. "Whatever you want."

————

"Matt—have you seen Theo?"

"Uh—not since earlier." Mattheo replies without even looking up, his focus on pouring another dangerous looking drink rather than on you. "He's probably just out for a smoke."

Yeah. Right. Forsure—because his smoke breaks last all bloody day. Doubt twists your stomach, but you nod anyway, grabbing your own drink—something bubbling, far too bright a green to be safe, but it burns down easy all the same. The room spins in a foggy haze, lights bleeding together over costumes, wizard and Muggle and something in between—and you struggle to tell who's who.

Theo had refused to tell you what he was dressing up as—claimed he wanted it to be a surprise. Now, that surprise is nowhere to be found.

"What are you supposed to be?" You raise a brow at Mattheo's striped inmate costume. “Your future?"

Riddle's eye flash as he pretends to be offended for about two seconds until his gaze drops to your own costume and his tongue darts over his lips, taking it in. Beer-maid, tight bodice, shorter than preferred. It's not what you were going for, not in the slightest, but it's all Pansy had in her closet to save you after you and Enzo failed to find anything interesting at the shop the other day.

"Maybe. But you definitely aren't dressed as yours." His attention shifts back to the crowd, a failed attempt at hiding his grin. "Way too much fabric."

You scoff, but that's just how Mattheo is—always a sly comment, always pushing. You roll your eyes and swat at him, but he sticks his tongue out at you and steps back, slipping off into the crowd with a final goodbye wink—and just as you lose track of him, Draco saddles up next to you, prattling on about something you don't care to listen to.

Great, that’s two annoying Slytherins accounted for. Where the fuck is Theo?

Five seconds into pretending to be interested in whatever Malfoy is babbling on about, you give up, turning back to the drink table and skimming over the options when someone new brushes up behind you—

"Enzo told me," the words barely register before you feel it—a hand settling low at your hip. "About your kink."

With lightening speed you twist your neck, glancing over your shoulder—only to fucking gasp at what you find there. That mask. The mask. The Ghostface one from the shop; the one Enzo hasn't let you forget, hasn't stopped teasing you about—you blink, your heart barrelling out of the room, fingers tightening around your cup until it hurts—

The mask tilts, just slightly. "Looks like he was right."

"Theo—"

"Go." His voice is muffled, but sweet Merlin—the sound of it makes your knees threaten to buckle right then and there. His hand slips lower, teasing against the ruffles of your dress. "Run, Bella. Let's play."

Your body locks up, muscles tense and poised on the edge of something feral. You can't look away. Can't think. Can't breathe. His fingers slip lower, lower, until you feel it—cold leather against the heat of your skin and your throat tightens, words dying dead on your tongue.

Run.

A slight lean, and the mask brushes your neck. "Now."

He steps back, a slow retreat, but it feels like he's tugging you with him. You spin to face him, smirking, your voice barely above a whisper—

"And when you catch me?"

"Find out." His head tilts toward the door. It's your cue.

Your feet move before your mind even catches up, slipping through the rowdy crowd, darting through the half-drunk revelers in their costumes—everything blurring into an afterthought as you push past the cobwebs, pumpkins, fake spiders, all the other Halloween decor filling the fogged ballroom. Your fingertips buzz from the adrenaline—pulse echoing in your ears as you dart down one hall after another, not quite sure where you're going, but knowing you need to keep moving.

Theo told you to run—so you run.

You sprint through the castle, the corridors empty save for your hurried footsteps and the scattered Halloween decorations lunging at you from the shadows. You round a corner, making for the dungeons. It's as good a place as any, right? Dark, quiet, somewhere to hide.

Few more minutes and you make it, lungs burning as you stumble into the dreary main hall. You realize the detention room is empty—and it's perfect. You take two steps inside, already thinking you'll be able to catch your breath when—

You slam headlong into something solid.

Head swirling, your vision barely refocuses before you feel a grip on your wrists, pulling you forward with enough force to make you gasp. Everything happens so fast you don't have enough time to process what's occurring before you're forced to focus on the thing you're seeing—ghostface. Staring down at you with those empty, gaping eyes. Unreadable.

It's then that you realize you're caught.

Something shifts behind the mask, an almost imperceptible movement of his head. You'd almost think you imagined it but given that there's nothing else to look at you know it's impossible. The silence is ballooning and you wonder if this is part of the game, if Theo is just savouring the moment, relishing in your reaction. The way you're trembling, your breath stuttering, the way you've gone still—waiting.

You swallow, throat drier than the Sahara, but something about this has you emboldened, the fact he's playing into your fantasy like this—so you decide to tease him, breaking the silence with a soft, breathless laugh as you pull one of your hands free from his grip.

He wanted to play. It's your turn to act the part.

"Looks like you caught me...Mr. Ghostface..." you purr—the silence sticks heavy, making the space between you feel thick, electric. All you can feel are his eyes devouring you. "And now...now that you've caught me...what are you gonna' do with me...hm?"

Gods—the thrill of this is so real, one your certain is more addictive than any drug. An adrenaline rush—not knowing what he's thinking, what he's about to do. Not being able to read him like you normally could. It makes your thighs quake—and there’s half a second where you wonder how much Enzo would pay to see this, how much he’d fucking taunt you for it.

But just as quickly as it came, you shake that thought—focused on Theo, you pull your bottom lip between your teeth and sink to your knees, fingertips teasing from his chest to his abdomen, tilting your head to look up at him through your lashes.

"...please don't punish me." You giggle—and the debauched absurdity of it all makes you nearly choke. "I'll be so good—I'll do anything, Theo—"

You feel him huff, tense, and when your fingers graze the front of his pants—just barely touching his crotch— his hand snaps down like a vice, gripping your wrist, stopping you dead in your tracks.

And then, you hear it. "Salazar sakes—shit—"

Your heart plummets. That voice—it's like being thrown into ice-cold water. No, that's not—it can't be—

"Enzo?"

Your voice cracks as you all but screech, your head whipping up so fast you feel dizzy. No, no, no—

Enzo, who you previously thought was Theo, pulls the mask off and all but verbally confirms it. Your nightmare born to life. Spooling to fruition right in front of you. He smiles, lips curled into something thoroughly entertained, and gods, how his eyes glint with pure assholery—you could fucking kill him.

"Enzo—" you stammer, horror flushing through you, burning through the mortification lodged in your throat. "Gods—what the fuck—"

"Surprise," he breathes, like this is the most casual thing in the world to him.

You scramble back, knees scraping against cold stone—mind spiralling in every direction at once—shame collides with shock and it all burns under your skin, the kind of heat that never settles. You know Theo's voice. You could never mistake it. You know for a fact that was him back at the party— but this, this makes no sense.

"What...what the hell-" your voice stumbles like you're trying to outrun the words. "Why would you—what were you—"

"Relax," he is all too fucking calm. "It was a prank."

"A prank?" You're still on the floor, and for some reason that makes everything worse. "You call that a prank? A—a funny little joke?"

"That's usually the definition—"

"No." You hiss between clenched teeth, anger strangling any hope for composure. "What were you doing in here? This— this isn't—you were trying to-"

"Trying to what?" He sounds so goddamn innocent but you know better. He's toying with you, making sure you know it. He's been your best friend since you were kids but you never said it was by choice. He steps closer. "I was trying to what, angel?"

Your blood boils, the heat spreading fast—pooling low in your core against all specks of your sanity. He's relishing this, drinking in your mortification like it's fine wine—and for some reason, it makes you weak.

"You—" words die with another one of his steps, the toes of his shoes brushing against your skin as he crouches down in front of you, elbows resting casually on his knees. You sit back, ass meeting cold stone. "Enzo—"

"Yeah?" He cocks an eyebrow. "You just gonna' parrot my name all night? Maybe you're too embarrassed to speak?"

The constant mocking feels like ice and you want to slap that smug look right off his face but instead your fucking thighs tense. You have nothing to say—can only stare at him, lungs seizing further as you notice the smirk fading from his lips, something darker replacing it—

"You didn't even know who was under that mask, and you were ready to suck me off," he's whispering, but he may as well be screaming. "You'd do anything for anyone with a mask, huh? I wish I knew about this kink of yours sooner."

He leans in closer, his knees pushing yours apart—you and Enzo had never been strangers to toying the line of friendship one too many times while drunk, but this—

You blink. Staring at him. "You...you're enjoying this way too much."

"Guilty as charged." His smile spreads wider, cockier, his eyes dipping to your lips, then lower. You shiver involuntarily. "I know I should have stopped you sooner, but seeing you on your knees...in front of me...I just..."

He shakes his head before he slowly stands back up—and his eyes flicker to your chest, lingering on your fucking tits and not even trying to be subtle about it.

Then, there’s a sound—the sound of the door creaking open.

You barely hear it, the faint shuffle of footsteps, but it's enough to pull the grin from Enzo's face as he looks up. You're not sure your heart can handle anymore of this—plummeting to the stone beneath you as Theo steps into the room, dressed just like Enzo—black robes, black gloves, Ghostface mask.

"Nott." Enzo's voice is too casual, too easy. "Great timing, mate."

Theo’s silent as he takes in the scene. You—still on the floor, dress hitched up, legs spread. Enzo standing over you, smug, unbothered. Theo's presence fills the room as he shuts the door behind him and locks it, stoking your humiliation into something even hotter, something impossible to escape.

Theo's voice is flat, his tone too even. "Looks like you got caught."

Wait—

"You—" your gaze jumps between them, a wild panic bubbling up inside you. You're so fucking confused. "What is this? You two—"

"Like I said, a prank." Enzo says as he steps toward Theo, clapping a hand on his shoulder. "A bet, really.”

Theo doesn't respond. He doesn't move. He doesn't look away from you.

"A bet?" You choke out, trying to piece everything together. "What bet?"

"Well, you see, angel," Enzo pushes away from Theo and slumps down into a chair just off to the side of you. You feel the dread rolling in like a storm. "I bet big Theo here you'd get so weak in the knees over the mask, you wouldn't even notice the switch. As usual, I was right."

Andddd, there’s the dread. Yup. As expected whenever Enzo is fucking involved in anything.

"Oh, wow—" you'd laugh if you weren't this utterly mortified by the entire situation. "You guys are—gods. You’re going after a whole new high score in the prick olympics, aren't you—"

"Oh, I don't know if you believe that, topolina...I think you're just being shy." Theo cuts through your rambling and you flinch at the sound of his voice. "It's clear this is a fantasy of yours."

Your head tilts up, eyes widening as they meet the empty, hollow eyes of the mask drawing closer.

"I bet you're just embarrassed," Theo's pressing—he's fucking pressing and you don’t think you’ve breathed since he walked in. "Embarrassed that you got on your knees for your best friend...or maybe you're afraid I'd be mad." He pauses, and his gaze sweeps down over you. "Which, to that I'd have to say, I'm far from."

You swallow hard, your mouth dry. "You're...you're not mad?"

Perhaps you were afraid of that—even if you and Theo are unofficial in every aspect.

His answer is instant. "No."

He crouches in front of you, gloved fingers finding your chin, tipping your head up so he can look at you— really look at you.

"In fact...I think you should let him watch..." his thumb ghosts over your lower lip, so soft, so slow—without thinking, your tongue flicks out, barely grazing the leather covered tip, and you hear the soft exhale he releases in response. "After all, this was his idea. He deserves some fun too, don't you think?"

Heat floods your cunt, your stomach tightening at the suggestion. You glance at Enzo, sitting back now with his mask on—legs spread wide, leather hands clasped, calm—you wanted to kill him five minutes ago, but now—

Oh gods—you're really losing it.

"Yeah," you whisper, barely managing the word. "He probably does."

Theo's hand slides down to your thigh, leather fingers curling into the soft skin, pulling your legs open further.

"Mhm." He mutters. "You like being watched, don't you?"

Your breath catches, your pulse thundering in your ears as you nod, your eyes glued to Enzo. "Yes..."

"Say it." His fingers trail higher, teasing the soft skin beneath your dress, fingertips grazing closer—too close—just below the lace hem of your panties.

Salazar save you.

You bite your lip, and the air between you feels like it's thickening, growing too dense to breathe in. That fucking mask. You've fantasized over it. And now, there's two of them. Two sets of eyes—faceless, emotionless, and watching you. It's like something out of your fucking dreams.

"I—I like being watched," you manage to whisper, voice breaking between building lust.

"Louder," Theo growls this time like he's pulling it from somewhere deep in his chest—it sends liquid heat spilling through you. "Louder, topolina. He can't hear you if you're whispering."

Your heart stutters in your chest, and Enzo—gods, Enzo is still watching—stays silent, the mask concealing whatever reaction he might have, but his posture speaks volumes. Stillness, dark fabric of his trousers tight across his thighs, a coiled tension that radiates off him, permeates the space between you.

"I—fuck—" a breathless moan cracks through your words as Theo's leather-clad fingers slip under your panties, grazing your slick slit. "—love it. I love being watched."

Theo hums, the sound vibrating low in his throat, and rewards you by pushing two fingers into your dripping heat. So slow, the pace of his strokes torturous—slick sounds of leather working you open filling the room, mingling with your quiet, shuddering breaths. His thumb brushes your clit, teasing over it until you moan—hard and shameless—

"So loud," Theo mocks, your spine arching into him as his fingers curl inside you. "Eager, filthy little thing. You love being on display, don't you?"

A whimper catches in your throat, your gaze still locked on Enzo, watching him watch you.

You're shaking. You're close. Too close.

Your voice cracks again, nothing more than a whisper caught in a moan. "Theo...fuck—"

"You're so wet, bellissima," Theo breathes behind the mask. You're burning, every nerve sizzling. "You want to cum, don't you?"

You can't speak. Words don't exist anymore, only the pressure—only the way Theo's fingers curl inside you, the way your thighs tremble and ache from holding yourself open, from being watched, from being this goddamn humiliated.

"Y-yes," you choke out, desperate. "Yes, please, I—"

"Ask him." Theo's cuts you off. "Ask Enzo to let you cum."

The room spins. The air thickens into something cloying.

Ask him. Ask Enzo—

You swallow hard, your eyes darting between the two masks. Enzo is silent, still motionless, but he tilts his head slightly, the only indication that he's heard. That he's waiting.

"Please, Enzo—" the humiliation is sickening but you force past it. It’s a broken prayer, vulnerability in verbal form. "Please...let me cum—please—"

Time stretches. It feels like hours, an eternity where nothing exists but the weight of their hidden eyes on you, the way Enzo's fingers twitch, curl over the thick ridge at his crotch, leather knuckles tensing as if he's restraining himself from something primal. You're being devoured whole by this moment—by the unbearable tension, by Theo's fingers inside you, relentless in their assault, and gods—you're going to die if they don't let you—

"Yeah," Enzo finally murmurs, breaking the silence. Theo's gaze flickers to him, waiting. "Yeah, you can cum, angel…”

But as he says it, he shakes his head, and Theo—the absolute bastard—pulls his fingers out without a word.

"…just not yet." Enzo finishes.

The sound that leaves your throat isn't even human, some guttural, helpless whine torn straight from your throbbing, empty cunt. Theo shushes you.

"You'll get to cum, Bella," he coos, standing up slowly. "It'll be soon."

They're toying with you, playing you like a goddamn puppet on strings and it's infuriating in its deliciousness. You've known these men for years, yet it's almost laughable—the way they feel so foreign, so terrifyingly new.

"Oh, Enzo," you sigh, feeling your arousal cool, your body suddenly aware of the icy stone beneath you, of the wet heat slicking down your thighs. "I'm going to kill you tomorrow."

Enzo snorts. "You're welcome to try."

Theo exhales a half-chuckle, helping you off the floor and onto a desk, his hands firm on your thighs as he spreads you open like he's done a hundred times within the last few months.

A moment passes before he moves to loosen his belt and you realize just how close Enzo is now—his chair right beside the desk, his hand palming the bulge in his pants, shameless in his observation. The sight makes you fucking dizzy with filth. Surely, you've lost your mind. This is madness. Every line between friendship and lust—between restraint and indulgence—has blurred and bled into something you can't define, and the thrill of it is intoxicating.

"This is insane," you hiss, breathless, feeling the way Theo's gloves scrape over your skin, two thick digits dragging in your slick. "You're both fucking insane."

"Too much talking," Theo mutters, so infuriatingly calm, even as he drags the head of his dick over your folds, teasing your clit. "So much attitude for someone dripping down their thighs. You want to stop?" The silence stretches, your eyes locked on his, and you can feel the smirk behind the mask. He nods. "That's what I thought. Now shut up and let me fuck this wet cunt."

His hands grip either side of the desk, his body looming over you—the scene from your fantasy you've envisioned a million times. Ghostface—dominant and rough—gods, you want it. So bad it fucking hurts.

Your head lolls to the side, eyes immediately finding Enzo's again—forgetting for half a second that he was even there. His jeans are unbuttoned now, his hand moving rhythmically beneath the denim, mask locked onto you with a single-minded focus that makes your breath stutter.

"Enz-ohhh—" you go to say something to him, but then Theo pushes into you—no warning, no slow build—just a deep, unforgiving thrust that knocks the breath from your lungs, and your voice cracks on his name, the syllables lost in the moan that spills out of you.

"Shit." Enzo groans in response. "Did you just—"

"She did," Theo snarls, his grip on your hips punishing as he slams into you again, harder this time. "The little slut just moaned your name."

There's cursing, from both of them, but it's all a blur in your ears, drowned out by the sound of Theo's hips slamming into yours, the fevered slap of skin on skin, the obscene sounds you can't help but make—

"Yeah, I noticed," Enzo mutters, and fuck, he sounds ruined, completely lost in the sight of you—his best friend, getting fucked by his other best friend. "Fuck."

Theo's hand finds your jaw, forcing your head back to face him, Ghostface mask looming above you like a delicious nightmare.

"Who's fucking you?" His voice is caught somewhere between a snarl and a purr. "Is it Enzo?"

"N-no—" you manage, trembling with every thrust.

"Of course it's not," Theo hisses, driving into you with punctual thrusts to make you feel him, making you cry out when he slams your cervix. "So why'd you moan his name? When it's—fuck—my cock inside you?"

"I—I didn't mean—" you whimper, eyes squeezed shut, but there's no escape. Not from the relentless pace of Theo's dick, not from the way Enzo's eyes never leave you, burning into you like fire. You can't form words.

"Mm—don't be shy now, topolina," Theo purrs, his voice thick with effort. His hips snap forward, and your back arches, a broken sound escaping you. "I think you just love having him in your mouth—his name, his—"

"Fuck, Nott, shut up," Enzo cuts in, his head thrown back, chest tense. "I don't want to hear your voice—"

You can hear the strain, the way he's barely holding it together—

"Look at him," Theo ignores Enzo's words. He lets go of your jaw. "He wants you. He's always wanted you."

Your eyes dart between them, head spinning, unable to form a coherent thought—Theo's fucking relentless, pushing you closer and closer to the edge—and every time you glance at Enzo, you see the way he's breaking, hand moving faster, chest rising and falling with ragged breaths—

"I never knew you were such a voyeur, Nott," Enzo spits, trying to sound casual. "Never took you for being such a filthy bastard."

"What can I say?" Theo groans in response, propping your legs up over his shoulders to drive into you deeper. "Just discovered a new interest, you should try it sometime."

They're still bantering, like this is some kind of fucked-up competition, like you're not about to shatter into a million fucking pieces while your best friend watches—after he got you here and humiliated you with a fucking bet—gods, you'd laugh if you weren't so utterly lost to the pleasure ripping through you.

"And watch you get off on it?" Enzo spits back, voice rough. "I'll—"

Theo snorts, cutting him off. "I think there's more than one person getting off on—"

"Shut the-fffuck up—please-" you manage to moan, the words barely intelligible. You look to Enzo, eyes wide and pleading. "Enz...come here."

"Yeah...?" Enzo breathes out, his voice catching, tipping his head back forward to look at you. “What?”

"Come here," you moan again, trembling, fraying under the pleasure that's building inside you from Theo’s insistent dick. "Let me help you."

For a moment, he hesitates, and you can’t tell what he’s thinking because the goddamn mask hides everything. He's always been the calm one between you—always stopping your drunk kisses, always refraining from taking things too far. But tonight, there’s no more of that calm left in him—

He stands.

Each step he takes feels like a lifetime, but when he's standing next to your head on the desk, towering above where you're laid out like a feast, you don't know whether it's the mask or the situation itself that has your pulse racing. Erotic and terrifying, the not-knowing—a power exchange in its purest form. Theo growls infront of you, his thrusts growing harder, more vicious, as you reach out to pull Enzo's hips closer.

You're already eyeing the throbbing bulge in his jeans, your mouth practically watering as you stare.

"Go on," you rasp, lips parting as you look up through your lashes. "Take it out."

The breath Enzo sucks in is sharp, a hitch in the darkness. His fingers tremble, just barely, as he pushes his pants down his thighs, and the noise that escapes him when his cock slips out and smacks his stomach—low, strangled—makes you moan and clench in response—he's huge.

Your breath catches, a soft exhale of, "oh, fuck."

And the words are barely out of your mouth before both Theo and Enzo respond—low growls and breathless groans that echo in the shadowed room, vibrating through you like electricity.

"Open your pretty mouth," Enzo whispers and you obey without hesitation, tongue slipping out, wanting, eager. His breath shudders, and you wish you could see his eyes. "Good girl."

And then he's pushing into you, sliding hot and thick over your tongue, and at that exact moment, Theo thrusts harder, deeper, and suddenly you're overwhelmed—both of them inside you, filling you, consuming every breath. Moans ripple through the dungeon air, a chorus of sin, and you shake with the sheer intensity of it all.

Theo's thumb finds your clit, starts swirling over it, and you keen—eyes rolling back in your head, Enzo’s leather hands in your hair to hold you still. Tears stream down your face as you gag, spit pooling at the corners of your mouth, but neither of them stop—if anything, they're both lost in it, in the wrecked, messy beauty of it all. Your hands claw at the desk, desperate for something to hold on to as the pleasure builds, tightens, spirals out of control.

Time collapses. It's been moments—it's been hours.

And then it happens—all three of you tipping over the edge at once, crashing into a release so fierce it shatters you. Your climax rips through you, violent, leaving you shaking, milking Theo until he's spent—until he's pouring his cum deep inside your cunt at the same time Enzo groans deep and spills his own over your tongue. A moment passes, and then Theo is the first to pull away, panting, tearing off his mask and dropping into the chair beside the desk, and Enzo follows, tugging his jeans back up before slumping into another chair, mask still on—

Both of them are sprawled there, utterly spent, just as wrecked as you.

And then, after a few long, tense moments, you hear it—the clink of Galleons exchanged. You don't even need to look up for it to register. Theo tosses the coins into Enzo’s greedy palm because he was the true fucking winner here. The sound cuts through the stillness, and with it, that smug, unmistakable sneer in Enzo's voice.

"Told you she'd love it."

Asshole.

You roll your eyes. Your limbs feel like they're moving through molasses as you stand, your hands mechanically fixing your costume, adjusting the fabric against your thighs.

"You know, Enzo, if you wanted to watch Theo fuck me that bad, all you had to do was ask."

"What can I say," he shrugs, lazy, like he's discussing the weather. "I enjoy a bit of gambling."

Theo snorts, adjusting his collar, as if none of this fazes him. His eyes flick from you to Enzo. "Next time you'll be paying me."

"Next time?" You cock an eyebrow. "How generous of you."

"There will be a next time," Enzo says, flipping one of the Galleons between his fingers, that same smirk playing on his lips. "And I'll get my turn."

Your pulse quickens at the sheer arrogance of it, the way he says it like it's not even up for debate. You hate how much you like this side of him.

"Maybe next time you should."

They nod, both of them wearing their smirks like crowns. "Until next time, then."

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dearmisshoney · 10 days ago

Text

caught red-handed (and rock hard)

synopsis. when theo sneaks into your room looking for a charger, he finds something way more interesting — your provocative polaroids. caught in the act, he might as well make the best of it. one thing leads to another, and suddenly, you're both tangled in a mess of teasing, dirty words, and desperate grinding. if you thought he was only good at pissing you off, well… think again.

pairing. brother’s bsf! theodore nott x reader

content/mdni. fem!reader, brother’s best friend!theo nott, dry-humping, enemies-to-lovers tension, degradation & teasing, slight praise (but mostly just theo being a cocky bastard), tit worship (theo is OBSESSED), rough sex, unprotected (wrap it before you tap it tho!!), dirty talk, name-calling (bella, slut, amore), overstimulation & slight dumbification (?), theo begging because he’s down BAD, messy, desperate, absolutely filthy

word count. 3.2k

a/n. first time writing! english is not my first language, so sorry for that! special thanks to my lovely ari (@nottsangel) for encouraging me to write and for making my (horny) gears turn in my head with her sexy blog! <3

check out my mattheo fic too

“stop moving, jackass!” theo hissed, tightening the grasp on mattheo’s limp arm around his shoulders to steady his body. “where the fuck are your keys, mate?” he mumbled again, digging his other hand deeper in mattheo’s front pockets. it was just his luck that mattheo drank himself dumb and, as the ever-caring friend he was, theo had to drag him back to his house.

“hic– dig a little lower, sweetheart, and you will find the treasure itsel—” mattheo started seductively, and it was clear he was completely gone out of this world. whatever fantasy he was living right now, theo was having none of it. a nice and hard step on his shoe made mattheo frown and moan in pain, his dreams shattered. it also made the key to the front door magically slip into theo’s hand.

finally, he could leave this fool and go to his own place in peace.

luckily for theo, it seemed that you were nowhere to be found. probably out at a party, just like the two of them were minutes ago, perhaps drunk out of your mind, or possibly already snoozing on one of your friend’s couch, already blacked-out. not that he cared what your situation was, really.

dropping mattheo’s heavy body on his bed, theodore contemplated helping him out of his clothes, but when mattheo started calling him sweetheart again and threatening him with a good time, he swiftly stepped away from the bed.

“where’s your charger, mate?” he asked, more or less to himself, aware that his bloke of a friend was too drunk to answer him. looking around his cluttered desk and messy carpet, theo searched for any sign of a cable, but nothing of the sorts was to be found.

that stuck-up brat might have one, he thought, and that’s how theo found his way to your room. he knew the path like the back of his hand, and even after the few drinks he had, his stride was confident and unwavering. he has been there on multiple occasions, mostly running little errands for your lazy brother, yet he also beelined for your room on those days when he wanted to pour his frustration out on a seemingly innocent victim. seemingly, as you also do your best — or worst, in that case — to annoy the shit out of nott every time he stopped by your house.

“she’s definitely out.” he sighed as he sneaked into your room, door immediately bumping into a pile of clothes you’ve left on the floor while picking the perfect outfit for your outing.

the familiar aroma of your perfume entered his nostrils at a similarly fast rate, and he inhaled in deeply without even a second thought. he always loved the way you smell, and it pissed him the fuck off. it was sweet, but not too sweet; it was mature, erotic — yet not too vulgar; it was a mystery to him why he found himself attracted to your fragrance every time he registered it.

“looks like someone will have the surprise of their life.”

theo chuckled as he zeroed into the garments on the bed, three sets of bras all scattered aimlessly all over the sheets. no bra, something you usually do, and something theo can’t help but appreciate. be it your own comfort or simply your disregard for external opinions, he was glad you ditched bras on a daily basis. indeed, you make his blood boil with your bitchy remarks and spoiled attitude, but the sight of your freed tits under whatever excuse of a shirt you choose that day instantly rewires and redirects that blood lower and lower to his cock.

too bad he won’t see you tonight.

“charger.” he promptly reminds himself as he redirected his attention to your desk, full with opened make-ups and all sorts of products. messy just like her brother. and, by the looks of it, charge-less just like him. such a big desk, yet no charger for poor theodore’s phone. he was already on enemy territory, so he might as well check your drawers for it, just in case.

holy fucking shit.

no charger in your top drawer, but something even better. something he would have never imagine stumbling upon while searching for a mere cable.

very suggestive polaroid pictures. of you. in lingerie.

they were nicely stacked in the very far corner of the drawer, almost like your basic game cards. but nothing about them was basic– fuck, you looked so pretty, and so hot in them. even under the shitty light of the lamppost outside your window.

theo didn’t think twice and immediately turned on the colorful lamp on your desk, the glossy finish of the polaroids now displayed under a soft pink light.

you were so radiant, so confident, and with each and every picture he uncovered, he was sure it was all a dream he’s having while passed out at enzo’s house. he can’t get this lucky on a random wednesday like this.

oh, but he was about to get even luckier, as he finally arrived at the section where you started taking some of your garments off. the view of your bare tits, barely cupped by your palms, pushed forward into the camera lens, made theo let out a needy groan. and, as if the universe was listening to his thoughts, the next one was an even closer shot of the same position, red lips and soft boobs filling the whole picture frame.

if he thought about stealing a couple of the other ones before, he was for sure taking this one and putting it in his wallet.

his fingers gripped the edge of the polaroid tightly, and all he could think about was seeing such a view live. to have your perfect tits in his hands, to cup and squeeze and push them together. to leave wet kisses all over your skin, to place a big bite right on your sternum, to bury his face between them. shit, to put his cock between them as you let him tit fuck you like the slut that you are. maybe you’d actually be nice to him for once. and even if you’re not, he’d just have to push your red lips down hi–

“what the fuck?”

your voice hit him like a truck. the entire lewd image of you completely vanished from his mind, now seeing anger wash all over your figure as you stepped into your room. he registered your voice first, then your perfume, slightly mixed with cigarette smoke, and lastly, your skimpy little outfit.

no bra, just as he deduced.

“the fuck are you doing, nott?” you asked, and in that moment he realized – you caught him.

not only did he break into your room — initially for a very reasonable motive, a charger, but he also rummaged through your stuff, stopping at your personal pictures and acting like a pervert. “have you lost your mind?” it was obvious you were mad; you stomped in your heels all the way to your desk, crushing all your pile of clothes under furious steps. just as you reached your hand to yank the polaroid picture out of his hand, theo beat you to it and raised it so high up, even your shoes did nothing to help you.

“you always posing like a little slut, bella?” he might have been caught red-handed, but he wasn’t the only one: theo caught you too. yeah, you were in no shape or form a prude, yet these polaroids were something even for you. such scandalous pictures, and, unfortunately for you, he now knew about them.

“you always dry-humping desks, nott?” there it was, that smart mouth of yours; always ready with a retort.

you hit the nail on the head with this one, pointing out something he has been doing unconsciously ever since he found your cute pictures. heck, his tent was still pressing against the edge of the desk, offering him some sort of pressure on his aching hardness.

“matty has a desk like this too. go live your depraved wood fantasy in his room.” you scrunched up your nose, disgusted by his behavior, and pointed at the door with your manicured nails. the nice coat of red on your fingernails were the same shade as the ones in the polaroid, and he was now yet again thinking of the way the meaty flesh of your tits spilled between your fingers.

“but i keep the pic–”

“no way.”

“then i am not leaving.”

you visibly scoffed at his refusal, arms crossing over your chest, hips bumping into the edge of your desk. “give me the picture, you, asshole!” you shouted, banging one of your hands against the desk, shaking the polaroids theo has been placing on it for the past few minutes. “give it back and get the fuck out of here!”

oh, if only you could see yourself right now. you were indeed full of rage, throwing daggers at him with your venomous gaze, but you looked so attractive. there was something about the way your hips were resting against the desk, the roundness of your body nicely elevated by the short skirt you were wearing. and your chest, oh lord, your tits were so tightly enclosed in that stretchy tube top, he could see why you decided against wearing a bra. your make-up was a little smudged, but he was glad to see the familiar red shade on your lips.

“get it yourself, slut.” and with that, theo pinched the collar of his shirt and dropped the polaroid down his clothes. did it stop around his torso? did it dip down into his pants? the only way to found out was for you to start exploring.

“you crazy bastard.” now you were fuming.

without wasting any time, you removed yourself from the desk and, putting all your strength into your arms, you pushed nott alll the way to your bed. “don’t move.” you ordered in a serious tone the moment he was seated at the edge of the bed; rebellious theodore nott would never listen to your whiny little commands though, so, of course, he tried to stand from his seat.

“are you stupid, nott?” and with that you pushed him all the way down onto his back, nicely seating your own body straight onto his lap. “don’t do that shit again or i am sitting on you face next.”

“don’t threaten me with a good time, amore.” he had to bite back with that cocky smile of his, but he did not in fact move an inch again.

why would he, when he had you where he wanted you: straddling him, your ass on top of his hard cock, your wandering hands all over his torso, searching for that polaroid, your chest so conveniently close to his face. you were so caught up in your little detective play, you didn’t even feel nott’s warm hands leaving the sheets, sneaking underneath your skirt, and cupping the fat of your ass.

a moan escaped his lips when his nimble hands found your clothed cunt, one of his fingers slowly sliding underneath your thong, lifting it, then letting it slap back against your skin. the sudden action made you jolt on top of him, and the added friction of your body moving on him made his own hips jump upwards. gripping your ass tighter, theo manhandled your hips to his wants, slowly rutting into you at a steady pace.

“no, no– ah–” catching onto what he was doing, you stilled your wandering hands. one of them moved right on top of theo’s, a silent protest for him to stop his teasing and let you be. “d–don’t do that.” but you couldn’t lie to him, not after you whined so loudly at the contact of his bulge with your needy pussy.

“can’t work with a little distraction, hm?” god, he was so mean, mocking you with his usual arrogant tone like he wasn’t affected as well by the whole thing. “you seem to like it though, your hips are moving against me.” and it was true; your hips were subconsciously matching his rhythm, riding his tent at a similar pace, meeting his thrusts with enthusiasm. your poor clit was already so hard from him dry-humping you, and the rough material of his pants felt amazing with every tiny bumping.

“shut it, desk-pervert.”

“will you stop with the bloody desk? it was your pictures that made me rock hard.”

“you shouldn’t have seen them in the first place.” you were so so mean. you mean to say that he wasn’t meant to see your beautiful breasts in their naked glory? he must have heard it wrong, there was no way you’d say that. you were cruel, but not a monster.

“don’t say that, bella.” theo accentuated his favorite pet name for you with a sharp thrust, making you lose your balance and have your chest leaning more towards his face. “how could i live my life without your gorgeous tits, hm?”

“like you did until now.”

“in agony? no more.”

his words made your cunt sloppier, more and more wetness spilling through your sheer thong onto theo’s crotch. your skirt too gave up, already riding upwards on your hips and covering almost nothing. theo could see the way the shape of his cock disappeared between your clothed folds, the top part of his pants peaking at him from time to time with each thrust of yours against his lap.

“let me see those tits, beautiful.” he raised his hands and grabbed the swell of your breast, thumbling over you nipple to convince you to give in fully. “i will make it up to you, trust me.”

there was no denying it. you both needed relief. fast.

with a slight nod and eager eyes, the two of you removed your top — and more — in an instant. his clothes joined yours on the bedroom floor, and now you had no idea which ones were clean and which ones were due a washing.

“oh my fucking god, mi fai impazzire (you drive me crazy)!” straddling him yet again, this time theo had the honor of burying his face between your bare breasts, inhaling that lovely perfume of yours and mouthing at your feverish skin. moving slowly on top of him, now grinding your drenched thong against his bare cock, you allowed theo to worship your breasts like he promised. twisting and pinching each nipple with dexterous fingers, he got them up and perky for his greedy mouth to suck on. “they’re so soft and warm, fuck.”

“don’t ever keep them away from me, understood?” sucking a purple hickey on the side of your breast, theo looked up at you with his blown-out pupils. was it an actual order or was it a plea? either way, theodore nott was whipped for your boobs and you had no chance of escaping his hands and mouth any time soon. “talk to me, pretty.”

“yes, theo.”

“good fucking girl.” he groaned from between your tits, his lips never leaving your tender skin as he started roaming his hands all over your naked body, desperate to leave marks all over you.

his cock twitches against your aching core, your wetness already mixing with his precum and making a mess all over his crotch and abs. the stickiness had your bodies stay glued together, aiding your movements atop of him; feeling every ridge, every vein, every little throb of need.

