#why was he all OVER the second half off the show

[f1daydreamer]

What’s the most chaotic thing you can imagine Lando Norris doing in a relationship

Lando Norris & His Chaotic Boyfriend Behavior (Totally Not Spoilers 👀)

Okay, hear me out—the most chaotic thing I can imagine Lando doing in a relationship? Definitely something like:

•Live-streaming their argument by accident – He’s on Twitch, supposedly raging over a game, but the chat quickly realizes he’s actually arguing with his girlfriend off-screen. Chaos. Absolute chaos. The clip goes viral in 0.2 seconds.

•Buying a pet without asking – Surprise! There’s now a baby goat in their living room, and he’s already named it. She’s not amused, but Lando insists they’re keeping it.

•Oversharing in interviews – A journalist asks a casual question about his personal life, and before he can stop himself, he drops an extremely embarrassing fact about his girlfriend. The group chat immediately roasts him.

•Forgetting an important date but making up for it in the most extra way – Realizes at the last minute and panic-books a literal private jet for a surprise getaway. (Totally normal behavior.)

•Stealing her skincare products – Then acting like he has no idea why his skin is suddenly clearer than hers. The audacity.

•Texting absolute nonsense at 3 AM – He suddenly wakes up and needs to know: “Would you still love me if I was a worm but like a really fast one???”

•Ordering the most unhinged food combos – Genuinely thinks dipping pizza in milk is valid and tries to convince her to try it. (She refuses. Obviously.)

•Getting jealous over ridiculous things – “WHY did you like his Instagram post from four days ago?!” It was a meme, Lando.

•Leaving voice memos instead of texting – And they’re all either incoherent mumbling, weird sound effects, or him screaming into the mic. No in-between.

•Pranking her 24/7 – But the second she gets him back? “Wow. That was mean. I trusted you.”

•The 2 AM McDonald’s Run That Went Wrong-It starts as a simple craving. Lando’s half-asleep, mumbling about nuggets. Next thing she knows, they’re in the drive-thru, him in pajama pants, her in one of his hoodies. But just as they get their order, Lando accidentally starts rolling forward… and straight into the curb. The McDonald’s employees are watching. She’s crying from laughter. He’s just sitting there, holding a large fries, whispering, “I can fix this.”

•The Time Lando Got Lost in IKEA - They go to IKEA for one thing. ONE. Yet somehow, Lando disappears within minutes. She gets a text: “Babe. I��m in the fake bedroom section. Send help.” Twenty minutes later, she finds him fully lying in a display bed, hands behind his head, rating the mattress. “Honestly, I could live here.”

•When Lando Tried to Cook and Nearly Burned Down the Kitchen - He swears he can handle it. “Pasta is easy, babe. It’s just water and noodles.” Fast forward: the fire alarm is going off, there’s smoke everywhere, and he’s standing there with a melted spatula, looking guilty. “Sooo… we’re ordering takeout, yeah?”

•The Vacation That Turned Into a Survival Mission - He planned a “relaxing getaway.” The reality? A remote cabin with no Wi-Fi, questionable plumbing, and a surprise thunderstorm. At one point, he’s standing in the rain, holding a stick like it’s a weapon. “If a bear shows up, I got this.” She’s already googling hotels nearby.

•Lando’s Genius Plan to Sneak Into a Concert (That Failed Miserably) - They didn’t have tickets. But Lando had a plan. “Trust me, I saw this in a movie.” Next thing she knows, they’re wearing matching high-vis vests, holding clipboards, and trying to look official. It works… for about five minutes. Then security spots them. “RUN!”

•The Time Lando Decided to Dye His Hair… and Regretted Everything - He was so confident. “Platinum blonde will look sick.” She tries to warn him. He doesn’t listen. An hour later, he’s staring at his reflection, horrified. “Babe. I look like a wet Q-tip.”

The IKEA Couch Disaster - He insisted they didn’t need help assembling it. “We got this!” Three hours later, there are extra screws, the instructions are ripped, and the couch is lopsided. “So… maybe we just tell people it’s modern art?”

---

(Also… confession time. 👀)

These chaotic Lando moments? Yeah… they’re actually straight from my drafts. Every single one. I may have just leaked my own work, but at this point, are we even surprised? 😆

They’re still getting some final edits (fixing grammar mistakes, tweaking details, and making sure the photos and screenshots are just right—perfection takes time, people! ✨), but they’re coming very soon.

Now, I need your help—which one do you want to see first? Drop your favs in the comments before I get too tempted to post them all at once. 🤭🔥

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[cathnospam]

I seen this tiktok and I unfortunately thought about wearing it for Bakugo even though something tells me he wouldn’t give a fuck about you wearing lingerie because you could wear a parka and he’d still wanna put his dick inside you.

You don’t really wear many cute/sexy clothing. The most revealing outfits have been during a Gala and your hero costume. It’s not on purpose nor are you self conscious you have a BANGING body, but you just wasn’t a “fashionista “, but of course you weren’t a bum.

You were an average, tight/jeans w a top/hoodie kinda girl.

Bakugo even has dressed you a few times before, and he wasn’t too bad…

Until he actually got jealous men were staring at your curves and ass as if he didn’t pick the tightest dress he could find for you.

Hypocrite.

Regardless , his birthday was coming up and you wanted to surprise him.

After doom scrolling on tiktok you found a couple things he reposted on his account he liked but you got an ad for some lingerie, the girl even had a similar build as you! It was perfect.

But also risky.

Bakugo never seen interest in that type of clothing. You’ve both went shopping at Victoria secret a few times during a sale and when you joked about getting a g-string or two he just rolled his eyes saying you might as well wear nothing.

But you were a risk taker and your boyfriend alone was a risk so why not.

You bought several different types of pieces, some see through, some with holes in areas you found���interesting, and had one custom made with his name embroidered on it.

Tonight though you wanted to do a test run.

It was late and so was Bakugo. He called and said he was just 5 minutes away so you put the last bit of fluff to your curls and reapply your lip gloss.

When your fiancé comes in he is usually greeted by your hugs and smothering him half to death, but it was quiet, the room has an aroma of tonight’s dinner you had wrapped up for him so it can still be warm when he comes home, canceled were lit, and the ambience felt….comforting.

“Babe…” His voice echoes roughly through the hallway you have a slight panic of whether or not you should pop out or wait for him to come and see you, but it was too late he was already at the door of your room.

“Hey…” You quickly turn, standing up straight and holding your hands together , giving your breast a slight more cleavage, “um…surprise!”

He just….

Stood there.

He wasn’t mad, he wasn’t shocked, he wasn’t annoyed he had a very indescribable look about him, but his eyes were going all over the place.

Bakugo looked at your face, then breast, then legs. And he did it for a few seconds until he approached you, constantly wiping his face.

“You…like it—-mph!!”

He almost knocked the wind out of your chest when he cupped your face to kiss you. It was hungry, messy, and wet. All your could hear was low growls and harsh breathing from his nose.

Completely unlike him since you’re usually the one initiating the kisses.

“Do-ahem…” you try to clear your throat and steady your voice, but it was too late his huge hands was on your body, squeezing and slapping everywhere on your ass, making your moan into his mouth. “‘Suki!”

He picked you up, your legs immediately wrapped around his waist as you giggle with his small suckles to your neck had you ticklish and turned on, “Do you like the look or what!”

“What do you think.” He was kneeled in between your thighs pointing at his baggy pants that STILL managed to show a tent forming, it was kinda hot.

“Well can you at least say it!….took forever to get ready…”

“Sucks because I’m finna rip it off.”

“WHAT?!”

“I can rip it off or fuck you in it pick one.”

You fake pout hearing him throw off his shirt, his chest twitching involuntarily, he snickers seeing your still eye his hand taking off his belt with one hand , trying to close your legs, but he was way bigger than you and in your way.

“I’ll just fuck you in it. I can see your tits just fine through the fabric.”

“Katsuki!”

Full blown laughing at this point he hover over your and kisses the corner of your mouth, “You look fucking gorgeous, but you knew that.”

“So…”

“So…” The more he pushes closer towards you the more you lower yourself down, “‘M ganna…”

He kisses your lips, sucking on the bottom one with every punctuation, “show you…”

He kisses you again until you’re laid flat on the pillow, “how beautiful I know you to be. This outfit….fuck.” He sits up for a moment to wipe his face to try to distract how red he’s turning but he can’t help it.

He needs you.

An hour, and 4 orgasms later your clothes were soaked and thrown on the ground and curled into your man’s sweaty, bit up arms.

“What was the occasion for wearing that?”

“…no reason.” You shrug tracing his scars on his face, “Just wanted to see if you liked when I…switch it up on you.”

Safe to say though, Bakugo does indeed love lingerie, but only if you wear it.

[goldenraeofsun]

we do, but friends don't

“Maybe it’s my Daddy Issues showing,” Lois muses.

From her La-Z-Boy recliner, Clark chokes on the beer he’s been nursing for the past hour.

Lois swirls the dregs of her second homemade martini – extra olives, extra gin – in her hand. The world has gone all swirly, and Clark is a vague Kansan-shaped lump in the corner. She’d turned off most of the lights a few hours ago; they were doing nothing for her burgeoning headache, and she needed to power through her article.

She pressed the submit button on her next front-page expose exactly 49 minutes ago, and she fucking deserved a drink after nearly dying twice (shut up, Clark, that third thing totally didn’t count) and ruining her most comfortable pair of pumps running through the mud. After downing her first martini in record time, she doubled the gin and started to savor her hard-won second drink. 

“Do you want some water? I could get you some –”

“I mean,” Lois continues, ignoring Clark’s inane prattling, “obviously everyone and their goddamn brother knows about my… thing for Superman.”

Clark practically glows in the dark, his cheeks are so red. God, he’s such a prude.

Remind her why she likes him again?

Oh right, because he’s nice and the type of old-school gallant that seemed like a front to get into her pants until she saw him literally act the same way towards ancient, half-blind Mrs. Kowalski from next-door. 

Lois spent their first six months working together giving him the cold-shoulder, scooping him at every opportunity possible (and some impossible ones because she’s damn good at her job) to drive him off. She’d met his type, and they'd never gotten anywhere with her before, and she wasn't going to give any ground now. But Clark was determined, and that determination was honestly what won her over in the end. Since, as it turned out, she hadn’t met Clark’s type before.

He never hounded her for a date – he asked her out exactly once, to a very safe coffee date, not even dinner – and listened and didn’t sulk about it when she let him down. He was a little quieter for the next week at work, but otherwise internalized whatever was going on behind those enormous glasses and didn’t take it out on her.

Anyway, that was nearly five years ago now. He’d moved on, and Lois clearly set her sights on someone else.

“I think it’s because he’s unattainable,” Lois continues.

Clark jumps up from his seat. “I’ll go get you that water,” he mumbles as he all but sprints to her kitchen.

Lois rolls her eyes to the ceiling, and if she had x-ray vision, would she see Superman soaring overhead, watching over Metropolis, protecting them all from harm?

“My dad’s a general, you know,” she says, raising her voice, so Clark can hear her. “Dragged us all over the country. Treated Lucy and me like his own mini platoon of two. Tough love, that was his motto. Allergic to physical affection. Said ‘I love you’ to my face exactly two times. And now it’s the exact same with Superman, a man who would never even think of – do you think he can feel love like we do? Do aliens – ?”

Clark appears at her elbow, almost out of thin air.

“Woah,” Lois gasps, jerking back in surprise. She must be drunker than she thought.

“One more sip, then water,” Clark says, his blue eyes steady behind his outrageous glasses.

“I’m not a child,” Lois says before taking the largest swallow of her martini that she can gulp down. “You don’t have to baby me.”

“Agree to disagree,” Clark says with a small smile as he swaps her glass for his. “You’re not a child, of course. But you could use a little babying, I think. Especially after the long week you’ve had.”

“Mm hm,” Lois hums as she tips back the water. “Got that right, Smallville.” She raises her eyes to meet his as he settles down on the couch next to where she’s sprawled over three-quarters of it, legs akimbo, one arm draped over the back, the other propping her head up on the armrest. “How about you? Do you have any daddy issues worth sharing?”

Clark twitches.

“C’mon,” Lois sits up a little, smirking. “It’s sharing hour.”

“Most people would call this the sleeping hour, since it is two o'clock in the morning.”

Lois waves him off and makes a pfft sound in the back of her throat. “Like I could get you to cop to any of this in the harsh light of day.” She squints and the fuzzy edges around Clark settle into something more definite. “You do!” she crows. Her instincts are never wrong. And Clark might be a tough nut to crack, but she’s the best for a reason, and it’s not because of her killer legs or shiny hair – it’s her investigative nose.

Clark sighs. “I’m adopted, Lois. I think daddy issues are part of the deal.” He picks up his half-empty beer bottle and slowly rotates it in his hands. “My parents are wonderful, the best, honestly. But my birth father… there’s a lot of questions there.”

Lois blinks. “You’re adopted?”

Clark lifts one shoulder in a half-shrug. 

“Since when?” she demands. How did she not know this?

“Since as long as you’ve known me,” Clark says wryly.

“You never told me!”

Clark pats her shin, her closest body part. “You never asked.”

Lois tosses back her glass, nose wrinkling as the ice-cold water hits her tongue. No gin. “Regardless,” she says in a sad attempt to regain her composure, “you should’ve said. These are the types of things best friends know about each other.”

Clark’s eyebrows fly up, higher than the rims of his glasses. “I’m your best friend?”

“Well it’s certainly not Steve Lombard,” Lois says flatly, fighting desperately not to let her panic show on her face.

Clark just stares owlishly at her. “I just thought…” he drifts off.

Lois bristles. “Look,” she says, and, god, it’s so much easier to lean into her anger than embarrassment, “I know I’m not yours, and I don’t play well with others on the playground, so just forget I said –”

Clark squeezes her ankle, and Lois shuts up at the look on his face. “For someone so confident, you have the weirdest insecurities.”

“If this is supposed to make me feel better –” Lois starts hotly.

“Of course you’re my best friend,” Clark says, his voice almost unbearably sincere.

“Oh.”

Clark sits back, a small smile playing on his lips. “What makes you think you weren’t?”

Lois throws up her hands, slopping half her water over the floor. She rolls her eyes as Clark immediately grabs a few of their abandoned take-out napkins to mop it up. “It’s just… you’re so nice.”

“What does that have to do with anything?” Clark asks as he gets down on all fours before she can lift a finger, practically proving her point for her.

“People like you.”

“People like you too,” Clark points out.

“People admire me,” Lois says, her mouth twisting. “People want to sleep with me. People are intimidated by me. Very few people actually like me.”

After a beat, Clark protests, “I like you.”

“Pretty sure you’ve taken one too many hay bales to the head, but I’ll take it,” Lois murmurs as she flops back on her couch.

“You’ve never been a maudlin drunk before,” Clark says as he straightens, slips in a leftover bit of water, and braces himself on her couch. “What brought this on?”

Lois shrugs. “Maybe all the near-death experiences are finally catching up with me. Making me re-evaluate what I really want in life.”

“To be liked?” Clark asks skeptically.

Lois screws up her face. “Maybe? I don’t know,” she sighs. “Doesn’t everyone want to be liked? Wanted?” She bites her lip. 

Moving more carefully this time, Clark gets to his feet. “I think it depends,” he says, avoiding her gaze. “I think people want to be liked – to be wanted – for who they actually are, not for the face they present to the world.”