“you’re fucking soaked, shit.” theo couldn’t handle it any longer, stopping his assault on your breasts and pressing his forehead against your chest in order to ground himself. he needed to feel you fully or he might cum only from humping you.

“let me fuck you, amore! i–” he gripped your hips to stop you from moving, otherwise he might have cum then and there. hoping to finish inside you, he eagerly asks for consent. you wouldn’t say no, right?

“apologize for breaking into my room.”

even horny beyond compare, you were still holding that over his head. such a needy girl you are, yet you seem to be the one controlling the strings right now. theo, ready to protest, could only groan when he felt you moving against him again, letting the mushroomy tip of his cock hit your clit. and, the cherry on top, it even slightly caught onto your entrance on its way back, teasing him with endless possibilities.

so he begged.

“i am so sorry, amore. i am a bastard. please– ah! please let me feel that pretty pussy.”

raising your hips just a bit, you dragged your thong to the side and positioned the tip of his cock right at your entrance. slowly, oh so slowly, you lowered yourself onto him, your cunt warm and welcoming to the intrusion. with each inch swallowed by your pussy, theo’s eyes rolled more and more to the back of his head.

“you feel so good, fuckfuckfuck” theo was about to lose his mind over how great your walls felt against his cock. so hot, so wet; your cunt was sucking him in more and more.

and when you started bouncing on him, he was a goner.

“thank you, amore! fuck, this is heaven!” it could have been all the edging he has suffered while dry-humping, or the couple of drinks he had before, but he was extremely sensitive. his deep groans from before were sometimes substituted by high-pitched whines of pleasure and pain, a great addition to your own sultry moans.

“don’t stop, bella! shitshit” gripping your hips with desperation, he pushed you down onto his cock with more fervor than before, his own hips raising from the mattress and plunging into you at a faster pace. theo was using you like his personal fucktoy, slamming you with force against him, reaching deeper and deeper and bullying that sweet spot of yours with every thrust.

your bed was creaking with the intensity of your movements. your ragged breaths, your chanting moans, your wet squelches around his cock. all of it were increasing second by second, signaling that the end was near.

“look at you, amore! you were made to bounce on my cock.” dipping his head lower to your chest one last time, theo sucked one of your hardened nipples into his mouth. one of his hands sneaked its way down to your clit, rubbing tight little circles against it to make you orgasm.

“cream my cock, pretty! make a biiiig mess for me.”

his words pushed you over the edge and, with one last sharp cry, your orgasm hit you like a truck. your gummy walls clenched like a vice around theo, milking his cock for every last drop. his hips shuttered one last time against your cunt, his load shooting straight inside you shortly after. thick ropes of cum spilled into your pussy, some even dripping around his cock and down onto your sheets.

neither of you moved for a couple of seconds, just staring at one another and at the sticky connection between your bodies, heavy breaths and gasps of air filling the silence.

“i guess you got more than tits, huh, nott?”

“lucky me.”

a/n. feedback is always appreciated! thank you for reading!

#~ 𝘩𝘰𝘯𝘦𝘺 𝘫𝘢𝘳 #smut #theo nott #theodore nott #theo nott x reader #theodore nott x reader #theo nott smut #theodore nott smut #brother's bsf!theo #x reader #fem!reader #slytherin boys #slytherin boys smut #slytherin #slytherin smut

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yieldtotemptation · 6 months ago

Text

CRASH ft. Wonyoung

wonyoung x male reader smut

11k words

When she wanted to be (and it was often), Jang Wonyoung could be a real fucking bitch.

If you were to ask her, she’d probably say the same about you.

And yet, that doesn’t stop her from calling you in the middle of the night, slurring about some shit with her manager, telling (not asking) you to come pick her up.

You’re inclined to recommend that she fuck off and find her own way home.

But of course, you don’t. (You never do).

“Sorry boys, my ride’s here!”

There’s a collective groan of disappointment that ripples through the crowd that’s formed up behind Wonyoung; each face falling one after another as they realise that ultimately none of them get to be the lucky suitor that takes her home.

Moths around a flame, unable to do anything but watch as she sashays through the neon haze towards your car. Hips sway with a drunken grace, a dangerously short skirt dances around her thighs, high heels strapped to her feet make her legs seem endless.

It’s a view, that’s for sure.

It probably makes the pain of rejection a little more bearable, makes them forget that they’re being abandoned on the sidewalk with all the rest of the has-beens and ‘who the fuck were you again?’

Her ‘co-workers’, technically. Some you recognise, most you don’t. But they’re all basically the same insecure douchebag in a different shade of overpriced streetwear.

You’d probably be doing the world a public service if you were to steer your car onto the pavement and run them all down.

It’s an idea you entertain a little. Doing it would really ruin her night.

That’d almost make it worth the dent it would put in your brand-new car.

Still, you can’t completely blame the gaggle of potential casualties, not really.

It’s Wonyoung.

Girls like her are the reason they invented the word ’idol’ in the first place, because calling her ’pretty’ or ’hot’ is like calling the Mona Lisa ‘a nice portrait’.

It doesn’t even begin to cover it.

Like the starlet she is, Wonyoung waits until she’s at your car to make her grand exit. A turn to her adorers and a final goodbye: a casual flick of her wrist, a sweet, flirty smile and a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it wink that’ll have them deep in their group chats ranting about how they definitely had a moment with the Jang Wonyoung.

You just roll your eyes. You’ve seen that wink a hundred times.

You know exactly how much it’s worth.

After all, it’s your car that she’s climbing into, slamming the door behind her like it’s her name on the registration; leaving behind her new fan club with nothing but their dicks in their hands and their heads swimming with fantasies of what totally could have happened.

You’re no better though, are you? The second she slides into the passenger seat, you’re judging the shortness of her skirt, eyes greedily tracing the length of her thighs, all the way up to a hint of lace that’s destined to be ruined later.

You’re not subtle. And in that outfit, she’s not either.

“What took you so long? I swear to God I’m going to punch the next guy that asks me ‘how much of a baddie I really am’.”

No thank yous, no pleasantries, not even a look in your direction.

To think that you used to be impressed by how quickly she could drop the act: gone is the sugary sweetness that she’d fooled those simps with back at the club; the pretty, airheaded, ‘lucky Vicky’. As fake and useless as the glasses resting on the bridge of her perfectly shaped nose.

Next to you is the real Wonyoung, the one that you’ve become intimately familiar with: intimidatingly smart, unfathomably hot, and all too aware of how dangerous a woman those two traits made her.

“Why is this car black? I thought I told you to get the red?”

You glare at her. The gall on this woman.

“What are you waiting for? Drive.”

Barely a minute in and she’s setting a personal best record for time taken to piss you off; impatiently kicking off her heels, tossing them over her shoulder and into the back seat (of again: your car, not hers).

You can be just as childish: you slam your foot down, pedal to the floor, wheels screeching, and you peel off into the night. The acceleration forces Wonyoung back into her seat, scrambling for her seat belt, yelling, “What the fuck?”

Now she’s looking at you. You’re casual, offering, “Oh, sorry, did I scare the passenger princess?”

“You’re an asshole.”

“Yeah, and you’re welcome,” you grumble, slowing to a more reasonable (legal) speed as you turn onto the highway. “Remind me, when was it that I started operating a taxi service for wasted idols?”

“Oh, I’m so sorry.” She rolls her eyes, puts her hands together, bows her head down low. Rich, coming from someone who’s never had to genuinely apologise for anything in her life. “Didn’t realise washed-up trainees had such precious schedules.”

It’s a low blow, her go-to insult for you. Nothing you’re not used to; it’s been years of this, after all.

Years of Wonyoung, the living reminder of your biggest failure, making your life her personal pet project. Years of her smugness, of her flaunting her success in your face, of her demanding more from you, demanding better.

Years of you pushing back, pushing her, and somehow always ending up in the same place, the same bed, the same tangled mess of sweat and spite.

To think it all started when you saw her across that shitty practice room and one of you (you forget who, though it was probably her) said the wrong thing at the wrong time, and it was pure hate at first sight.

“Couldn’t get literally anyone else? Don’t you have friends?” You throw the question out there, keeping your eyes on the road, and not down at her legs, crossing and uncrossing, teasing and taunting. It’s a herculean task—she’s practically ninety percent leg anyway; so fucking easy to admire, so right wrapped around your waist.

“Trust me, I tried. None of the girls have their license, I definitely can’t call someone from the company, and the last time I tried to get a taxi the fucker recognised me and threatened to leak my address. So that leaves me with you,” Wonyoung sighs. “The last resort.”

“Wow, what an honour,” is your reply. You’re still not looking—not sneaking glances at her stomach, as she stretches in your passenger seat.

As an exercise, you pretend she doesn’t exist. Pretend that the hem of her shirt isn’t rising up, peeling back to grace you with a glimpse of her midriff, that waist, her abs tight and exerted after a night spent out on a dance floor.

It nearly works—for a second, you forget you’re supposed to be annoyed at her.

Right until Wonyoung laughs. Not that fake, high-pitched giggle that she knows you find so grating. No, this has an edge to it, a bite that she reserves just for you. “Don’t pretend like you weren’t waiting for me to call. Or were you in the middle of jerking it to my fancams again?”

There’s the memory, the one loss in territory you haven’t quite recovered from. (A reminder: be less blasé about what you choose to name your saved playlists.)

You fire back with, “Yujin’s actually, but nice try.”

“Whatever, pervert.” Your attempt at a riposte doesn’t work, it’s dismissed, leaving Wonyoung satisfied that she’s won this exchange.

As for her prize, she does what she always does—gets touchy with your property.

She busies herself, fiddling with the touchscreen on your dashboard—’What the fuck is this playlist?’ and 'Why do you listen to this group? You know all those girls are absolute bitches, right?’.

“Stop that.” You reach over to slap her wrist before she starts getting too ambitious and messes with the temperature controls again.

"Hey!” Wonyoung yelps, recoiling, and then pauses. You turn to her, see her annoyingly flawless features scrunch up in disgust as she asks, “What’s that smell?”

You curse under your breath as you realise what’s coming. Wonyoung’s frustratingly sensitive when it comes to scents; she’s got a nose like a bloodhound—and a penchant for sticking it in the parts of your life she doesn’t belong.

She’s gone as far as 'gifting’ you every perfume you’ve owned, every body wash, every shampoo, even your fucking laundry detergent.

Just another way she’s tried to take over your life.

You give your own car a whiff, if only to see if this is just another case of Wonyoung being a brat.

It doesn’t smell bad at all.

In fact, it smells sweet. Too sweet.

“Ew, seriously, what is that? Is that you?”

You’re too slow—she’s got your forearm now. For someone that looks so delicate she’s got a grip like a vice. She brings your wrist up to her nose, sniffing, making her way higher up your arm.

“Let it go, Wonyoung.”

She’s not listening at all, unbuckling her seat belt, leaning over the console, pulling herself closer to you, pushing her body against yours. Whatever little respect Wonyoung had for your personal space is gone; her nose is on your neck, her breath hot against your skin.

“It smells like…” She pauses, getting even closer, taking a deep inhale as she tries to place the fragrance. “Why do you smell like a whore?”

Her voice is low, coloured with a barely noticeable slur. You can feel it: the powder keg about to explode, Wonyoung getting ready to go from zero to a hundred. So, you deflect, “Sure you’re not smelling yourself?”

“Fuck you, I don’t use that cheap shit,” she snaps. “You fucked someone tonight, didn’t you?”

You don’t reply. It’s not like you owe her one, anyway—she’s not your girlfriend, you’re not her boyfriend, you two are…

Rivals, mortal enemies, fuck-buddies, friends-with-benefits (except without the whole friendship part).

(Take your pick, call it whatever you want, or in Wonyoung’s case: don’t call it anything at all.)

“Who—who was it this time?” Wonyoung’s fingers tighten around your arm, and there’s that spark in her eyes.

Every chance she gets, she’ll insist she gives so few fucks about your personal life, but one mention of another woman and she’s diving right in the mud, for once not hiding the fact that she may actually give a shit about you.

It’s probably why you do it.

“Who’s the slut dumb enough to spread her legs for you?”

Now it’s your turn to avoid her gaze, to pretend that having her this close isn’t doing wild things to your heartrate. You make an unforced error: “None of your business.”

“So you did fuck someone.” Her hand moves down your arm, dragging her fake acrylics across your skin until they find purchase in your thigh, digging in hard enough to make you flinch. “You fucked someone I know didn’t you. Who…” She’s reading you, trying to find the answer somewhere in the stress lines of your face. “Hyewon. Yena. Yuri. I swear if it was fucking Eunbi, I’m going to—”

“Going to what?” You challenge. You know this game. You’ve played it before—every damn time she gets like this (and you know where it leads). “Going to lie to me about your own personal survival show back there?”

Wonyoung scoffs. It’s a throaty sound that seems almost foreign coming from her—too impolite, too uncouth for the elegant, refined image she’s painstakingly cultivated. But she makes it anyway, because she’s had a few too many drinks and you’re the only one who’s around to see her like this—raw, unfiltered. “Those losers? I’m not like you, bringing home every pair of tits that strokes your ego.”

“Good to know that I’m special then,” you smirk, but she’s not smiling back.

No, she’s just looking at you, in that annoying, Wonyoung way. It’s those big, doe eyes of hers that you’ve seen do so much damage before—make men bend over backwards, light themselves on fire just to get her to look their way. “You wish.”

You push on, push her just a little bit. “Drop the act, Wony. I wasn’t your last resort—I’m the only one you even considered. You needed your daddy—isn’t that what you were calling me before?”

“I never said that.”

“Wony—”

“And if I did, I’ll never say it again,” she declares, before emphasising. “Never. Again.”

But you know her better than that. You know her lies just as well as she knows yours; it’s in the quickness of her response, the defensiveness—the vulnerability.

“I doubt that,” you say, making the most of the tiny crack in Wonyoung’s armour. “I remember you screaming it. Had you cumming like a fountain—ruined a perfectly good set of sheets, you know?”

“You’re disgusting,” she hisses, but she’s got the same memories in her head—that same night, so similar to this one (so similar to every night before).

The fighting, the fucking, the endless cycle of pushing each other’s button until one of you snaps.

“And what about you? You got here awfully quick for two in the morning,” she says. Her hand’s still on your thigh, less nails, more fingertips now, tracing patterns through the denim of your jeans. “Couldn’t bear the thought of me with someone else, could you? Lie to me—tell me that you weren’t waiting to get your hands on me again.”

Your denial dies before it even makes it past your lips—your own body turns traitor on you, provoked by her hand rising higher. There’s a smile as Wonyoung finds what she was looking for, the proof in the stretching of your jeans, the outline of your cock begging for more of her attention.

“At least this part of you is honest,” she muses, fingers dancing around your growing stiffness.

You grit your teeth, doing your best to keep the car steady, managing to grind out, “Please. It’s like you said, any decent pair of tits does it for me. Even your tiny ones get the job done.”

Her hand freezes on your thigh—you’ve hit a nerve, hit that dark part of her that’s so desperate for validation. “You think you can replace me? Find someone else to fill your sad, lonely nights?”

She’s closer now, her breath against your neck, her fingers drumming a beat right over where the head of your cock is. It’s a heady feeling, one that you hate and crave all at once.

“Was she even good?”

You know what she’s really asking: Was she better than me?

And you know the answer: How could anyone be?

But you don’t say that. You don’t need to. Instead, you reply, “It’s not a competition.”

“Everything’s a competition.”

Wonyoung’s hand relaxes, nails retreating from your thigh, leaving you flustered and fighting against the constraints of your own jeans. She settles back into her seat, having done her damage.

And for a moment, silence reigns inside your car, allowing you to actually focus on the road. Not that it really matters, you know the route to her apartment by heart—you could drive it blindfolded if need be. It’s just a welcome distraction to avoid dealing with the state she’s left you in.

The quiet survives a beat, two, and then Wonyoung’s squirming, shifting in the passenger seat.

And then she does it again.

And again.

You should keep your eyes ahead—you need to keep your eyes ahead.

You know exactly what you’re going to find if you look over at her.

That’s the problem with you and Wonyoung. You know each other too well. Your likes, your dislikes. What gets you off. What makes you mad.

What drives you fucking wild.

And yet, because you’re a sucker for punishment, you still risk a glance, and see Wonyoung, leaning back in her seat, her hand sliding up her own thigh, so casually drifting up her soft, bare skin, higher and higher.

The skirt rises, inch by torturous inch, and it’s those panties—the same set that was around her ankles the last time you had her bent over your couch, swearing she’d hate you forever. The same set that’s probably already soaked, just waiting for you to rip them off again.

You have to tell her to stop, to keep her hands to herself, to not do this to you, not now. Not while you’re trying to keep you both on the fucking road. But your mouth is dry, and all you can manage is a choked, “Wonyoung—”

Her fingers have slid past the hem of her skirt, now playing with the lace that’s the only barrier between her and open air. She’s biting into the plumpness of her bottom lip, staring at you, expecting your full attention, even now. There’s no subtlety with her, there never is, it’s one of the few things Wonyoung’s bad at.

You swallow hard, finding your voice. “What the fuck are you doing?”

“Making myself comfortable,” she says, a little breathy now, as her fingers slip under the lace. “You got a problem with it?”

There’s the flash of skin, a gasp as her fingers find purchase between her folds. So wet that you can hear it—the slickness of her arousal, the quiet sound of fabric sliding against her skin.

You’re straining, gripping the steering wheel so hard, it’s a miracle it doesn’t snap in two. Her hand’s dipping lower, her finger sliding inside herself; not deep, not yet, just teasing. Enough to make you want to pull over, to grab her and throw her on the hood of your car, to show her exactly why you’re the only she thinks about when she’s lonely and desperate.

But you don’t, despite the way your body is begging for you to do something, anything, to ease the ache in your cock.

Because if you stop, it’s over. You know how this ends—or rather, you know how she’ll want it to end. She’ll want you to apologise for even being in the proximity of another woman, she’ll want you to beg for her forgiveness so that she might bestow upon you the privilege of touching her again.

If you’re lucky, she just might let you. But only if you play her games.

So you drive faster.

You push the speed limit, weaving through the mostly empty streets. You’re racing to a finish line, except all that’s waiting at the end of it is the taste of Wonyoung on your tongue, the feeling of her wrapped around you, the sweet victory of making her scream.

It’s hell—ignoring the sound of her pleasure, the wetness of her fingers working in and out of herself. There’s glimpses of her in the corner of your eye; she’s still watching you. Enjoying this, loving every second of it.

“What’s wrong?” She asks, oh-so-innocently, even though she doesn’t expect an answer—she just likes to hear her own voice. “Getting distracted? It’s a long, long way back to my place. No one can blame you if you need to give up and pull over.”

Wonyoung’s getting bolder now, pulling her skirt up to her waist, parting her legs for you, so you can see her hand moving faster, her hips rising to meet her own touch. So you can hear her, hear the fucking sound of each stroke of her fingers inside her, punctuated each time by a wet slap of her palm against her cunt, reverberating through the car, taunting you.

“You want it, don’t you?” She throws the question out so casually, like of course it’s only natural for her to be fingering herself in your car, of course she should be doing everything in her power to make you want to drive into a fucking wall. “I can tell, you’re so desperate to touch me. Definitely going to die if you don’t fuck me soon. Maybe even right here, right now?”

Your foot slips and the car swerves a little—it’s not much, but it’s enough to let her know that you’re losing focus, that she’s winning.

“Careful,” she laughs. “You wouldn’t want to crash before we get to the fun part.”

“You can’t wait until we get back to your place?” You finally ask, the question burning in your throat.

“No. You need to be reminded that you’re-ah-mine,” comes Wonyoung’s answer. “You’re going to fuck me anyway, so why not-mmph-why not save us both the trouble and get started on my own?”

“You don’t own me, Wonyoung.”

To that, Wonyoung raises a carefully sculpted eyebrow.

It’s not even worth a proper reply. Without a word, Wonyoung reclines back into her seat snaps open the buttons of her shirt. Casually revealing the swell of her breasts, the darkened peaks of her nipples.

No bra—they’re just there. Right there, in your face—those tiny, round, perky tits that you’ve had in your hands, that you’ve had between your teeth, that you’ve covered with your cum more times than you can count.

She’s not shy about it—never has been—arching her back, pushing her breasts out even further. It’s the confidence from knowing every other idol (hell, every other woman in the world) would sell their soul to have a body like hers. So why the fuck not flaunt it?

“Somehow, I don’t think that’s true,” she says, reaching up to her chest. A palm finds her tits, pinching and rolling the sensitive nubs, making them nice and red and swollen for you.

She’s moving faster now, grinding down on her own hand, teeth sinking down into her bottom lip so deep you’re surprised she hasn’t drawn blood. Her breaths are getting shorter and shorter, she’s so close, she’s so fucking turned on, she’s so hot it hurts.

Her eyes remain fixed on you; seeing you struggle only makes her hotter, spurs her to circle her clit faster. She’s drinking you in—the tightness of your jaw, the way your eyes can’t decide whether to keep on the road or on her, the way you swallow, trying (and failing) to keep it together.

The worst part of it all is this wicked smile that’s settled on her lips; thoughts of wiping it off her face with your cock flash through your mind. She’s just so fucking smug about it, so sure of herself.

And maybe she should be.

“Admit it,” Wonyoung purrs. “Admit that you need me.”

“Why would I? You’re just a convenient hole to fill.” It’s not true, of course. You’ve never believed it; none of the hundred times you’ve said it to her before—and she’s never once been fooled.

Wonyoung is back in your ear, “You’re a bad liar.”

Her hand’s returned to your thigh, teasing closer and closer to where you really want it to be. You grunt a weak, “Wonyoung, if you think that’s going to work—”

But she doesn’t listen (she never does).

She reaches for the bulge in your pants, far too quick for you to stop her from wrapping her fingers around you, from taking a hold of you and squeezing.

“See?” She whispers, thick with satisfaction, feeling you throb in her grip. “You’re already about to burst. You can’t resist me. No one can.”

You’re not backing down. You’ve got your own pride to think of, after all. “Save it for your fan club.”

Wonyoung’s never been one to take no for an answer. Her hand moves with purpose, sliding over your zipper and giving it a forceful tug. The sound rings through the car, and it’s an out of body experience; it’s all in slow motion as she pulls out your hard, aching cock.

Fuck.

“Last chance to pull over.” Wonyoung takes a hold of you, fingers curling around your cock with a firm grip that leaves no room for doubt—she’s not letting go until she gets what she wants. “Who knows what will happen if you keep driving like this. Wouldn’t want to ruin these expensive leather seats with your cum, now would we?”

“Not a fucking chance.”

“Your funeral,” she answers, her smile widening into a full-blown grin as she starts to move, stroking you, her hand gliding up and down your shaft with familiar ease. “Or ours, I guess.”

She’s not making it easy—there’s the slow, deliberate pumps, her thumb circling the head, her fingers teasing the sensitive skin. It’s so natural for her, so goddamn good.

“Are you sure you can handle this?” Wonyoung’s question hangs in the air, joining the sound of her fist pumping your cock, the squish of her own fingers plunging in and out of her cunt. It’s a taunting metronome, the more you try to ignore her, the tighter she squeezes, the fastest she strokes you, the louder she moans in your ear. “Are you sure you can handle me?”

“I’ve done it before and I can do it again,” you grit out. “You’re going to be the one begging for it in the end. Like always.”

She huffs, and you’ve found your mark. “Oh, really? You think you’re so much better than me? You think you can just ignore me like that?”

“Better than you? Easily,” you answer. “You’re just a pretty face and a pair of legs that can’t keep itself shut.”

That makes her stroke you harder, tighter now, firmer, she’s trying to make this hurt. “Is that what you tell yourself?”

“What gives you the impression I even think about you at all?”

“Oh, I know it keeps you up at night—thinking about me, wondering if I’m thinking about you, wondering if any other slut can make you feel the way I do,” Wonyoung’s leaning on you, chin propped up on your shoulder, a devil in your ear. “You hate it, don’t you? You hate that it’s my cunt that you can’t get out of your head, that it’s my pretty lips that you need so badly around your cock.”

"Are you sure you’re not just projecting, Wony?” You ask, glancing down to her hand between her legs, her fingers deep in her folds, her cunt dripping with juices and making a small puddle beneath her. “Look at how wet you are at just the thought of having my cock back between your pretty lips again.”

“Fuck you.” Wonyoung’s panting, short harsh breaths. There’s no conviction in her voice, no denial to be found—this dance of spite and lust has her so fucking heated. All of it—the hate, the competition, the push and pull: it’s all just foreplay. “You’re nothing to me. Nothing but a back-up plan, a toy I play with when I’m bored.”

“Now who’s a bad liar.”

“Go fuck your—”

You don’t let her finish her insult. You’re tired of the back and forth, the games, the fucking power plays. You take your hand off the steering wheel, grabbing her by the hair, wrenching her head up to meet your eyes.

“What the fuck do you think you’re—” Wonyoung’s mistake is opening her mouth in protest—you push her face down onto your cock; not giving her a chance to argue, not giving her a chance to do anything but suck you dry like the skinny little slut she is.

She chokes, hacks a cough as you plunge your cock down her throat, her nose meeting your waist, and it nearly has you emptying into her mouth then and there.

Turns out, she’s right.

You do need this. Need to feel her perfect, pouty lips on you again, her teeth grazing against your skin, her tongue giving in and worshipping you like she’s never done with anyone else.

You keep a hand wrapped up in a fistful of her hair, but you don’t even need to hold her down—she doesn’t fight you, doesn’t even make the slightest noise of protest. No, she just takes it; never mind how much her eyes water, her mouth drools.

“Fuck,” you’re moaning before you can think better of it, and just like that, you’re conceding the smallest victory to her.

And it makes her smile around your cock.

You grunt in response; buck your hips, feed her your cock, make her gag (make her regret it).

You don’t ease up, because if there’s one thing you know about Wonyoung (one thing you know about fucking Wonyoung), it’s that the most insulting thing you can do to her is to take it easy on her.

Just fuck her face and behold the sight of Wonyoung taking your cock. God, her pretty lips wrapped around you, her throat bulging at your length, her teary eyes staring up at you with a mix of defiance and something that’s eerily close to adoration.

It almost makes you forget that you’re supposed to be driving, and it takes a honk from a car behind you and a smile and a curt nod from Wonyoung to remind you of the world rushing by outside.

You pull your eyes back to the road, both hands on the steering wheel to right the car back on track, barely escaping death by deepthroat.

Wonyoung laughs around your cock, a muffled sound that sends vibrations up your shaft. You try to ignore it, but she’s already seizing the opportunity, taking full advantage of the distraction to push down on her own accord, to take you deep—to start properly sucking.

You swerve again.

Her mouth is absolute heaven, pure and simple—she’s a fucking master at this. Your cock’s been in her mouth so many times before that she could probably write an instruction manual on exactly how to make you come unglued.

Too much all at once—you’re groaning now, unable to help it. She’s not even trying that hard; just taking your cock between her lips, sliding it all the way down her throat, a few gentle licks here, a swirl of her tongue there, but it’s more than enough. It’s what keeps you coming back. No one else feels like this—no one else has mapped out your cock like she has—every inch, every vein.

It’s the rhythm that she’s got down to a science: how fast to take you, how much pressure to apply, when to break from her pace to keep you teetering on the edge.

You can feel her eyes on you, scanning you for any sign of weakness—this is precisely where she wants to be. Like this was her decision—like everything leading up to this was part of some messed up strategy to provoke you, to make sure that your cock ended up in her mouth.

You don’t get a chance to dwell on that thought, not when Wonyoung’s teeth is at the base of your cock, her cheeks hollowed out, her tongue doing these little flicks that make your toes curl.

And there’s the question in her eyes: ’is that all you got?’.

Fuck it—risk taking your hand off the steering wheel, it belongs in her silky, dark hair. Make her eyes widen, make her take you deeper, kiss the back of her throat with the tip of your cock, force these divine fucking sounds.

The noises when she gags around you, when the spit is hacked up and drooled down your cock; she’s so sloppy, so filthy.

And she takes it, takes all of it.

Push her down before pulling her up by the hair, choke her, gag her, have her slobber all over your cock, make her feel you.

Wonyoung takes and takes and takes.

It’s fucked up how you’re treating her (how she’s letting you treat her); she’s an idol for fucks sake. But that’s the last concern you have on your mind—all you can focus on is how fucking good it feels to do this to her, to have her fighting for air around your cock, fighting to keep her eyes on you as you fill them with tears.

Wonyoung’s not giving up though—she’s timing it, timing you. When to relax her throat to take you deep. When to suction her lips. Where to dart her tongue to find that sensitive spot along your shaft.

She’s battling back, in her own way, just as determined as you are to not lose this war of wills. But in the end, you’re the one in the driver’s seat.

“Mmmph,” she’s the one moaning now, moaning around your cock. Shivering in your lap, body jerking and trembling; you can tell her fingers are still buried in her cunt, playing with herself.

She’s so fucking shameless, so fucking pretty, even like this—cheeks flushed, makeup smeared, eyes watering.

You want to kiss her, but that would mean separating her lips from your cock. You want to tell her how much you hate her, but the words won’t come out—they’re stuck in your throat, lodged between your grinding teeth.

“Wait—fuck.” You realise you’ve missed your turn, a split second too late. You jerk the steering wheel, needing both hands as you pull a sharp U-turn. The tires squeal as you try to correct your error, Wonyoung’s mouth around your dick scrambling your brains.

She pulls her lips off from your cock with a hollow ‘pop’. “I thought you could handle me?”

You try to reply—try to form a single coherent thought—but the chance slips by as Wonyoung’s back on the offense, back throating your cock so quickly that your vision swims.

A deep breath is what you need to keep it together. You’re barely thinking straight, holding onto the steering wheel for dear life, doing everything you can to keep yourself from giving up (giving in to Wonyoung’s mouth).

But it’s hard. So fucking hard.

You’ve blown far past any normal speed limit, trying to keep from spinning out with every one of her enthusiastic bobs—it’s by some divine benevolence the car hasn’t completely flipped over by now.

Wonyoung’s relentless, her mouth’s a fucking black hole, sucking you in, stealing every thought from your mind until there’s nothing rattling around your skull but the feel of her wet, warm lips on your cock, and the obscene sounds of her fingers sawing in and out of her pussy, fucking herself.

You’re almost there, and Wonyoung knows it. You can feel it in the suction of her lips, in how hard she’s working you over. It’s the sweetest kind of torture—knowing that she’s got you right where she wants you, that she’s got you on the edge and you can’t do anything about it.

You’re not going to last much longer.

Neither is she.

So you drive. You drive like your life depends on it, because maybe it does. Maybe the only thing keeping you sane is the promise of your eventual release, of filling her mouth with her cum, of pulling her onto your lap and fucking her cunt raw until she screams your name.

“Come on, you can do it,” she’s taunting you now, lathering your cock with just her tongue, dragging it along your length, licking you all the way from your balls to your head. She’s giggling as she steals the pre-cum from your tip, the fucking bitch—like she’s got all the power in the world.

You can see her apartment building in the distance, a beacon of light in the darkness.

You’re almost there.

You reach for the garage remote, mashing the button as you get closer and closer (you’re going to break it). The gate sluggishly opens, and you make a sharp turn to swerve into the dimly lit building, not bothering to slow down.

You can’t, not when Wonyoung’s balancing your cock on her tongue, her hand now squeezing at your base, stroking so fast, so erratic, determined to have you cum in her mouth as soon as fucking possible.

“You’re going to cum for me, aren’t you?” she asks, expectantly. “Cover me in it, give me what I deserve—show me how much you need me.”

The car’s screeching to the closest parking space, the sound echoing through the garage, as you skid between parallel white lines.

You’re cumming before the car’s even completely stopped.

It’s explosive; a white-hot heat searing through your veins, a roar in your ears as you shower Wonyoung’s perfect face with ropes of cum. She’s still jerking you off with her hand, her mouth hovering around the head of your cock, slurping up every drop she can get.

“All mine,” she chants, greedy for it. You pulse in her hand, your cum spurting over her cheekbones, across her nose, painting over that tiny dark freckle above the corner of her mouth.

She doesn’t flinch, doesn’t even blink; she’s a statue, a goddess demanding her sacrifice. Her grip is ironclad, stroking you through your orgasm, not stopping until you’re drained, until your cock is twitching in her hand and there’s nothing left but a sticky mess plastered across her big, wide grin.

You feel the last of your orgasm pulse out of you, dripping down her dainty fingers. She licks her lips, smearing your cum across her cheek with her thumb before she sits up straight, basking in her victory.

“Fuck, Wonyoung,” you somehow manage to choke out.

“Mm-hmm,” she nods, not looking away from you, not breaking the eye contact that’s holding you hostage. “I knew you couldn’t resist me.”

She’s not done yet—she still has to take her victory lap.

Wonyoung pulls herself off you, giving the tip of your cock a parting kiss as she sits back in her seat. She lifts her legs up—those endless stretches of porcelain skin—one after another, slow, dramatic, placing her bare feet on the dashboard.

Her skirt rides up, and with a stretch she drags her panties up her thighs, along her calves, and off her feet; the lace is soaked with her juices, leaving a trail of stickiness as she reveals herself to you.

The panties disappear somewhere into the backseat of your car, another spoil of war, and she spreads her legs wide, so wide, making sure you have a perfect view of her gleaming cunt. You can see her clit, peeking out from between her folds, and it’s all you can do to keep your hand from reaching over and taking over.

But this is her show, isn’t it? This is all for her, all about her getting off. And she’s fucking drowning in it—fingers in her cunt again almost immediately, so wet, so hot, so shameless in your car, so confident in her ability to get what she wants from you.

Her hips rock up and down, she’s fucking herself in front of you—for you. She’s daring you to look away, challenging you to deny how fucking hot she is.

You can’t.

“I’m going to cum now.” It’s a low hush, confident. “Watch me. Don’t move. Just fucking watch me.”

Wonyoung’s eyes are crystal clear, staring deep into you with the look of a girl who’s gotten everything she’s ever wanted in life. It’s that look she gets right before she shatters, and you know she’s there—right fucking there.

Her other hand reaches up, cradling your cheek, needing some connection, needing you to be with her. It’s not enough to just simply cum, she needs you to see it, to be a part of it in some twisted way.

“Just look at you,” Wonyoung says, like she’s not the one that’s covered in your cum, that’s not bucking her hips into her hand, working herself into a frenzy, like she’s trying to tear herself apart. “You can’t keep your eyes off me, can you?”

And she’s right—you hate her, you love her, you want to fuck her, you want to strangle her—it’s all a jumble of emotions in your head.

“That’s it—keep looking at me—don’t fucking take your eyes off me—fuck—yes—I’m going to—”

The only warning you get is a strangled gasp as Wonyoung cums, feeling it through her entire body, forcing her to keel over by just the force of it, making her fall into you.

Her hand on your cheek drags down to wrap around your neck, anchoring herself to you, pulling herself closer so she can smash her mouth against yours.

She’s kissing you, really kissing you, mouth open and hungry, all teeth and tongue, sloppy and wet. She’s marking her territory now, claiming you as she cums, and fuck, you can still taste yourself on her lips—salty and bitter.

Wonyoung’s hand is still working her clit, prolonging her bliss, and then she’s climbing on top of you, straddling you, grinding down on your half-hard cock as she rides out the last of her orgasm.

Her thighs are sticky with her juices, her skirt riding up so high that you can see the bare, plump skin of her ass, and you’re fighting the urge to just push it aside and plunge your cock inside her—

But she’s not giving you that satisfaction—not yet.

Her climax dies right on top of you—her hips rolling on her fingers, her body living and dying on the last embers of pleasure.

Finally, Wonyoung stops, collapsing against your chest, and you let out a deep sigh, feeling the weight of her body pressing down on you. She’s a mess, a fucking disaster, and you hold her tight, your arms around her impossibly tiny waist, your cock coming back to life between her thighs.