Lois frowns. “But can you actually know someone on that level?”

“I’d like to think so,” Clark says, the faintest note of wistfulness in his voice.

“Does anyone know you like that?” Lois scrunches her nose as she burrows further into her couch. God, she’s tired. “I don’t think I do.” Admitting it hurts more than she expected it to. Before, she thought she had a pretty good grasp on Clark Kent, investigative reporter and her favorite second banana.

“My parents,” Clark says at once. He pauses. “And I think you and I could get there. Someday.” He clears his throat. “If you, um, wanted that.”

Lois throws back the rest of her water. “Yeah, sure, why not,” she says, eyes closed as she swallows. When she opens them, she can see clear as day that her blase attitude hasn’t fooled him in the slightest. He's such a sap. “Hey, if you’re adopted – are you even from Kansas?” She lets out a theatrical gasp. “Will I have to give up all the hicksville jokes?”

“I’m pretty sure you’d still call me a hayseed if I was actually born in Gotham,” Clark says with a smile as he tugs her to her feet. “C’mon, I can see you falling asleep.”

Lois lets him. “Please tell me you’re not from Gotham. I can’t – just no.”

“Lois,” Clark says, the tsk heavy in his voice. “My other best friend is from Gotham! It’s not that bad.”

Lois swats his shoulder. “I knew I wasn’t your real best friend! Who is it? I didn’t know you associated with anyone from that ugly trash pile of a city.”

Clark laughs. “His name is Bruce.”

Lois totters down the hallway to her bedroom with Clark trailing after her, one arm out to catch her if she stumbled, the other holding her empty glass of water. “That’s a stupid name. What’s his full name?”

“So you can stalk him?” Clark lets her flop onto her bed as he heads to her en suite bathroom.

“Maybe,” Lois grumbles into her pillow. Everything has taken on a lovely fuzzy quality, but maybe that’s her duvet taking up half her field of vision.

Clark’s head pops out from behind the door frame. “His name is Bruce Wayne.”

“Clark Kent, you liar.” She points a wobbly finger in his direction. “You do not know Bruce Wayne.”

Clark shrugs. “I’m just full of surprises tonight, apparently.”

“Wait – you’re serious?” Lois pushes herself up into a sitting position. If Clark – her partner of half a decade – has been sitting on the fact that he is on first name terms with the richest man on the east coast, Lois is going to strangle him once she finds heels tall enough.

“If you ask him, we are, at most, distant acquaintances,” Clark says with a smile as he gently pushes her back down in bed and sets the now-full water glass on her nightstand. “So don’t worry – nobody is going to challenge you for the official position of my best friend, except maybe Jimmy.”

Lois yawns. “I could take on Jimmy. He’s got twiggy arms.”

Clark snorts. “Do not fight Jimmy.”

She closes her eyes. “I’m a great fighter.”

“I'm pretty sure the entire bullpen knows that.” Clark chuckles, his footsteps retreating to the door. “I’ll be in the guest bedroom if you need me.”

Lois inhales a loud breath. “Clark?”

“Yeah?”

“Thanks,” she blearily opens her eyes, “for… everything. You know you’re my best friend, right?”

“Yeah, I know,” Clark says. “Get some sleep. Sober up. I’m sure you’ll be horrifically ashamed of all of this oversharing tomorrow.”

“Probably,” she agrees as she snuggles deeper into her pillow. “’Night.”

“Good night, Lois.”

[aurmisery]

lover, you should've come over.

you guessed it, a ronin b. x reader.

small epilogue to uhhh confessions unheard: sickening sweetness from a MONTH AND A HALF AGO.... tahaha... yeah...

only reason this was written was because a good friend of mine had me thinking it up one day and i thought why not? it was really fun to write ngl (thanks alo for ur help !!)

this is short, but this is just to hold over my account until i can actually prioritize writing when i have free time and actually fix up my messed up revisions 😭

words // 2029

enjoy ! no warnings this time !!

ronin isn't one to bare his heart and soul out all carefree, he's the type to twist them with silken words and stringed innuendo, the type to keep you guessing so you never know what he's truly on about.

but damn, he couldn't lie; drifting off to sleep within the warmth of your lap as you thread your nails through his hair had to have been one of the best feelings in the world.

besides killing someone, anyway.

your fingers massage around the crown of his head and he gives a lazy sigh in response, lashes batting low and letting his cheek smush against your leg.

it's cute, the apparent need he has to interact and bury himself into everything you. maybe it came from the drunken confession outside your front door, or maybe it's the fact that he's recovering from a cold and couldn't give less of a fuck to dance around with his words.

"ronin," you hum, and he barely registers your voice, rolling onto his back so he could maintain eye contact with you instead, the way he likes it- especially now, with his voice rough from congestion.

his brows slightly bounce, as if responding 'yes?' and he runs his knuckles over your jawline waiting for you to say something, but you only sweep your thumb over the mulberry strands tickling his forehead, clearing them away from his lashes.

"feeling okay? you're not getting more stuffy from laying up on me, are you?"

he sniffles, letting a small 'mmm' falter through him and his index finger gives a light boop over your nose, a chuckle- throatier than usual, following.

"not so stuffy anymore, darlin'. jus'...a little tired, is all."

he's obviously congested, but it's clearing up and your chest falls slowly, exhaling in relief that he's not burning up as badly anymore.

you're honestly surprised that you haven't gotten sick by taking care of him. you're nursing him 24/7, and like the bastard he is, he's eating up every. second of it.

still teasing you, slinging a heavy arm around you to keep you close to him, constantly nagging for you to never leave his side.

he's as touchy as... never?

ronin had never been this...handsy in your friendship with him, and you'd never guess he was the type from how avoidant he seemed at your front door. but now?

now he's all over you.

when he gets the energy to stand, he lazily slouches onto you with his head on top of yours and arms snug over your neck like dead weight.

it's almost suffocating with how warm he is, and he takes little notice. if he does, he doesn't give enough of a fuck to move off of you.

you try to focus on whatever you're doing, elbowing him lightly in the side to make him move. instead, he only wrenches a dopey smile onto those pale lips of his.

"i ain't goin' anywhere, darlin'."

the finality of his words stir conflict onto your expression, a faint blush bleeding onto your cheeks and the corner of your lips firming themselves as to not crease into a grin. he's stupid.

and god, it makes you wanna kiss him even more.

but no! you can't, because his dumbass just had to wander the streets drunk in the pouring rain like some lovelorn loser rather than getting home and mourning his sorrows there.

you've chastised him multiple times over for it, but you can't lie- you're glad he showed up at your door instead of his. if he went home like usual, you'd have a conflicted serial killer agonizing over his feelings whilst being sick in bed ALONE.

and besides, every time you do start laying into him for his lack of caution or 'whatever' (how he phrases it), he just sloths himself over your duvet, hands up in a gesture of 'whaddya want me to do 'bout it?' as he chews his lip red.

"hey, hey- you're the one who's got my heart all strung up. i can't be the only one to take the blame, now can i, arachne?"

you roll your eyes at the correlation, ignoring the faint flicker of heat coiling in your stomach at the way his teeth tug at the already-blossoming coral of his lip.

...

it isn't fair.

he swings a love confession at you in the rain and you two are glued at the hip after. good, great, even! impeccable timing, really.

but you can't do anything about it. you have him staying over to recover and you can't even touch him the way you want.

he's sick, after all. even though he's not acting like it.

even the slasher playing out on the tv isn't enough to distract you. when watching these, you'd scoot just a little closer to him, and he'd pull you taut against his shoulder.

now though, he's soaking in your warmth, hands on your hips and head angled between the line of your jaw and the bone of your shoulder.

you should have known what you were signing up for the moment you let him inside.

still, you shoot him a look as you unscrew the cap off his medicine bottle, just in time to hear him groan, palms running to the front of your stomach.

you frown. "don’t even start with me."

he lifts his hands in feigned surrender, eyes lidding low and a brow quirking up. "eh, i could do without the medicine. leaves a weird taste on my tongue."

you shrug him off with a scoff, lips pursed. "you'll get better if you take it."

he leans against the counter, one hand propping up his head while the other pinches at the ends of his hair. "nah, i'd rather let natural selection take its toll."