It’s intimate, almost kind of romantic in a way that’s entirely fucked up, considering, well everything. You’re both a mess of cum and sweat, panting against each other, intertwined together in the driver’s seat of your car, the garage lights flickering overhead like some kind of sick mood lighting.

Wonyoung laughs.

“You’re all sticky.” She leans back, taking her finger and swiping it across your cheek, coming away with a glistening strand of your own cum, a rope that must have strayed from her face and onto yours.

There’s a glint in her eyes, a dirty little idea, and before you can even react, she’s leaning in again, her tongue tracing the line of your jaw, collecting the rogue drops of you.

She rolls her hips down and over you as she does it, stirring your cock back to attention, because apparently she’s not done with you yet.

“You’re a fucking bitch, Wonyoung,” you reply, but there’s no venom behind it. You’re just stating a fact: the sky is blue, the sun rises in the east, and Wonyoung is a bitch.

It’s just the way she is.

You can feel her smirking against your neck, you can picture the look on her face—like she’s already won. It’s infuriating, really, and you’ve got to even the score.

“What are you going to do, take me upstairs and punish me?”

“No,” you say, the word sticking in your throat like it’s made of honey. “Not upstairs.”

“Here?” Wonyoung looks around your car, doing a terrible job of feigning shock (as if she doesn’t know what you’re about to do to her). Yes, she’s a horrendous actress, but it would take an Oscar worthy performance to mask the heat radiating from her thighs, her cunt dripping down onto your lap. “What makes you think I’d let you?”

“What makes you think you have a choice?”

A press of a button has your seat sliding back, giving you just enough room to lift Wonyoung up, hoisting her above you like she’s a trophy you just won. Congratulations, here’s your Grand Prize—Wonyoung’s tight body, yours for the night (yours for every night).

She can’t do anything but be held by you, have her hips positioned, her cunt aligned with your cock—in your hands, at your mercy, under your control.

“Wait, wait—fuck—”

And then you slam into her.

“Daddy!”

That word. That filthy, devastating word is fucked out of her mouth, a gasping scream as you bury yourself deep into her.

You’d do anything to hear it again.

You don’t bother with gentleness or foreplay—this isn’t a romantic reunion after a long day apart. It’s your hands on her narrow hips; hers doing its best to brace herself on the roof of the car, the window, anywhere she can get a grip.

“Say it again,” you grunt, pulling her back down on you, so hard that she bounces back up, only to be met by another thrust.

“Fuck you,” she spits out, but she’s moaning with every thrust, tightening around you each time, her body betraying her words.

“Fuck you, who?” You’re laughing now, the sound thick and low in your throat as you watch her squirm in your grasp. “You’re going to need to be more specific than that, baby.”

“You know who,” she says, her eyes flying open, glaring at you as she catches her breath. “You always know who.”

“Then say it.”

“Fuck you, daddy.”

“That’s fucking right.”

Her legs are trembling around your waist as you drive into her, nails digging into the threads of your shirt. She’s begging you for more—harder, faster, deeper—because that’s all she wants from you, all she needs from you. It’s always been like this—no soft embraces, no tender kisses. Just more, more, more.

Wrap your hand around her throat, not enough to cut off her air, just enough to remind her who’s in charge, who’s giving it to her. You lean in, so close her eyes cross, whisper in her ear, “This is all you’re good for, you know that?”

Wonyoung’s response is to tense her muscles, clench her cunt around you, buck her hips to slap her ass against your thighs. Another battleground in your endless fight for dominance. Fighting for control, trying to dictate the pace, to set the rhythm, to be the one doing the fucking and not the one getting fucked.

And fuck, she’s tight.

Her cunt, her waist, her body. God, it’s like she was built for this.

Designed to fit perfectly in the palm of your hand, to be filled by your cock, to have her skirt hiked up to her waist like a flag of surrender. You’ve got her right where you want her, where she’s always been, where she always will be.

“I fucking hate how good you are at this,” she gasps, the confession spilling from her lips.

You laugh, “I fucking hate you too.”

She’s kissing you again, fingers in your hair now, scraping the back of your scalp, as she rises and falls on your cock. Reflex has your hand tightening around her throat, feeling her pulse quicken beneath your thumb, making her choke out another ‘daddy’.

You’re fucking her like you hate her, like you’re trying to punish her for every sharp word and cold shoulder she’s ever thrown your way. And she’s taking it like she loves it, like she’s been waiting for this all night, all year, all her fucking life.

Wonyoung looks so fucking good, so perfect riding you like this, it’s starting to piss you off. Her hair’s framing her face in perfect waves, not a single strand out of place, even though you’ve had your hands all through it, your fingers tangled in it. Her makeup’s smudged—you can see the tracks of your cum on her cheek—but she wears it like a fucking badge of honour—and like all things, it looks good on her.

It’s like the universe took one look at her and said, ‘nah, she’s too pretty to let any of that shit ruin her.’

But you’ll try.

Keep going—keep fucking; each moan into your mouth, each push of her tongue against your own, each graze of her teeth against your skin—tells you you’re getting there.

Like you’re trying to fuck out all the spite and anger that’s been building up between you, like you can somehow purge it from your systems and just be left with the good parts.

(It’s never that simple.)

“Wonyoung—” you start, but she cuts you off.

“If I could just have your cock without the rest of you—without your stupid mouth, without that fucking look on your face—fuck yes, just like that—without all the bullshit and fighting—fuck, fuck, fuck—”

You don’t believe her, of course—you’re not just a cock to her, the same as she’s not just a pussy to you. But you let her have her fantasy, let her keep pretending she’s just using you for a good time.

“You’re such a bitch,” you murmur, making her chuckle in your ear, her teeth finding the sensitive skin of your lobe, biting down and making you hiss.

Wonyoung’s confession: “Only because it—gah—makes you fuck me harder.”

And it does—it makes you want to show her, prove yourself to her, make her feel it the next day and every day after. Fuck her until she’s nothing but a trembling, whimpering mess, until she’s begging for you to stop. Until she’s begging for you to never stop.

You’re both getting sloppier now, Wonyoung’s hips stuttering as you pound that spot deep inside her, the one that makes her see stars and scream your name, the car shaking with the force of your fucking.

It’s a badly-kept secret you’re keeping from the world outside—the car’s rocking, the lights inside are on, making no efforts to hide what the two of you are doing (doing to each other).

If anyone looks closely enough, if the security cameras in the garage get curious and zoom in, they’ll see your silhouettes; her body arching back, your hips thrusting up and into her.

They’ll see Jang Wonyoung, the princess of the industry, getting fucked in the front seat of a car like some common whore.

And she’s loving it. The danger, the thrill of being seen, the risk that anyone could walk by and hear her moan your name, her voice strained by your hand on her throat. It’s the fact that she’s letting you do this to her, that she’s letting you fuck her like this, even when she’s telling you she fucking hates it.

This moment—Wonyoung—right here, is what you live for.

You want to save it, to bottle it up and keep it with you forever. You want to remember how she feels, how she tastes, the fucking sounds she makes when she’s just about to cum. You want to replay this in your head every time you’re alone, every time you’re with someone else—because even though there might be someone else, they’ll never come fucking close to her.

And then you get an idea.

It’s a terrible idea, one that’ll surely end in disaster—like all the best ideas.

You hold down on Wonyoung’s hips, stopping her mid-thrust, and she’s whining, letting slip just how good you’re making her feel.

“What the fuck are you doing?” she snaps, taking short, sharp inhales, replenishing all the oxygen you’ve fucked out of her.

You ignore her, reaching for the dashboard camera that’s been silently facing outside, towards the wall of the garage. It’s been switched on the entire time, waiting to record the car crash inside—you and Wonyoung tearing each other apart.

Wonyoung’s scared. “Oh no, don’t you fucking—”

But she can’t stop you. You’re already spinning it around, pointing it directly at her cum-covered face, her sweat-drenched body.

“Smile for the camera, Wony.”

Her mouth opens, but she can’t muster the words. You’re fucking her again, the camera watching everything, capturing every moan, every slight quiver of her body. It’s a side of her nobody gets to see—the side you’re most familiar with.

Wonyoung at her most honest, when she’s undeniably yours.

Just her—getting used (using you)—and fuck, there’s nothing more worthy to be captured and preserved for all eternity.

Her eyes dart to the camera, then back to you, her mind racing a mile a minute. You can see the gears turning—she’s trying to figure out how to get out of this, how to win back some ground, but she’s lost.

You’ve got her, and she knows it.

You’re fucking her, and she has no choice but to follow—whether she likes it or not.

“Fine,” she says, the admission torn from her throat as you push back into her. “But if this leaks—if you ever show this to anyone, I’ll fucking kill you.”

You just laugh. “You really think so little of me? Like anyone would believe it anyway.”

And you mean it. You’re not that stupid. But the thought of having a permanent record of this moment, of Wonyoung, begging in high definition—it has you hooked.

You can’t help but add, “But we’ll always know it’s there, won’t we? Forever.”

Wonyoung narrows her brows at you, but she doesn’t protest anymore. Instead, she does the opposite. She starts to lean into it.

She tips her head back, arching her spine so that her tits are pushed up, giving the camera a picture-perfect shot of her body, her chest, the stiffness of her nipples—everything.

Jang Wonyoung—always the performer.

A free hand runs through her hair, flinging it back over her shoulder, and she starts to roll her whole body; fucking herself on you in a way that’s so deliberate, so fucking pornographic.

“God, I fucking hate this.” Wonyoung puts it on public record, eyes never leave yours as she performs for the camera—or for you, it’s hard to tell.

“What’s that, baby?” You tease. "You hate how good this feels?”

“I hate that it’s you,” she says, the words forced out between gasps. “I hate how fucking hot you are.”

“The feeling’s mutual.”

You’ll never understand it. How someone you despise so much, with every fibre of your being, can fit so perfectly around you, feel so downright incredible on top of you. It’s a cruel joke that the universe decided to play on you both.

But you play along, let her ride you like it’s her fucking birthright, lock you in some petty staring contest, keep your mind filled with nothing but the tightness of her cunt.

You’re both panting now, sweat slicking your skin, making it easier for her to slide up and down on your cock. Her small tits bounce with every movement, and you can’t help but reach out to grab one, pinch it hard, making her wince, making her gasp.

“Fuck—you should quit whatever the fuck you’re doing,” she says, trying her best to form complete sentences through the pain, the bliss. “Work for me.”

“And do what?”

“I don’t know.” Wonyoung looks down at you and you can see it on her face: the fucking slut is dead serious. “Manager, bodyguard, assistant. Whatever I can do to keep you close so you can fuck me like this whenever I want. If Yujin can have her drummer boy, it’s only fair that I get you.”

“Why the fuck would I want to spend all day waiting on you?”

She corrects you: “Spend all day inside of me.”

There’s your fantasy—mornings fucking Wonyoung in some hotel room, drinking all the juices from her pussy in the car on the way to work, having her suck your cock backstage at some concert, making her scream your name every night before going to sleep.

And then waking up and doing it all again.

There’s no hiding the smirk on your face. “Go fuck yourself, Wonyoung.”

Wonyoung mirrors your grin, that wild, cock-drunk look in her eyes. “Why would I do that when I have you?”

“No.” You’re pulling her close, holding her body tight to you, making her feel it. “You’re mine.”

That word again—'daddy’ on her lips, turning into a desperate cry as her thighs tense on either side of you, her hands locking behind your neck. She’s holding on tight, because you’re not giving her a choice, you’re not giving her anything but what she’s begging for.

You watch her face in the reflection of the car window—the way her mouth hangs open, the way her eyes flutter shut and then open again, searching for something, anything to keep her grounded.

"Fuck me like I’m yours,” Wonyoung pleads. “You own me? Then fucking treat me like you do. Treat me like I’m your fucking whore, daddy.”

It’s too much, all of it. Wonyoung: her face—those lips, her body—those fucking legs, her voice—the way she says your name, how she calls you daddy, like it’s a fucking curse. You’re so close to the edge now, so close to cumming again, cumming inside her. You can feel the beginnings of it, the tension coiling in your balls, the white creeping into your vision.

But she’s still talking—and so are you, you realise.

One of you cries out—holy shit—answered with a—so fucking good—followed by an exchange of—fuck yous—and—I hate you, I hate you, I hate you.

It keeps going, this fucking, this using, this hating—whatever this is.

“I fucking hate you—”

“Hate you too—”

“Hate how good your cunt feels—”

“Hate how big your cock is—”

“Hate how perfect you are—”

“Hate how much I want your fucking cum—”

“Fucking slut—"

“Daddy—”

“I’m going to—"

"Please!"

And that’s it.

It’s over—your cock pulsing deep inside her, Wonyoung’s cunt clamping down around you, and you’re cumming—together—tightening and writhing and calling each other every name under the sun, except maybe the one that actually matters.

Wonyoung’s head falls back, losing control of her own body, the camera catching every glorious moment as she cums, her orgasm ripping through her in a scream that you feel in every inch of your body.

You kiss her—her tits, her neck, her jaw, her lips—claiming her, making sure she feels every drop of you. You hate her, you love her, you hate that you love her, you love that she needs you, you hate that you need her.

And all the while the camera keeps rolling, capturing your sweaty, heaving chests; capturing you filling her, spilling out of her, giving her the cum she so desperately pleaded for. It’s so much more intimate than any kiss, any love confession, any of that romantic shit she sings about.

But it’s not enough. It’s never enough.

It’s every twitch, every shiver, every little pulse of your release flooding her. How she tenses and clenches around you, soaks you with her wetness, drowns you in her tight, drenched heat.

And she keeps calling you it—whispering it—‘daddy’—over and over again, even as she’s coming down from the high, even as she’s gasping for air, even as she’s forcing her tongue into your mouth.

Wonyoung slumps against you, your cum dripping out of her and down your cock, staining the leather of your car seats. You can feel the stickiness of it, the mess you’ve made together. It makes you want to do it all over again.

To make her say it again, to make her scream it again.

“You’re so fucking mine,” you murmur against her neck, kissing her collarbone, tasting the salt of her sweat.

Wonyoung just nods, too exhausted to argue, too satisfied to care. Her hand finds yours, weaves your fingers together, and you hold onto her, tight. It’s sickeningly sweet, and yet, despite your best efforts, the insult, the quip to break the spell doesn’t come.

Because in the end, you don’t want to kill the moment—not when it’s so perfect.

You don’t want to ruin it with talk of the real world, with the harshness of the light that’ll be waiting outside the car door.

You stay there, parked in the garage of her apartment building, the headlights dimming down to black. The air is thick with the smell of sex and sweat, the taste of it lingering on your tongues. It’s a bubble you’re both loath to burst—because once it does, once it pops, you’re just Wonyoung and some guy she fucking hates again.

“Thank you, daddy.” Wonyoung’s breathing slows, her grip on you loosens. She’s drifting off, the stress of the night and the alcohol finally claiming her.

You don’t know how long you sit there, the two of you tangled together. It’s quiet except for the occasional hum from her, a cute little sound that she’s probably unaware she makes. It’s soothing, almost sweet.

But reality has a way of crashing in, doesn’t it?

You know you can’t stay here forever. You know you’ve got to get her upstairs before someone sees, before the cameras (the dangerous ones, the ones you don’t own) spot you. Before the rest of the world catches up.

You ease her off your cock, she whines, her eyes struggling open. “Take me home,” she mumbles, still not fully coherent.

“Already am, baby,” you reply, gently untangling her body from yours.

With a bit of effort, you manage to get her into an almost presentable state—straightening her skirt, buttoning her shirt, dabbing the cum that’s pooled between her thighs. She watches you as you do it, through a hazy gaze, still recovering from being fucked into oblivion.

It’s an act. Partly at least. A way to save face—pretend that it’s only the exhaustion, that she doesn’t really need you, doesn’t really want to be taken care of like this. Doesn’t want to nuzzle her head into your shoulder, or hug you tight, or have you kiss her on the forehead and tell her that you’ve got her.

Tomorrow she’ll yell at you for it, probably call you an overbearing asshole for treating her like a delicate flower. Make fun of you for going soft, for totally falling under her spell.

(And sometime even later, in a moment when she’s all quiet and feeling vulnerable, right after you’ve fucked each other and hated each other and ended up holding each other for the millionth time, Wonyoung will say:

“You’re the only one who can keep up with me.”

You’ll know what she means right away; you’ll kiss her again and you’ll answer:

“I know.”)

Because despite the fact that when she wanted to be (and it was often), Jang Wonyoung could be a real fucking bitch, you’re also kind of in love with her.

And, if you were to ask her, she’d probably the same about you.

#kpop smut #wonyoung smut #ive smut #male reader

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thyme-in-a-bubble · 5 months ago

Text

eyes on the prize

a/n: me writing a fic where rafe is actually wholesome and nice? i didn't see it coming either... this idea just came to me when you were all voting for the kinktober fic a while ago, and i was prepping that it maybe could go in this direction and then ended up falling too much in love with the fantasy, so i simply had to get it out of my system.

summary: “in a week, when we’ve turned in the assignment, and everything is over, I want you to come watch me fight… watch me win…” a cocky smirk twitched at the corner of his lips as he awaited your answer.

warnings: mma!rafe cameron x reader, smut, college au, study buddies to lovers, soft!rafe, autumnal vibes, takes place in the beginning of november, studying, friday the 13th references, scaredy cat!reader, violence, mma fights, kissing, semi-public sex, clothed sex, dirty talk, manhandling, ripping pantyhose, size kink, spit kink, hole inspection, penetrative sex, unprotected sex

word count: 2626

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“So,” you hesitantly broke the silence that had fallen over both you and the partner that had been assigned to you on this current project, “did you get up to anything fun on Halloween?”

Glancing up from the thick book Rafe’s bored gaze was rushing through, it instead lingered on you for but a moment as his mutter reverberated in the quiet corner of the university’s library, “uhm, yeah. I popped by a party for a bit.”

“The one at delta neu?” a glint flickered in your eye as soon as he offered you a nod, “me too! Though I went home kinda early, so we might have missed each other… what did you going as?”

“Jason,” he simply uttered.

“Jason who?” the soft smile didn’t fade from your lips as his short answer hadn’t landed the way he’d hoped.

“You know,” his brows furrowed slightly at your cluelessness, repeating once again as if the name alone should be enough for you to understand, “Jason.”

“…Jason Statham? Jason Momoa?” your eyes squinted as you quietly attempted to hit the bullseye, “uhm… I can’t really think of any other famous Jasons right now…”

“No, Jason from Friday the 13th. You know, the dude with the hockey mask and the machete.”

“Ah, him… yeah, I haven’t watched those movies,” you shrugged, “but, cool costume.”

“Wait, you’ve never seen Friday the 13th?” he tilted closer to where you sat across the table from him, “not even the cheesy remake?”

“Nope,” you simply returned your gaze to the textbook beneath your fingers.

“Seriously?” his eyebrows didn’t float back down yet, “well, I don’t know if I should be offended that you’ve never watched that masterpiece before or jealous that you get to experience it for the first time, but either way, that’s a problem we need to fix.”

At first, you thought you’d entered the wrong building.

That was until you rounded the corner, and your gaze fluttered up from the map still open on your phone, guiding you to the mysterious address your study partner had texted you, asking you to meet up with him there before the rest of your plans could unfold, that you discovered that you hadn’t stumbled into the wrong place.

Though that wasn’t the only thing you discovered in that moment as the culmination of that enlightenment was spotting Rafe in the middle of the industrial and cold gym, going through the tail end of some drills with his trainer.

As he went through the combinations and grunted like a guard dog, sweat dripped down from his brow and rolled so low that it cascaded over his already glistening and bare chest.

You hadn’t really noticed how your feet had stopped or how your pulse had picked up so fiercely that you could feel it between your thighs before his own eyes located you and he flashed you a smile.

“Hey!” his voice cut through your trance as he patted his coach on the shoulder and began to near the edge of the ring.

“H-hi,” you blinked, shaking your fuzzy head slightly to clear it, “I didn’t know you were into this sort of stuff,” you briefly waved a hand to the gym around you and tried your best to rip your stare away from his heaving chest.

“Yeah,” he began to loosen a glove, “sorry I asked you to meet me here, I’m just really busy these days cause I’ve got a fight coming up.”

“Oh, well we don’t have to have a silly movie night if you don’t have the time,” you averted your gaze, recalling how before you’d been paired with him on the assignment for Callahan’s class, you hadn’t even been sure of what his name was. You’d just known him as the hot guy, three rows behind you.

“No, no, I want to, unless of course you’ve changed your mind.”

Blinking back up into his eyes, you smiled, “definitely not.”

“Well, great,” a grin spread across his lips, “then just give me a second,” he cast a brief glance over his broad shoulder at the locker room, “and then we can head back to my place,” a notion you hadn’t expected would have ended with you up on the back of his motorcycle, a terrifying concept that you’d somehow been unable to deny as the crush that had blossomed and bloomed within your heart for him had made it near impossible for you to say no to a single one of his suggestions.

“You never told me what you went as,” Rafe hummed beside you, causing your eyes to tear away from the horror movie buzzing on the TV.

Blinking over at him next to you on the leather couch, your fingers began to fiddle with the blanket you’d slumped over yourself, “oh, well I didn’t wanna buy anything new, so I just went through my closet and ended up going as Britney Spears because I found the skirt of my old school uniform. I don’t even remember why I brought it with me the last time I went home, but–, ah!” a shriek suddenly shuttered through your form as your eyes accidentally fluttered back towards the screen just in time to witness the villain sink a large blade into the head of one of the drunk teenagers, “oh my god!” your frame couldn’t help but jump at the fright, nearly tossing the blanket across the room as you instinctively hid your features in the mass of Rafe’s bicep.

As your heart raced and thumped in your chest, you felt Rafe’s shoulder begin to move before you heard his laughter.

“Shut up, it’s not funny!” you smacked him lightly in the chest, though kept your vision darkened by his shirt, “so I’m not desensitised to the horrors of scary movies, big whoop!” a mutter then slipped out of your lungs, “fuck, why did I agree to this? I’m probably gonna have nightmares for weeks…”

“Hey, it’s okay, it’s just a movie,” you felt his palm find your arm in a soothing rub as his voice hummed directly above the crown of your head, “and the scene is almost over.”

“I can’t look…” you felt yourself lean more into his touch.

“…do you want me to describe it to you?”

“No…” you lingered in the security of his warmth and felt the terror slowly melt from your bones. Cupping a hand on the side of your face to shield your eyes from the horrors on screen, you carefully plucked your face just shy out of his safety before you uttered, “…just tell me when it’s over…”

The blaring light from the television reflected against the side of Rafe’s face as he gazed down into your eyes and breathed, “okay,” his stare slowly dipping and fluttering down towards your lips.

It wasn’t till now that you noticed how close you’d accidentally scooted to him as you weren’t far from just sitting in his lap.

Sharing his breath, your mind went entirely blank and only switched back on when you’d closed the distance betwixt your lips and now found yourself kissing your study buddy.

Thankfully, your brain didn’t get a chance to begin spiralling as it only took Rafe half a second to reciprocate the sudden move and kiss you back.

His strong hands found the small of your waist buried beneath the woollen blanket before he began to drag you closer, pulling you so near that you actually did wind up sitting in his lap, your fingers fluttering against his buzzcut as his own scooped down over the curve of your ass.

When the movie gently humming from behind you was long forgotten and your soul instead had drifted straight to heaven, you felt Rafe tilt his head back to breathlessly utter, “come watch my fight…” his forehead still pressed against your own.

Scarcely picking up on the words behind his honied hum, you breathed, “what?”

Reeling back just enough for his eye to catch your own dazed pair, he said, “in a week, when we’ve turned in the assignment, and everything is over, I want you to come watch me fight… watch me win…” a cocky smirk twitched at the corner of his lips as he awaited your answer.

You’d never seen a fight in real life before.

Not boxing, not mixed martial arts as this was, not even a juvenile one in a schoolyard.

At one point, when you thought all hope seemed lost, when Rafe got pinned by his opponent and blood was trickling down from the cut at his brow so clearly that you could make it out from the second row seat you found yourself planted in, he somehow managed to turn the tides and capture the boulder of a man in a lock so fierce it made them nearly melt into one pretzel-like being.

As he flexed his arm around the other’s throat with the rest of his limbs restricting him as well and rendering an escape near impossible, Rafe’s eyes then flickered up to catch your wide ones in the crowd. A grin appeared on his features as he held your stare a moment longer, watching as you shyly began to mirror his smile, before he tightened his hold and squeezed till the opponent opted not to bruise his pride and tap out, instead going limp in the grasp.

Once the trophy was in his gloved hand and he’d leapt out of the ring, on his way back towards the locker room, he zigzagged through the cheering crowd and caught onto your arm, dragging you with him as he exited the buzzing hall.

“That was insane,” you heard yourself babble as he pulled you through the corridors down towards the backroom he’d been in prior to the fight, “I mean, I know I went into it kinda blind, but I had no idea it would be like that,” adrenaline still rushed through your veins as he tugged you over the threshold and closed the door behind you, swiftly dropping his trophy to one of the long benches, “sure, it was as insane as I probably imagined, but the way that you moved, the way you slipped in and out like you were made of water or something, I mean, that was beautiful–,” the fighter then suddenly cut your rambling short as he yanked you to his sweaty form and pressed his lips to your own. However, as his feet shuffled and your spine collided with the back of the door to the small locker room, your fingers fluttered over countless of the spots where he’d been hit, causing you to jerk back and ask, “wait, shouldn’t you have someone check you out?” your eyes flickered from the cut splitting his brow to the various fresh bruises already beginning to blossom and reveal their true colours, “are you okay?”

“I’ve never felt better in my whole life,” he tried to lean back in to capture your lips once more, though you tilted away just in time for him to miss.

“You sure? Because–”

But your words were quickly snuffed out as his hands then flew up to grasp the sides of your face to force you to notice the glint in his eye and the desire dripping in his tone, “just shut up and kiss me,” he commanded before he practically devoured you whole.

As Rafe’s tongue danced against your own and made you feel dizzy in his tight embrace, his fingers then blindly fumbled for the lock and twisted it with a click that harmonised with the throbbing that had appeared between your thighs as soon as the fight had commenced.

A low growl rumbled deep within his chest and melted into your mouth as he then plucked you off of the ground and lifted you into his arms. Broad palms spreading wide below your bottom, he brought you as close as possible, causing the skirt you wore to ride up and crumble at your hips. The thin barrier of your pantyhose and the underwear beneath nearly incinerated from the heat that sparked as his hips greedily rocked against your covered core, lending you to feel just how hard he was in his shorts.

“I want you so bad,” he groaned between pecks, his fingers digging into your softness.

“Shouldn’t you be out celebrating your victory or something?” a light giggle bubbled out of you.

“I thought that was what I was doing,” he smirked before dropping you back down onto the ground, making you gasp at his sharp movements as he suddenly spun you around to face the closed door, “unless you have a better idea of how we could celebrate,” he nipped at your neck, making your eyes flutter.

“I–…” your teeth briefly captured your bottom lip as his front pressed against your back, and your spine instinctively arched back into him, “no, yeah, this one’s g-good…”

“Good,” he murmured in your ear before his fingers found your pantyhose in a pinch and ripped a big hole in them, nearly splitting them in two as he exposed your underwear, “do you want it?” he gripped your hips and titled them for his hard-on to perfectly nudge against the soaked cotton.

“Y-yes,” you panted, even just that one word haven been a struggle to utter through the fog he’d cast you into.

“How bad?”

“So bad–, Rafe, please,” he made you squeak desperately, “I just–, please…”

Cheek smooshed against the door, you glanced over your shoulder and watched as he then kneeled down behind you. Both hands still firmly planted on your hips, keeping you in place for him, they only strayed for a moment in order to shove your skirt the rest of the way up and letting him see the wet spot decorating your panties.

“Oh, shit…” he groaned as he tugged the gusset of your underwear all the way to the side, a string of your glossy want clung to the fabric till it snapped back against your aching core. Nearly salivating as he inspected your holes, his fingers dented your ass as he pulled you apart, splitting you open that much further and watching intently at the way your drooling cunt throbbed in anticipation for his touch.

As if your pussy’s embarrassingly leaky state wasn’t enough, a dollop of his spit then roughly landed upon your folds, the lewdness causing you to let out a moan as he swiftly rose back up to his full height without as much as a tickle to your tingly petals.

The next thing you knew, the adrenaline coursing through you both drove Rafe to free his length from its confines and, without as much as another kiss, slammed inside of your weeping pussy in one fell motion.

Balls nuzzled tightly against you, the very tip of him nudged against a part so deep inside of you that it made you lose your breath as he took a moment to savour the sensation, freezing up within you and huffing against your cheek as you gasped for air through your whimpers.

“Oh my god!” one of your hands curled back to crawl at his waist, “Rafe!”

“Now,” his hips slowly drew back, dragging his fat girth back out of you and letting you feel every little detail of him, “you just gotta be a good girl, stand right here for me,” only the bulbous head of his cock remained, keeping you plugged up as he purred in your ear, “and take it like the perfect little prize you are,” he then buried himself once more with such vigour that his heavy sack tapped sloppily against your puffy clit, “can you do that for me? Will you be my reward?”

#lea’s writing #mma!rafe #mma!rafe cameron #rafe cameron smut #rafe cameron x reader #rafe cameron imagine #rafe cameron fanfiction #rafe cameron x you #rafe cameron fanfic #drew starkey smut #rafe cameron x y/n #rafe cameron x female reader #rafe cameron au

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spencerreidenjoyer · 6 months ago

Text

we've already done it in my head | spencer reid x reader

You have fantasies about Spencer, and you feel bad about it when you have to see him at work. Thing is, he has fantasies about you too.

wc: 4.8k, rating: explicit

tags/warnings: professor!spencer, post prison!spencer, bau!reader, fem!reader, sexual fantasies, masturbation, daddy kink, getting together, hookups, friends with benefits (?), mentions of public sex/exhibitionism (they don't actually do it), fucking with feelings but neither of them really realise it yet lol...

a/n: i am insane and that's all i'll say about this fic. jk i started this at the top of the month and i'm glad i've finally finished it. this was such a crazy one to work on, aside from being swamped with school work. thank you to my lovely friend from twitter vic who kept encouraging me to work on this hehe. inspired heavily by taylor swift's guilty as sin? (obviously) and chappell roan's picture you just for those horny yearning vibes yknow? please enjoy this insanity!!! (crossposted to ao3)

Spencer rushes in from the university when Emily calls. It’s a serious case, one that Emily decides Spencer needs to be pulled away from his teaching for. She doesn’t feel good doing it – the whole team knows how important teaching is to Spencer, but he understands all the same when he comes into the round table room. Spencer sits down at the last empty seat next to you, his hair a mess as he sets down his things and flips open the case file. He turns to smile at you, before Penelope starts the case brief.

It’s a long, tiring day of work after landing in California, the BAU having been called in to investigate the murders of young moms in the area, and you need a glass of wine and a nice hot bath to even fathom everything you’ve seen today.

You should just turn in for the night, the Bureau being particularly kind with their budget as you all get individual rooms. Your drowsiness should put you fast to sleep, but your mind is racing with thoughts of Spencer.

Spencer’s been in his nice suit all day, filling out his shirt nicely. You’ve noticed his stubble growing in, and his hair is messy and gorgeous. You can’t help yourself for feeling this way, as guilty as you feel about it. You’ve been harbouring your crush on Spencer for way too long, in the couple of years since you joined the BAU. Spencer is a sight for sore eyes for sure, but his kind gentleness despite the horrors of what you all do for work is a welcome reprieve.

While his sweet nature was what had you falling for him in the first place, Spencer could be extremely sexy, even if he didn’t know it.

Today was especially tough for you. You and Spencer were sent in to interrogate a particularly uncooperative suspect, playing into the good cop-bad cop dynamic. Your coaxing wasn’t doing anything, and Spencer had ended up raising his voice in an attempt to intimidate them. He’d slammed his hand on the table, a loud clang against the metal, and his large figure only served to crowd the suspect in to scare them further.

You only got to know Spencer after the mess that was him getting wrongly sent to prison, but Spencer supposedly wasn’t like this before prison. Still, you found Spencer’s quiet intimidation incredibly attractive, and you had to keep your composure in the interrogation room earlier.

And your mind drifts to Spencer from earlier, his rough callousness with the suspect, his glare wild and intimidatingly sexy, you end up thinking about him.

About Spencer, who is so kind and sweet with you and the rest of the team, seeming like he couldn’t hurt a fly.

About Spencer who could also be domineering and intimidating. He seems like he’d only pull it out if you asked, but the duality has you hot under the collar.

Your eyes slip shut, mind swirling with thoughts of Spencer, about having him all to yourself, about him wanting you.

About his large hands on you, making you feel so small under his firm grasp.

About him pinning you down on the hard, cool metal of the table in the interrogation room.

About him caging you in with his arms, the look in his eyes almost crazed and full of lust for you.

“Spencer,” you gasp, before Spencer kisses you fervently. His stubble is rough against your skin, but you don’t care. Spencer kisses you like he’s a starved man and you’re his next meal, with such desperation that you feel weak in the knees.

“You’re gorgeous,” Spencer says. He kisses your jaw, down your neck, and his large hands are all over your body. You feel so secure in his grasp, he feels you up and drinks his fill of you. He gropes your tits, your thighs, your ass, manhandling you into spreading your legs, so he can press the hardness of his cock to your cunt. “Look what you do to me.”

You whimper, fully indulging in this wet dream as you slide a hand into your underwear. “Spencer,” you gasp.

“You’re so hot, you make me feel crazy,” Spencer hums, rolling his hips against you. You’re separated between layers of fabric, but Spencer humping you like this turns you on to no end.

You rub at your clit in tight little circles, your wetness aiding the slide as you get yourself off to the thought of Spencer.

“Spence,” you moan, frustrated. While Spencer’s hardness grinding against you is literally a dream, you want to imagine his cock buried inside of you. You’re perfectly capable of moving this along, so you do.

Magically, Spencer’s clothes are off and so are yours, the perks of a fantasy being that you don’t have to awkwardly stumble through taking your clothes off. You have a hazy picture of what he’d look like naked in front of you. You imagine toned muscle, a slight pudge to his tummy from his time in prison, his pecs filled out nicely. You imagine his cock would be pretty, as pretty as he is, veiny and thick and all sorts of perfect.

“You’re too fucking good to me, baby,” Spencer groans, the blunt head of his cock pressed up against you now. He rubs off against you, sliding over your clit, your folds, over the wetness leaking from your whole. “Gonna fuck you so good, just like you deserve.”

Without hesitation, Spencer’s cock slips into you, the perfect thickness to make you feel full as he slides in inch by inch.

You slip your fingers into yourself, aided by how impossibly wet you are just at the thought of Spencer, and your groan weakly. Two fingers aren’t enough, not when you bet Spencer could fill you up, like he’d split you in half on his cock.

He pushes into you until he’s pressed flush against you, buried inside of you to the hilt. He starts to pound into you, like he’s uncaring of what you need, but the way he treats you turns you on impossibly.

Your fingers aren’t enough to satiate you, but you thrust them in and out of you in an effort to mimic how Spencer fucking you might feel. You moan, a little louder than you’d like.

“Spence–” you gasp, in your fantasy. It should be scandalous, Spencer taking you over the table in the interrogation room. You don’t know if the thought of people being behind the one-way mirror turns you on or not – being watched, letting Spencer take you in front of everybody. You like the thought of Spencer being so obsessed with you, so desperate, needing to fuck you right where you work.

The metal table is cool and harsh against your hips, but you don’t care if it hurts as Spencer fucks you relentlessly, quickly taking on a brutal pace. It’s exactly what you need, what you want Spencer to do with you, being rough and frantic enough to make you scream his name.

You whimper his name under your breath, bashful even while in your fantasy.