..could he be any more annoying?

you roll your eyes at him before narrowing them, pinching the bridge of your nose. "oh, shut up and take it before i pour it down your throat myself."

he grins, slow and wolfish, his voice dipping just to spite you.

"that a promise, darlin’?"

if you held a mirror up to your face at that exact moment, the dusting of pink around your ears wouldn't have helped your case.

he's getting under your skin, and that's what he loves to do most.

why not give him the same energy?

you cross your arms with a sigh, turning your back to him with a shake of your head.

"damn, guess you don't want that kiss then."

the somber laced in your voice is pure mock, but it didn't stop the small grin threatening your facade.

in one...two-

"..alright, so uh- how much am i supposed to take again?"

bingo.

-

yeah, it wasn't too hard to get him to take his medicine after that.

he complained about the taste for about three minutes before he shut up and you dragged his ass to bed. luckily for you, he wasn't straining for an all nighter, either.

the window beside your bed is half-open, the blinds uneven where a few slits tilt just enough to let the outside in. dusky blues seep through the gaps, soft and endless, pooling onto the floor, stretching over the sheets. the night air lingers, cool against your skin, but your gaze is still fixed on him.

ronin, caught between light and shadow, the city’s breath painting him in something just shy of divine. the angles of his face softened beneath the faint glow, his lashes resting like brush strokes against his skin.

he's breathing well tonight. it's clear, not too stuffy, and his lashes lay still, undisturbed. no flutters, not even a scrunch in his nose as he tries to get comfortable.

you reach out, running a few fingers over his brow, smoothing over the faint crease that lingers there even in rest.

and your index finger falls over the bump of his nose, giving it a small boop yourself.

his lids twitch a little, once, twice, before he turns himself into the pillow beneath him, arms snaking up and around it with a low grumble.

you scoff, slowly lifting off the bed and sliding some shoes on quietly, taking light steps across the carpet and pulling an arm through one sleeve of your jacket, the other following suit as you grip your doorknob.

you turn it, trying your best not to have the door creak or the knob snap back into place, and just as you get a foot out the door-

"not even a kiss goodnight? rude."

his voice is honeyed with sleep, thick and drowsy, like he’s barely clinging to consciousness, and it's enough to have your pulse quicken.

you freeze, hands shoved in your pockets, already preparing your death glare, but you turn your head over to him, and...

he hasn't moved much, still sprawled where you left him, but one black eye's cracked open lazily, dark and luster-less in the dim light.

his head tilts slightly in your direction, cheek half-buried against the pillow, the deep red of his hair spilling shaggy and unkempt over the stark white fabric.

you chew the lining of your cheek, angling your arm against the doorway with a limpness that says 'fine, you caught me.'

"i was about to go and feed your babies back home, but i s'pose pepperoni and blackjack can wait since their father's so important."

he smirks, tongue licking over the dryness of his lips, before he raises his chin.

"you think i forgot?"

now, you pause at that. you stop the drumming of your fingers over the edge of the door, and your brow creases up.

"...forgot what?"

"my kiss, darlin'."

silence, then a scoff, and you push off the frame, crossing your arms with a wry smile.

"you're sick, ro-"

"and?"

you squint right back at him.

"fuck you mean 'and?' you think i'm trying to get sick?"

he leans onto an elbow, pushing his head up with a shit eating grin.

"c'mon, you've been sick since the day you tiptoed your way to purgatory. since you've kissed the devil, and now you're scared of contracting somethin'?"

your lips part. to retort, to deny, but you could only mutter something sly under your breath as you stomped back to his bedside.

you eye them over, and they're not so pale anymore- maybe a little bludgeoned, pink 'n pretty with the stain of crimson seeping between the light cracks softening on his skin.

your fingers hover for half a second. hesitating. thinking, as if weighing out the risk and the reward.

then, with yet another roll of your eyes, you lean down, close enough for the warmth of his breath to meet yours.

"fine. one," you murmur. "but you better pray that pepper's not plotting on blackjack."

his lips meet yours, warm despite the uneven drag of cracked skin against your own. it’s slow- unrushed, lazy in a way that makes heat curl at the base of your spine. the roughness of his lips should be off-putting, the faint taste of medicine lingering between you, but it’s not.

it’s familiar.

it’s him.

he exhales through his nose, the sound melting into the quiet space between you as he tilts his head just enough to deepen it. his mouth parts slightly, teasing at the seam of yours, and for a moment, it’s softer than it has any right to be- like he’s waiting, like he’s letting you take what you've wanted so badly from him.

but then, just as quick, you pull away with a scoff, brushing the back of your hand over your mouth, and your fingers linger at your lips longer than they should.

"that all i get?" he murmurs, voice husked from sleep, from you.

you roll your eyes, striding towards the door and opening it with pep in your step.

"get some sleep, loverboy."

-

his greed sickens me 💔 anyway ill edit any mishaps or clunky words/phrases and italics/bolds and sectioning later it's like 1:41 AM over here

[inkysdelight]

It’s Ross time baby!! NSFW at the bottom as always- have fun and stay in your seats people!

Warnings- cult like behavior, ‘triditonal values’, kind of gaslighting/cohesion at the end. Reader isn’t a very good person- and will not be a good person when his first thing comes out later today.

Ross is one of the newer members of a small church (read, cult) within the mountains. He’s just an alcolyte, though he dreams one day to be one of the high priests.. serving his god in those locked rooms in the back of the compound..wearing the high priest’s robes..haah! it’s his only dream at this point!

.hes a bit colder to people, he likes children..he just wants to coo over his own babies instead of someone else’s. Though he loves taking care of the compound’s livestock, he promises it’s not weird! He just likes the outdoors! And who could say the horses and cows aren’t just a little bit adorable?! (He’s a horse girl at heart.)

.he dosnt talk to his parents anymore. They tried to strange an intervention when he first was getting inniated to the church. He misses them a bit but he loves his place in the church more than them. It’s cruel but it’s true, and besides! Everyone lives such happy lives! He envies the wives the most

..The wives are submissive to their husbands and rule the home- why wouldnt he want to get married? Have a ton of babies with his husband and rule his household! He is a little sad he can’t show off his babies to his family one day.. but The church has rules anout talking to uninitiated family- so he shouldn’t feel bad!

he’s just doing what the true god told him to! Abandoning the non-believers to their fate of hellfire and torture for all eternity, repopulating the earth with good heathy church babies and serving his community! (He still does feel bad sometimes. He wishes he could have borough his little sister to the church with him.)

.but all that stops when he meets you! One of the Prophets! You’re higher in the church then the high priests- considered to be one of the few chosen to carry out the true god’s will!

.You met him one day when he was out tending to the farm with the other acolytes. With his cute red hair and adorably short uniform that showed off his perfect thighs. How could he not catch your eye?!

It was pathetically easy to convince his superiors to assign him to your service, just the simple request- ‘assign him to one of my aids’ and he was yours. Not fully- not yet. That part would take some time. But for now..he was yours.

(There will be more once I put out the first thing of his- I don’t want to spoil EVERYTHING. This is just pretty good for the basic intro so people have background knowledge on him..)

-NSFW BEYOND, be warned.

It’s quite a while untill you’re able to get him into your bed. High priests need to be clean after all! But eventually you convince him that it’s not firstly if you sleep with one of the tire god’s chosen! Don’t be crazy! Now get in the bed.