Spencer has you pinned down, but it’s not like you intend to get away. You want to savour this even if it’s only in your mind, shameful as you’re getting off to the thought of your coworker. You just need this out of your system, need Spencer out of your system, and then tomorrow you can face him like a normal, well-adjusted person.

“Fuck,” you gasp, palm grinding against your clit, fingers pressed inside of yourself. You’re shaking, with the thought of Spencer fucking you until you can’t take it anymore, the ideal of him in your mind too perfect, until you’re moaning into your hand as you orgasm. You sob, clenching tight around your fingers, feeling your slick gush out as you ride your high.

You don’t mean to fall asleep, but after both a long day and a crazy good orgasm, you end up passing out with a tissue clenched in your hand, with your panties and sleep shorts kicked off to the foot of the bed.

---

Spencer can’t stop thinking about you.

He shouldn’t, not when you’re his coworker and also one of the people he’s friendliest with in the unit.

Spencer would say he couldn’t bring himself to trust many, especially after coming out of prison, but you were the one he warmed up to the easiest. A new face in the BAU wasn’t uncommon, but Spencer had found himself drawn to you. You were kind and warm to him fresh out of prison, your tenderness a welcome reprieve as he’d gotten accustomed to being back at the BAU. With your intellect and quick wit, matched with your beauty, Spencer could not help but be attracted to you – but that’s besides the point.

Spencer knows how much your friendship with him means to you, and he’s certain that that’s all you see him as: a friend.

Yet, he can’t stop himself from thinking about you in those pants. Those pants that hug your curves just right. Those pants that make your ass look great – not that he was looking – especially when you’re leaning over an interrogation table, trying to play the good cop with the suspect from earlier.

Spencer had hung back, trying to get a read on the suspect while you spoke to him. Him getting to ogle your figure and stare at how good you looked in those pants was unintentional, but he definitely wasn’t complaining.

Spencer only felt a bit bad wrapping his hand around himself in the shower, mind flooded with thoughts of you. Water, almost scorching, running down his body, his hand moves fast and reckless, exhaling harshly as he gets himself off.

He can’t get you out of his mind, your gorgeous figure, your pretty face, your wide eyes and thick thighs and soft lips – he shouldn’t be thinking of you like this. You were a coworker, a friend, for God’s sake, and yet he can’t stop imagining you under him.

He can’t stop imagining pressing you against the table in the interrogation room – your lithe frame underneath him, making you look so small, making him feel so big.

He presses his growing problem to your perfect ass, watching you writhe underneath him. You keep looking back up at him, with your wide, wet eyes and your flushed cheeks, looking like you need him to give you exactly what you need.

“Please, daddy,” you whine, and Spencer is groaning and undoing his belt before your pants get pushed down too. Stroking his cock quickly, Spencer easily finds his way to your entrance, wet and dripping with your slick. He pushes into you, pressing kisses to your neck as you groan with the intrusion.

“Daddy,” you whimper, “Feels so good.”

“Yeah?” Spencer coos at you. Spencer feels you press yourself back up against him, pushing his cock deeper, and he loses all sense of control as he starts to fuck you hard. He feels like a madman, unable to hold himself back as he takes and takes and takes, fucking into your tight wetness, his head spinning with how good you feel around him.

You’re whining and moaning under him, your noises music to Spencer’s ears as they echo off the walls. Your cunt is wet and sloppy as Spencer fucks you, wanting to give you everything you need and more.

“Fuck, baby,” Spencer groans, his hand tightly fisted around his cock. The way the tip of his cock leaks is easing the slide, as he pictures in crystal-clear detail how your cunt would draw him in, slick and messy be fucks into your perfect, tight cunt. “You’re too good to me.”

“Daddy,” you sob, your hands clawing down Spencer’s back. Spencer gropes you greedily through your clothes, grabs your tits and feels his fill of your waist, your perfect ass, your thighs as he rocks himself back and forth between them.

“Gonna cum inside of you, love,” Spencer grunts, his pace unrelenting. His hands are on your thighs, gripping you tight, both fucking into you and dragging you onto his cock over and over. “You’re gorgeous. Gonna make a mess of you.”

You’re whining underneath him, making him feel too good, as you clench around him tight and moan even louder. Spencer can’t help himself, thrusting into you hard and fast and eager until he’s cumming.

He spills into his hand, the thick white ropes of his cum washed down the drain with the spray of the shower from above him. Visions of you flash through his mind, your gorgeous frame, your pretty face, your mouth on his.

He’s barely towelled off before he’s knocked out in his bed, too tired to even process feeling guilty about jerking off to you.

---

Sure, perhaps it’s childish to try and avoid Spencer all day, especially when you have an active case all of you need to be working on. You must be a fool to think that getting yourself off to Spencer would help, because all you can think about is your fantasies of him last night, how you imagined him bending you over and taking you– Not helping, you remind yourself.

Emily must secretly be on your side or be able to read your mind or something, because Spencer is relegated to work on geographic profiles and speed-read through case files back at the police precinct, while you get sent out onto the field to chase down your killer.

But you can’t avoid Spencer forever, and you aren’t any good at it either. You feel like Spencer’s eyes are on you the whole day when you and him are in the same room, but you never look up at him to find out. While you could chalk up your nerves to a serial killer still being out on the streets, you don’t have any more excuses at the end of the day when you’ve finally caught him, and the team decides to get dinner to celebrate.

You purposely wedge yourself between JJ and Emily when you sit down at the table, trying to avoid Spencer, and you think you’re successful with getting away with seeming a little out-of-it when you end up slipping away early, claiming you had a rough sleep last night.

You’ve barely settled down in your hotel room for the night, finally feeling like you can relax, when there’s a knock at your door. You have no clue who it could be, but you open the door, and–

There Spencer is.

“Hi,” you say curtly, feeling embarrassment wash over you all of a sudden, because all you can think about is getting off to the thought of him last night. You feel your cheeks warm, but you hope it’s not obvious that you’re blushing. Then, in an attempt to seem somewhat normal and well-adjusted, you add, “What’s up?”

“I should be asking you that,” Spencer says, his eyebrows furrowed slightly. “What’s up with you today?”

You press your lips together in a thin line before you say, “Nothing’s up. I’m fine.”

“Come on,” Spencer prods, his head cocking to the side as he deadpans. “You know I can read you like an open book. Something’s up.”

You frown, Spencer stoking the flames of brattiness in you. “Yeah? Tell me what’s the matter, if you can read me so well.”

Spencer’s eyes widen slightly. You watch his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows.

“I- I thought we said no inter-group profiling,” Spencer says, his voice a little weak, and for the first time, you see Spencer look a little helpless. It’s kind of hot.

Do you make him… nervous?

“Yeah, but if you insist on thinking something’s up with me…” You shrug, smiling. Spencer just blinks at you.

No. You couldn’t possibly entertain the thought.

Spencer clears his throat. You watch him fidget with his hands just slightly, before he puts them by his sides to seem confident. “Well, you’ve been avoiding me, on purpose or not – both attest to your desire to avoid me somewhat. You could barely look me in the eye all day, which means you might be embarrassed or guilty of something, likely having to do with me.” Spencer says, his voice even, but he isn’t looking at you.

You raise your eyebrows. His explanation is both specific and vague, and you feel slightly called out and safe from his scrutiny at the same time. But, you can’t shake off the feeling that there’s something more to Spencer’s words, the way he’s looking at you like he hopes you can’t pick his brain apart.

So, you turn it back onto him, “Then, what do you think is the problem? You aren’t looking at me either, and you were fidgeting with your hands. Is something up with you, then? It almost sounds like you’re projecting, Dr. Reid.”

Spencer freezes, like he’s a deer caught in headlights. You can practically see his brain running a mile a minute, overthinking every possible outcome, overly self-aware of himself, his actions, his thoughts.

You try to stop yourself from smiling, because Spencer is kind of cute like this. “You wanna tell me what it is then, Reid?”

“When did this become about me?” Spencer squeaks, his usually cool facade quickly disappearing. There’s a look in Spencer’s eyes, as he nervously looks you up and down, and oh– “I just– Well, I– You–”

“I’m thinking we might be on the same page, here,” you say, smirking. “Wanna tell me what it is?”

Spencer furrows his brows, his mouth agape as he looks up at you, but you’re putting your hand on his chest and trailing it down slowly. “Oh–”

“Tell me, Dr. Reid,” you cock your head, eyeing him up and down lazily. When you look at Spencer’s face, he’s shocked, enamoured and turned-on all in one.

“You’re… attracted to me,” Spencer says, somewhat uncertain. “The same way I’m attracted to you.”

“And what makes you say that?” You hum.

“I thought I heard you last night. Through the walls,” He says timidly, nothing you’ve seen from him before. “Thought I should’ve gone over to help, but I realised you were, um– You were pleasuring yourself. To- To me.”

“The walls are thin, huh?” You laugh, a little sheepish, but you note how Spencer’s becoming shy at the thought. “Did you…?”

His eyes grow wide. “Did I do what?”

You smirk. “That tells me everything I need to know, Reid,” you say, laughing.

“Well, you shouldn’t presume–”

“Shut up and kiss me, Reid,” you huff. You pull Spencer closer to you by his tie and you press your lips to his.

It’s too perfect, when Spencer’s mouth is finally on yours. His hands cupping your face, Spencer kisses you hard and eager, like he can’t believe that he finally gets to have you. He kisses you like he’s starving, desperate for you as his next meal. You moan as his hands reach for your hips, pulling you in closer to him, greedy as he feels you up.

“Did you fantasise about this too? About me, like this?”

“This is better than I could’ve ever imagined,” Spencer says breathily. “You… You’re so attractive.”

“Could say the same about you,” you laugh, reaching to unbutton his shirt. His tie is already loose, hanging around his neck, but you want to see more. You undo the top few buttons, revealing more of his chest. You trail your finger over the exposed skin, letting your nail graze it slightly. You hear Spencer inhale sharply, and grin to yourself, proud of the effect you have on him. “So, do you want to just stand around and talk, or do you want to fuck me?”

Spencer’s eyes widen, and you chuckle. As if he hadn’t expected this was how it was going to go. Spencer purses his lips. “I mean, absolutely. I want to fuck you. But, um– We should definitely talk about this though.”

“Later,” you say, waving him off, before you lean in to kiss him again. Spencer grabs your waist again, like he needs to have you close. He lifts you slightly, making you squeak, but the both of you stumble over to the bed, unable to keep your hands off of each other, unable to keep your mouths off each other. You sit down on the bed, Spencer crowding you in with one of his knees on the mattress.

You loosen his tie and take it off, while Spencer moves to unbutton your shirt. HIs hands move deftly, eager to undress you, and he pulls away to marvel at the curve of your breasts in your bra when he pushes the satin shirt off of you. “Wow.”

“Wow yourself,” you say. You appreciate the view: a dishevelled, eager Spencer Reid in your bed, his hands all over you, his shirt half-undone, revealing tanned skin and a gorgeous body. “Need you to fuck me right now.”

Spencer laughs, perhaps a little incredulously, and he instead moves to take his shirt off instead. “I’ll- I’ll do that.”

“Good,” you say, distracted as you admire Spencer’s frame, the lines of his body, the softness of his stomach. He’s so hot you might die. “Very good.”

“I’m glad you like the view,” Spencer says, a little timid, like he’s shy to show off in front of you. He meets your gaze when you look up at him, caught in the middle of ogling him with no shame.

You smile up at him sheepishly. “Please fuck me, Spencer.”

“Okay,” Spencer smiles, warm and gentle. He helps you slide your pants and underwear off your legs before you spread them. Spencer’s jaw drops, his eyes focused on the slick mess of your cunt. “Oh, my God.”

“Yeah?” you laugh, thoroughly amused with his reaction. “Show me how much you want me, too.”

Spencer’s hands are quick to push down his bottoms, dress slacks and boxer-briefs on your floor in an instant, wrapping a fist around himself as he works himself up for you. You can’t tear your eyes off of him – “Spencer, you’re… big.”

“Am I?” Spencer asks, and you’d lose your mind if you weren’t expecting Spencer to fuck your brains out.

“You are,” you say calmly, because if you let yourself sound any more excited he might think you were insane. “But I can take you.”

Spencer grins. “Good.”

His fingers press against your cunt after you tell him to do so. His slender digits pick up all the slick that’s leaking from your hole, spreading it around messily as he toys with your clit. You shudder with the sensation, throwing your head back against the pillows. Then, one of his fingers slips into you, and he coaxes you open with a care you haven’t felt from most partners before. “How’s that?”

“So nice,” you groan, getting used to the feeling. He fucks you on his fingers, slow and careful, intent on stretching you out until you’re comfortable. You whimper and whine, feeling embarrassed at how vocal you’re being, but Spencer is kissing your breasts without a care in the world, and then you’re thinking about letting him know that you do feel good. Your next gasp is less ashamed, as Spencer coaxes a second finger in.

You’re panting as Spencer fucks you on his fingers, the repeated motion only working you up even more. The squelch from his fingers fucking you is obscene, and his eyes are wide as he looks at you. “You’re perfect,” he whispers.

“Fuck me, Spence,” you say.

Spencer bites his lip as he sits up and settles between your legs. He’s tugging at his cock as he lines himself up with your entrance. He slides his length along your folds, wet with your slick, and you groan at the friction. You grunt, wanting more, “Come on, Spence.”

His hand on your leg, Spencer leans forward so he can press into you, and Spencer is practically folding you in half so he can fuck you. You moan at his thickness deep inside of you, filling you up, and the stretch is so undeniably amazing. Spencer’s length drags against your walls, such a delicious sensation deep in your bones, and you sob a little.

“Does that feel good?” Spencer asks softly, his voice tender.

“So good, Spence,” you gasp. Spencer kisses your cheek, down your neck, and waits patiently for you to give him the go-ahead.

You feel his cock twitching inside of your heat, both your fantasies unable to live up to the real thing. Confident, cocky Spencer in your dreams is just that – a dream. The Spencer right in front of you is perfect, more perfect than what you’ve dreamed: shy but so attentive and sweet. He takes such good care of you. It makes you lose your mind a little bit.

“Fuck me,” you insist, and Spencer puts his hands on your hips as he starts to move. He fucks you deep, just the way you need him, and you cry out as he digs into your soft flesh, holding you tight so he can fuck you hard. The way Spencer pounds into you has your whole body trembling, pleasure coursing through you like electricity, till your mouth has fallen open and your toes are curling.

“You’re so much better than I imagined,” Spencer groans, eyes squeezed shut as he puts all his energy into railing you. “Can’t believe this is real.”

You clench around him just to hear him moan, and you’re proud of yourself when his hips stutter and a groan rips through his throat in his pleasure. He glares at you. You grin, as Spencer keeps fucking you.

“What- Oh, fuck– What did you imagine? With me?” You gasp, as Spencer rolls his hips in a particularly deep thrust.

Spencer squeezes his eyes shut, before looking down at you, like he’s really contemplating if he should say this. “I– I pictured bending you over the interrogation table. Fucking you, making you scream my name, taking you right there, I–”

You moan as Spencer hits that perfect spot inside of you, your legs trembling as you gasp, “I– Why did we have the same fucking fantasy? Fuck–”

“What? You thought of me that way too?” Spencer sounds incredulous, like he can’t imagine you thinking of him that way– As if he isn’t drilling you into the hotel bed right now.

“Fuck, Spencer– Oh, my God– Yeah, I– You had me pinned down on the table, and you were fucking me in the interrogation room, in front of all of them–”

“God, you’re perfect,” Spencer grunts, burying his head in your shoulder as he uses the leverage to fuck you deeper, harder, faster. You can’t stop moaning Spencer’s name, simply too overwhelmed with the pleasure he’s giving you, the way he’s fucking you into the mattress. This is all you’ve ever wanted. Spencer fucking you like a madman, giving you all the pleasure you need but still being greedy enough to take and take and take.

“Please! Spencer, you– I’m gonna cum, I can’t–” You cry, sobs wracking their way from your throat, so loud but you can’t be bothered to keep yourself quiet. Spencer groans your name, a sweet, sultry sound, and you feel like you’re going to lose your mind.

“Cum for me,” Spencer hums. “You’re so perfect, and you’re laid out like this all for me. You’re so fucking hot. Show me how good I make you feel.”

You’re sobbing as your orgasm hits you, overwhelmed by Spencer’s filthy words and his filthier actions, so intense as he fucks you into next week. It’s too good, and you lose yourself much sooner than you expect. Your pussy clenches tight around Spencer with your orgasm, sending him over the edge as he fills you up, cock twitching as he cums inside of you.

He collapses on top of you, his weight comfortable as you both catch your breath. Your mouth feels dry, but you don’t care when Spencer is leaning over to kiss you again. It feels so right, this wild feeling you only thought existed in your dreams.

The next morning when the team is gathered in the hotel lobby to head to the hangar to fly back to Quantico, Emily gives you a pointed look, and Rossi is clapping Spencer on the back with a knowing grin. You apologise sheepishly, while Spencer grows red, avoiding eye contact with the rest of the team. He only meets your eyes, and the two of you share a smile. You can tell neither of you want this to end here. Maybe you’ll talk about it when you get back home.

#criminal minds #spencer reid #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid smut #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid fanfiction #spencerreidenjoyer writes

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sourcherryandsprinkles · 2 years ago

Note

boob obsessed ethan!!

I have very few smut requests for Scream characters and I'm in that mood to write that... Please send more for Ethan and Billy (I can do Billy x reader x Stu too)

Warnings: 18+, boobs touching/sucking, Ethan being obsessed

my taglists are here + you can send requests here at any time

—

It all started clicking one night you and Ethan were studying for finals. He was having difficulty concentrating, easily distracted by flipping his pen or even whistling, so you decided to give him a little bit of motivation.

‘’If you get five answers right, I’ll show you my boobs.’’

Automatically, Ethan’s eyes lowered to your boobs — still covered by your shirt — and bit the inside of his mouth to not moan.

‘’And if you get ten right,’’ you added, ‘’I’ll let you touch them.’’

His jaw almost dropped. There was no way you were being serious. No one ever made deals like that and honored their part of the deal — except in his late night fantasies.

‘’Y-you’re playing,’’ Ethan said, shifting on the bed, feeling himself harden just at the thought of your breasts.

You chuckled, shaking your head. ‘’I’m not. You helped me when I was struggling last semester, now it’s my turn to help you. Do we have a deal?’’

Seventeen minutes later, you put the pile of flashcards down and Ethan held his breath, knowing what was coming. He got five answers right. It was an understatement to say he was nervous, however he was also so excited — very excited.

You grabbed the bottom of your shirt and pulled it off, then unclasped your bra, nipples hardening from the cool air of the dorm.

Watched intently, Ethan let out a strangled moan, his eyes wide with wonder and staring directly at your chest. ‘’Holy fuck, those tits are so nice. Way better than what I imagined through your shirt,’’ he said, his blunt honesty making you laugh. ‘’Shit. Did I say that out loud?’’ His face flushed, embarrassed at himself. He really wanted to crawl into a hole and die right here.

‘’You did,’’ you confirmed. You gave Ethan a soft smile, pulling him out of his trance by placing your hand on his kneecap. ‘’Let’s not get distracted. If you want to touch, you gotta give me five more good answers. Remember?’’

Ethan nodded, shifting again to cover the slight tent in his pants. Controlling that part of his body was impossible. He took a deep breath and you hit him with the next question.

It was harder to concentrate this time, his eyes dropping back to your chest every three seconds, but he did it, successfully correctly answering five more flashcards.

‘’Can I touch them, now?’’ he asked shyly, his fingers tingling with excitement.

‘’Go for it.’’

That's exactly what he did. Ethan placed both of his hands over your boobs, covering them with his palms and splayed fingers like a kid discovering something for the first time. He squished them both, his fingers sinking into the softness of your breasts.

Ethan could feel his cock twitch slightly in his pants as he continued to feel you. ‘’Oh my god. Oh wow,’’ he said, breathing heavily. His finger tweaked your nipple, experimentally pinching at it and rolling it between his fingers, drawing out a soft gasp from you when he used more pressure than you were expecting. ‘’I could cum just from touching them—’’

‘’Ethan!’’ you gasped, shocked by his words.

His eyes snapped up and he mumbled apologies, but you just laughed.

—

Scream taglist: @misfityanii @beautybyfire @iluvscream191 @mariposa555 @bella7866 @o638 @lulubelle14 @luvvtxinityy @frasersgf @Eddiefrickenmunson @jasperr-the-friendly-ghost @ghostf4cee @thesebitcheslovesosadotcom @wandaswigglywoos @xjennyx2 @jennasslut @thatonesblog @mikaelsonsstuff @icarly23 @tcddszn @bt.oliana @skyesthebomb @a1mzcruml3y @red1culous @iluurmom @popeheywardssecretgf @michaelangdonsslut @byhrxb @kamthecoolest @kattybug @ravenstrueluv @landryslxys @die4niyahhh @sl4sh3rfuck3r @radiant-whore @Meadzy21 @luci1fer @nomorespahgetti @bloodyhw @depthsofdespairr @bellysbeach @wilmalovegood @loupiotesworld @wenvierismycomfort @t-candy @s-al-em @darylscvmdumpster @tommysaxes @adaydreamaway08 @johannelis2302nely @aqshua @lynbubble @luiise @planetkt @vampyrgoff

All and more taglist: @spiokybirdstarfish @kenqki @liidiaaag @hawkegfs @gillybear17 @areaderinlove @acornacreacure @black-rose-29 @fudge13 @cece05 @rosie-cameron @Caxddce @laylasbunbunny @gemofthenight @beautyb1ade @hi-bored-as-fcuk-rn @lovelyy-moonlight @mellabella101 @vxnity713 @marzipaanz @bisexualgirlsblog @queenofslytherin889 @thatbxtchesblog @softb-tterfly @ethanlandrycanbreakmyheart @xyzstar @graceberman3 @Heartsforneteyamsully @aerangi @hallecarey1 @bxbyyyjocelyn @mikeyspinkcup

#ethan landry #ethan landry x reader #ethan landry x you #ethan landry imagine #ethan landry smut #scream #scream 6 #scream imagine

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happy74827 · 5 days ago

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White Lies

[Spencer Reid x Female!Reader]

Synopsis: You have constantly lied to your mother about your private life, as she was one to disapprove of everything, but those "harmless lies" become a lot more serious when you forget to cancel plans with your closest friend.

WC: 3036

Category: Fluff, Fake Dating, Sassy!Reid {TW: Reader’s mom is Authoritarian}

Another drafted idea that I finally wrote up because Spencer is the definition of pookie, and you cannot change my mind. This is also a dedication to my girl, @yoursacredqueenmother, for matching my crazy delulu fantasies 🫶💖

『••✎••』

Your mom has always been a force of nature—a whirlwind of opinions, expectations, and unsolicited advice that sweeps through your life like a hurricane. She’s the kind of woman who believes she knows what’s best for you, even when you’re pretty sure she doesn’t. Ever since you turned 30 last year, her visits have become more frequent, and her nagging has reached a fever pitch.

"You’re getting old, sweetheart," she’d say, her voice dripping with concern that felt more like judgment. "You need to settle down, find a nice man, start a family. I’m not going to be around forever, you know."

The words were always delivered with a smile, but they stung like a slap. You love her, you really do, but her constant pressure makes you feel like you’re failing at some unspoken test of womanhood.

So, to get her off your back, you’d started lying. Little white lies at first—"I’m seeing someone, Mom, it’s just early stages"—but they quickly snowballed into more and more elaborate fibs. Soon, you were telling her that you were dating a doctor who wanted nothing more than to start a family with you but was waiting for the right time.

It was easier to make up a fictitious doctor than to explain the real reason you were still single.

Because the truth is that the man of your dreams is already in your life, he's been here for years, and he's always been the perfect friend. The problem is that he's a little hard to read. You have no idea how he feels about you or if he sees you as more than a friend.

You'd tried to tell him how you felt about him before, but the words had stuck in your throat. He’d seemed so confused, so shocked by the mere suggestion of romance. Maybe he just didn't see you that way. Maybe you’d ruin your friendship by even mentioning the idea.

This led to where you are now: alone, frustrated, and trying to figure out how to keep your mother from butting into your personal life. You’d thought maybe she’d drop the issue after your birthday, but she’d come by to "surprise you" last night and is now currently sitting at the kitchen table, looking around your apartment with an expression of vague disappointment.

"Honey, you’re an adult now," she says, not looking up from her coffee cup. "You can’t keep living like this."

She gestures at the living room, which is scattered with discarded letters and half-read books. The mess is a symptom of the chaos in your head as you’ve been too preoccupied with thoughts of him to worry about cleaning up after yourself.

"It’s not that bad," you mumble, though you know it is. Even he’d commented on the state of your apartment when he’d last stopped by, and his place is usually worse than yours. Messy, not dirty. He’s a bit of an organized hoarder.

"Well, maybe not for a single girl," she sighs. "But what if Doctor Whoever comes over? Don’t you want to impress him?"

You bite your lip, trying to keep your temper in check. This is the problem with your mother—she has a habit of steamrolling over your feelings, and you've never been able to stand up to her. You’d thought you were done having this argument when you turned 30. Apparently, you’d thought wrong.

"Mom," you begin, your voice firm. "I told you, he doesn't care about stuff like that. He's more concerned with things like—"

The doorbell rings, interrupting you mid-sentence. Thank God. You’re not sure what you would have said, but any excuse is better than none. You figured it was the mailman, late with that package you’d been expecting, but when you just so happen to glance at the calendar (the one your father bought you last Christmas, with pictures of cats wearing hats), your stomach drops.

March 21st, which may not seem important, and it really isn’t, unless you look closer and realize that the cat in the picture is wearing a lab coat and is holding a beaker. Because that, my friends, is not just a picture. It is a reminder.

The one thing you had not wanted to forget.

The one thing, apparently, you had forgotten.

You’d been so busy trying to avoid your mother’s questions about your non-existent boyfriend that you’d completely lost track of time. The calendar sits there, taunting you, and all you can think is:

Oh, no.

Because the person who had rang the doorbell? It was him. He and his adorable grin, hazel-like eyes, and messy brown hair. He probably even brought a bag of those terribly expensive chocolates you love.

You want to cry. Of course, it had to be that day, the day of all days, the day you'd been secretly anticipating for all month.

Chess day. It was a monthly ritual you'd started with him when he'd discovered that you, too, were a fan of the game. You were absolutely terrible at it, and he won every time, but honestly, you didn't care. Chess day was just an excuse for you to spend time with him.

Except today, you have company, and it’s not exactly the kind you want him to meet.

You were supposed to call him, but in your haste to please your mom, you completely forgot.

Your mother’s gaze shifts to the door, and her eyebrows rise as if she can sense his presence on the other side. "Well, aren’t you going to answer that?"

No.

That's what you wanted to say. Instead, you hear yourself saying:

"Yeah, just a sec."

And, like a complete idiot, you open the door.

You open the door, and he’s there, all bright-eyed, smiling, holding a box of chocolates and his perfectly polished travel chess set. You feel like the biggest jerk in the world.

"Uh, hey!" he chirps, his voice making your stomach flip. He doesn’t seem to notice the tension in the air or the fact that your mother is standing right behind you, peering curiously over your shoulder. "I know I’m a little early, but I needed to pick up some things and..."

He trails off as his gaze settles on your mother. She’s eyeing him like a hawk and doing what she does when meeting a new person: leaning forward slightly, squinting her eyes, and tilting her head. You can see the wheels turning in her mind.

"Is this him?" she asks, her eyes wide with excitement.

Before you can stop her, she grabs your wrist and pulls you aside. You stumble into the kitchen, and she takes your place, smiling warmly at him.

"So, you’re the doctor," she says, her voice full of approval. "My daughter has told me so much about you!"

Oh, this is bad. So, so bad.

"Uh," he begins, clearly caught off-guard. His eyes dart to yours, and you were expecting his classic confused puppy look, but this time, it’s different. He looks... honored? No, that can't be right.

"She… talked about me?" he stammers, looking back at your mother.

She nods. "All the time! In fact, I was starting to think she’d made you up. It’s good to know my daughter has such a handsome young man in her life."

You want to die. Right there, on the spot. But, somehow, you manage to force a smile, even as your heart pounds with anxiety.

And your mother? She beams.

"It’s lovely to meet you finally," she gushes. She reaches out and shakes his hand, and he stares at her with a dazed expression. "My daughter has always been a bit shy, and she tends to keep things close to the vest if you know what I mean."

"Mom, please," you cut in, mortified. "Stop."

He still hasn't said a word, and the silence is killing you.

"Well, come on in, then," your mother continues, ignoring your protests. "I insist. After all, I can't wait to learn more about my future son-in-law!"

And this is when the situation goes from bad to worse.

This is when he freezes, and the box of chocolates threatens to slip from his fingers. You watched as he struggled to form a coherent sentence.

"I... Uh, that's not... we’re not..."

"Yes! Yes, we are!" you shout, desperate to cover up his stammering. He looks at you, his expression shifting from confused to shocked, and it’s like a punch in the gut. "That’s right, Mom. This is him. My boyfriend. Doctor Whoever."

"Oh, sweetie, this is so wonderful!" Your mother is so busy clapping her hands with delight that she doesn't notice his reaction.

"Doctor… Whoever?" He looks offended and a bit hurt. "What’s that supposed to mean—?"

"Shush!" You hiss, silently pleading with him to keep quiet. He must have caught your desperation because he shuts his mouth.

It allowed you a moment to process everything. Your mother is smiling widely, her face filled with delight. She doesn't even seem bothered by the fact that he’s currently dressed like a college professor with an evident love for scarves.

Meanwhile, he’s standing there, blinking stupidly, looking as if his entire world has been flipped upside-down. He seems torn between anger and elation, and honestly, it’s confusing as hell. You want to grab him and apologize and explain that this was all a mistake, but you can’t. Not with your mother right there.

So, you knew what you had to do.

"Mom! Say, would you mind doing me a huge favor and just give us like a few minutes? We have some important totally-not-boyfriend stuff to discuss."

"Sure, honey." She grins. "I'll do some unpacking. How about that?"

"Perfect!"

She practically skips into the other room, leaving the two of you alone. There’s a long, uncomfortable silence, broken only by the sound of the bedroom door clicking shut.

The sigh you let out is one of relief, tinged with the faintest hint of dread.

Though, he was the first to break the silence with words.

"I didn’t realize we were dating," he says, his voice low. He's not quite glaring at you, but it's a close thing. "Last time I checked, statistically, dating requires at least two people. Which leads me to the logical conclusion that you are, in fact, a liar. Unless this is some strange, newfangled term for friendship, in which case, I think it would be more appropriate for me to refer to you as the "teller of lies" rather than a—"

"I know, I'm sorry." You blurt out, your cheeks flushing with shame. "I didn’t mean for any of this to happen. She was asking all these questions, and I couldn't tell her the truth, and then she just kept talking, and I couldn't get a word in edgewise, and... I panicked. Okay? That’s all."

"What do you mean, couldn’t tell her the truth?" He narrows his eyes. "Is something wrong? Did you get yourself into trouble?"

"No! No, nothing like that."

"Then, what is it that you can't tell her?"

He steps closer, and the concern in his eyes makes you feel even guiltier.

"Look, don't worry about it, alright? It’s not important." You turn away, refusing to meet his gaze.

"If it isn’t important, then why are you so embarrassed?"

"I’m not embarrassed."

"Your cheeks are flushed," he points out. "And you tend to rub your thumb against your forefinger when you’re feeling nervous or stressed. Which, coincidentally, is also something you do when you’re lying."

Damn it. You should’ve known better than to lie to a profiler.

"You don’t know what it’s like to be interrogated by my mother," you snap, harsher than intended. You soften your voice before continuing. "It’s like she’s constantly see-sawing between disapproval and pity. She means well, but when she’s around, I feel like I'm being crushed under the weight of her expectations."

He opens his mouth, but you cut him off.

"And I know, I know, that’s not an excuse for lying. I just... I’m sorry, okay? It was wrong and selfish and... I didn’t mean to drag you into it."

You brace yourself for the inevitable rejection, the anger, the disappointment. Instead, you hear him let out a sigh, followed by the familiar look of resolve that comes over him when he's faced with a challenging puzzle.

"You know, when we first met, you used to lie all the time." He glances at you, his eyes sparkling with mischief. "You would say things like, 'I don't watch rom-coms,' and, 'I have a real job,' and, most infamously, 'there's no such thing as aliens.'"

"Hold on a minute—"

He ignored your protests, his smile growing wider.

"You’re not that bad of a liar. Actually, you’re pretty decent, considering your lack of social skills. So the fact that you’ve managed to fool your mother is pretty impressive."

"Hey—"

"And, honestly, it’s a little flattering."

"I— Wait… what?" You gape at him, trying to figure out what's going on. "Flattering?"

He shrugs, but you can tell he's trying not to blush.

"Liars tend to use people they know well or trust implicitly when they need a cover story because they have more information about them and are therefore more believable. So, by lying about your fake boyfriend, that being me, it suggests that you trust me enough to make a convincing cover story, and the fact that you are embarrassed about the deception implies a certain amount of fondness."

"You can't know all that from a simple lie."

"Can’t I?"

There's something in his tone, the slightest hint of a tease, that makes your heart flutter. He's always been like this, so damn perceptive. You never knew what to make of it.

"It’s actually a well-established behavioral theory," he continues. "Deceivers typically show affection toward the person they are attempting to deceive. In fact, a study in the 1970s—"

"Spencer, please." You hold up a hand. "I get it."

"I'm not so sure that you do."

There's an intensity in his gaze that makes your stomach do backflips.

"Because," he murmurs, moving a little closer, "if you did, I wouldn’t have had to spend the past three years of my life wondering why my best friend keeps avoiding my gaze."

"You noticed that?" You squeak, suddenly finding the floor very interesting.

"I notice everything."

He takes a step toward you, and it’s so quick, so unexpected, that you can't help but glance up. He's actually extremely close, his face mere inches from yours, and you find yourself frozen, unable to speak, unable to think, as his eyes lock with yours.

"I notice that the color of your eyes changes depending on the lighting." He pauses, and his voice grows softer. "And I notice that your pupils dilate when I'm near. I notice the way you breathe, the way you laugh, the way you chew your bottom lip when you’re deep in thought. And I can’t help but notice that the closer I get, the faster your heart rate becomes. That could be a number of things, of course, and not just an indication of arousal, but considering the context, the likelihood that it’s due to anything other than sexual excitement is simply—"

"Spence," you breathe, your pulse pounding in your ears. You’re not sure what to do, so you blurt out the first thing that pops into your mind. "Do you want to be my fake boyfriend?"

There’s a moment of silence, followed by a quiet snort.

"I thought I already was."

You can feel the heat rising in your cheeks, but the tension between you has lessened. Now, he’s simply staring at you with a smug smile, and it's like a dam has burst. The words tumble out of your mouth, spilling out like water from a leaky faucet.

"Well, then, you should know that my boyfriend is absolutely infuriating and has a tendency to ramble about obscure facts at inappropriate moments. And he’s really, really bad at taking a hint."

His smile widens, and his voice takes on a teasing tone.

"Oh, he is, is he? Tell me, is he good at chess?"

"No, he’s terrible at it."

"Then, he sounds like a total loser."

"Yeah," you admit, biting back a smile. "He’s the biggest loser I know."

"In that case, you should know that my girlfriend is incredibly frustrating and a compulsive liar who uses her boyfriend for cover stories. She also tends to cheat her way to victory despite still losing most of the time."

"I do not cheat!" You protest, playfully punching him on the shoulder.

"No, you just make up rules on the spot in order to justify why you lose so badly."

"You’re one to talk. You’re the one who’s been letting me win all this time."

"Perhaps," he grins. "Or maybe I’ve been letting you believe that."

You narrow your eyes.

"Are you admitting to me what I think you're admitting?"

"What is it that you think I’m admitting to?"

"I think you’re admitting to me that you’ve been throwing our chess games all this time."

"That sounds like the ramblings of someone who cheats and is trying to project their own faults onto others."

"Oh, you know what—"

And that's when the bedroom door swings open, and your mother's voice cuts through the air like a knife.

"Ahem."

She's standing there, smiling, and holding a box filled with old pictures and baby toys. Your father had sent it to you last year, hoping that you’d have children soon and use it, but you’d put it in storage, intending to deal with it later. Apparently, your mother had decided now was the perfect time.

The both of you share a look, and it's clear that he’s thinking the same thing as you.

"Not interrupting, am I?" She asks, glancing from him to you and then back again. Her smile was practically glowing, and she had a strange look in her eyes as if she were a cat watching a bird. "I was just looking for a place to put these old things and thought maybe my daughter's boyfriend might be interested in seeing them."

The shared look between the two of you solidified what was going through both of your minds. This was indeed going to be a long, long afternoon.

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arminsumi · 1 year ago

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S. GOJO ★ DID YOU KNOW THAT YOU'RE IN MY FANTASIES?

Pairing : fem reader / teacher!Gojo

Synopsis : Gojo j*rking off to fantasies of you until eventually the two of you do it together on a phone call.

Warnings/tags : 🔞 smut, solo male m*sturbation, p*rnstar fantasy, d!ck visuals, big d!ck Gojo, risky m*sturbation (office), slight perv behavior, toys, breeding kink, use of sl*t, dirty talk, m*sturbating on phone call, pillow humping, mutual m*sturbation, phone sex

Note : lol this is the post that got accidentally published once. i hate tumblr mobile!! 😿 i still want to edit the original bc it has some juicy stuff. but i put some of it into this 😈

Library | Gojo

The first time he does it, he doesn't actually realize that he's fantasizing about you. You enter his mind randomly one night as he winds down after a long day of teaching. He naturally slides his hands down his pants.

Satoru starts massaging his growing hard-on through the fabric. His big hand wraps around the veiny shaft and he gives it a few squeezes, sighing at the sensation.

Satoru hastily unbuckles his belt and slides it off with a whip-like snap, pale veiny hands rolling it neatly before setting it down on the table besides his bed. Those pale veiny hands quickly push down the hem of his pants and grab the base of his stiff cock.

He starts stroking it slowly up and down, with his eyes closed in relaxation and his other hand snuggled behind his head.

Jerking off leisurely, not rushing at all, just enjoying how it feels to pleasure himself with his own hand.

He pictures you naked. It's just a brief thought. He grumbles at himself and shakes the image out of his mind, as if he was indulging in a taboo act.

You're the teacher he works alongside. Every day you greet him with that sweet smile and kind voice that makes his heart tick. You're so innocent and untainted, he holds back from imagining you lewdly even though he really wants to.

He bites his lip at the thought of you.

Today was hard for him, you know, because your tight uniform seemed... especially tight. He commented on it in the afternoon, of course very subtly;

"Nice tits." he flirted jokingly. But his eyes were glued to your breasts like he'd never seen a pair before.

"Thanks. My uniform shrunk in the wash." you giggled in response.

"Ah, I see." he nodded understandingly, gulping when you bent over to pick something up — even if you tried to keep your skirt down, it still rose up your thighs just enough for him to find out that you wore a G-string.

The image of your body is stuck in his head now, when he's all alone in his king-sized bed.

It makes him cum. And he cums gently, letting out a barely audible grunt of breath while it dribbles out of his cockhole and runs down his shaft.

He swipes some cum off the underside of his cock and sucks it off his finger, tasting himself. Then he falls asleep like a baby, not thinking too deeply on the fact that he came to the thought of you.

****

The next few times get more and more intense.

His cock feels so much better when you're on his mind. Even when he's in a risky setting... like his office.

Though no one would dare to walk into Gojo Satoru's office without permission, there's still the risk that you could just burst into the room — maybe to complain about him slacking off.

He thinks about the risk, and it turns him on more... his cock twitches at the fantasy of you walking in on him stroking his big cock while sat in his office, long legs spread wide and head tilted back in ecstasy.

You'd find out the obvious but dirty fact that even Gojo Satoru needs to let off steam every now and then. He's not just a teacher all the time, he's also a frustratedly horny man.

Satoru squeezes the tip of his cock and clenches his jaw.

The angry veins decorating his shaft are all raised. His cock pulses harder at the thought of you walking through his office doors — he'd love to see your reaction. Would your mouth drop open? You'd find out just how huge his cock is. Would you offer to help? Nah, that only happens in porn, right? He keeps fantasizing about the scenario as if you and him are two pornstars on set.

In this fantasy, you're just sooo shocked and thirsty for Gojo Satoru's big cock, you can't help but ride him in his office even though you risk the whole school hearing the skin slapping and moans.

He pumps his fist up and down his cock faster. You know, originally he intended to nap — he rarely gets any sleep because of much he's needed in the Jujutsu world. But for some reason, after passing you by in the corridors, he got an angry boner that just wouldn't go away.

Working up a sweat under his black uniform, Satoru slumps down in the chair while totally getting lost in his pornstar fantasy of you. He gets too hot so he splits open his jacket and unbuttons his expensive shirt until his abs are exposed. It's funny, he's slowly turning into a performer... and all he's doing is just jerking off alone for himself.

"Fuck." he mutters under his breath.

He orgasms so hard while thinking of you deepthroating him that his toes curl — that never happens. Cum splatters on his abs and he breathes heavily.

You knock on the door and he gets shocked out of his skull.

"Gojo? I have those files you requested." you spoke through the door, "Can I come in?"

"Shit uh, wait! Just give me a second!" he yells, hurryingly cleaning his cum off his abs with a tissue.

He hastily discards the tissue, and buttons up his shirt, leaving a slit of his chest exposed to catch your eye, and calls for you, "Come in."

You swish your hips when you walk in, and it drives him nuts. He acts ordinarily, like he wasn't just getting off to a wild fantasy of you, his co-worker.

"Here they are." you say, and set the files down on his desk.

"Thanks." he stares at you hard.

You'd look so good bent over my desk.

"Gojo?"

"Yup?"

"You look flushed, do you have a fever?" you ask innocently.

He swallows and replies shakily, "Nah, I'm good. I was just... doing push-ups."

"In your... office? Fully clothed?" you eye him out confusedly.

He makes a cute, dumb face and shrugs his shoulders.

****

Satoru's made jerking off part of his nightly routine. It helps him sleep. And he also can't help himself; you're more in his life now than ever, he keeps your company often and his feelings are growing quick.

He's laid in bed.

His lips part erotically and his legs tremble as he furiously jerks off. Suddenly, he shoots forward and groans "Fuck!", cumming hard all over his crotch.

Satoru's cock doesn't want him to sleep tonight. It stands up again a few minutes after he cleans up his cum and rolls onto his side to sleep. He grumbles and tosses around, hoping his boner will go away.

But it doesn't.

So he starts grinding his cock into the bed, whimpering your name into his pillow. Why is he whimpering your name? And why can't he stop himself?

He scrunches up the duvet and humps it, ass muscles tensing with each rough thrust. The friction isn't enough, he starts stroking it with his hand.

But even that isn't satisfying enough.

I need a fleshlight so bad.

He squeezes his cock tight, massages his fat balls, switches hands even, does everything he can. But his cock is needy for more and his orgasm refuses to come along.

Satoru grumbles and stops, glaring up at the ceiling for a good long while before coming up with an idea.

He props a pillow and buries his heavy cock into it. Then he plants two big hands on it, grabbing it as if it's your hips, and thrusts his greedy cock back and forth.

The bed squeaks under the force of the Strongest's hard thrusts. He fucks the pillow and talks dirty to it in his mind, pretending it's you.

"Just let me have your pussy, please."

"You wanna have my babies? Of course you do. Slut."

"That's it, lay there and let me knock you up."

The thought of you squeezing his muscular biceps in your tiny hands is what makes him cum. He groans and clenches his teeth, jawline becoming super defined as he cums into the crinkled up pillow. His gooey cum spills out and stains the fabric.

He gets hit with a wave of post-nut clarity. "What the fuck..." he pushes his hair out of his eyes.

His forehead is sweaty, his chest is heaving, and he feels so guilty for getting off to you again.

****

So Gojo Satoru bought a fleshlight after that frustrating night. He rushed to leave work early, so you caught him.

"Don't be lazy, 'Toru." you frowned, "You're really gonna let me finish this paperwork all by myself?"

The doe eyes you gave him stuck in his mind. All he replied with was a suspicious chuckle and a lame excuse.

"I'm so tired, gimme a break just this once, please?" he pleaded, feeling his blood rush south. You looked especially good.

"Alright, fine then. Get some rest, okay?" you said caringly, letting him off.

He squeezes his cock into the pocket pussy and pumps it up and down quick, relishing in the sound of lube squelching.

The toy is too small for his big cock, but he likes that. It makes him think about how tight you'd be — oh damn it, there he goes again thinking of you when he really shouldn't be.

"I know it's too big, baby, but take it please..." he's dirty talking to you in his mind.

Satoru's got an unsuspecting kinky side to his personality, and it really shows as he fucks his toy. His heavy balls slap against the silicone, causing lube to squirt out.

He momentarily stills inside to suck the sticky cherry lube off his finger, imagining it's your juices. Thinking of how you taste makes his cock twitch, and he starts up with his pounding thrusts again, grunting under his breath and clenching his jaw.

Satoru's got an awful breeding kink. He once told you at a Christmas party that he hoped to start a family one day. Now suddenly as his orgasm works up with each thrust, he thinks back on your response;

"Me too, I'd love to have a big family."

He groans and twists your words in his fantasy; "Cum inside me, Satoru! Gimme your babies!"

"Fuck." he hisses, cumming hard inside the fleshlight.

Once isn't enough, he keeps filling it until he works up a sweat and his cock tires out.

After cleaning his cum out the toy, he washes his face in the bathroom and leans over the sink, shaking his head at himself for thinking of you saying such lewd things.

****

Fact: Satoru sleeps naked.

When passing the mirror in the mornings, he rubs his eyes and takes a moment to check himself out. He flexes his abs, and then a raunchy fantasy brews in his mind;

What if she rode my abs? Could I make her cum like that.

"Oh my god." he mutters out loud, rubbing his face in annoyance at his own horniness.

He slides on his sweatpants without underwear — cock too big, you know, gotta let it breathe without underwear. And he goes to the kitchen to make an super-sweetened coffee.

But his boner is annoying him. It stands up, making a bulging tent out of his sporty sweatpants.

Abandoning his coffee, Satoru gets his fleshlight and tapes it to the kitchen countertop, and squirts lube into it until it oozes out. He likes it sloppy.

Still thinking hard about the fantasy of you riding his abs, he lubes his abs up and caresses them slowly, feeling up and down his chest and tweaking his pink nipples for a bit before paying his cock attention.

"That's it, ride my abs. I know you like them."

He'd love to see you humping on his stomach like it's your pillow. As he slides into the fleshlight and slowly pumps in and out of it, he wonders how you touch yourself. Do you use toys, or your fingers? Do you take your time?

Pressing his two palms flat on the kitchen countertop, Satoru starts fucking the fleshlight harder and harder until the squelching sound is loud enough to reach his ears.

He's starting to think more deeply about you — how soft and warm your cunt must feel. How it would squish under the weight of his heavy cock. He'd definitely slap his cock onto your tummy to show you how much cock you were about to take inside.

Without thinking, he brokenly moans your name as he cums hard.

****

One night, you're on a call with Satoru. He lays back on his bed, long legs stretched out. Even though you're talking business stuff, the sound of your voice gets him hard and he rolls over — soft grunts carry through the phone to you.

"What are you doing?"

"Nothing. Moving around. You were saying?"

As you keep talking, Satoru starts subconsciously humping his pillow.

"Ugh, fuck..."

"What was that?"

"Sorry, got a cramp." he lies, sensitive cock twitching against the pillow.

He humps it harder and harder, sometimes slowing or stopping to reply to something you say.

"Are you okay? You sound like you're breathing heavily."

"Yeah, just... working out."

"... what's with you and working out so often? Didn't you work out in your office the other day? Freak." you giggle.

Your giggle makes his dick throb. He smiles guiltily.

"I've just been enjoying myself lately... um, with exercising." he speaks, voice sounding oddly sultry.

He keeps sliding his cock back and forth on the pillow. You return to the previous topic of grading problems, and he listens intently.

"What do you think, Satoru?"

He lets out a squeaky grunt that could easily be excused as one of those noises you make during exercise.

"Couldn't hear you, c-can you repeat that?"

"(blablablagradingsomethingsomething) Satoru." he hears you say his name at the end again and it brings his orgasm closer.

He nearly chokes as he swallows. "Yeahhh that sounds g-good... so good. Ugh, fuck."

"Satoru?"

He cums so hard hearing you call his name. As his cum spurts out, he pretends like nothing's happening and keeps talking to you in a shaky voice. A few seconds pass and he speaks a little more normally.

"Must be some work out routine to make you swear like that." you joke, voice suggesting that you knew exactly what he just did.

"Uh... y-yeah." he acts a fool. His face burns red hot realizing that he just possibly fucked up big time.

"Well, you're probably all sweaty and gross. Why don't you go shower and I'll call you back?" you suggest.

His heart beats hard and he cringes at himself. "Yeah, I think I'll go do that..." he looks down at his cum staining pillow. "... wish you could join me." he mutters under his breath.

"Wow," you giggle. "I didn't think you liked me in that way."

He grins, cheek squishing against his phone screen. "Sorry for being a perv."

"Not at all. I like the attention you give me."

His heart flutters. Well since the mood is set, he thinks, maybe he should prod and see how far he can take this.

"Do you think of me when you're alone in bed?" he asks.

When you hesitate to reply, he gets a little nervous.

"More than I'm willing to admit." you reply.

He smirks. "Oh yeah?" he flusters you with his deepened voice. "What do you fantasize about?"

"Mmm, come find out." you tease.

His boner is sticking up, begging for some relief.

"... I'm hard."

"Yeah, I'm wet."

"Uh... do you mind if I...?"

"Exercise?" you joke.

He giggles guiltily, "Yeah."

"... why don't we do it together?"

He widens his eyes and blanks for a second.

"You wanna touch yourself with me?" he asks in disbelief.

"I am already." you reply.

He chokes up, "Oh."

"So... what exactly were you doing earlier?" you ask suggestively, rubbing yourself through your panties slowly.

Satoru hums, "You wanna know my exercise routine?"

"Haha, yeah..."

"... I was just fucking my pillow. I never usually do that unless I'm really sensitive."

"Oh, so my voice got you sensitive?" you tease.

"Maybe." he replies breathily.

Precum beads out of the tip of his cock, enough to make a squelching sound as he jerks his hand only up and down the first few inches of his cock.

"... are you going fast or slow?" you ask.

"Kinda fast..."

"... okay, then I'll go faster, too."

Satoru listens intently, desperate to hear you moan. When he puts you on speaker, he can hear how wet you are.

"A-are you using a toy?" he asks, hearing some sort of thrusting action through the phone.

"Yeah... I'm trying to hit my G-spot but it's hard. Wish you could come help me." you pout and he can hear that cute pout.

"Shit, I'd love to. H-hold on a minute, will ya sweetheart? I wanna use my toy too. Keep touching yourself, don't stop."

Satoru hears your soft noises as he reaches over into his bed-side table drawer to fish out his toy and lube.

He hastily lubes up the fleshlight and slides into it. "Fuck..."

Biting on the hem of his shirt, Satoru exposes his flexing abs as he fucks his fleshlight loud enough for you to hear. He lazily tugs his shirt off with one hand, never stopping his thrusts.

"Satoru, I'm really close already..."

"I-it's okay. I can cum q-quick if you just say my name."

You can hear him pounding into the toy harder when you start moaning his name. All he needs to tip over is for you to announce your orgasm, and then he lets out a low growl and rolls his eyes back, releasing a hot load of cum.

His balls are squished up against the entrance of the toy as he stuffs every inch inside. And then oops, the poor toy breaks.

"Haha, fuck." you hear him

You ease out of your orgasm state and come back to reality. Oh, did you just have phone sex with Gojo Satoru?

"What happened?" you ask.

"I broke my toy." he replies smugly.

You laugh, "Oh, that's unfortunate." you say, "Well, if you need a new toy come pick me up tomorrow and take me out on a date."

"Wow."

I do not permit the copying/reposting/translation/plagiarism of my works. Do not steal what I've worked hard to create.

This is fictional work.

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theemporium · 3 months ago

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[17.2k] nico hischier didn't expect to go first overall. he didn't expect to become captain of the new jersey devils. he didn't expect to become a dad to twins. and he certainly didn't expect to fall in love with the twins' nanny.

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Becoming a father was one of the best things that ever happened to Nico Hischier.

It was one of those things that he always knew would happen in his life, something that fit with his other aspirations. It wasn’t like hockey. Not when the chances of him going first overall and becoming captain and leading his team to playoffs seemed like a series of right choices made to go down the right path.

Becoming a father was something he kind of expected to happen in his life one day, one of those things he always saw in his future but never thought too hard about.

He just never expected it to happen the way it did.

If he was being completely honest, he assumed somewhere amongst the hectic life of being a NHL player, he would meet someone and they would fall in love and all the milestones would be reached together: anniversaries, marriage, children. It was a sweet fantasy many people had and Nico was just another one on the list.

The series of events that led towards Marlene and Otto Hischier becoming a part of his life were unconventional, but he wouldn’t change it for the world.

He still remembered the day he met them, clearer than any other memory he had. Clearer than his draft day, his first NHL goal, the day he was awarded captaincy.

The day he met his children stood out, a mix of chaos and stress and fear. But also love and adoration and a step into a new era of his life that he welcomed, even if he was thrown into the deep end with little to no preparation.

Before the twins, the most experience he had with kids was the boys on the team who had children. On family skate days, at team bonding events, even the odd babysitting here and there to give the parents a break for a night.

But having two newborns suddenly under his care was a hurdle Nico never considered he would have to jump in his life.

All things considered, the timing had worked out.

Off-season was around the corner, he had no plans to play for Worlds and he had a few months to settle into some form of routine whilst coming to terms with the fact he was a father.

The days were long, the nights were longer but he made it. He was never really alone, not with the insane support system he had in his team and in his family. Whenever he felt like he was spiralling, there was someone there to hold his hand.

He would be lying if he said he wasn’t shitting himself when preseason training came around again.

He would be lying if he said his parents weren’t absolute saviours the first year of the twins’ lives, practically moving in as they followed him back to Jersey.

It wasn’t easy, far from it. He couldn’t get rid of the fear that he was doing it all wrong, that he was going to somehow fuck up and ruin everything and not give his children the lives they deserved. He constantly felt on edge, wanting nothing more than to give them the best lives he could, the best childhood he could.

Which led them to the twins’ belated second birthday party at his parents’ house in Switzerland, having what had been a recurring argument with his parents since the off-season started.

“What was wrong with Mrs Holden?”

Nico let out a sigh, already feeling a sense of deja vu washing over him. “She was too…traditional. She wouldn’t let Marley wear the blue dress she loves so much.”

His mother hummed. “And that one that wanted to be a teacher, hm? Vanessa! She seemed sweet.”

“Yes, until she started insisting my parenting skills were wrong because I wasn’t pushing the twins to learn their abc’s before they could say three words,” Nico scoffed under his breath, frowning as the memory of the woman repeated in his head.

“And that nice boy, Felix? He was Swiss too!” Rino questioned. “The twins loved him.”

“Yeah, and he loved telling people the twins were his kids too,” Nico deadpanned.

“He said he was an uncle,” Rino corrected.

“That doesn’t make it any better,” Nico muttered.

“Fine then,” Katja sighed. “What about Olive? You liked her and she looked after the kids for months!”

“Yes but,” Nico waved his hand in some incoherent gesture. “She wasn’t right for them.”

“Nico,” Rino said in a heavy voice.

“I know you think I’m being overprotective but I just want what’s best for them,” Nico insisted, his fingers lightly skimming over the side of the glass in front of him. “They are getting older and they are more impressionable. They need stability and I need someone I can trust will be a good influence on them.”

“Yes but it’s been months of looking and you haven’t found anyone,” Rino pointed out. “Which is fine now, you have months until preseason starts. But it only gets harder the longer you leave it.”

Nico swallowed harshly. “I know, I know…”

“We know you care about them,” Katja spoke in a soft voice, reaching across the table to place her hand on his arm. “We get it. Trust me, we do. But the way you care about them is the way we care about you, and we are just worried about you being left to take care of the twins all by yourself when the season starts.”

“I’ll find someone,” Nico said, and he hoped he sounded as determined as he did in his head. “It will be worth it. And they will be what the twins need.”

Katja smiled, though it looked a bit sad. “We hope so.”

“Where are the twins, anyways?” Rino questioned, steering the conversation away and giving Nico a chance to relax his shoulders. “I’m surprised they haven’t started demanding cake.”

“Ah,” Nico smiled. “That’s because they are playing with—“

“TICKLE MONSTER IS GOING TO GET YOU!”

“No!”

“Yes!”

Nico’s grin widened even more as the sounds of his children’s giggles sounded through the house. “Tickle monster with Unkel Luca,” he finished eventually as the three of them raced into the room.

Marley and Otto made a beeline for him, cheeks red and smiles wide as they jumped for his lap, screeching and squealing and laughing as they tugged on their father’s shirt.

“Papa! Papa!” Marley giggled, hiding her face against his forearm as she clung onto him. “Unkel Luca is running!”

“He’s running after you?” Nico asked, watching as both nodded quickly. He stole a glance at his older brother, watching as he stood there with an innocent smile before shaking his head fondly. “That’s not very nice of him, is it?”

“No,” Otto giggled. “Game, Papa, game!”

“Oh, it’s a game,” Nico nodded in understanding.

“Need to hide,” Marley explained, panting lightly. And then she blinked, big brown eyes staring up at him in a way that made him want to melt. “Help us?”

Nico couldn’t help but sigh happily. “Yeah, baby, Papa will help.”

He lifted the edge of the tablecloth high enough for the twins’ eyes to widen in delight at their new hiding place, both ducking their heads as they shuffled under the table and quickly planted themselves by their grandparents’ feet with high-pitched giggles.

Luca grinned, waiting for Nico to drop the tablecloth before he let out an exaggerated sigh and placed his hands on his hips. “Oh no! Where did they go?”

Nico could feel his heart melting even more when their giggles only got louder.

Katja’s expression softened as she watched the way her youngest son slip into the role of a father so well.

“You’ll find someone,” Katja nodded, smiling in a way only a mother looking at her child could. “And I’m sure they will be perfect for the twins.”

Nico returned the smile, something quite like hope twisting in his stomach.

…

June and July and August slipped away from him before he realised what was happening.

He had taken the summer for granted, basking in life away from hockey and cameras and expectations. He was enjoying spending time with his kids and his family and his friends back home. He was enjoying living a normal, less-than-hectic life.

Then all too soon, he was herding two hyperactive toddlers onto a plane back to Jersey with the overwhelming reality that he had done exactly what his parents warned him about and left everything far too last minute.

“Papa?”

He blinked, turning his head to find Otto slumped with his head on Nico’s thigh, blinking as he fought to keep his eyes open.

“Uncle Jack come in car?” Otto questioned, something quite excited in his voice despite the exhaustion.

“Yeah, Uncle Jack is picking us up,” Nico nodded with a smile as he reached to gently push his fingers through the young boy’s hair, watching as his eyes fluttered shut. “He’s excited to see you both.”

Otto blinked. “Hugs?”

Nico hummed, lightly scratching his scalp in the way that always made Otto sleepy—even as a baby. “Uncle Jack is going to give you so many hugs.”

“Good,” Otto murmured before slumping back down against his thigh.

Unsurprisingly, neither Otto nor Marley stayed awake by the time Jack arrived. It hadn’t stopped Jack from cooing and smiling and muttering a ‘finally back home’ before he helped Nico settle the twins into the car seats in the back.

Nico hadn’t even realised how exhausted he was himself until he was settled in the passenger seat, his eyes closing as he let out a deep sigh.

“So,” Jack begins.

Nico let out a hum of acknowledgement.

“I had lunch at Curtis’ the other day,” he continued, doing what he did best and beating around whatever point he wanted to make because he wanted to tell a story.

“Is that so?” Nico muttered because he knew Jack and he knew the boy wouldn’t continue unless he played along.

“He mentioned you were still looking for a nanny for the twins,” Jack said, his fingers aimlessly tapping against the wheel. “Said you asked him about any good agencies you could go through.”

Nico slowly opened his eyes, turning his head to flash his friend a look. “Where are you going with this?”

“Nothing,” Jack shrugged his shoulders. “Just wondering why you didn’t ask me too, you know?”

Nico blinked. “Because Curtis has children, Jack.”

“I could still find you a good babysitter,” Jack argued, his nose scrunching slightly. “You haven’t given me a chance.”

“I don’t think I want to give you a chance,” Nico retorted.

“Rude,” Jack huffed. “I’ll have you know, as the twins’ favourite uncle—”

Nico made a small noise of disagreement (just to wind the younger boy up).

Jack’s eyes narrowed. “As the twins’ favourite uncle,” he repeated a little more forcefully. “You gotta have a little faith that I would find someone suitable for the job.”

Nico let out a deep sigh. “You already have someone in mind, don’t you?”

Jack flashed him an innocent grin. “In my defence, Curtis had to listen to the fifteen possible candidates I found and narrowed it down to the one he would trust with his kids too.”

And maybe it was the exhaustion. Or maybe it was the desperation. Or maybe—though he would never admit it to Jack for the sake of the boy’s ego getting bigger—he could trust Jack to know the kind of person Nico needed around the twins.

And there was the added bonus he could say ‘I told you so’ if it went wrong.

“Fine,” Nico said eventually. “I’ll check out your nanny.”

…

“So, you’re going on a date?”

“Stop calling it a date,” you grumbled into the phone as you walked down the street, brows furrowed as you read the names of the shops you passed. “It’s just an interview.”

“Back in my day, a man took a lady to a coffee shop for a date. Interviews were in offices.”

You rolled your eyes a little at your grandmother’s words. “Coffee shop dates aren’t a generational thing, people still do them.”

“So you admit it’s a date?”

“Once again, it’s an interview for a new job, Nana,” you said, a voice in the back of your mind reminding you to not give into the conversation. But it was too late.

“Well, excuse me for just wanting my lovely granddaughter to find someone instead of working herself to the bone.”

“Nana,” you said with a sigh.

“You jump from family to family, I just want you to have the same thing, honey.”

“I know,” you murmured, feeling a little guilty as the sincerity in her voice sounded through the phone. “When I go on that date, you’ll be the first to know.”

“Actually, Bernice has this grandson—”

“Bye, Nana!”

You winced a little at your phone, reminding yourself to visit her in the care home this weekend to make up for the phone call. And to bring those lemon bars she loved from the bakery down the road from you. It tended to soften her bad moods when you brought her sweet treats, and denying another one of her attempted blind dates was definitely going to put you in her bad books.

But you pushed the thought away for now, straightening your back as you looked up at the sign above the cafe, double and triple checking it was the right place before walking in. Your eyes skimmed over the customers currently sat around the cafe, picking them apart until you paused on a man sitting alone, tucked away in the cosy book corner of the establishment.

It was the white beanie on his head—the one he had mentioned he would be wearing—that confirmed to you he was the one you were meeting.

“Mr Hischier?”

The man jumped a little, like his own name took him by surprise before he quickly schooled his features. Almost instinctively, he stood up from his seat before flashing you a polite and somewhat awkward smile.

“Nico is fine,” he assured you before clearing his throat, gesturing towards the seat across from him. “Please, sit down. Can I get you anything?”

“No, I’m fine,” you assured him, choosing to leave out the fact your heart was beating fast enough as it was. Caffeine wouldn’t help the interview jitters. “Just to make it clear from the start, your partner explained your situation and how the job might vary a bit from my previous schedules—”

“Partner?” Nico repeated with a frown.

“Yes, the one I spoke on the phone to originally for the job,” you said, keeping a polite smile on your face. “Uh, Jack, I believe his name was.”

“I—” Nico’s face started to turn pink, a sheepish laugh escaping his lips. “No, Jack isn’t my partner. He is a close friend.” He paused before continuing. “Not close like that! Not that there’s anything wrong with that. I just mean, he is a very good friend of mine because we are also teammates. Who work together. On the same team.”

“Right,” you murmured, your lips twitching upwards in amusement. “I’m sorry, usually it’s the parents calling up and he seemed to know so much about your kids so I assumed—”

“No, no, it’s fine,” Nico laughed, a little more relaxed than he was a few moments ago when you had walked into the cafe. “He really cares about the twins.”

Your smile softened a little. “From our short conversation, I could tell they mean a lot to him. And you do too, he seemed really persistent in finding the right person to help you out.”

Nico nodded, but there was still a light blush on his cheeks. “It’s, uh, just me and the twins. The team helps out a lot but with our job, we travel a lot and the twins are getting older and I can’t always take them with me.”

“You need someone who can provide them with structure and stability,” you guessed.

“Exactly,” Nico let out a short breath, his shoulders dropping a little. “I travel a lot. Sometimes gone for days at a time and I know that can be a lot—”

“Jack explained,” you assured him with a polite smile. “I’m aware of the arrangement, if that is what you’re worried about. It doesn’t put me off, especially with what Jack has told me. They seem like great kids.”

“They are,” Nico said, beaming a little when he did.

You smiled, settling back against your seat. “Tell me more about them.”

…

Nico liked to think he was a good judge of character.

And, though it would pain him to ever admit as much out loud, he couldn’t deny that Jack had made a great choice with you. It was overwhelming to think about but he should have never doubted Jack, not when the boy loved the twins almost as much as he did. Not when he and the others on the team treated the twins like they were family.

The boys had his back and that extended to his family too.

After the initial interview, there was a little more back and forth between you and Nico, mostly discussing logistics and scheduling and further details. With preseason approaching, Nico preferred to have the twins established and comfortable with you before the regular season started and the long roadies began.

And you were so cooperative, it honestly caught Nico off guard. It wasn’t like he expected you to make things difficult, but he had his fair share of babysitters and nannies who had made a point to be a bit hesitant about the schedule.

It was refreshing to have someone on the same page as him.

“Oh no, I wonder where they are hiding. I might never find them!”

Nico didn’t even bother to hide his smile as he stood in the middle of the living room, shaking his head fondly at the two pairs of legs peeking out from behind one of the couches. He had spent the last hour frantically cleaning the house for your arrival, wanting to make the best impression he could but the living room was a lost cause with a variety of kids' toys sprawled over the room.

With preseason starting soon, he was beginning to feel the heavy weight of the hockey season and his captain duties starting to settle in. But this was his biggest priority, his kids would always be his biggest priority.

“I guess they don’t want me to meet our new fründ who was really excited to meet them,” Nico continued, letting out a theatrically loud sigh.

It took seconds before Otto’s head popped up, eyes wide and curious. “New friend?”

Nico smiled. “She is coming to meet you both today.”

“I want a new fründ!” Marley exclaimed as she popped up beside her brother, her grin matching his own and it made Nico’s chest tighten—in a good way, of course.

“And what do we remember when we meet a new friend?” Nico asked, already crouching down as both twins ran towards him and happily tucked themselves into his arms.

“Be nice,” Otto said.

“Be kind,” Marley added.

“Good,” Nico praised, pressing quick kisses to both their cheeks as they giggled at the scratch of his beard against their skin. “Best behaviour, okay? This friend is going to be coming around a lot if you like her.”

Otto tilted his head. “Like the other friends?”

Nico nodded. “Only if you like her.”

Because at the end of the day, that was what mattered most—that was what made him fire babysitters and nannies in the past. Credentials and first impressions only went so far compared to the opinion of his kids. He trusted their judgement. He wanted them happy and comfortable with the person who would be with them almost as much as he would be. He wanted the twins to choose their person too.

He knew his parents and even some of the guys on the team thought he was being picky, but Nico just thought he was being fair. His kids deserved to have someone they liked and trusted, he had a duty to find that person for them.

Even if their excitement was hidden by their own shyness and hesitancy when you finally rang the doorbell.

“Hey,” Nico breathed out, smiling a little as he opened the door. “Come on in. The twins are excited to meet you.”

“I’m excited to meet them,” you smiled back, stepping in and letting your eyes wander around the apartment. “Nice place.”

“Would you believe me if I said it’s never usually this clean?” Nico mused, trying to disperse the nerves bubbling in his chest.

“Potentially,” you retorted, still polite and lighthearted as your eyes continued to wander.

“I appreciate the honesty,” Nico huffed out with a laugh, closing the door behind you before shifting his attention to the two toddlers who had now hidden themselves back behind the couch. “Otto, Marley, I thought you wanted to meet our new friend.”

Your smile became less performative and more genuine as the two heads peeked from around the couch to stare at you curiously. They slowly wandered over, keeping close to Nico until they were practically hiding behind him with just enough visibility to keep watching you.

You crouched down, smiling softly as you offered them a wave. “Hi there, your dad has told me so much about you two.”

Marley blinked before looking up at Nico, her little hands clinging onto the fabric of his jeans. “Papa?”

“It’s okay, baby, you can talk to her,” Nico assured, his thumb lightly smoothing over the back of her head as she tried to hide her face against his thigh.

It was Otto who tilted his head at you, looking more curious than anything. “Do you want to play mini sticks?”

Nico watched your brows furrow with confusion but you kept a smile on your face. “I would love to! Is it okay if you teach me? I don’t think I have played before.”

Marley gasped, no longer bothered with hiding behind her father’s leg as she stepped around him. “You never play mini sticks before?”

You flashed her a sheepish smile. “I have never played any hockey before.”

“We will teach you,” she said with a confident nod that made Nico grin.

“Watch out,” Nico commented, his words teasing but his gaze for his children adoring. “They are vicious. They are winners.”

“Just like Papa,” Otto confirmed with a nod of his head.

“We will teach you to win,” Marley said, also nodding her head.

You smiled at the two of them. “I can’t wait.”

…

Over the next two weeks, Nico was pretty happy to report that his judge of character was, in fact, good.

Despite his parents’ concern over leaving everything so last minute, the lead up to the preseason wasn’t as stressful as he imagined. As much as Jack joked about Nico being helicopter parent, he did tend to hover over the first few sessions just to make sure the twins were happy and content.

Marley tended to take a little longer to warm up to new people, a little shy and cautious but still eager to make new friends. Otto was a little better but he tended to always look towards Nico when he needed to ask something, like a little confidence boost to make sure he wasn’t doing something he wasn’t meant to. And much to everyone’s amusement, they tended to be just as stubborn as he was.

He just wanted to make sure they would be okay when he eventually left for training camp.

Nico was honestly a little dumbfounded just how much the twins liked you. Even more so at how quickly you seemed to pick up on their habits, on their personalities, on their quirks that most nannies had tried to change.

He was glad the twins were happy but he would be lying if he said he wasn’t a little thrown off guard just how well you adapted to Otto and Marley.

One of the first times he really saw it was during a not-so-surprising morning tantrum from Otto who was being fussy and difficult and very, very loud.

Nico had suspected he hadn’t slept well, and had his theory confirmed when the young boy started fussing and trying to wake his sister up in the early hours of the morning. Nico was already awake before his alarm went off, bleary eyed and exhausted and holding onto the guilt that the jet lag was still messing with the twins’ sleep schedule after being in Switzerland for the last few months.

You arrived at the apartment sometime just before eight in the morning, your face scrunched in sympathy as Nico opened the door—still dressed in whatever ratty sweatpants and thoroughly worn hoodie he threw on at five in the morning when there was barely any light in the room—looking like he kind of wanted his eardrums to burst already.

Nico opened his mouth, greetings and apologies ready to tumble out but you just shook your head with a sheepish smile.

“I get it,” was all you said before you slid into the apartment, closing the door before the screams could disturb the neighbours anymore than they already had.