Again, he’s a virgin. He joined the church quite young- found out about it at 16, ran away to join it at 17. He went though public school- he knows the bare minimum of what happens. Dick goes in hole, movement, groaning, and BAM. Pregnancy and baby ensue. Teach him the fun parts about sex- once he gets over himself of staying pure to become a high priest…He’s all over you 25/8.

It’s like he’s in heat- on the counter? Sure yes of course, let him close the blinds first. In your rooms? YES GOD PLEASE YES! He’s on your bed in seconds- all but ripping his uniform off and spreading his legs. On the altar? He’s a little more apprehensive about that one- but you can convince him easily. You’re one of the true god’s prophets- you obviously know best! Again- once he kinds gets over himself he’s a moaning whore on the altar for you.

He’s a fan of getting ‘bred’ by you. Fold him in half and pound him untill he want breath he BEGS. His want to become a high priest and his want to get married and have a hundred babies wars with eachother all the time. But the thought of you breeding him? It makes him want to just quit being a high priest and become a little wife to you and a mother to your children.

Also, a very huge fan of cervix stuff. He knows most people can’t really hit it but if you can- god help you becuse he will be on your dick 24/7. He sees stars every time- it’s wonderful. And even if you can’t- just tell him about how you’ll reach it and violate his most protected space. He will fold (in half) SO FUCKING FAST. Nothing makes him squirt more or harder.

(Yes I KNOW it’s painful irl. And I KNOW it can’t really happen but like- it’s my funny fictional world. Get off my dick about it.)

And yes, he is a squirter. He looks so handsome while he does it to.. face all red, eyes rolled back into his head, mouth open as he pants for air. Call him handsome or pretty while it happens- it’ll last for much longer.

[theocddiaries]

[A few hours later, at Vanilla’s tea shop, Sonic is talking with Mighty at one of the tables. Shadow enters with the chicken in his arms. He nods in their direction and heads straight to the counter to speak with Vanilla.] Mighty: …Is that a chicken your partner is holding?? Sonic: Yeah, Knuckles has an egg from the fridge, and he wants to be a dad. Mighty: Ah. I see you all are still on-brand… Shadow: Vanilla, excuse me, has Knuckles been here already? Vanilla: No, sweetheart, I haven’t seen him today. Shadow: Good. Can you help me hide the chicken until— Knuckles [from the entrance]: Mighty! How are you?? [Shadow throws the chicken to Vanilla. She catches it and crouches behind the counter to hide. Knuckles enters, carrying the egg on top of a cushion.] Knuckles: Look, this is my kid, Knuckle-egg. Aren't they the cutest thing you've ever seen? Mighty: Gorgeous… Such a… perfectly oval shape. Knuckles: Takes after me. Look, there's their godfather. Shadow, come over, I have a feeling they're about to hatch. Shadow: Oh, wonderful… [approaches the table hesitantly]: You must be a nervous wreck, I assume? Knuckles: Yeah. I just hope everything goes well. I trust that it will. The little one will be strong like his father. Shadow: Why don’t you step outside for some air? It might help you calm down a bit. Knuckles: Oh, no way. I don’t want to miss a single second of the first most important moment of my child’s life. [carefully places the cushion on one of the tables and stares at the egg]: I won’t take my eyes off him. I brought eye drops so they don’t sting from not blinking. Shadow: Ah, such dedication. [looks at Sonic pleadingly] Sonic [shrugs, a bit lost]: Uh… Oh, right! Knuckles, you can’t let Knuckle-egg hatch like this! There's no vet present! Knuckles: You’re right! God, they haven't even been born yet, and I’m already being irresponsible! Sonic: Hurry, quick, there’s a vet in the building across the street! Knuckles: Oh, lucky stars! Don’t worry, Knuckle-egg, Daddy will be right back! [runs out] [Vanilla comes out from behind the counter, startling a customer. She apologizes and hands the chicken to Shadow.] Knuckles [from outside, returning]: Sonic, the vet across the street says if I’m not buying bread, I should get lost! What do we do?! [Shadow picks up the egg, cracks it, and places the top half on the chicken’s head like a hat.] Vanilla: Knuckles, hurry, it already hatched! Knuckles [stumbles back into the tea shop]: It hatched?! Knuckle-egg, come here! [picks it up in his arms and starts kissing it]: I love you even more than before I met you! [Everyone exchanges glances and sighs.] Knuckles [suddenly stops and looks at the chicken seriously]: Hey, don’t you all think they're a little too grown up?? Mighty: Well, you’re a thousand percent muscle, and you were in a womb once. Knuckles: Reasonable. Oh, Vanilla, take a picture of us. [hands her a camera] [Shadow sits next to Sonic while Vanilla takes several photos of Knuckles and Knuckle-egg and then shows them to him.] Shadow: Thank goodness. This is the last time I get involved in anything with your family. Sonic: I think what you did was really sweet. [pecks him on the cheek] Shadow: Hm… Knuckles: Hey, Shadow, I’m going to buy Knuckle-egg a harness. I’m scared they might take off flying and get lost. Mighty: Knuckles, chickens don’t— Shadow [interrupts]: I'd love to. But I’m exhausted from today’s excitement. You know who would love to go? Rouge. Go surprise her at home without warning. She’ll love it. Mighty: Ah, that's what Tails was talking about…

Previous

[iloveladybuglucy]

"It's About Time!"

accompanying mini story of my melee!Mark's power origins under the cut 😋

Mark Grayson was no stranger to anxiety. 

Countless times, he’d watched his local superhero father, Omni-Man, fight numerous enemies, face off against aliens, and even get pulled into various dimensions…but if he were being honest, none of those were quite as nerve-wracking to witness compared to how he currently felt. 

Mark stood in his high school’s gymnasium, the last place he wanted to be early on a Saturday morning. However, he felt he could make an exception this one time; after all, he was finally getting his black belt in taekwondo after years of intense training! 

He shifted uncomfortably, his dobok and bodan belt suddenly feeling heavy and tight on his body as stuffy, hot air seemed to settle around only him. Thirty feet in front of him sat a red brick, which rested on top of two cinder blocks: the intended target. His arms were placed straight at his side as he chewed on his lip, eyes occasionally sweeping over the crowd in search of something, or rather, someone.

Mark had completed what he considered the ‘easiest’ part of the entire test, which consisted of performing three randomized color belt forms, three rounds of sparring with three different people, and each designated color belt kick. In between himself and his ultimate goal stood two training instructors, each of whom held wooden boards that he was supposed to break. Mark silently watched as his fellow dojang brother next to him sailed into his board, two satisfying snaps of wood echoing throughout the gymnasium with each kick. He continued to observe as the other student approached his brick; their master was saying something to him, but Mark couldn’t hear from this distance. 

Knowing he was up next, Mark felt his chest tighten in anticipation. In an effort to distract himself, he let himself scan the crowd once again, attempting to locate his parents. 

Was Dad able to make it?

He thought, brown eyes bouncing from unfamiliar face to face. Finally he spotted Debbie, who flashed a bright, ever-supportive smile, waving animatedly at her son. Mark couldn’t help but chuckle, throwing up a quick peace sign as he took a deep breath. He wasn’t sure how, but Debbie always seemed to manage to calm his nerves. Mark shifted his gaze to Debbie’s left, right, then above…yup, just as he suspected. This would be the sixth belt ceremony Nolan missed, and his black belt graduation at that! 

Why do I get my hopes up? Of course he wasn’t gonna show. 

Mark suddenly frowned at himself, giving his head a little shake. 

No, you stop that! People’s lives come first, not some stupid ceremony! It’s not like this’ll be my last black belt graduation or whatever, I’ll-

“Bodan belt Grayson, get into your breaking stance!” 

His master’s voice barked, snapping Mark out of his anxiety-induced trance. He instantly raised his fists, widening his stance as he narrowed his eyes, fixating on the first board in front of him. 

“Yes sir!” 

On the master’s cue Mark lunged forward, allowing the familiar, freeing feeling of adrenaline take over his mind. Gracefully, he performed his first move, a jumping front kick, successfully snapping the wooden board in two. Not giving himself a chance to falter or second-guess, Mark instantly prepared himself to pull off the final strike: a flying side kick. After a running start, he effortlessly sailed into the final board, unable to hold back his glee as he heard the familiar crack as it broke in half. 

Upon reaching the brick, Mark and his master bowed to each other before positioning himself in front of it. 

“Breathe and count to three. Don’t hesitate, but remember to keep your proper stance so you don’t hurt yourself,” the master admonished, taking a kneel as he watched Mark carefully. 

The audience’s chatter and existence seemed to fade; all Mark could see was the long, skinny brick perched in front of him. After a couple of practice movements, the teenager drew in a deep breath, raising his right arm for the final time, every muscle coiling in anticipation. A guttural, focus-filled yell followed, echoing throughout the gymnasium. 

“KIIAAY!” 

Mark thrust his closed fist downward, not unlike he’d done countless times before. However, things felt…different this time. 

The brick didn’t just break, it shattered into little pieces. The cinder blocks underneath, which were supposed to remain intact, buckled and crumbled apart as if they were made of paper. A deafening crunch echoed through the room, followed by the stunned silence of the crowd; even the master sat slack-jawed. 

It wasn’t everyday that a 15-year-old was able to effortlessly shatter two layers of solid concrete with his bare hands. 

“It’s about time!” Mark mumbled softly to himself, a contagious grin creeping across his face as the crowd slowly began snapping out of their trance and cheered for the teenager. He bowed one last time to his master before returning to his previous spot on the mat, his dojang sister walking forward to begin her test. Mark turned towards the crowd once again and gave a thumbs up, beaming his chipped smile at his teary-eyed mother.

If only Dad could’ve seen that…wait, now I can go on missions and hang out with him more! 