Nico had watched in a cloudy daze as you kneeled down on the floor beside the couch Otto had thrown himself over, your voice patient and soothing as you waited for him to lift his head before you finally reached out to lay a comforting hand on his back, like you wanted to make sure he saw you reach out first and make the decision on whether or not he wanted you to touch him.

It took a while before he fully calmed down from the breakdown, still sniffly and red eyed by the time you coaxed the boy into enjoying some mini pancakes whilst some random cartoon played on the tv.

Nico could only mutter his thanks so many times as he handed you a generously large mug of coffee.

And it continued like that over the introductory period.

The twins started to pick up on the routine, and started to expect you in the house by the time they woke up. They started looking forward to you arriving, like a fun new step in their morning routine they welcomed far easier than they had with previous nannies.

There were still moments where their eyes would look for him, look to their father to make sure he was still there and everything was okay. But the initial shyness disappeared, replaced with a familiarity they shared with few other people in their lives, like the team or family back in Switzerland.

It made Nico feel a lot more settled by the time the preseason games came along.

Nico had left the apartment during the twins’ afternoon nap, pressing two lingering kisses on their foreheads before he snuck out to head to the rink. He had been procrastinating, finding excuses to stay in the apartment until the last possible moment, clinging onto the last dregs of summer before the season truly started.

The game was as rough as one would expect after months without hockey. But it felt good. It felt even better when the final buzzer sounded through the Rock and the Devils came out the other end of their first preseason game of the year as the victors. It felt really good to have hockey back.

And it felt even better to finally get back home to his kids.

He knew it was past their bedtime and tried to tamper down his expectations, but it didn’t change the sense of relief that washed over him as he walked through the front door and let himself drop his bags by the entryway before walking further into the apartment.

He was mildly surprised to find you sitting on the couch with the post game show on.

He was even more surprised at the two sleeping figures curled up with their heads on your lap.

“Oh hey, you’re back.”

Nico stood a few feet away from the couch, staring at the scene in front of him with tired eyes.

“Oh, right, sorry,” you laughed a little, an almost sleepy smile on your face as you looked down at the twins. “They insisted they wanted to watch the game and promptly passed out during the first break. But every time I tried to move them, they would get fussy and insist they were awake to watch you so I just let them doze off here.”

Nico’s voice was soft when he spoke. “You let them watch?”

You gave him a weird look. “Yeah? Was I not meant to? They really wanted to—”

“No, it’s okay,” he assured you, a weird tightness in his chest as he wandered closer, his lips twitching when he saw Marley holding onto your ankle. “The other nannies usually sent them to bed. They didn’t want to sit and watch the games themselves.”

“Well, I can’t say I knew what was going on,” you admitted sheepishly. “The twins tried explaining some of it to me but I have a feeling you don’t get penalties for nap times.”

Nico snorted. “Jack told them once that if they get a penalty, they can take a nap in the box.”

“Sounds like a fun rule,” you teased with a smile.

“Let me help you get them to bed,” Nico insisted as he leaned down, slowly and carefully picking Marley up into his arms.

“You sure?” You asked, even as you moved to pick Otto up without waking him. “You must be tired.”

“I’m fine,” Nico said, smiling a little. “It’s only the first game. Wait until we are halfway through the season.”

“I may be strong but not strong enough to drag a two hundred pound hockey player to bed,” you told him, your smile widening as Nico let out a laugh—one he quickly had to muffle before he woke up the twins.

“You might have to start increasing your bench press then.”

The tightness in his chest settled a little after you fondly rolled your eyes at him. It made the idea of the one day road trips on the preseason schedule a little easier to deal with. There were still a few more weeks before either of you had to deal with Nico being gone for longer roadies, but he didn’t fear the idea as much as he did.

…

“So.”

Nico let out a hum of acknowledgement, his eyes focused on the drill the third line was currently running. His lungs were still trying to recover from doing it himself a few minutes ago.

“I was right about her, wasn’t I?”

Nico blinked before he turned his head to look at the way Jack was leaning against his stick, a smug expression painted on his face. “What?”

“The nanny,” Jack replied like it was obvious. “I was right about her, right? She’s perfect for the twins.”

Nico resisted the urge to roll his eyes. “Are you really trying to boast in the middle of practice?”

“Yes,” Jack replied with no hesitation.

“She is good,” Nico nodded because he wasn’t going to lie, even if said lie would stop Jack’s ego inflating. “The twins love her—”

“More than me?”

“Oh my god,” Nico groaned, shoving the boy away with a laugh.

“I’m serious, Nico, do they love her more than me? Because then you have to fire her.”

Nico didn’t respond, just shaking his head before he skated towards where Jonas and Timo were standing a few feet away.

“Nico, am I still their favourite?!”

…

“So, what? You can just hit each other and no one says anything?”

Nico laughed. “Basically.”

“This sport feels barbaric,” you murmured, your focus on the vegetables you were currently dicing. It took you a few moments to process your own words before your head snapped up. “In a really cool way, obviously.”

“It’s a part of the game,” Nico replied with a shrug. “And sometimes the fights are justified. Sometimes you are fighting for your teammate’s honour.”

“How noble,” you teased.

“Give it a few more games and it will be your favourite part of hockey,” Nico mused before his eyes briefly glanced over at the clock.

His mother always liked to joke that if there was one thing that really assured the twins were his children, it was their napping abilities. It was almost impressive how quickly they could pass out, dead to the world and happy to stay that way for two or three hours.

It rivalled the naps he took before games.

“Okay, so hitting is allowed,” you commented, gently elbowing him out the way so you could pour the diced vegetables into the pan on the stove. “Otto said helmet kisses are essential. Is that true?”

Nico’s grin widened. “Yeah, they are essential,” he nodded. “Like after a win or a good goal, it’s normal to just…bop your helmets together.”

“Like gentle rhinos,” you mused. “Who would’ve thought hockey was such a cute and violent sport?”

“You really didn’t know anything about it?” Nico questioned. He noticed the way you tended not to talk about yourself too much, nothing beyond the facts he could pick between random comments and conversations here and there. Mostly when he was listening to you talk to the twins.

“We weren’t really a hockey family,” you admitted sheepishly. “Nana said she did have a baseball phase but only because she liked the way the boys looked in the uniforms.”

Nico let out a surprised laugh. “She told you that?”

“You’d understand if you met her,” you muttered, though it sounded fond rather than annoyed. “She’s shameless and crude and the most honest person you’ll ever meet.”

“Think I could make her a hockey fan?” Nico asked, raising his brows.

“She would probably love the violence,” you replied with a snort. “You might have a new coach on your hands.”

“It would help you learn the game,” Nico teased.

You let out a groan. “How was I supposed to know the twins were lying about the pancake rule?”

Nico pressed his lips together to hold back his laugh. “You really thought there was a rule called the pancake penalty?”

“Well with the amount all of you fall on the ice over nothing, it wouldn’t surprise me,” you retorted.

“Touché.”

…

Thankfully for Nico’s sanity, the season started with a string of home games.

It helped to live in the delusion of summer a little longer. He would go to practices and go to games but he would always come home to his apartment at the end, come home to the twins and to you and to the little bubble the four of you had created over the last few weeks.

And it was clear that the twins loved it too, loved having you around more than he had ever seen with any previous nanny.

“GOAL!”

You let out a cheer, lifting your arms up to mimic Otto before he rushed towards you and threw his arms around your neck.

“We did it, we did it!” He continued to cheer, giggling away as Nico let out a playful groan from the mini net he had set up in the living room.

“It’s okay, Papa,” Marley assured him, one hand placed on his cheek as she spoke to him. “You are not a good goalie but you are a good player!”

Nico huffed out a laugh, pulling Marley close to him as she squealed. “I think we will leave Uncle Marky in the goals for now, yeah?”

“Otto, honey, remember what we do after a game,” you reminded the young boy in a soft voice as he happily propped himself on your lap.

“Be a good person,” he nodded before looking at his father with big eyes. “Good game. I like playing with you. I love you.”

You grinned. “Perfect, honey.”

Marley tilted her head. “Why do you say that?”

You glanced up at her, raising your brows. “What?”

“Honey,” Marley repeated, a crease forming between her brows as she looked between you and Nico. “I thought we eat honey.”

“We do,” you nodded. “But sometimes you call someone honey when you care about them. It’s like a nickname. My grandma calls me honey because she cares about me.”

Marley nodded like she understood.

“Does that mean we call you honey?” Otto asked, tilting his head back to look up at you. “We care about you.”

Your lips twitched upwards. “Yeah, you can call me honey.”

“It sounds funny,” Marley admitted with a giggle before turning back to Nico. “Papa, you have to say it too!”

Nico nodded, his own smile widening when his daughter nodded in approval. “And do I get to call you honey?”

“No,” Marley said with a shake of her head. “It’s Honey’s name now!”

But before Nico could respond, Otto was back on his feet with a mini stick in one hand and the makeshift puck in the other.

“Honey, we are the winners!”

…

“On a scale from one to ten, how bad was the tantrum?”

“Not bad actually,” Nico admitted as Jack settled into the free seat next to him. “I think the excitement of Honey having a three day sleepover with them took away from the fact I wouldn’t be there.”

The bus fell silent.

Jack looked far too smug.

Nico could feel his cheeks burning up.

Jonas turned around in his seat to look at him. “Honey?”

“It’s not like that,” Nico rushed to explain but he had a feeling none of the boys were buying what he was saying. “The twins call her Honey and I don’t want to confuse them—”

“Uh huh,” Nate snorted. “Bud, those two are little Einsteins. There’s no way that would confuse them.”

Nico’s cheeks burned hotter.

“So, when’s the wedding?” Timo asked with a grin.

“Shut up,” Nico muttered out, taking the bundled up hoodie Jack had been using as a pillow to throw at the other man a few rows down.

“Hey!” Jack gaped.

“It’s nothing, don’t make it weird,” Nico said to the group, choosing to pointedly ignore the murmurs and looks of disbelief. “She’s the twins’ nanny.”

Nico also chose to ignore the way Jonas muttered ‘liar’ under his breath in Swiss German.

…

The call rang through three times before you picked up.

It was barely dinner time in Colorado, most boys happy to get settled in their hotel rooms and enjoy the night off to relax and prepare for the early practice in the morning. But it gave Nico the perfect opportunity to check in back home, have some time on the phone before the twins’ bedtime.

His stomach was twisted in knots like it usually was when he left the twins until the sight of all three of you popped up on his screen.

“Papa!”

His grin widened at the excitement in his kids’ voices. He didn’t think he would ever get sick of that.

“Woah, where’s all this energy coming from?” Nico questioned, watching fondly as the twins instantly broke into giggles, turning back to look at you before turning their attention back to their father.

“Honey said we would have dessert if we were good,” Otto told him, still grinning.

“We had chocolate!” Marley exclaimed.

“Well, you both were very good today,” you said, propping your phone up on the coffee table before letting yourself sit back on the floor, both twins determined to sit on your lap. “Good kids get good rewards.”

“And chocolate is the best,” Nico added, his eyes crinkling as he smiled. “Especially if it’s Swiss chocolate.”

“Swiss chocolate is the best because Swiss is the best,” Otto nodded.

“Switzerland, schätzli,” Nico corrected with a small huff of laughter. “The country is called Switzerland but the people and the things are Swiss.”

“Oh,” Otto said before turning to look at you. “Honey, we are Swiss!”

You laughed, nodding. “My favourite Swiss people.”

“Including Papa?” Marley asked.

“Of course,” you nodded, shooting Nico an amused look. “All three of you.”

The twins beamed in response. Nico felt the odd urge to do the same.

“Are you excited for your sleepover with Honey?” Nico asked, feeling a little smug when the twins did exactly what he assumed they would and instantly started babbling away about how they had spent their day since he left for the bus earlier that morning.

It was around an hour or so later—after Nico had stayed on the phone for a bedtime story because the twins insisted he needed to hear one too—that Nico found himself just looking at you over the phone as you shuffled around the living room, cleaning up the last of the twins’ toys.

“Thank you,” Nico found himself saying before he could second-guess himself.

You looked confused. “For what?”

“Just being here this season,” Nico confessed, a lot more going unspoken.

He wanted to tell you that he had never felt so at ease about leaving his kids with someone as much as he did with you. He wanted to tell you that he had never seen his kids so happy and bubbly around someone that wasn’t his family or his team. He wanted to tell you that he never thought he would find the person that fit the unreachable standard he made in his head when he was looking for a nanny for the twins and you seemed to go above and beyond.

He wanted to tell you a lot but it was late and he didn’t think a facetime call during his first proper roadie of the season was the time to confess any of it.

“Of course,” you said with a smile that made his stomach twist—in a good way. “You gonna win tomorrow?”

Nico chuckled. “We’ll try.”

“Good,” you grinned. “You’ll have your biggest fans rooting for you back home in Jersey.”

His mouth was moving before he could even process his own thoughts. “Does that include you?”

But you laughed and something in him eased.

“Yeah, I think I’m starting to understand this whole hockey thing.”

Nico found his smile widening. “Good.”

…

Nico felt like he blinked when suddenly the calendar was showing November.

The pace of the season felt a lot faster than usual, and he was yet to work out if that was for better or for worse. But the team was feeling good, they had more wins than losses and—even if he wouldn’t say it out loud in fear of jinxing something before it happened—he had a really good feeling about this year’s team.

Even as the aches and pains and bruises that usually came after weeks of non-stop hockey started to return, Nico found himself really enjoying the season in a way he hadn’t really experienced in a while.

It felt good when everything was starting to click into place, even off the ice.

“You’re doing it wrong!”

Nico paused peeling the banana he was currently holding. “Wrong?”

Otto nodded, pouting up at his father.

“You’re not doing it the Honey way,” Marley said, pressing herself against his thigh like she usually did when she was tired and barely awake and still a bit fussy from Nico waking her up.

“The Honey way?” Nico questioned, glancing down at the banana with a pensive look. He didn’t realise there were multiple ways to peel and cut a banana.

“She makes the best!” Otto insisted.

Nico let out a sigh as he leaned down, pressing a kiss to the top of both of their heads. “How about you both go wait on the couch and I’ll call Honey so we can make breakfast the Honey way?”

“Call?” Marley repeated, blinking up at him. “I wanna talk to Honey!”

“Me too!”

“It’s Honey’s day off,” Nico reminded his children in a soft voice. “We don’t want to disturb her when she is busy, yes?”

His heart clenched at the way the twins both deflated.

“Okay, Papa.”

He didn’t get the chance to say much else before they rushed off into the other room, leaving him feeling sluggish and far too on edge as he reached for his phone, pressing your contact before he could let himself spiral over his children’s dejected faces.

“Hey, is everything okay? Are the twins okay? Are you okay?”

“I—” Nico blinked, taking a few moments to really process the words you blurted out the second the call connected. “Yeah, everything is okay. Sorry to call you on your day off.”

“It’s okay. I really don’t mind.”

“I don’t want to keep you long,” Nico started, staring down at the bananas on the counter in front of him with a frown. “Just wanted to know how you make banana pancakes the Honey way.”

“The Honey way?”

“The twins seem insistent that it’s the only way to make them,” Nico nodded, even though you couldn’t see him. “Apparently I’m cutting the bananas wrong?”

His chest tightened even more at the sound of your laugh.

“You have to mash them in Marley’s Spiderman bowl,” you said, and even if he couldn’t see you, he swore you were smiling too. “It makes them taste better, apparently. Helps them be big and strong for the rest of the day like a real superhero.”

“Of course,” Nico huffed out a laugh, already moving to the cupboard where the bowl was kept. “Thanks. And sorry for bothering you again.”

“It’s really no worries. I was just heading over to visit Nana anyways. She won’t mind if I’m a few minutes late.”

“Say hi from me?”

“Of course.”

“Bye, Honey.”

“See you tomorrow, Nico.”

…

“Oh, he’s pretty.”

“Nana!”

“What?” The older woman exclaimed, waving you off. “I am just calling it as it is. And he’s a pretty boy. Nice smile. Nicer body–”

“Oh my god,” you groaned, lightly smacking her arm as Bernice from the other table looked over with a bitter look. “Keep your voice low.”

“Ignore her,” Nana commented offhandedly as she reached for her teacup. “She is just bitter because I said you were too pretty for her grandson.”

“How are you the same woman who scolded me about manners?” You grumbled under your breath, letting out a small hiss when she pinched your side.

“I am not saying anything wrong,” Nana insisted. “You’re a pretty girl who deserves a handsome man. Bernice’s grandson is not that man. This one though—”

“He’s my boss.”

“You say that like it’s an issue.”

You blinked. “It is.”

“Youths these days,” Nana huffed before she leaned back in her armchair. “Fine, forget the pretty European man. Tell me, are the kids better than those brats you watched in Manhattan?”

“They weren’t that bad,” you tried to start but the look you got in response made you wince. “Okay, the Smythe’s weren’t the best. But, Nana, these kids are…perfect. The cutest kids ever, and you wouldn’t believe how smart they are.”

“You’re happy here, yes?” Nana asked, something a little more serious in her voice. “Because I don’t want you working somewhere for the sake of it if you aren’t—”

“I’m happy, I promise,” you assured her with a softer smile, placing your hand over hers. “They are a good family.”

“As long as they are taking care of you,” she insisted.

“They are,” you promised.

Nana hummed. “Could also let that boss of yours take care of you in other ways—”

Your cheeks burned. “Nana!”

“He has dimples, honey! Dimples!”

“I thought you called me here to tell me the bingo gossip.”

“Oh, you would not believe the stunt Janice pulled—”

…

“Quick, Honey, quick!”

You grinned as you walked through the door, barely letting it shut behind you before you were crowded by two little humans. It was barely eight in the morning and you felt far from being human yourself, but the sight of both twins smiling up at you like they were waiting to jump on you the moment you walked through the door made it easy to forget the fact the sun had barely peeked through the clouds outside.

“I’m here, I’m here,” you sang back, trying to take your jacket off and hug the twins back the best you could all at once. “You two are very hyper this morning.”

“We are going to the park with Uncle Jack!” Otto said excitedly, his chin digging into your thigh as he looked up at you.

You raised your brows in surprise. “We are?”

“Yeah,” Nico appeared from the kitchen, a sheepish expression on his face. “I meant to message you last night to come over later but I forgot.”

“I can leave—” You started but a small whine cut you off.

“But we are going to the park with Uncle Jack,” Marley pouted. “You can’t leave!”

“Marley,” Nico quickly moved to kneel beside his daughter. “Honey will come back later. But she doesn’t have to—”

“But Uncle Jack said we were all going to the park,” Otto frowned, looking between you and Nico with a wounded expression.

“Then we are all going,” you promised as you kneeled down too, giving the twins a smile.

Nico looked over their heads, giving you a grateful smile. “You really don’t have to.”

“Nonsense,” you waved him off. “It’ll be fun.”

“Jack is basically a third kid,” Nico warned you, though his voice was playful.

“Good thing you’re not gonna have to deal with them alone,” you retorted, feeling a little more awake when he grinned back at you.

…

“TAG, YOU’RE IT!”

Nico beamed as he watched the twins running down the path, giggling and screaming as Jack chased after them. They were both bundled up, not causing as much of a fuss about the hats and gloves you coaxed them into wearing before they left the house. It probably had something to do with the twins being more excited about you meeting Jack than focusing on the extra layers.

“They really like him,” you commented, your arm lightly brushing against his as you walked side by side.

“He was there from day one,” Nico said, sounding nostalgic. “He’s probably one of their favourite people in this world.”

“And he loves them just as much,” you noted. “That much was clear from the questions he asked in the initial interview.”

Nico laughed, turning to glance at you. “Oh god, I don’t think I ever asked what he asked you.”

“A lot of hypotheticals,” you responded. “They started off normal, like what if they both wanted an apple but there was only one left or if they wanted to go to the park on a rainy day. Then they got progressively more unrealistic.”

Nico’s eyes were still on you. “Like what?”

“I think there was one about how I would protect the twins if the city was taken over by vampires,” you mused.

“And how would you?” Nico questioned, his voice serious but the expression on his face was lighthearted and teasing.

“Hunt the vampires, obviously.”

Nico let out a loud but sudden laugh. “Yeah?”

“I’ve watched Buffy The Vampire Slayer,” you insisted, trying and failing to keep a serious face. “What more research do you need?”

“They wouldn’t know what’s coming for them,” Nico added, lightly nudging his arm against yours and silently being pleased when you didn’t move away from the touch.

“Don’t underestimate me, Hischier,” you grinned, your eyes gleaming. “I may not be any good at mini sticks but I have other skills you couldn’t even begin to comprehend.”

Nico could only shake his head fondly in response.

“HEY, LOVEBIRDS, YOU’RE THE NEW CATCHERS!” Jack called out, each hand held by one of the twins as they all giggled.

Nico liked to believe his cheeks were pink because of the cold weather, no other reason.

…

By the time December came along, Nico had forgotten all about how stressed and helpless he had felt that summer when everyone bugged him about hiring a nanny for the twins.

Thankfully, his mother had not. She tended to remind him every time they spoke on the phone, in a passing but teasing comment here or there slipped into the conversation. But she did enjoy reminding him whenever the topic of you and the twins came up.

This time was no different.

“It looks like your stubbornness paid off.”

Nico rolled his eyes, only to feel guilty by the action a few moments later even if his mother couldn’t see him right now. “I told you I would find the perfect person for the twins.”

“And is she? Perfect for the twins?”

“She gets them,” Nico said like that explained it all, and it did. Because even though the past nannies he had hired were good and treated the twins well when they cared for them, there was something about you that just clicked with the twins.

You didn’t just treat them like children. They were two humans in your mind, who had their own likes and dislikes and personalities, and you just seemed to understand them almost as well as Nico did. He knew from day one that the twins would constantly be placed together, that there would be many assumptions made of the two of them being the same because they were twins. But you had never treated them as such.

It was different to past nannies who enjoyed the job but were ultimately there for the paycheck. Sometimes, it felt like you were really there for the twins.

It settled something inside him that Nico had no idea he wanted until he met you, until he saw how you cared for his children.

“Good,” his mother hummed, and he could almost imagine the way she was nodding as she spoke. “So we will see her at Christmas?”

“I—“ Nico quickly cut himself off, focusing on keeping his car from jerking into the other lane. “No? I don’t know? I can’t expect her to work on Christmas—”

“She’s a part of the family, Nico.”

“You haven’t even met her,” Nico found himself saying, which was true. Beyond a few waves and general greetings in the back of some FaceTime calls, none of his family had met you.

But there was a voice in the back of his head that really wanted to change that.

“Yes, but you care for her and so do the twins. And she cares for you three too. In my eyes, she’s a part of the family.”

His chest tightened at his mother’s words.

“I’ll ask her,” he found himself saying before he could stop himself. “But no promises.”

…

If there was one thing you could always rely on, it was the shitty winter weather in New Jersey.

The sky felt permanently grey over the last few days, dark clouds and overcast hovering over the state like a threat of the weather soon to come. The temperatures dropped and the forecasts of snow and sleet and rain started to trickle through the radio stations as you drove to and from Nico’s place and your own apartment.

You thought it would be a nuisance at most.

As it would have it, you would be eating your own words mere days later when the snow only got heavier during the day and you were starting to wonder when experts could officially name it a blizzard.

“Will the plane drivers still be allowed to fly the planes?” Otto asked, sleepy and sluggish as he fought the urge to finally close his eyes the second you finished their bedtime story.

“The pilots will still be able to fly their planes,” you assured the young boy, pushing his curls away from his face. “Don’t worry, okay? They will be here for Christmas. You know how I know that?”

Otto blinked slowly. “How?”

“Because Santa will make sure your family are here for Christmas,” you whispered, watching as the boy grinned up at you.

“Santa will bring them?”

“If he must,” you nodded, slowly pushing yourself to stand up. “But only if you’re good and go to sleep like your sister.”

Otto briefly turned his head to look at Marley—who was already fast asleep, cheek pressed against her pillow and small puffs of air leaving her mouth—before nodding to you. “I will sleep. Goodnight, Honey. Forehead kiss, please.”

“Goodnight, bud,” you grinned, leaning down to press a kiss to his forehead and then Marley’s before you made your way to the door.

You slowly shut the door behind you, knowing full well that Otto would be out like a light in a few minutes. But you didn’t want to test your luck, trying to keep yourself from making too much noise as you made your way into the living room.

Nico was already sitting on the couch, a few storage boxes sprawled around him. He looked as though he was lost in his own head, a scrapbook sat on his lap that he slowly flipped through with a fond smile on his face.

“Reminiscing?”

His head snapped up, a light blush on his cheeks from getting caught but the smile remained on his face. “Uh, yeah,” he admitted, his voice low and soft. “Nina said she wanted to add some pages with photos from the summer so I was just digging it out.”

You raised your brows. “May I?”

“Please,” Nico insisted, patting the spot next to him and laying the scrapbook over your lap too. “She started it the first summer I took the twins to Switzerland. I would do it myself but she is far better at this stuff than I am.”

“Is this them as newborns?” You asked, your heart melting at the photos of the twins as babies as you flipped to the start of the scrapbook. “Oh my god, they were the cutest lil’ things ever.”

“Still are,” Nico answered proudly, puffing his chest a little.

“They are,” you nodded in agreement, your fingers lightly skimming over the photos before your eyes caught one of Nico fast asleep on the ground beside the twins’ crib, a Devils branded blanket thrown over him. “Oh wow.”

Nico’s cheeks darkened but his smile seemed softer. “They were only a few weeks old and I had no idea what I was doing. I think I was running on two, maybe three hours of sleep there. Jack took that photo, said it was funny seeing all three Hischiers down for a nap.” There was a small pause before he continued. “Jack took most of these photos in the first few weeks.”

You turned to look at him instead of the scrapbook. “Yeah?”

“Oh yeah,” Nico nodded. “I was a total mess the first few weeks, couldn’t even begin to consider picking up my phone to capture the moment. But Jack knew I would regret it after, took it upon himself to try and capture as many early memories as he could.”

“Nothing can really prepare you for parenthood,” you said, lightly nudging your shoulder against his. “Don’t be too hard on yourself.”

“It’s harder to be prepared when you had no idea you were even having kids,” Nico added, but the joking tone fell flat. “Sorry, I didn’t—”

“I mean,” you started, a sheepish smile on your face. “It’s none of my business and you don’t have to say anything but—”

“But you’re curious?” Nico finished.

You nodded.

“It was a one night stand,” Nico admitted, his shoulders dropping a little. “She didn’t tell me anything. I didn’t even know she was pregnant. I think she thought she would be fine by herself but…things changed.”

You didn’t say anything, letting the boy get the story out but you did rest your hand on his arm, hoping the small touch would be comforting enough.

“I think we were a few games away from finishing the season,” Nico continued. “It was clear the Devils weren’t making the playoffs and I honestly wanted nothing more than to get on a plane and fly out to Switzerland to deal with the disappointing season back home. Then, child services were getting in touch and showing up at my door with these two babies and telling me they were mine and—”

He let out a shuddering breath.

“She left me a letter,” he murmured. “Saying she was sorry for not reaching out sooner. Saying she didn’t want any parental rights, that I had full custody. Saying that she hoped I wouldn’t judge her for wanting to keep living her life, to not let kids hold her back.”

You squeezed his arm.

“I was a wreck,” Nico confessed, almost sounding remorseful. “Jack came over because we were meant to drive to the rink together for practice and I just…broke down. I don’t even know what happened in those first few hours, it was all a blur to me. I didn’t know the first thing about being a dad, let alone to twins and neither did he. But he stayed and he helped, because that’s the kind of friend he is.”

You smiled softly.

“His mother, Ellen, was actually a huge lifesaver,” Nico said, his lips twitching upwards like he was remembering a fond memory. “She was already in Jersey for a few games but Jack called her, explained everything that was happening and she helped, at least until my own parents could fly out. That summer was…a mess. That whole year was but I wouldn’t have been able to do it without any of them.”

“You have a really good team behind you, Nico,” you said, the strongest urge to speak in a whisper and keep your voice low so you wouldn’t ruin the moment. “Both on and off the ice.”

“I do,” Nico gave you a genuine smile. “You’re a part of that team too.”

You returned the smile. “I am.”

“Uh,” Nico cleared his throat. “About that.”

You raised your brows in questioning.

“If you don’t have any other plans, you’re invited here to join us for Christmas,” Nico said, choosing to leave out the fact his mother had been insisting you join in every phone call he has had with her. “I know the twins would love to have you here and…so would I.”

“Aren’t your family flying in?” You asked, a crease forming between your brows. “I wouldn’t want to impose—”

“You’re not,” Nico insisted. “We want you there. I want you there.”

“I’m visiting Nana in the morning but I could come after,” you said, something twisting in your stomach at the way his face brightened.

“Yeah, perfect,” he nodded, smiling broadly. “You’ll get to experience a proper Hischier Christmas.”

“Should I be worried?”

“Maybe.”

You opened your mouth, a teasing reply on the tip of your tongue when the moment was broken by a deep, booming gust of wind howling and hitting against the windows of the apartment complex. It snapped the soft, whispering atmosphere as the reality of the worsening weather outside hit you.

“Fuck,” you murmured, watching as the flurry of snow rushed down. “I should probably head back before the roads get worse.”

Nico turned to look through the window, frowning. “Are you sure it’s a good idea to drive so late?”

You shrugged. “I’ll go slow.”

His frown deepened.

“It will be fine,” you tried to assure him but Nico was already shaking his head.

“Nonsense,” he said, turning back to look at you. “You can stay in the spare room. I can give you some stuff to sleep in too. That weather isn’t safe to drive in, especially this late.”

Your instant reaction was to reject the offer but you spotted the look on his face, the genuine fear and concern written so blatantly in his expression and you found yourself nodding instead.

“If you are sure,” you said with a nod.

“I’m sure,” he nodded, his lips twitching as he stood up from the couch. “Plus, the twins will be so excited to see you in the morning.”

And he was correct. The twins were crawling into the guest bed beside you before the sun had properly risen the second they caught wind of you staying over for the night.

…

“Meeting the family, huh?”

“Nana,” you groaned, ignoring the happy cackle she let out as you bundled up the scarf you were wearing moments ago and threw it in her direction. “It’s not like that.”

“But it should be like that,” Nana insisted with a wistful sigh. “What is taking this man so long? Look at you!”

“Maybe because he is professional and only sees me as the caretaker of his children,” you deadpanned. “You know, that job he hired me for?”

“Bah!” Nana waved you off, shaking her head. “I want his eyes checked. You’re a catch, honey.”

“You are so dramatic,” you murmured under your breath, but there was something quite fond in your voice. “Has it ever occurred to you that maybe I don’t want a relationship right now?”

“No,” Nana replied bluntly. “Because you would never deprive your sweet grandmother of seeing her favourite grandchild finally find love before she kicks the bucket.”

“Sweet is not the word I would use,” you retorted, just managing to miss her fingers pinching your side. “Hey, that’s not very festive!”

“Yes, yes, Merry Christmas and all that,” Nana said as she leaned forward, taking your face in her hands as she pressed a kiss to your cheek. “Now, tell me your present to me is a ring that hot European boss of yours gave you.”

You could feel your face heating up. “Nana!”

“I will also take a scarf, I’m not picky.”

…

If there was any doubt in your mind before (which there was not), spending Christmas with the Hischiers confirmed they were, in fact, the nicest family you had ever met.

You had spent the last few months with Nico and the twins, knew their mannerisms and their personalities and the way they lived their lives. You had also nannied for many families before them and you knew what a draw of luck it was to score a job with a family as sweet and wholesome as them.

You just never expected the whole family to be like that.

From the second you walked through the door, it was clear that that was just the way the Hischiers lived their lives.

Katja had you in a hug before you could even take your jacket off, squeezing you close and tight as she murmured something about how well you were taking care of her baby and her grandbabies. Rino had a glass of wine and a plate of finger foods in your hand before you could even think about your rumbling stomach. Even Nina and Luca had taken it upon themselves to take the seats beside you on the living room couch, happy to talk away like you had always been a part of the family.

It was heartwarming and overwhelming in the best way possible, but you were pretty sure that was just the Hischier effect.

“I wanna give Honey her present next!” Marley exclaimed, wiggling out of Rino’s arms as she rushed towards her father with an excited smile. “Please, Papa?”

“Me too! Me too!” Otto called out, perking up from his spot on Nico’s lap.

“Here you both go,” Nico grinned, almost looking mischievous as he handed them both a wrapped present each.

“Oh, for me?” You gasped as they rushed over to you, both presents extended out to you as they gripped them with their little hands. “You didn’t have to.”

“Yes, we do,” Marley said with a nod. “It’s Christmas!”

Your lips twitched upwards at their giggles as you carefully unwrapped the presents as quickly as you could, sensing their own childish impatience. Your surprise became a little more genuine and honest when you saw the gifts laid out on your lap.

There were two separate sweaters—which were sweet and considerate in their own right, and undoubtedly chosen by Nico—but your focus was on the two framed photos underneath the sweaters. Each had been drawn by one of the twins, different versions of one of the many days you three and Nico had spent together.

“Honey?”

You sniffled a little, looking up to find both twins standing in front of you with little frowns on their faces. “Thank you, both of you,” you said as sincerely as you could. “This is the best present I have ever gotten.”

“But you’re crying,” Otto pointed out with a frown.

“Do you not like it?” Marley asked, nervously playing with the hem of her dress.

“No, no, I love it,” you quickly reassured the twins, carefully moving the gifts to the side as you pulled them both into a hug. “They are happy tears! Sometimes when you feel really happy, you can cry too. It’s not a bad thing.”

Otto looked up at you. “Happy tears?”

“Happy tears,” you confirmed with a nod.

“We like happy tears?” Marley asked.

“We do,” you promised before leaning down to peck them both on the forehead. “Thank you for the presents and the happy tears.”

Both of the twins beamed, leaning up to press their own kisses to either one of your cheeks before they turned to look at their father.

“Papa, you’re next!”

Nico’s gaze was already on the three of you, soft and fond, before he snapped out of his own daze. He looked a little embarrassed as he reached for a box, letting Otto and Marley happily carry it back to you. “I don’t think I can compete with the twins but…Merry Christmas.”

You had barely ripped through the wrapping paper before the twins were squealing happily, their little hands helping remove the rest of the wrapping before pushing your present towards you.

“Honey has a jersey!”

“My own jersey?” Your smile widened as you lifted the red jersey, grinning at the Devils logo and the number thirteen on the sleeves.

“Your own lucky jersey,” Nico corrected, grinning back.

“Just like us!” Otto gasped happily.

“Just like you,” you laughed, turning the jersey to find ‘HISCHIER’ printed across the back. You dropped the jersey to your lap as your eyes found Nico again. “Thank you, Nico.”

“And selfishly,” he started as he leaned over to hand you an envelope. “I am hoping the jersey will tempt you to accept this gift too.”

You shot him a confused look but accepted the envelope, quickly tearing it open and pulling out the contents to find two tickets. “Game day tickets?”

“Only fair that the new hockey fan gets to experience a game in person,” Nico beamed. “And there’s a second ticket for Nana too, if she wants to come.”

“You seem so sure she will support the Devils,” you teased, swallowing the emotion that laid thick in the back of your throat at the idea of him including Nana in your gift.

“I got her a jersey too,” Nico retorted, looking far too pleased with himself.

You could have sworn Luca muttered something like ‘ass kisser’ under his breath but you weren’t too sure. The slap on the back of the head from Katja was telling though.

“Thank you,” you repeated, softer than before. For a moment, you almost swore Nico was blushing in response.

“Merry Christmas, Honey.”

…

“Tell me you and Honey got caught under some mistletoe and finally admitted your feelings for each other.”

Nico let out a heavy sigh, taking a long sip of his coffee as Jack settled into the passenger seat. “Good morning to you too.”

“So that’s a no,” Jack huffed, shaking his head.

“Told you so,” Luke spoke up as he climbed into the backseat, for once in his life looking awake at seven in the morning. “You owe me twenty bucks.”