Mark continued smirking to himself, imagining all the cool ways he was about to help Omni-Man keep the world a better, safer place with his awesome new powers.

~~~

my mark variant is super special to me bc i also used to do taekwondo when i was his age :') i miss it sometimes. it was nostalgic getting to go back through my black belt manual and look at all the forms, kicks, and oaths we had to learn.

anyways i heart melee!mark <3

[yayasvalveplay]

Megatron would definitely have a private breakdown in im an autobot about all the times he tried to kill Orion, Oppy finds him & tries to offer some comfort but Megatron just keeps arguing that he should have known, it's so obvious now, he still has all the same little quirks

& Oppy argues there's no way he'd be able to notice those during a battle & that he was grieving, if anything he should have remembered when he saw Megatron, no before that when he used to dig through the archives to find old war footage of Megs, which is when said bot interrupts him with a joke about how nothings changed about Orion not being able to keep his eyes off Meg's frame, & that Orion shouldn't blame himself because he was shadowplayed he wouldn't have any memories to recall even if his unchanging tastes lead him to falling in love all over again

Which is when Oppy is like 🥺👉👈 actually, i kinda had a ton of wet dreams that i now realise might have been memories i only recognised it was you in them after they showed us some examples of deception propaganda in the academy training, i was digging through the archive for jerk off material probably was too horny to notice how poorly doctored half of the primary sources i read were

We could make this more evil tho, why would the council go to the trouble of doing all that to Orion when they could have just made an example executing him or fake his murder by a warframe etc well they find out the first time they interface, Oppy has been implanted with a honeypot sleeper virus set to transfer & activate slave coding in them both

It's terrifying to suddenly no longer have control over their frames, at least they can communicate through their new spark bond

Someone goes to check up on them the next day only to find they've taken Drift's ship & are heading to a rendezvous with UM who makes some comment about how you can't edit the slut out of someone's base coding it seems

I love the first half of this.

The second part I'm not so sure about. I think they were way too confident in their shadow play to think Orion needed slave coding.

Ultra Magnus: "It's not like he'll ever be on the field."

Ultra magnus was going to make sure of that, weather that be courting Optimus himself,making him his secretary, or throwing him somewhere else where he'd never be able to see the war zone.

Archa 7 took those options and threw it out the window. But it still got him off the field never seeing a decepticon warship.

What do you mean you found the allspark and a decepticon warship is after you?

[retrowitchy]

haymitch takes everlark & co. (meaning the geese) to visit lenore dove's grave

ever wondered what it might look like if the mockingjay epilogue was extended just a little bit to include a whole random bit where haymitch takes two kids and nine geese into the woods by the lake to show them a bunch of dead people's graves? well wonder no more!!!

*✴︎+ take me to the lakes where all the poets went to die on ao3

It’s been about a year since we all came back to 12. In that year, I feel like I have grown old so much faster than I ever have before. It’s easy to remember some parts of it all, and hard to recall others. Peeta’s doctor says that’s how trauma works. Sometimes you forget, because remembering is just too hard. And sometimes, I don’t want to remember any of it.

Time has passed, but the three of us, Haymitch, Peeta and I, have settled into a routine with each other unlike anything we ever had before the second Quarter Quell. Honestly, it’s more out of necessity than anything- the nightmares are too hard for any of us to bear in an empty house. We tried living separately for a while, but it felt stupid, each of us alone while we all lived next door to each other. I insisted on staying with Haymitch almost immediately after they came back. I might have been too stubborn to admit the comfort I found in his company before, but it would be ridiculous to deny that now. He and I mean a lot to other. I guess we always have, or we have since this all started.

It took a little while, and a lot of convincing, but after he felt like the risk of hurting me was gone, Peeta moved in too. He was terrified that he’d relapse, have some shutdown that resulted in him strangling me again, but I didn’t care. I missed him more than almost anything. All the time I had spent, hiding in vents and crying to Haymitch and Gale and my mother and Prim when he was being held hostage in the Capitol, it shouldn’t be for nothing, I had said. I needed him to come home. And he did, eventually.

It’s good for us all. Peeta and I stay upstairs, and Haymitch is down the hall. Most mornings we eat together, something Peeta made and I hunted, and then we spend our days doing whatever we feel like. A couple months ago, we got Haymitch some goose eggs, so now he has something to do with his time instead of sitting around in the house all day. They’re rebuilding the Hob, too. And the Meadow is starting to grow back.

One day, when spring has started to seep into the ground, and gets to the point where you can smell it in the breeze, Peeta comes into the fireside room, where Haymitch is asleep clutching a bottle of his white liquor and I am busy working on a letter to Annie.

I don’t look up from my writing. “What, Peeta?”

He chuckles, and then comes to sit down, on the couch next to me.

“What are you working on?”

I don’t like my scratchy penmanship, especially compared to Peeta’s neat cursive, but I hand over the letter.

“I’m trying to be better about writing people. Annie asked us to send more, and you’re always the one who does them, so…” I trail off, getting mumbly and feeling kind of dumb. He’s looking it over.

“This is sweet, Katniss,” he says, scanning it with a little smile at the corner of his mouth. I snatch it back.

“Okay, time’s up. I don’t want you to read the whole thing,” I say, feeling my cheeks going pink. He laughs.

“Okay, okay. I won’t if you don’t want me to.”

I fold the paper in half and tuck it aside. I’ll finish it later.

“What did you come in here to say?” I ask, as I put away my pens.

“Does there really have to be a reason?” he asks.

“Yes. You never stand in the doorway like that unless you have something you’re trying to pitch to us,” I say, glancing at Haymitch, who is snoring slightly across the room.

“Not a pitch,” he says, smiling. “Just wanted to see if you guys were up for a picnic.”

Haymitch opens one eye lazily. Guess he wasn’t as dead to the world as I thought.

“And why would we do that when we’re having a perfectly enjoyable time right now?” he asks, not moving from his armchair. I look to Peeta.

“Because it’s nice out,” Peeta says calmly.

“Nice inside too,” counters Haymitch.

“The geese could get some exercise?” Peeta offers. Haymitch closes his eyes and lets out a ridiculous long grumble.

“Fine,” he says. “But I’m not contributing a damn thing. I’ll bring the kids and that’s it.”

“Katniss?” Peeta looks to me for confirmation I will go along with this plan.

“Sure,” I say. “Anything to get Haymitch out of that armchair.”

“You’re on thin ice, girl, you’d better watch out,” he says threateningly, as he stands up with a grunt and heads toward the kitchen with his bottle.

“Or what?” I call after him, getting no response, and rolling my eyes with a half smile. I kiss Peeta’s forehead quickly and stand up, clutching my letter. “I’ll get a basket.”

“Sounds good,” he says with a smile.

The basket is not for picnic food, which we both know. Whenever we take trips out to the Meadow, Peeta likes to collect some of the flowers and bring them back for the house. I like it too, because it means I can hunt for plant life that we might have missed for the nature book. It’s a rarer occurrence these days, since we’ve almost filled up the entire thing, but you never know.

I grab an empty basket from the top of the pantry, stopping only to pop a few tomatoes into my mouth, and then start digging around in the cabinets for the nature book. Usually, it stays upstairs with me and Peeta, because I like to look at it before going to sleep sometimes, but we were working on it in the kitchen yesterday and I am pretty sure it’s here.

“Hey, bring the memory book while you’re at it,” Haymitch says, making me jump. I turn around, getting hair stuck in my mouth, and spit it out.

“Why?” I ask.

“Because. Never know when you’ll come across a good piece of information for that thing,” he says, vaguely. He’s acting kind of weird and I’m trying to place why, but I’m coming up short. I don’t think I said anything to really set him off this morning. Whatever, I think.

“Okay.” I grab the journal from its place on the kitchen bookshelf, and the nature book is right next to it, so I grab that too, and stick them both in my basket.

After helping Peeta pack some food, we head out.

There’s a few spots we gravitate to in the Meadow, but Haymitch has the geese, so we let him take the lead. It’s amazing how attached he’s gotten to them in the last couple of months- and even more amazing how attached they’ve gotten to him. Once, when it was snowing, I caught him nursing one of them in his arms by the fire inside. He got pretty angry with me, growling curses and insults, but I could tell he was trying not to disturb the gosling because he kept his volume low. I know the geese are important to him not just because he secretly has a heart, but also because of his old girlfriend, somebody Snow killed after his Games.

When he told me and Peeta about Lenore Dove, it was a surprise. We hadn’t been working on the book at all. It was a late night in November, and we were all trying to figure out the central heating system in the house- something I maintain is a ridiculous luxury, although nice- and then when we had all found the switch that controls it, he said, “I never actually told you about her, did I?”.

“Who, Haymitch?” Peeta had asked, while fiddling with the switch.

“My girl.”

Haymitch had mentioned her to me once before, in 13, but Peeta had never even heard of her until then. He told us about her, how she belonged to a people called the Covey, who didn’t even exist in 12 by the time Peeta and I were kids. After he won his Games, defying the Capitol in every possible way he could while doing so, Snow had her and his family murdered. Apparently, she used to herd geese. That’s why we got him the eggs.

The goslings huddle and quack around Haymitch like he’s their mother or something. It always makes Peeta laugh, and he points at one of them that keeps falling behind and trying to catch up, and then hitting Haymitch’s boot when it does.

“Poor guy,” Peeta says, as the baby hits his foot again, and Haymitch shakes his leg slightly to ward him off.

“They need to learn to make friends with each other, not with him,” I say. The geese are desperate for Haymitch’s attention.

“Or we could set them up with Buttercup,” Peeta suggests jokingly.

“Yeah. And he’d eat them all,” I respond. I am not kidding. More than once, I have caught him trying to sneak inside their pen.

“He’s gotten more friendly with them, though, right?” Peeta protests, grinning at my stubborn refusal to say anything nice about that cat.

“Maybe. So he can trick them into trusting him,” I say. He laughs at me, and despite myself, I crack a smile, swinging the basket as we walk.

We reach the edge of our usual tree, but Haymitch isn’t stopping.

“Are we going to the lake?” I call to him.

“Something like that,” he replies, not bothering to turn around. I didn’t know he knew about the lake, but there’s a lot I’m finding out about Haymitch that I didn’t know.

But we don’t stop at the lake- we follow him around it, to the bank across the way. I can tell Peeta needs a breather- his prosthetic leg doesn’t do great with long distances.

“Haymitch, we have to stop a minute,” I tell him, signaling to Peeta to stop.

“Almost there,” is all he says in response, and that gets an eye roll from me.