“Shut up,” Jack grumbled. “God, Hisch, you had one fucking job.”

Nico’s brows furrowed together. “I did?”

“Oh my god,” Jack groaned, leaning his head back against the rest. “It’s been ages. How much longer are you going to drag this out?”

“You are saying too many words,” Nico replied bluntly before he pulled away, letting muscle memory mostly take over as he began driving towards the rink.

“This is to spite me,” Jack insisted. “I find you a nanny who is perfect for the job AND for you, and this is how you repay me?”

“What?” Nico muttered. “Jack, I swear to god if this is the girlfriend thing again—”

“It is!”

“—I have other things to prioritise right now,” Nico insisted. “And Honey doesn’t feel that way. Our…relationship isn’t like that.”

Jack gave him a deadpan stare. “You’re shitting me, right? You’re just trying to wind me up, right?”

“I’m telling Timo to pick you up tomorrow if this is how you are going to act,” Nico muttered as he reached for his coffee cup again.

“I would wake up for morning skates way easier if I got this entertainment every time,” Luke commented from the backseat, a shit-eating grin on his face.

“Shut up, Luke,” they both replied at the same time.

…

“You’re joking!”

“I’m not!”

“Oh my god,” you laughed, shaking your head as you turned to look at the boy in utter disbelief. “Nico, how could you—”

“I don’t know!” Nico groaned, even if he was smiling. “I just kinda…forgot English? And then I panicked and just found myself nodding before I even realised what I was agreeing to.”

It was a cold January day when the four of you found yourselves in the park once again. The twins seemed to have more energy than usual the second they woke up that morning. They were bouncing off the walls, barely able to sit still during breakfast before they were begging to get out of the house. And after a less than satisfactory start to the season in the new year, Nico was also eager to get out and away from anything hockey related and have a day out at the park.

“So, how was it?” You questioned, nudging your shoulder against his.

“Smelly,” Nico confessed with his nose scrunched up. “I mean, the equipment team loved me for the rest of my time there but…I would not recommend volunteering to clean hockey gear after a long tournament.”

“Gross,” you agreed.

“It prepared me pretty nicely for changing nappies though,” Nico admitted with a laugh. “I guess nothing can be worse than a hockey locker room.”

“Surely you’re used to it by now,” you pointed out.

“Yeah but doesn’t mean a break every once in a while isn’t nice,” Nico retorted, his eyes wandering over to where Otto and Marley were currently attempting to climb up the slide. “February can’t come soon enough.”

You looked surprised by his words. “You get a break in February?”

“All Stars,” Nico explained with a nod. “A few people get picked but everyone else gets a free week off to go somewhere hot and relaxing before the runup to playoffs.”

You lightly elbowed him. “Come on, Captain, surely you were picked.”

His cheeks burned a little but he shook his head. “Nope, I’m free this year.”

“Big plans?” You questioned.

“I wanted to do something for the twins' birthday,” he confessed. “Obviously, we will celebrate on the actual day but there’s going to be so much around hockey and playoffs and I just…I want them to have a proper celebration, even if it’s a little early and even if we do another one in Switzerland with my family.”

Your face softened. “That would be nice.”

“So,” Nico wiggled his brows. “Got any ideas where we could go?”

You tilted your head. “We?”

“What? You thought it was just going to be me and the twins?” Nico grinned, shaking his head and nudging you back with his shoulder. “We are a team now, Honey. The four of us.”

His words made butterflies erupt in your stomach but you quickly pushed that feeling away, focusing on the boy beside you on the bench instead.

“Well, in that case, I think Mexico is calling our name.”

Nico only beamed in response. “I was thinking the same.”

…

“You know, your grandfather never took me to Mexico.”

You tore your eyes away from the hand of cards you were dealt, instead glancing at Nana who sat on the opposite side of the table with a certain look on her face. You couldn’t quite work out whether or not it meant trouble.

“He isn’t taking me to Mexico for the hell of it,” you reminded your grandmother, taking another card from the deck with a frown. “I’m just technically doing my job internationally.”

Nana shot you a look over her cards. “You were meant to be the smart grandchild.”

You frowned. “Hey, rude.”

“Honey, one day it will hit you and I just pray that day happens in my lifetime,” Nana said, sounding wistful as she glanced down at her cards again. “Got any two’s?”

“No, go fish,” you murmured before giving her a pensive look. “You really think it means something that he is taking me to Mexico with the twins for a holiday?”

“Is he paying for your ticket?”

“Yes,” you grumbled. “I insisted but—”

“Then, it means something,” Nana shrugged like it was obvious. “And if you share a hotel room, you owe me lunch at that nice deli.”

Your cheeks burned. “Nana!”

“Don’t be such a prude,” she waved you off. “Now, hurry up before this game bites into my afternoon nap. I’m already feeling sleepy.”

You rolled your eyes before you asked for any three’s, even if your mind was preoccupied with three other people at that moment.

…

“You did well at All Stars, that second goal was a beauty.”

“You’re killing me here.”

Nico frowned. “Most people say thank you after a compliment.”

There was a buzz in the locker room that wasn’t there before the break. It was like reality was starting to sink in, the final run of regular season games ahead before playoffs had people itching to get back on the ice and prove themselves. The Devils have had quite a hot and cold season but Nico believes in his group, he knows they want this just as much as he does.

Everyone was walking into the locker room with a kick of motivation to show the other teams in the league just what damage they could do on the ice.

Everyone minus Jack who seemed annoyed at Nico, despite only being in his presence for thirty seconds.

“Dude,” Jack shot him a look. “Spill about the family holiday! Did you tell her? Did you make a move? Do I need to plan a wedding?”

“I–” Nico felt his heart stutter a little. “What? Jack, no, nothing happened.”

Jack blinked. “What?”

Nico paused. “What do you mean, what?”

“Nico,” Jack took a deep breath, his eyes fluttering shut as the rest of the locker room fell silent. “Let me get this straight. You go on vacation to Mexico with your kids and the girl who you definitely have feelings for despite what you tell us and…you do nothing?”

“Yes?”

“This is torture,” Jack muttered in utter disbelief, shaking his head. “You are beyond help.”

“Jack—”

“Fucking Mexico and you don’t make a move?”

“Well—”

“I’m overruling your captain title,” Jack interrupted, shaking his head. “You’re doing bag skates today.”

Nico blinked. “You can’t do that.”

“Well, I just did and Sheldon would agree with me,” Jack said in a know-it-all voice before he turned on his heel to head back to his stall.

Theatrics aside, Nico did spend the rest of the practice silently wondering if Jack had a point. He was too tired to keep lying to himself, at least. He knew whatever he felt for you was beyond platonic and professional, but that didn’t change the fact he was sure those feelings weren’t returned.

The two of you had a good thing going and Nico was not about to ruin that over the fact his heart sped up every time he thought about you.

It was a fleeting crush, he told himself. A fleeting crush on someone who was intertwined with his life and his kids’ life. It was just misplaced gratitude that he was reading into. That was all. He was sure of it.

…

“Honey?”

You turned away from the tv, glancing down to your lap to find Otto’s big eyes already staring up at you. “Yes?”

“You are going to stay with us, right?” Otto asked, his words completely catching you off guard and leaving your chest uncomfortably tight. Suddenly, the game was the last thing on your mind.

“What do you mean?” You asked, your brows furrowing as you tried to decipher his words.

Otto shrugged, suddenly looking down at his own hands rather than you.

You turned to find Marley looking just as downcast and it instantly made the hair on the back of your neck turn up. You reached over for the remote, neither of the twins awfully bothered when you muted the commentary before your full focus was on them.

“Is there something you want to tell me?” You asked, urging yourself to remain calm and cautious, to not instantly freak out to the worst case scenario.

“All our friends leave,” Otto eventually muttered out, a frown on his face that made him look so much like Nico in those postgame interviews you had watched. “Papa says they will stay if we like them but then they go.” He paused before he lifted his head back to look at you. “I don’t want you to go, Honey.”

And if that wasn’t heartbreaking, you didn’t know what was.

Nico had told you briefly about some of the past nannies he had hired for the twins. The twins had liked a majority of them, had kept asking questions about where they had gone and if they were coming back.

And you knew it was hard. It was hard to explain things to kids who couldn’t fully comprehend what was happening, who couldn’t understand their father’s decision to fire the previous nannies.

But it also meant that their young minds were left to fill the blanks.

“Oh, baby,” you shook your head, trying your best to give them both the most reassuring smile you could. “That has nothing to do with the two of you, I promise. You two are the best people ever. Your other friends had to leave for another reason—big adult things.”

Marley nuzzled herself closer to you. “Are you going to leave for big adult stuff?”

Your hand was instantly smoothing the curls away from her face, watching her let out a happy sigh as your nails lightly scratched along her scalp. “No, baby, of course not. Not unless you want me to go.”

Otto’s grip on you tightened. “We don’t want you to go.”

“Then I won’t,” you promised, even if that was something you knew better to not promise young children who took things far too literally and personally.

“Good,” Marley murmured, even if half of her face was squished against the jersey you were currently wearing for the game.

You glanced back down when you heard a few sniffles, frowning when you saw Otto scrubbing his little hands against his watery eyes. “Otto, baby, are you okay?”

He nodded, turning his head to look up at you. “Just happy you are staying.”

“Happy tears!” Marley said with a smile, like she was proud of herself for remembering it.

“You promise they are happy tears?” You asked, your chest tightening at the thought of the young boy being genuinely upset until he quickly nodded his head and held out his pinky to you.

“Pinky promise, Honey.”

You hooked your pinky around his. “You know you can tell me if you are upset, okay?”

“We know,” Otto nodded, settling his head back down on your lap with his attention on the game once again. “We tell you or Papa and you will help.”

Your hand instantly moved to tickle his back, smiling a little at the sigh he let out when you did so. Nico had told you the tip a few weeks ago but it was endearing to see how much he loved it.

“Yeah, we will always help you both. Pinky promise.”

For what it was worth, Nico scored less than two minutes later and the twins’ initial moods were completely overshadowed by the excitement and cheering in their celebration around the living room.

…

“Oh, spit it out already!”

In all honesty, Nana had lasted a lot longer than you anticipated. It was clear from the moment you walked through the door of the care home that you were distracted. She had enough respect to not call you out on it instantly, letting you play the part of a doting granddaughter as you made two cups of tea and settled on the couch in the lounge of the care home.

However, three abysmal games of checkers later, she had reached her limit.

“Nana, I’m fine.”

“And I was born last Tuesday if I believed that,” Nana scoffed, having little to no patience left as she swiped the pawns off the board and quickly ended the attempted fourth game. “There. Game over. Now talk.”

You let out a sigh as you slumped back in your seat. “It’s nothing really,” you started before noticing Nana was opening her mouth—most likely to complain—and quickly continued. “Just something the twins said.”

Nana paused, her voice a little softer as she spoke this time. “What happened?”

“I think I’m the longest nanny they have ever had around and they just have this fear I am going to leave. And they were fine once I assured them I was staying, they never brought it up again so there is nothing to worry about,” you began to ramble, the memory replaying in your head over the last few days. “I guess it just made me realise…”

“That you really care about these kids?” Nana finished for you.

You smiled a little. “Yeah, I do.”

“And that you care for their father too and it’s starting to hit you that there is a possibility that there will be a day that they may not need you anymore and it’s scaring you because of how fond you have grown of the family?” Nana continued.

You blinked.

“Too on the nose?” She had the audacity of asking with an innocent smile.

“Nana, what the f—” You quickly cut yourself, clearing your throat and, at least, having the decency of looking sheepish. “What the hell are you on about?”

“Honey, please,” Nana waved you off. “I have seen you nanny for many families and kids and never once have you walked through that door and gushed about them the way that you do with the Hischiers.”

You could feel your face heating up. “They are a good family! I don’t…it’s not like that.”

“Would you want it to be like that?” Nana asked.

You swallowed the lump in the back of your throat. “It doesn’t matter. I’m just the nanny. I shouldn’t read into things that are never going to happen.”

“That didn’t answer my question,” Nana pointed out. “If you’re not ready to admit it, then that’s fine. But it doesn’t change the fact that you have fallen in love with the family over the last few months and that they love you back.”

You stayed silent.

“You have spent the last few years taking care of me and a dozen other families,” Nana said, her tone more gentle as she reached over to take your hand in hers. “I have seen you work yourself to the bone and put others’ needs before your own without a second thought. I have seen you put other families ahead of yourself. All I want for you is to have that family that cares back, that loves you back, that puts you first too.”

“I have you,” you rasped, blinking away the tears lining your lash line.

“And you could have them too,” Nana retorted softly. “Honey, it doesn’t take a rocket scientist to realise those kids love you back. And that their father does too.”

“You’ve never met Nico,” you tried to argue but Nana was having none of it.

“I know more than enough from the stories you tell me and the way he treats you,” Nana said, squeezing your hand as she spoke. “I am not saying you have to jump in straight away or ring the wedding bells. But I can see that you are happy with them and I think you could be even happier if you let yourself.”

“Is it not better to appreciate what you have instead of losing it all?” You questioned, lips pressed together in a tight smile.

“Maybe,” Nana answered. “But then you’ll spend the rest of your life wondering how different things could have been if you had just taken that step out of your comfort zone. You’ll never know the answer if you never ask the question.”

You didn’t have a reply for her.

“I just want what is best for you,” Nana finished off with a watery smile of her own. “And I think they really could be the answer to that question, at least.”

…

Nana’s words lingered in the back of your mind.

They played on a loop as the days turned into weeks and time seemed to pass far faster than you could comprehend. Before you knew it, the calendar was showing March and you were beginning to see the behind the scenes reality of what pressures Nico was under with captaining a team desperately trying to cling onto a playoff spot as the end of the season neared.

It was fucking awful, to put it lightly, and you didn’t really understand how he was managed to be the best captain he could on the ice, just to come back home and play the role of a father so well. But you could only admire it and admire him from a distance.

However, it felt like Nana’s words planted a seed in your head, letting the thought fester and grow despite how desperately you had tried to weed it out over the last few months. It had a mind of its own and it felt like everywhere you looked, you were seeing the world that Nana saw for you with the Hischiers.

You saw that future in the mornings when Nico left for practice, making sure to have a quick breakfast with you and the twins before he left the apartment after giving each one of you a kiss on the forehead (something the twins demanded he extend to you too because it was only fair in their eyes). And Nico did it happily every single morning.

You saw that future in the nights where the twins were exhausted, passed out on the couch in their own jerseys whilst you kept your eyes glued to the screen, engrossed in the result of a sport you didn’t care about over a year ago.

You saw that future in the way the twins babbled about Switzerland and how excited they were to go back and all the things they wanted to show you. You didn’t even know what the plan was for the offseason, when Nico would return back to Switzerland and have all his family there to help him out. You were too scared to ask.

You saw that future in the way that your life became so intertwined in theirs. They were always on your mind, even during your off days. You would be eating lunch with a friend and think about how Marley would hate the dish because the carrots were too big. You would throw on a playlist whilst cleaning your apartment and smile when a random Swiss song would start playing because Otto insisted it was better (which also meant that Nico was teaching him to say as much). You would be having tea with Nana and giggle a little to yourself at the chocolates she would offer because you knew chocolate snob Nico would not approve.

You saw that future in so many different ways and it made it a little hard to breathe the more you realised that you wanted it. You wanted it so fucking bad but it was March Madness and the twins’ birthday was coming up and there were a million other things that took priority over your lives than the growing feelings you had for this little family.

So, you bottled it up and pretended like you couldn’t hear Nana’s disappointed sigh in the back of your mind.

…

Nico had been jumpy since the start of the roadie.

Usually by this point of the year, the road trips were more of a nuisance and the boys were done with them. Everyone was bone tired, exhausted and injured in some capacity, pushing their bodies to unreal limits with a sense of urgency to just get on with playoffs. They were done with the regular season, they were done playing games that didn’t matter in the lead up to the Cup. They were getting a taste of a possible Cup run and they were eager to start it.

And Nico got that. He was usually one of them, letting the adrenaline and excitement for playoffs motivate him through the last stretch of regular season games. The travel days would usually be the time that he let himself catch as much sleep as he could whilst being pressed up against the bus window or sprawled out on a row of plane seats.

But he had been angsty since the first flight out, constantly checking his phone for updates that weren’t coming through. He was quiet and lost in his own head more often than not and it was concerning to the team. It took Jonas cornering him in the hotel lobby before he could run off for him to confess.

“The twins are sick,” he said with his lips turned down in a frown. “It’s nasty and they are barely sleeping and I just feel guilty for leaving Honey to deal with it alone.”

The sniffling had started a few days ago but the cold really hit last night. Neither one of them were settling down for bed, just whining and crying and fussing. Otto was complaining he was too hot. Marley was complaining she was too cold. One of them puked in the living room and the other in the bathtub after a heavy dinner that didn’t settle well in their sensitive stomachs.

It was carnage and he had to leave you completely alone with it.

You had reassured him multiple times that you would be fine, that you had dealt with multiple sick kids at once and this would be no different. But he couldn’t help but let the guilt eat him alive over the next few days.

He remembered what it was like trying to deal with the twins when they were sick at the same time and it was far from enjoyable. But even then, he had his mother or someone else nearby to help. He was never taking care of them completely alone for days on end like you were.

Nico knew he should have been more involved in the team bonding and dinners, that he should be hyping his boys up for the playoffs but he spent more time staring at his phone like he wanted to be prepared in case you messaged or called. Not that he would have been much help on the other side of the country.

He was practically itching out of his skin to get back home to you and the twins. The plane ride was torture, the minutes passing like hours and his body far too wired to even attempt to sleep (much to Jack’s dismay since he tended to use Nico as a pillow). He was practically sprinting off the plane the second they landed, making a mental note to make it up to his teammates somehow before playoffs started after they had to deal with his irritated mood for the last few days.

His body was moving on muscle memory as he drove back to the apartment, urging himself to stay under the speed limit and take his time. He knew you were home. He knew the twins were home. Him getting home in two minutes or twenty wouldn’t change that.

Nico was still running on pure adrenaline by the time he reached the front door, still panting from taking the stairs over the elevator as he pushed it open and quickly made his way inside. His bags were abandoned by the door and he opened his mouth to call out to the three of you when he froze the second he was in view of the living room.

He never really understood what people meant when they said they saw something so beautiful that they stopped in their tracks. Or at least, he never really understood until now. And he was aware that, to anyone else, there was nothing amazing or jaw dropping about the sight in front of him. But it meant everything to Nico.

Because it was late by the time they landed in New Jersey and he had accepted the possibility that everyone would be asleep. But here you were, sitting on his couch, waiting for him even though he could see the bags under your eyes and the way you were already starting to nod off. Because he knew the sweatpants and hoodie weren’t anything groundbreaking, but it was a Devils hoodie with his number on it and some old sweats of yours that had a mysterious stain on it (probably from one of the twins) but you wanted to wait for him instead of heading straight for a shower and your bed.

Because here you were, sitting on his couch after you had probably experienced the longest few days of your life taking care of two sick toddlers (his two sick toddlers), still giving him a sleepy smile as soon as he walked through the door like you were genuinely happy to see him, and he just couldn’t help but think he had never met or seen someone as beautiful as you—both inside and out.

“Are you okay?” You asked when he didn’t say anything, when he continued to stand in the middle of the room, looking at you with an expression you couldn’t quite read.

And, if Nico was logical and not sleep deprived, there was probably a part of him that would have remembered that it was late and that you were both tired and his emotional epiphanies could wait until the morning.

But Nico was not logical and he was very sleep deprived and he had spent the better part of the last few months fighting his team and himself over his feelings for you, and he was far too fucking tired to keep fighting them now.

Because he was staring at you from across the room and felt such a rush of warmth and relief and comfort knowing that he had you by his side and he couldn’t quite keep it in anymore.

“I think you look beautiful,” he blurted out without any further hesitation.

You paused, staring at him for a few moments as you processed his words before glancing down at yourself. “Uh, thanks?” You managed to mutter out through an awkward laugh. “Maybe not as much right now but—”

“I mean right now,” he said, his voice genuine and sincere and serious because apparently even sleep deprived Nico understood the importance of honesty. “And always. But especially now. And I feel very lucky that I get to come back home to you.”

Your eyes widened and your mouth was moving but no words were coming out.

“And you don’t have to say anything,” he continued because he was physically unable to stop himself, even taking a few steps closer to you as he did. “But you deserve to know.”

“You can’t say that,” you whispered, shaking your head at him.

His brows furrowed together. “Why not?”

“You can’t say stuff like that when you don’t mean it like—” But you cut yourself off, swallowing harshly as your gaze dropped down to your hands.

“Mean it like what?” Nico asked, his body still moving until he was kneeling on the ground in front of you, his hands on your knees as he ducked his head to catch your eye again.

“Nico,” you said his name so softly that it made his stomach twist.

“I meant what I said,” Nico said, his hands squeezing your knees as he spoke. “You look beautiful right now and every other day. I think it all the time and you deserve to hear it more. I think you are one of the best people I have ever met in my life.”

You let out a shuddering breath.

“And I think I’m reading this right,” his voice dropped to a whisper, something cautious and vulnerable written across his face. “And stop me if I’m not because the last thing I want is to make you feel uncomfortable or—”

You grabbed his face and kissed him before you could second guess yourself.

Despite the fact it wasn’t very long, Nico sunk into the kiss. He let himself lean into the touch, to savour the feeling of your hands cupping his face and your lips on his. He let himself enjoy the way your nose nudged against his as you pulled away, as you gave yourself enough space to rest your forehead against his.

“You’re not reading it wrong,” you assured him with a small, almost secretive smile. “But I didn’t think you would feel the same, especially with the twins—”

“Don’t worry about that just yet,” he murmured, letting his eyes fall shut as he enjoyed just how close you were to him. “They don’t have to know right away, we can take things slow. But I…I want to do this. I want to give us a try.”

You tried to bite back the grin threatening to take over your face. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Nico grinned. “I want to see where this goes.”

“And if it goes wrong?” You dared yourself to ask.

But Nico didn’t seem particularly worried, twisting his hand so he could intertwine it with your own. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, Honey, but we make a pretty good team. Best of the league. No doubts about us.”

You huffed out a laugh. “Does that make me your A?”

Nico snorted. “No way. We are co-captains. Equals.”

“Co-captains,” you agreed, nodding a little.

And there was still a lot more that needed to be discussed. Both of you knew that. But it was late and you were both tired and there was no rush to figure everything out just yet.

Becoming a father was one of the best things that happened to Nico Hischier. Meeting you was second. And maybe this year, he would add hoisting the Cup with his team as the third but only time would tell.

And, in the meantime, Nico was pretty damn happy with you and Otto and Marley—his perfect little family of four.

#nico hischier #nhl #new jersey devils #nico hischier x reader #nico hischier x you #nico hischier x y/n #nico hischier fic #nico hischier one shot #nhl x reader #nhl x you #nhl x y/n #nhl fic #nhl one shot

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pearlymel · 8 months ago

Text

𓏲 ˖. sum. Neuvillette has this urge to show everyone you are his. And also to worship you as his beloved wife.

Warnings: NSFW, fem!reader, unprotected sex, cunnilingus, breeding, creampie, mentions of children, mention of petnames (Mon amour, Mon cœur, honey, etc.).

Wc: 2k

Notes: to my bestie who knows who they are, if you see this, no you didn't (you're blind you just don't know it.)

You feel like you're resting above the clouds with how comfortable you were in Neuvillette's arms, cradling you like you were the most precious thing, savouring each featherlight caresse of his hand around your thighs and stomach.

His face was buried in your hair, both the strands of your hairs mixing colours into the most beautiful shades and textures. You're too sleepy to listen to his soft whispers, but you can hear him talk... about some baby...

Baby... Wait, baby? He was referring to you, right? Surely.

"Wouldn't it be nice?" His soothing voice snapped you out of your daze, your body rolling around to face him. "Sorry, i wasn't listening." Your lips curl downward, which makes him kiss your sleepy eyelids with a soft chuckle.

"My apologies, i was discussing a certain fantasy to myself... How it would be lovely to see our little ones one day being in our arms."

It takes you a hot minute for his words to soak in. You blink twice, part your lips slightly in shock with the gears in your head moving ever so slow, "Honey, it's a lovely thought. Are you serious about this?"

He nods, “the satisfaction I feel at the thought of everyone realizing that you’re carrying my child makes me want to throw all my propriety out the window.” His hands moved down to your hips and he slowly rolled you onto your back, with him now on top. He kept a firm grip on your hips as he laid himself between you, his head resting on the area where your neck and shoulder met.

“I’m aching,” he muttered. “To see you bear our child, dear one. To fill you up completely.”

"To be filled?" You swallow thickly, the air was suddenly getting hotter, or was it just the heat of this summer that's making your neck all warm?

“Filled up to the brim, mon amour.” he spoke so softly, it was criminal to even have a sweet voice while speaking such words.

"A little vulgar, coming from the Iudex." You fail to bite back the urge to tease.

“My lady,” he spoke in a low, gruff tone this time, lifting his face to lazily kiss your jawline. “You of all people should know how you manage to make me lose my composure." Neuvillette muttered while peppering your skin with the marks of his lips.

All this baby talk was surely rubbing off you, and surely it wasn't because of his sweet talking or that you were ovulating...

"I need you." It was your turn to whisper, fingers finding their way to brush his hair and to wrap your arms around his neck. He continued peppering your neck with soft, sensual kisses, his hands slowly starting to caresse under your thighs, playing with the elastic band of your panties under your oversized shirt, tempted to just rip them off you.

"Are you trying to tempt me to take you right now?"

"Yeah?" You bat your eyelashes innocently at him, "i want you to fill me up like you said."

Oh, archons.

Neuvillette visibly shivered as he heard those words — your smile was as innocent as a lamb’s, yet the sultriness of your voice spoke of nothing but sin.

He claimed your lips in a deep, bruising kiss, his tongue seeking entry and exploring the sweet confines of your mouth. Neuvillette’s hands roaming across your body again, but this time they were more assertive — desperate, almost.

He wanted you. Needed you. In the rawest, most primal way possible.

"We can always go slow, no rush." Neuvillette relaxed a little at your words, his breath shuddering as the tension slowly left his body.

“Slow it is, then.” He murmured against your skin, as he slowly, painstakingly began to move himself down your body, pressing kisses down the expanse of your stomach as he continued to trail his way down. “You tell me when to stop if it hurts, alright?”

"Mhmm," you smile lazily at him while he looked up at you from his spot between your legs, his expression a mix of both tenderness and hunger. One tug down, and your panties were down to your ankles. His lips began trailing kisses up your inner thighs at first before licking a long stripe along your slick folds, and you were already trying your hardest not to crush his head with your thighs, even when that's all he'd ever want.

And when his tongue starts flicking and sucking on your already sensitive clit, like he was practically making out with your pussy, treating it with such gentleness and care, is when you also start being more vocal.

He made sure he was never hurried because this was an intimacy act he enjoys having the pleasure doing with you.

Neuvillette would occasionally glance at your face, watching your expressions closely for even the slightest hint of discomfort, but your face was only twisted in pleasure, eyes half-lidded while you panted softly as you stared up straight at the ceiling. It fills him with pride knowing you enjoy this just as much.

You don't notice how your fingers weave through his hair, not yet pulling, more like pulling him back so you could grind against his face. He was more than happy to accept your invitation, a low growl rumbling in his chest as he moved his lips closer to your core.

He began to move his mouth in earnest at the sound of your moans from above, his tongue working with determined flicks, sucking harder so he could finally taste the reward of your honeyed essence.

"S-so good to me—" you start panting heavier now, your hips rubbing against his mouth, and he found it impossibly alluring — the knowledge that you were deriving such pleasure from his mouth alone was driving him mad. To the point that it was hard to try not to hump against the bed mattress with how painfully tight and uncomfortable his pants felt.

Your husband wanted — needed — you to come. He wanted to feel you unravel on his tongue. He intensified his assault on your core, his lips, tongue and mouth working in tandem, determined to draw out every drop of ecstasy from your body.

"A-ah, wait—" your thighs twitch together when he starts sucking harsher on your swollen clit. You felt your throat already dry up, how you were on the verge of tears when you finally came with a shuddering breath.

Neuvillette took in every second of your climax, groaning in satisfaction as he felt you come undone under his ministrations. His mouth continued to work against you as you came down from your climax, greedily licking and tasting you as he continued to draw out the last throes of your orgasm.

His face emerged from between your legs, the evident glisten on his face from the slightest light from outside was enough to make you breathless.

"the sweetest treat," he murmured, his voice low and huskier than before as he began to make his way back up to your face. "So pretty, coming all on my tongue.." You don't say anything but bring a hand to the back of his head and pull him in for a sweeter kiss.

Finally.

He leaned in to meet your lips, groaning against his mouth at the taste of you that still lingered on his lips. He quickly deepened the kiss, his tongue seeking entry as he claimed your mouth in another romantic dance.

Neuvillette was all too happy to satisfy your hunger, He was like a man possessed, as if he was trying to devour you whole — his kisses were hot, hungry, and full of want.

You helped him off his tight confinements so fast next, letting out a sigh of relief as the cool air hit his weeping flushed tip.

Not wanting to wait any longer, he inhaled sharply as he slowly, deliberately began to push himself inside you — his eyes fixed on your face, watching closely as your face contours everytime his fat tip would inch in your hole.

He let out a long, low moan at the sensation, his arms shaking as he held himself up above you, "so tight..." He continued to ease himself inside of you, every inch seemingly drawing out another low groan from his lips. It took all of his willpower to keep his pace slow and gentle, he was restraining himself, trying his damndest to go slow for your sake.

"s- so good," you whimpered, back arching off the bed, fingernails marking crescent on his skin while your other hand tore the bedsheet off the mattress from how much you were twisting it.

He was losing it. every sound and movement you made was driving him wild. He lifted one of your legs, holding it against his hip as he continued to push inside of you, deeper, deeper, making you unintentionally clamp down around him with each welcomed inch of his cock.

"H-hold on," he panted, his voice a low, strangled hiss, "don't... don't do that, or I'll... I'll..." He trailed off, holding your thighs in a bruising grip to ground himself from spilling too quickly inside of you, and he could, but he would never leave you unsatisfied.

"you okay, Neuvi?" You try teasing him a bit, this time tightening around him on purpose. His entire body shuddered violently at your action, a strangled moan escaping his lips as you tightened around him again like a vice. His hips instinctively jerked forward, seeking friction against you, and his control snapped.

"Mon cœur, you're teasing me..." he uttered in a hushed tone against your ear, "you're trying to drive me mad, aren't you?" You start to slowly rock your hips back and forth against him, taking his hand and interlacing your fingers together. "I'm just trying to please my lover." You hum back.

"I'm trying so hard to be gentle and patient... and you're not helping—mhm, at all."

"It's okaaay. Don't be gentle."

His restraint finally snapped, Neuvillette let out a low growl as he grabbed your hips and slammed himself into you. The sounds your moans and whimpers of pleasure were like music to his ears, he could vaguely feel your nails scratching down his back, the pain only adding to his ecstasy as his continues ramming into you like a starved beast.

Neuvillette's strokes would be powerful, rough, bordering on brutal, as he sought to breed you with his seed. He would grip your hips, holding you steady as his cock throbbed with every thrust. nothing but ragged pants and grunts filled the air, his body straining with the effort of holding back his release, he was close, so close to finding his release, but he needed to watch you fall apart first.

He let out a growl as he felt your teeth sink into his skin, his cock continuing to kiss the deepest and sweetest parts inside of you, making your eyes instantly roll back. his pace becoming brutal as he slammed into you relentlessly, his voice nothing more than a ravaged whisper against your ear.

"Come for me, love. Let go."

As he felt you come for him with a strangled cry of his name, he followed after, burying his face deep into your neck as his own release came over him, a thick load shooting straight into your womb, it's so much— creamy ropes of cum that quickly filled you to the brim.

It was hot and dizzying.

with his seed slowly seeping out of you, he immediately tried pushing himself deeper into you, if that was even possible, keeping it all plugged in, "S- so much for you, my sweet." He gave your hand a gentle squeeze as he comfortably laid on top of you, his other hand tracing down to your hips and belly.

"shall we start thinking of baby names, hm?"

Do you guys think he moans in french (sorry)

#genshin impact #genshin impact x reader #genshin impact x you #neuvillette #genshin neuvillette #Neuvillette #neuvillette x reader #neuvillette x you #genshin smut #neuvillette smut #genshin impact smut

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mulloey · 1 month ago

Text

hundred bands

student loans, a sugar daddy website, and johnny suh. three things you never thought would find you in quite this way.

part of my february festival

join my taglist

words: 8.4k

warnings: bdsm dynamics - dom!johnny x sub!reader, degradation, slight humiliation, discussion of pet play & master/slave play, slight corruption, titles (daddy/sir), paddling, face slapping, subspace, brief moment of insecurity, face fucking etc

—

You wonder if this is how it usually starts; a broke college student, an overeager friend and a last resort.

It’s not like you wanted or planned this; your final year of university and your tuition fees were piling up by the hour; your loan had already run out and all your applications for more money had been shot down about as delicately as a war plane. You’re pretty certain you’re on the loan office’s blocked callers list now.

It was your friend’s suggestion. You already knew she had a sugar daddy—a man named Mark who she never let you meet and seemed way too young to be doing this but, based on the flashy clothes she’d started wearing recently, clearly had enough money for it. And contrary to your expectations of sugaring as she called it, he actually seemed very nice; she was constantly gushing about how well he treated her and he appeared extremely respectful and affectionate towards her on the phone calls you’d been privy to. So fuck it, you thought, and you signed up for the website she’d given you as soon as you were drunk enough to bring yourself to do it.

While this was undoubtedly a sex-focused service, she’d emphasised to you the classy nature of the site; no lewd usernames, no nude pictures of any kind; just a clothed photo that showed your figure, basic information about you, and the type of arrangement you were looking for.

PLEASE SELECT ONE:

Sugar daddy/sugar baby

Straight/gay/bisexual

Top/bottom/vers

Dominant/submissive/switch/vanilla

Your blush ran deeper as you made your way down the list, arranging yourself into categories that felt a little like being sold at auction. Sugar baby. Straight. Bottom.

At the final question, you hesitated—you thought about putting ‘vanilla’, a little afraid of what these rich, anonymous men might expect to be able to pay for, but the words of your best friend rang out in your head. “Be honest with what you want,” she’d told you. “Just because you’re doing this for money doesn’t mean you shouldn’t get any fun from it.”

She was right, as usual. If you were going to get fucked for money, then you at least deserved to fucked well; even so, you had to close your eyes in shame as you clicked the little box titled ‘submissive’. That was a side of you that had only ever existed in your fantasies.

The rest of your profile was simple; you almost backed out when they asked for your ID, not wanting to give yourself away, but visions of loan sharks and withheld diplomas squashed those doubts pretty quickly—you were going to do this. You were going to get some rich man to pay your tuition, and that was the end of it. You had no other choice.

To be fair to the site, it was pretty well and, considering what it was for, non-pervertedly designed. You were matched with partners based on your preferences, but no one could message you until you’d liked their profile. You spent a few minutes clicking through the profiles, haphazardly liking or disliking as you felt like it, until one made you pause.

The picture was of a man in a suit, cropped at the neck to conceal his identity; but you didn’t really need to see his face to know that this man… well. He was certainly an option. Just from that one picture, taken from below, sleeves rolled up and linen straining against his chest, you felt authority emanating through the screen. Yeah, this could work very well.

You clicked nervously on his profile, hoping not to find anything crazy or gross in his bio to turn you off of him, but it was, well. Normal. For this place at least.

Sugar daddy. Straight. Top. Dominant. A good start—perfectly aligned with you.

From his bio you found out he was almost 30–a decent bit older than you but not over the line; he worked in the entertainment industry, and he valued discretion. Likewise, you thought.

You clicked like without a much more consideration.

The message came through an hour later, just as you were sitting down for dinner; you couldn’t help but grin when you got the notification, opening it nervously.

Hey. Hope you don’t mind the intrusion, but you’re nearby and I’d be interested in getting to know you. Would that be ok?

At first you were a little taken aback by how… polite the message was. How normal. Given the nature of the site you were half-expecting something perverted and disturbing, but this man was taking you by surprise already.

You typed your reply with your bottom lip held painfully between your teeth.

Hi :) that sounds great! I’m free next weekend if you are?

Great. Saturday evening? I’ll take you for dinner, if you like?

Perfect.

The nine days between then and your first meeting pass surprisingly quickly; you keep in regular contact with your faceless friend, you both having agreed to keep things anonymous for now, and though neither of you dance around the reason you’re both here, you find it easy to have normal, friendly conversations with him too. You tell him about your degree, and he gives you small details about his life and work—a singer, he says. He offers nothing more and you don’t press; from the way he talks about it you get the sense he may be some level of well-known, and you don’t want to make him uncomfortable. You’ll find out who he is on Saturday anyway.

On Monday night, just as you’re finishing up an assignment, your phone lights up with a new notification. You have his KakaoTalk now; it’s easier and more inconspicuous than the site and feels a lot less intimidating. The cartoon kitten on his profile picture makes you giggle as you open the message.

Now that we know each other a little better, would you be down to talk more about what our arrangement would look like, if it went ahead?

Yeah, of course. What are you thinking?

Can I call you?

Your stomach tightens and your palms tense nervously; you’ve called him before, but as you quickly found out, his voice makes it very difficult to concentrate on what he’s actually saying. You’re not exactly sure why; maybe it’s the deep, masculine lilt to it, but it sets your nerves on edge—still, you imagine this would be a better conversation to have on the phone, so you type your agreement with shaking hands.

Almost instantly the call comes through; “Hello?” You say softly.

“Hey, honey.” His voice is warm and familiar but still intimidating and the pet name he’s been using the past few days doesn’t make it any easier to keep a clear head. “How you feeling?”

“M’ good,” you mumble and he chuckles softly.

”Great. Well, I suppose we’ll just jump into it, yeah?” You make a noise of agreement and he continues. “Your profile said you’re a submissive. Can you tell me a little about that?”

You blank a little, already feeling out of your depth. You never thought this was a conversation you’d be having with someone, let alone a near stranger. “About that?” you echo. “Like, in what regard?”

“Well, do you have experience in that area?” His voice has a slightly deeper edge now; it’s focused and a little stern—clearly this is something he takes extremely seriously. “Have you submitted to someone before?”

“Um.” Your mind flashes with images of your previous partners; the varying experiences you’d had them but none of it seems to fit what you feel like he’s asking. “Not really.”

He hums. “So, if I had to guess,” he says, “you’ve been choked a few times, maybe spanked a little bit, and I’m assuming at least one of your partners wanted you to call him daddy?”

You can’t help but flush; that’s… exactly accurate. “Yeah,” you mumble. “How’d you know?”

“When people say ‘not really’, that’s usually what they mean.” You hear the smile in his voice and you wonder how many people he’s had this conversation with. You also wonder why the thought makes you a little bit jealous.

“Oh.”

“Yeah. I assume you’ve gathered by now that I’m looking for more than that?”

Your stomach turns and you nod; it’s silent for a moment until you realise he can’t actually see you and you mumble a reply, embarrassed.

He laughs a little, seeming to realise what you’ve done before continuing. “There’s a lot I want to do with you, but I’m not going to dump it on you all at once, so we’ll start with what you’ve done already, yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“You said you’ve been choked,” he said. “So you’re comfortable having things on your neck.”

“Yes.”

“Well, I’d certainly choke you during sex, if you’re comfortable. But I might use my arms rather than my hands. And at some point, I’d like to put a collar on you. How does that sound?”

“Um.” Fucking fantastic, you want to say, but you’re too embarrassed and still determined to play it at least a little bit cool. “It sounds nice.”

“Good. The next thing we mentioned is spanking, correct?”

You know you’re blushing now, shifting uncomfortably in your seat and trying to relieve some of the pressure between your legs. Something about the way he speaks so calmly and professionally about these things is really doing it for you, apparently. “Yeah,” you breathe.

“If I had to make a guess on that, I’d say they slapped your ass a few times during sex. Maybe a little foreplay, too. Am I right?”

“Yes.”

“Well, again, I’d do that too, but it’d be more than that. If you become my sugar baby, you become my submissive as well, which means you’d submit to my rules and discipline. Ya follow?”

It’s not a massive shock; he’d mentioned BDSM before, and you weren’t surprised given his profile—but hearing it out loud, in that voice, is a different feeling. “Yeah, I follow,” you say. “So you’d punish me? How?”

“Well if we’re talking about spanking…” He pauses for a moment, choosing his words carefully. “I’ll give you an example. Say you broke a rule, like if you talked back to me or I caught you touching yourself when I’d told you not to, then I’d put you over my knee, pull your panties down and spank you til I feel like you’re sorry. How does that sound?”

“Oh.” There’s an undeniable pressure in your stomach and you try not to let the arousal seep into your voice. “That’s… wow.”

“Is that good or bad?” He asks. He’s laughing, but he sounds cautious too. It makes you feel safe, the way he’s genuinely concerned about your feelings on this; it’s the bare minimum, sure, but you expected worse from that website.

“Good,” you breathe. “Really good.”

“Oh?” He’s teasing now; you practically see the grin on his face despite the fact you don’t actually know what that face looks like. “Does someone want to be spanked?”

“I think… yeah.”

“That’s good,” he laughs. “I bet you’ll look really cute kicking and squirming over my lap. Don’t you think?”

“Hopefully,” you mumble.

“I’m sure. And the last thing we mentioned. You’ve called someone daddy before, you said. Did you like it?”

“Yeah.” You answer quickly; you figure there’s no point in shame now.

“I see.” He pauses again. “I usually prefer sir, but I’m not opposed to daddy, either.”

“Oh.”

“Speaking of.” There’s a playfulness to his voice now; a teasing lilt that makes you bite back a laugh. “You should get to bed, young lady. Why are you even up?”

“Assignments,” you say. “And what’s your excuse, sir?”

You hear the sharp intake of breath through the phone; the soft, strangled sound that dies in his throat and you feel a twinge of satisfaction. Yeah. I can play this game too.

He clears his throat, releasing an exasperated sigh and there’s a rustling sound before he speaks, voice dipping slightly. “My excuse,” he says, “is that I’ve nowhere to be tomorrow. Unlike a certain little brat.”

The final word is drawn out, teasing and warning at the same time and your chest tightens in excitement and a million other things. You don’t even know what this guy looks like, but fuck, he’s so good. You want to push his buttons and obey his every word simultaneously.

“True,” you mumble. “Okay, I’ll sleep.”

“Good girl.” The satisfied smile is audible in his voice. “See you Saturday, pretty.”

—

This man is gorgeous.

That’s your first thought when you see him Saturday evening; he’s waiting for you when your car pulls up, calling your name with a smile and wrapping an arm around your waist as he helps you out. He introduces himself as Johnny, and his voice sounds even better in person.

Your second thought follows not long after; you recognise him. You’d figured by now that he was probably some level of famous, but you weren’t interested enough in the whole idol culture to have recognised him from his voice alone; in fact it’s only when he tells you his name that you finally place him. You wait until you’re seated, in a private room you’d rather not know the cost of, before asking.

“I don’t wanna be too weird,” you say, “but you’re an idol, right?”

He laughs, nodding with a soft smile. “I am. Do you know me?”

“I’ve heard of you,” you mumble; you’re not sure why you’re so embarrassed to know who he is—that’s the whole point of celebrities, after all. You chuckle dryly, trying to ease the weight of the awkwardness you feel in your chest. “I recognised your face but I couldn’t figure out where I knew you from til you told me your name.”

“Ah.” His posture is relaxed, tone jovial but you see a surety and intensity in his eyes that makes you cower instinctively. “Heard any of my music?” He asks, and you can tell from his voice that he’s teasing you again.

“Maybe. I wouldn’t know.” You shrug. “I mean, I’m not really into that stuff but like, I’m obviously gonna look you up when I’m home now.”

“I figured,” he laughs. “Shoot me a text once you’ve decided I’m your favourite.”

“If I decide that,” you say, and he laughs louder. You feel yourself relaxing a little; his open, friendly demeanour could make anyone ease up and you can’t help but feel comfortable in his presence. Only his dark eyes, which scarcely leave you but to call over the waiter and order, keep you on edge.

You don’t know what any of the words on the menu mean, so you let him order for you—he seems to like that; choosing for you, making small, simple decisions on your behalf. You see it on his face.

As it turns out he’s very good at choosing, too; the beef dish they bring out is something your friend had told you about, when you’d mentioned coming to this restaurant and she realised she’d been there with her own sugar daddy. It tastes amazing and the champagne that flows with it is even better.

“Food good?” He asks with a smile.

“Yeah,” you say. “Is yours?”

“Perfect,” he says. The weight of his gaze on you is unavoidable and you twirl the spaghetti around your fork nervously, just wanting something to do to avoid his eyes.

“So, um.” You clear your throat, trying to think of something to fill the silence but nothing comes. Johnny watches you with a small smirk; all-knowing.

“Don’t be nervous,” he says finally. “I’m not gonna hurt you.”

You hold back a laugh, biting your lip and he notices. “Well, I mean…”

“Yeah, okay, I am going to hurt you a bit.” He’s grinning, and you realise he chose his words intentionally; though whether to ease the tension or tighten it further you don’t know. “But I do want you to be comfortable with me.”

“Yeah. I am, I think.”

“Great. May I ask you something?”

You motion for him to speak and he smiles; you think you see the first hint of trepidation in his eyes before it quickly dims into the usual cool intensity.

“Obviously it hasn’t been long enough to make a firm decision,” he says, “but just so I have an idea, are you open to the idea of coming home with me tonight?”

You swallow; your stomach tightens at the proposition and the visions it provokes and your response is whispered like a scandalous secret. “Like… to play with you?”

“Yes,” he says. “It doesn’t have to mean the start of a dynamic, and we won’t have sex; just think of it as a taster session.”

That doesn’t seem so bad, you think. And he’s careful, not rushing you into a dynamic or even pressuring you at all; that’s a good sign, right? “So what— um. What would we do?”

“Depends on your behaviour.” He winks teasingly at you from behind the glass in his hand and your head is in overdrive with the images he’d given you on the phone a few days ago; of being choked and collared and spanked by those impossibly large hands resting so tantalisingly close to yours.

You clench your thighs, swallowing dryly. “Yeah. I’m… open to the idea.”

“I’m glad to hear that.”

The evening passes surprisingly quickly; the tension in the air has all but dissipated, but for the subtle movements he makes every now and then just to see your reaction; a quirk of an eyebrow, a knowing smile, a perfectly timed touch that sends electricity rushing through your veins.

You know he’s toying with you, studying your natural responses to small hints of dominance so you react with similarly small, playful acts of submission in return; cowering under his gaze, bowing your head—allowing him the first taste of the control you may soon surrender completely to him.

“So,” he says, once the waiters have removed the last of your dessert plates. “Would you like to come home with me?”

—

Five million won lands in your bank account as you’re taking the elevator up to his apartment. You make a noise of shock, staring dumbfoundedly between him and the notification, but he says nothing; just smirks ever so slightly as he guides you out of the elevator with a hand on your lower back.

Johnny’s apartment is pretty much as you pictured it; everything a successful man on the cusp of his thirties would go for—black, white and grey themes, a large TV, low, atmospheric lighting and a stunning view of the city through the floor-to-ceiling windows that loom over you when you step inside. He removes your jacket for you, pausing to take in the outfit you’ve chosen once again before helping you remove your heels. He’s careful and gentlemanly, touches feather-light on your legs as he slides your shoes off. You’re not sure if the image of him on his knees in front of you like this contrasts or enhances the feeling of his dominance over you. You think it’s the latter, somehow.

When he stands up you see that without the few inches your heels provided you, he’s even more imposing—and in his own house, on his territory, you feel smaller than you ever have before.

“Come,” he smiles. He’s removed his suit jacket now, but the dress shirt, slacks and shoes are still on; the soles click against the floor as he guides you down the hallway by the hand.

You stop at the end of the hall, hovering outside a varnished wooden door. For a moment you stand there silently and his demeanour seems to shift a little; he stands a little taller and his face takes on a new solemnity as he looks you up and down. You feel like you’re being inspected, scrutinised; studied.

Your gaze flickers towards the door—is this where he does it? Where he… dominates people? Dominates you? Are you about to walk into a room full of whips and gags and contraptions you’ve never heard of?

“Hey.” Johnny’s voice is calm and soft and stops your spiraling in its tracks. His lips quirk in an amused smile. “I know what you’re thinking. It’s not a red room.”

“Oh.” You don’t know why you’re so embarrassed—anyone would have assumed that, given the circumstances; still, you avert your eyes awkwardly, face heating up. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be,” he says. “I’m not offended. It's reasonable to assume I’d have one. But it’s just my bedroom, nothing too scary.”

“Oh. So you don’t… um.”

“I don’t have a red room?” You nod a little ashamedly and he chuckles. “No. I don’t need one. D’you know why?”

“Why?”

A large hand clasps around your wrist, making you shiver. “Because if we do this, you don’t submit to a room. You submit to me. Wherever we are, whenever I tell you to.”

You flush. “Oh.”

“Mhm.” His voice drops, veins bulging against his neck and he cuts a more and more intimidating figure by the second. You’re so ready.

”Do you remember the conversation we had about safewords?”

Of course you do; it was the first one you had once the pleasantries were over. “Red for stop, yellow for slow, green for go.”

He makes a noise of satisfaction and there’s a ghost of a proud smile on his lips. “Excellent.”

You watch as his hand grasps the door handle, pushing it down but not opening it. He pauses for a moment, gaze flickering back to you and you tense, nerves multiplying by the minute.

“Couple things you should know,” he says. His voice is calm and collected and it makes your head rush. “First thing. When you play with me, you’re on your knees, on the floor. You don’t stand or walk or do anything I do because we’re not on the same level here. Understand?”

Your stomach flips, arousal gathering in your chest and your voice is strained when you squeak out a pathetic “Yes.”

“Good,” he says. He’s smiling knowingly, all too aware of the effect he’s having on you. “Second thing. It’s ‘yes, Sir.’”

Then the door is pushed open, and within a few seconds two things become abundantly clear; first, Johnny is true to his words—you don’t manage a single step inside his bedroom before you find yourself forced to your knees, kneeling with your head bowed beneath the pressure of his hand on the back of your neck. He holds you firmly in position but there’s little force behind his grip; there doesn’t need to be. He told you early on that he has no interest in subduing you or compelling you to submit—you’ll submit to him because you want to, and he’ll give you everything you need in return.

The second thing that becomes clear is that when Johnny said he didn’t have a red room, that was only technically the truth—because sure, it’s not a strictly-sex-only room, and it’s not red, but there’s absolutely no mistaking what happens here.

A glass cabinet displays an intimidating selection of toys; whips and paddles and dildos and things you couldn’t even begin to guess the use for; a bar is fixed to a lower portion of the ceiling, and the ropes hanging from it tell you he doesn’t use it for pull-ups; but most noticeably and unavoidably, there’s a large dog’s cage filled with blankets and soft pillows sitting directly at the end of his bed.

He catches your gaze lingering on the cage and laughs softly; the hand on your neck travels up to rest in your hair, caressing you gently and you hold your head exactly where he left it despite your desire to nuzzle into his touch. You have something to prove today, after all.

“You like my cage?” You hear the grin in his voice, feather-light touches tickling against your skin.

“Is it… for humans, sir?” The size of it makes the answer obvious but you need to hear it from him; the confirmation that this is really as batshit and delightfully insane as it seems.

He hums, twirling a strand of your hair around his finger. You feel his presence above you as he crouches down a little, voice dropping to just above a whisper. “It’s for very, very bad girls indeed,” he says. “But you’re not bad, are you, precious?”

“No, sir,” you mumble. “I’ll be good.”

“That’s what I like to hear.” He stands back up, towering above you again before walking over to the bed. He takes a seat, staring at you for a moment before his he lifts his hand and beckons you towards him. “Come.”

You hesitate for a moment—are you really about to do this? Are you really going to crawl on your hands and knees towards this man whose face you’d never even seen before today?

Yeah. Apparently you are.

Your breathing stutters as you make the first movements; one hand in front of the other, then your leg, over and over until you’ve somehow made it, you’ve crawled across the room and settled on your knees at his feet. He looks elated.

For a moment, he says nothing; he stares you down with a calm, collected expression that screams control and you try desperately not to shrink under it. The first touch of his hand on your face is electric when he gently grips your jaw, stroking your skin with soft fingers. You feel—and are, to him at least—tiny.

“Sweet thing,” he mumbles. “I’m gonna have so much fun with you.”

You can’t help but mewl in response, every cell of your body reacting to him, nerves standing on their ends. It’s a completely new feeling and utterly overwhelming. You want it to last forever.

“Can I hit you, angel?” His voice is low, gentle, the opposite of the way his grip on you tightens with want.

You feel yourself throb, nodding dumbly. “Yes sir.”

He smiles for a moment before his face darkens; the impact of his palm against your cheek would be enough to knock you down were it not for his still firm grip on your jaw. You cry out at the sting, unable to stop yourself and he can’t help but smile. “So responsive,” he tuts. “I’m gonna love training you up.”

You bite your lip, holding back a grin. “I hope so, sir.”

“You know,” he says. “This is my favourite part of having a new sub. Figuring out what type they are.”

You pause. “Type, sir?”

He hums; a low, pleasing sound. “No two submissives are the same, but there are general categories you could fit most of them into. Some fit in all of them, in fact.”

“What are they?”

He tilts his head, eyes glinting and you see the way he settles further into his headspace, back straightening as he stares you down. Your lack of experience seems to do something to him—and that definitely does something to you.

“Well,” he says. He speaks slowly and carefully, every word chosen with thought. “You have your puppies. They like to be on their knees. They like to whine and bark. They like to hump.” His grip tightens on your chin, tilting your head upwards. His thumb pushes past your lips and into your mouth and you accept it greedily. “And if I told them to open their mouth for their master’s spit…” He parts your lips, pushing your mouth open; he hesitates for a moment, as though he’s waiting for you to object but you don’t; you just open wider. His lips twist into a smirk before you feel a wad of saliva land on your tongue. “They’d slack their jaw and swallow it like a good dog.”

He watches with a smile as you obey, letting the spit slide down your throat. Your head feels fuzzy and floaty and all the sensations in your body, from the feeling of the carpet against your shins to the arousal that twists painfully in your gut, feel distant and separate. The only thing that feels real and complete right now is Johnny.

“Seems you like pet play,” he chuckles. “I’ll have to get you some ears. A tail, too.” He strokes your cheek and you keen into his touch unconsciously. “Would you let me plug your ass with a little puppy tail, baby?”

“Yes sir.” The words are coming out on their own now, your body responding for you before your conscious can catch up. He smiles.

“You’d be a lovely kitten, too,” he says. “They’re not as much fun to play with as puppies, but they look oh so pretty in your lap. And sometimes it’s nice to have a pliant little thing that will let you use their holes without complaining.”

Oh, that does sound nice. You think you’d enjoy that sometimes, when you’re feeling softer and more fragile and just want to be cared for. And he’s so large and broad and warm that he’s practically custom made to have you in his lap. You’d fit perfectly and prettily and you sigh dreamily without realising. He laughs and you quickly regain yourself, blushing deeply.

“Sorry, sir,” you mumble. “Um. Were all your subs, like, pets?”

He shakes his head. “I’ve had a few slaves before as well,” he says. “They were lovely; obeyed me like it was second nature. Took all the pain and humiliation I inflicted on them and still wanted more. Almost made me rethink my policy on not drawing blood, but that’s not my sort of thing really; they took a whipping like nobody’s business though.”

You cower a little, gaze dropping downwards; this doesn’t seem like you. You’re more than happy to be hurt and humiliated by Johnny, but this just seems… too much. You’re not ready for that level of submission and you’re not even sure you want to be. You feel a faint pressure on your chest, a familiar feeling of having fallen short but you’re not sure why; you’re allowed to say no—when you signed up for the website you signed a contract which stated it explicitly, and Johnny himself has reiterated it to you multiple times. You don’t have to take everything he offers you and you don’t have to do or be or enjoy anything simply because he does.

So why does it feel like a shortcoming; like you’ve foundered and failed before you’ve ever started?

You’ve zoned out without realising, deep in thought; Johnny sees the gears turning in your head and clicks his tongue, nudging your jaw upwards again. His smile is warm and gentle when you finally meet his gaze and though his voice is still soft and patient, there’s a finality to it that wasn’t there before; a seriousness. “You don’t like the sound of that, that’s okay,” he assures you. “You should never, ever force yourself to do something just to please me, or to please anyone. Understand?”

“I understand, sir,” you whisper. The sternness in his voice tells you he’s not playing now; he needs you to know this and keep it with you.

“Good girl,” he praises. His voice lifts a little and you see the moment he changes tack, back to toying with you like he was before. “God, you’re pretty. I don’t think I could hurt a little thing like you that way even if you did want it.”

You whine without realising it; your mind is a complete fog now, control and awareness slipping away by the second but you manage to string the few words that come to you into a slow, stuttered sentence. “Are those, um… that’s all of it, sir?”

His laugh is fond and a little condescending, like you’ve said something adorably stupid. You feel warm. “Those are just some typical ones,” he says. “Ones I’ve played with before. You don’t have to assign yourself to any of them, it just helps me to see what you do and don’t like the sound of.“

“Right.”

“You seem to like being a puppy,” he continues. There’s a teasing edge to his voice and you hold back another whine. “I think you’d like being a kitten sometimes, too. Turning your brain off and just letting daddy use you, you’d love that, wouldn’t you?”

Your body reacts of its own accord to the title; you shudder in his hold, slumping slightly as a soft moan escapes your lips and it makes him laugh softly, fondly. “You really like the whole daddy thing, huh?”

You nod, a little embarrassed—it’s not even that you’re particularly into it on your own, in fact you only called your ex that because he wanted you to. Sure, you enjoyed it and it certainly made him fuck you harder and deeper and better, but you’ve never explored it of your own volition. You’ve never felt the need to.

But something about the way it sounds so sweet and natural on Johnny’s lips, like he’s acknowledging a reality rather than acting out a fantasy, makes it all seem so right—and so exciting. He certainly suits the name; so big and so strong and in complete control of you. Yeah, you’re definitely going to need to try this out.

You see in his face that his own thoughts are similar; his eyes are fogged with arousal and there’s a thick tension in his neck as he swallows. “You definitely make it work.” His hand moves from your jaw to cup your cheek and he lets you nuzzle against it greedily, a smile twitching on his lips. “Cute. God, there’s so much I could do to you.”

“Do it,” you breathe. “Please, sir.”

“Such good manners,” he croons. “You need it so bad, don’t you?”

“Yes,” you whine. You don’t even know what ‘it’ is, but you know he’s right; you’re desperate, feverish for it. For anything, as long as it comes from him.

“Ask me nicely,” he whispers. “Ask me for what you want, baby, and I’ll give it to you.”

“You,” you say. “You, sir.”

In a moment of desperation—or stupidity, perhaps—you reach for him, hands curling into the material of his shirt and grazing against what feels like a full set of abs beneath it. Wrong move.

He lifts you by the hair, dragging you to your feet and throwing you over his knee. Your heart pounds with expectation but he doesn’t hit you as you expect him to; instead he flips you over so you’re lying on your back, head resting on the sheets; your hair falls prettily around your face and you make the perfect picture of innocence. You want him to ruin it.

The feeling of his hand on your throat is electric; the other roams across your torso, groping your tits with a detached interest. He’s in no hurry, after all.

“Who told you to touch me, huh?” His words are growled, arousal filled as he grabs one of your tits and squeezes hard enough to make you whimper. “Here I thought you were gonna be good for me.”

“I am,” you whine. “Sir, I’m sorry. I’ll be good, I will.”

He’s silent for a moment, staring you down like he’s figuring out whether he believes you before sitting you up so you’re perched on his knee. He grabs your wrists and moves them behind you, folded over each other and resting against your lower back. “Keep those there,” he says. “This is your first lesson. You don’t touch what’s not yours and you don’t move a muscle without my permission. Understand?”

You nod dumbly and he slaps your face just this side of painfully. “Words, my girl.”

My girl. Why does that feel so delicious and warm in your chest? “Yes, sir,” you mewl. “I understand.”

“Good.”

And then his lips are on yours, colliding desperately and almost painfully as if he’s been waiting for this his entire life. His hands are in your hair, tugging your head backwards to allow him to place a trail of wet kisses down your face and neck. His mouth latches onto your collarbone, sucking harshly at the skin and you know it’ll be purple when he pulls away. It stings in the best way and a string of curses tumble out in a rush as you ride the high of pleasure. He bites down a little, making you yelp. “Manners,” he grumbles against your skin but he doesn’t let go, so you figure he’s letting you off with that one.

When he finally pulls away his eyes are dark and feral; all pupil and all control. His hands roam up and down the sides of your torso and he looks ready to tear you apart. “Where’d you get this dress, pretty girl?”

You pause, caught off guard. He was sucking a bruise into your skin a moment ago and now he wants fashion tips? “Um… a mall, I think.”

“Is it special to you at all?”

“Not really.”

“Good.”

With both hands he grabs at the fabric on your chest and yanks it apart; the material rips easily, crumbling in his hands and there’s a million sensations in your body as he yanks the remaining fabric off of you. The sight of your lacy black lingerie makes him smile and he fingers gently at the soft fabric of your bra. “How about these?” He asks.

“They’re not special,” you mumble. “But it’s my nicest set.”

“I’ll get you nicer.” The bra and panties put up little fight against him, and soon you’re completely naked and dripping on his lap. He pinches your stomach, just above your pussy and you whine. “Don’t ever wanna see you in cheap shit like that,” he mutters. “My girl wears the best, you understand me?”

“Yes sir,” you whisper. “Wanna be pretty for you.”

“Always are,” he grunts. He stills for a moment, stroking your thigh before he clicks his fingers, pointing at the floor in front of him. “Down.”

You obey wordlessly; you’ve adjusted surprisingly quickly to the automatic obedience he seems to expect—your body is already following his orders of its own accord even while your mind fades away into subspace and he seems profoundly pleased by it. You settle on your knees, staring up at him with wide eyes.

His lips quirk. Seconds feel like minutes until he finally speaks.

“Give me your hands.”

—

Your friend has been silent for two entire minutes. That’s how long it’s been since you finished recounting the events of the night before and looked up to see her staring at you with an open mouth. She looks… well, you don’t know exactly, but she definitely wasn’t expecting this. That much is very clear.

“Dude.” You force an awkward laugh, trying to break the silence that seems to judge you as much as you fear she is too. “You good?”

Finally she recovers herself and nods, raising the coffee mug to her lips and taking a long sip. She puts it down and you see a small smile pulling at her lips. “Yeah,” she says. “I just. Wow, girl.”

“Yeah.”

“I didn’t expect… that from you. I thought you were vanilla?”

You frown; you’re not sure you’d categorise your exploits with your exes as strictly vanilla, but to someone like her, who’s more than versed in the world of dominance and submission and had only ended up as a sugar baby later on, you suppose it would be. “I thought so too. Mostly.” You shrug. “But he’s really good.”

“You don’t say,” she snorts. Her eyes are wide and you recognise the faintest hint of arousal in her expression—recognize it at as the same one you’d worn last night when Johnny tied you to a chair in front of his floor length mirror and forced you to watch as he fucked you with a vibrator until you came all over his hands.

You can’t help but rub your thighs together slightly at the memory. You clear your throat. “Yeah.”

“Fuck, I can’t believe he paddled you, girl.” She sounds impressed. “I still can’t convince mine to do that.”

You definitely didn’t have to convince Johnny; when he bent you over the bed and ran the black leather paddle across your ass, all he needed was the word ‘green’ tumbling from your lips and he was convinced and ready to go. You bite back a laugh at the thought. “Yeah,” you say.

“Did it hurt?”

“Kind of.”

You’d expected it to be worse, honestly; the paddle was fairly large and he wielded it in his hands like an executioner’s sword but as he explained to you, pain wasn’t the point of this one. It hurt, sure, but it was a slight sting and then a dull ache that was pretty bearable once the first rush subsided. But that was exactly what he wanted; the leather paddle was for play, designed for sensation rather than punishment—punishment, he told you, would come in the form of a larger wooden paddle you hope never to meet.

“Jealous,” she huffs. “And he sent you even more after?”

You nod. The transfer of ten million won as you stepped out of the taxi nearly made you collapse.

Good girl, the note said. You could almost see the smug smile as he typed it out.

“You got a good one, babe,” your friend says. “Hope he keeps it up.”

So do you.

—

The position you’re in is becoming familiar now; on your knees in front of him, naked and bound by ropes that snake down your back and loop under your thighs. What’s not familiar is the silicone plug sitting snugly in your ass and vibrating on a low, constant frequency; not enough to stimulate or satisfy you in any way, but enough to keep you needy and on edge.

Johnny is slouched slightly, lounging in his large, leather armchair and tapping his foot against the floor. His gaze is firm and authoritative but there’s a hint of a smile on his lips. He taps your cheek with his finger.

“What to do with you?” It comes out as a purr and you see his bulge beginning to strain against his slacks. Your breath hitches slightly, lips pursing and he notices, because of course he does; the grin that stretches over his lips is sly and scheming.

“You like my cock, huh?” He asks. “Haven’t even seen it yet, desperate girl.”

Your eyes flicker between his crotch and those dark, piercing eyes, unsure which is affecting you more. “Sir…”

“I’m right here,” he says. “You want it?”

“Yeah,” you whisper. “Please, sir. Want it.”

He leans back, adjusting himself slightly. “Take it out, then. Do your job.”

You nod; you can do that. You really fucking want to do that, actually. It’s been over a week of this and you still haven’t seen his cock—he, meanwhile, has seen and touched and marked every naked inch of you.

“Yes sir.” Your hands are shaking when you undo his slacks; you falter slightly when the zip comes down and you realise he’s not wearing underwear and he cocks a questioning eyebrow. “Is there a problem?”

You shake your head, blushing slightly. “No sir.”

“Good. Pull it out.”

His cock springs up when you release it from the slacks and it’s just as big as you expected-slash-feared-slash-hoped it would be. It’s thick and veiny too, already leaking from the tip and you know your eyes are wide and desperate but you don’t care. You’ve never seen something more appetising.

“You like it, huh?” There’s amusement in his voice, layered beneath the husk of arousal. “Good. I’m gonna train you to take it every day, make you a total cockwhore for me. Hold still now.”

He pulls you towards him, holding your head steady as he pushes into your mouth. He’s not exactly rough with it, but he’s clearly not too concerned with your comfort right now; any attempt to stop you from gagging or coughing up on it is for his own sake, not yours. He guides it down into your throat and you feel yourself tearing up at the intrusion. You splutter slightly, unable to avoid choking and he tuts, yanking you back by the hair to give you a moment to breathe before pushing you back down.

“Have to train that out of you,” he mutters. “Gonna teach you to keep your throat open for me.”

He holds you still, cock resting in your throat until you settle around it, adjusting to the stretch and the feeling. “Good girl,” he grunts. “Take it like that, all the way.”

He pulls you back again and you gasp for breath, spluttering slightly but even as you regain your composure you’re still suckling eagerly at his tip like it’s the only thing you know how to do. You feel the shudder that runs through him as it reaches his cock, throbbing on your tongue. “You’re too good at this,” he mutters. “Learning so quickly. Who taught you to take a cock like that?”

“No one, sir.” Your voice is muffled around his cock, drool dripping down onto your lap.

“Shit, baby, you were really made for this. You need a reward.”

The feeling of his shoe nudging against your knees makes you jolt. “Open,” he says.

When you spread your legs you feel the stickiness of your thighs as they separate and your face burns—you’re leaking like a fucking bitch. Johnny’s smile is the widest you’ve ever seen it. “Oh, baby,” he tuts. “Dripping all over my floor like that. You in heat, honey?” His voice is teasing, gaze sharp and he doesn’t miss the shudder that rushes through you.

Still being in the early stages of your arrangement, you haven’t yet had a chance to explore the different dynamics Johnny had explained to you the first time you kneeled for him; to feel what it’s like to be his puppy or kitten whatever he wants you to be that day. For now, you’re his straightforward submissive and though you’ve certainly fucked yourself a few times to the thought of him pulling you around on a leash, you haven’t felt in a particular rush to pursue it just yet.

But those words. That tone.

You in heat?

You remember your neighbour in high school who bred dogs; how she’d sit at the table with your mother discussing puppies and litters and heats. It’s a distinctively… canine word to you; to hear yourself, your behaviour described in that way is thrilling. He knows it.

His foot moves forwards until it’s in front of your pussy and you don’t even hesitate for a second when he tells you to mount it. He watches you with a calm, pleased expression. “Look at me.”

He’s biting his lip when you meet his eyes, clearly as afflicted as you. “You remember your first lesson?”

“Yes sir.”

“What was it?”

“Don’t touch, sir,” you whisper. “Don’t touch, or— or move without permission.”

“Good,” he nods. “Remember that. You don’t move unless I tell you to. And you certainly don’t hump. Yeah?”

“Yes sir.”

He curls a stray hair behind your ear and a smile flickers over his lips. “You’re gonna tie that up next time,” he says. He tugs lightly at your hair to illustrate his point and you moan softly. “I don’t want you looking like a stray in here. I keep my toys clean.”

Fuck, you love the way he talks to you; insulting and demeaning yet tickling all the right parts of your brain to make you melt even deeper into submission.

He pulls you towards him. “Keep that mouth open.”

That’s the only thing you get that even resembles a warning before he’s shoving himself into you again and there’s no pretence of gentleness or caution this time as he forces his way into your throat. He holds your head down on it and pushes two thumbs into the top of your jaw so you can’t close your mouth even if you want to—all you can do is gag and choke and take it until he’s finished with you.

You’re faintly aware of tears streaming down your face, but by the time they land on your chest they’re mixed with the door that pours from your mouth as he fucks in and out. You’re so overwhelmed that you scarcely notice the feeling of your dripping pussy rubbing agonisingly against his shoe and trying desperately not to move; all the sensations have blurred into one now and everything is the same, everything is too much. You want more.

When he pulls out you can’t help but whine, feeling the loss and he chuckles. “Never met someone so desperate for cock,” he says. “Born for it, weren’t you?”

“Yeah.” Your gaze shifts to the cock in his hands, still hard and leaking and your tongue swipes over your bottom lip, practically salivating. You shoot him a pleading look and he clicks his tongue. “No, sweet thing. You’ve had enough of that. Besides, I don’t think you’ve earned my cum in your throat yet. Push your tits out for me.”

You obey begrudgingly, disappointed at the denial but still eager to please; he rewards you with a slight nudge of his foot against your pussy and you buck against it, falling against his shin and he laughs and pulls you back by the hair so he can see you properly.

“So easy,” he groans. His hand slides up and down his dick with increasing vigour and he throws his head back in pleasure. “Fuck.”

The tightening of his grip in your hair tells you when he’s about to cum and you push your tits out further to catch it. He grunts and moans through his orgasm and your chest and thighs are a mess of drool and spit and cum by the time he picks you up and takes you into his lap.

His rough hands are tender and careful now as he runs a warm wet cloth across your skin, gathering the mess you made together. His fingers are rubbing soothing patterns on your neck as he‘a mumbling something you can’t quite make out. Doesn’t really matter, though; his hold is warm and familiar and the low vibrations in his chest as he speaks are strangely comforting against the flushed skin of your face.

Maybe it’s the endorphins or the headrush that always follows your scenes with him, but you swear you’ve never felt safer.

The money’s not bad either.

—

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