“I’m fine, Katniss, it’s okay,” says Peeta.

“No, you’re not, you have to rest,” I say, and it comes out slightly more forcefully than I meant it. I clear my throat. “Sorry. I just mean I don’t want your leg acting up. Haymitch, seriously-”

But Haymitch is already leading his gaggle of geese into the humid patch of mossy wood next to the bank.

“Fine,” I yell to him, since he’s a pretty good distance away already. “We’re staying here!”

“Fine!” he yells back, and disappears into the woods. Good riddance.

“Sit, Peeta,” I say, and crouch down along the muddy bank next to him. We rest, letting our boots squelch in the sticky mud around our feet and trailing our fingers through it absentmindedly. Peeta is proud when he finds some katniss root, and I rinse it off and put it in our collecting basket.

When I stand, there something white and flowering at the edge of the trees that catches my eye.

“Stay here a minute,” I tell Peeta. “I’m just collecting something for the book.”

“Okay,” he agrees, because he’s happy digging for katniss, and even though Peeta alone in the woods makes me anxious, I don’t feel too bad leaving him for a second here.

I stomp through the muddy grass to where the tree line starts and am disappointed to find that the white flower is just a clematis vine- something we definitely already have in the nature book. I squat down next to it to pick off some of the blossoms for Peeta, when I hear the honking of the geese not too far away.

“Haymitch?” I call, but there’s no response except the continued honking. I glance back at Peeta on the bank, but he’s okay, so I decide to find Haymitch.

Curious, I wander through the forest, following a trail that is marked out only by the muddy boot indents in the grass he made minutes ago, and otherwise untouched. It doesn’t take me very far to reach a clearing, surrounded by tall water birch trees and shaded so well I know they must have grown here hundreds of years ago. In the center of the clearing, there is a small graveyard.

Haymitch sits on a boulder a respectful distance away from the graves, surrounded by his geese, and just looks up mildly.

“Followed my footprints, did you?” he asks, but there’s not as much snark dripping from that sentence as there normally might be.

“What is this place?” I ask, trying to process how serene he looks with nine white birds nested and clucking around him peacefully.

“Covey graveyard,” is all he says.

Covey graveyard. This is something I did not expect. I look closer at the headstones and see that they are all engraved.

“Go ahead,” he says, gesturing, inviting me to investigate. Obediently, I go over to the different stones and start to read. As I take in each one, I am quickly picking up that they all reference a different song, and the rock is as close a color match as possible to the name of the Covey member buried there. Some seem like they were erected in the last 50 years, and others feel like they might have been here for centuries, so grown over with moss you can barely read them.

“You’re related to them, you know,” Haymitch comments from his boulder. I quickly turn to him.

“What?” I ask.

“Yeah,” he chuckles. “Your dad. He was a distant relative, so you got Covey in your blood. Figures how you got those pipes.”

This is something I have never considered before in my life. My father, related to the Covey? Meaning that I too, am connected to this legacy. I stare at him, gaping.

“I always wondered how she could sing like that.”

Haymitch and I both start, and Peeta is standing at the opening of the clearing, looking a little apologetic.

“Sorry,” he says, both in reference to startling us and the fact that I told him to stay. “Haymitch, is Lenore Dove buried here?”

Why didn’t I think of this? I am an idiot. Of course this is why we are here. Haymitch just nods his head to a stone by my foot.

“Read that one,” he says. Peeta comes over to me and crouches down in front of the stone, examining it.

“’But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token, and the only word there spoken was the whispered word, ‘Lenore?’ This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, “Lenore!” Merely this and nothing more’,” he reads, solemnly and slowly and much better than I could have.

There’s a silence in the breeze, and for a moment, it feels like the forest has stopped moving, the world has stopped working, in respect for Lenore Dove and her lyrical epitaph. I look over and I see Haymitch, absentmindedly stroking the head of one of the geese with a faint smile on his face and watching Peeta with a vaguely misty expression.

“Is this why you wanted us to come here?” I ask. “To visit her grave?”

“I just thought you…might like to meet her. Or…see this place, I guess,” he says, his voice gruff. “It’s sorta your birthright, in a way.”

“Katniss.” Peeta’s voice is soft and quiet at my feet. “The book.”

Realizing quickly what he’s saying, I push the basket towards him with my foot, and he pulls out our memory book, flipping to a blank page.

“Do you know anyone else buried here?” I ask Haymitch, wondering just how many of the Covey he could have hung around.

“Nah,” he says. “Well, technically, yes. Tam Amber, that yellowish stone in the back corner there, he was one of Lenore Dove’s uncles. Not by blood, but he raised her. Along with Clerk Carmine, who you saw playing at Finnick and Annie’s wedding.”

“Wait, there are Covey still alive?” This is shocking to me. And I know that fiddle player, even from before 13. I used to see him inside the Hob, playing while I traded my hunting loot on the weekends.

“Just him. He’s the last one,” Haymitch amends. I can hear the scratching of charcoal that I know to mean Peeta is marking out a sketch. I understand now why Haymitch asked me to bring the book. “He lives in the rebuilt part of town, now, actually. Him and I don’t exactly get along on the best of terms, but he is here.”

I do not know what to do with any of this information but let it settle in my brain and watch Peeta’s pencil move across the page. Suddenly, I have an idea.

I kneel down next to Peeta and the basket, and I pull out the clematis I picked earlier. Glancing at Haymitch to make sure I’m not crossing some kind of invisible boundary, I slowly set down the blossoms in front of Lenore Dove’s grave. Peeta, head down and focused on his sketch, nods his approval.

I look up to Haymitch, and he nods too, and I think there might be tears in his eyes, but I can’t completely tell.

“Is that okay?” I ask, worried for a split second.

“Yeah,” he says hoarsely. “She would have liked that. She used to grow those flowers up the side of her window.”

I swallow.

“Good.”

“Thanks, sweetheart,” he says.

[5minutefanfiction]

Happy Birthday, Mr Winchester

Hello My Lovelies,

You can find my Masterlist here

Regards, Bec Xxx

Happy Birthday, Mr Winchester.

Authors Note: Well, I can’t say I’m back. But I can say I’m around in between work and getting my second post graduate degree. I miss writing, probably more than I like to admit. So I thought I would jump back in, finish off a few half-finished pieces and try to get my mojo back. Enjoy x

WORD COUNT: 5,400

The knock echoed through the bunker. Dean didn’t have to even think twice about who was there. It was January 23rd, there was only one person it would be. The same person who would stay until January 25th before leaving again. He ran up the stairs, taking them two at a time.

‘I keep telling you, don’t knock!’ he chastised as he threw the door open.

She lifted her eyes from her feet as she grinned at him, ‘I know you well enough to know I have no idea what I’m walking into. Knocking is your chance to rearrange yourself and anyone else.’

‘There’s never anyone else this time of year,’ he grinned, pulling her in for a hug.

‘Happy Birthday, Sweetie,’ she smiled, holding him close.

‘It’s not my birthday yet.’

‘It can be, given I seem to be seeing you less and less. I’m thinking we make up for the lost time and lost drinking, and get this party underway,’ she chuckled, holding up a shopping bag of food and whisky.

Dean smiled as she moved past him into the bunker. Less of her, she wasn’t wrong there and it was killing him. The stupid boyfriend and his stupid claim over her. He bit his lip to keep it from trembling as she brushed against him softly. He watched as she walked down the stairs, taking in every part of her. The worst mistake he ever made was letting her go. The stress of the hunt, the threats to her life, the near miss. It all got too much. The fights only grew worse and that night it had all exploded. Both their lives going to crap as they agreed to go their separate ways a little over two years ago.

Christmas had come that year, and Dean was in a dark place. He hadn’t heard from Y/N in months. And his life was worse now than it had ever been. The two had never spent holidays apart or their birthdays. Not since they were born. If it wasn’t her parents organising something it was his. She’d come back to him that day, showing up just after lunch, not as his girl. But as a friend. That was his worst Christmas to date. As she showed up again for his birthday, then Valentine’s Day and Easter, he felt a flicker of hope. They messaged or called in between but both were careful not to cross that line. Not yet. Dean knew why, he had instigated it. Used it as a way to prove to her that there was still something there. Something beyond the physical that had once seemed to drive their relationship. It had been hard, both coming so close to crossing it. Not just from the desire of the other, but through honest frustration. The two matching each other’s high sex drives perfectly. A year without sex was killing the both of them.

Then 12 months ago, she’d shown up for Thanksgiving. Dean had made his moved, told her he wanted her back. He apologised for being a douche, and she broke his heart. She’d recently started seeing someone else. Another hunter. They had been hooking up since September after a rather nasty hunt and decided to try the whole relationship thing. Dean was pissed. More at himself for not winning her back sooner and for letting her stay away so long.

Since then, her calls had become further apart. Their text conversations shorter. The only constant thing in their relationship was the guarantee she’d be here each and every holiday and their birthdays there was time with just them, and Sam, if he was around. But he relished it. It gave him a few days each year to pretend life was normal again. That she was home.

He sighed as he followed her down the stairs. Sam had asked him once when they were teens if he believed in soul mates. It was a night Dean remembered so clearly, they were sitting around a bonfire at Bobby’s, and he watched as Y/N laughed as something John had said. Dean had smiled, “I believe in her.” Ten years on, despite the pain, he still felt the same way. All he needed was her to dump Lawson and come back to him.

*

He downed the rest of his glass, staring at the empty space across from him. It had been almost three weeks since she left. And tomorrow was Valentine’s Day, she wasn’t coming this year. She’d messaged a week ago, Lawson had made plans. Dean had been polite as he could as he replied. Drinking himself into oblivion afterwards. The douche got her every other time of the year. He had hundreds of days to organise something. Hundreds of days to spend with her. Dean got so few. And he just lost another.

His phone rang, glancing at the screen as he answered.

‘Jodie, how’s things?’

‘Not as good as I’d like. I’m sorry to be the one to call. But I figured it was better coming from me than someone else.’

He sat up, suddenly alert and sober.

‘I’m at Stanford Health, Sioux Falls. Y/N was admitted last night.’

His chest grew tight, as someone knocked the air from him.

‘She’s ok, I guess. Battered and bruised but she’s alive.’

‘Wha-…what …’

‘I don’t know for sure what happened, but Lawson’s nowhere to be found. And I’m thinking, if it was a hunt gone wrong, she would have said. You know got someone in to take over.’

‘Yeah,’ Dean croaked, before clearing his throat. ‘She wouldn’t have left anything out there.’

‘Which leads me to think it’s D.V. I’m sorry, Dean. I’ve got a A.P.O out on him and Bobby’s put word out. But until she talks we can’t do anything.’

‘She conscious?’

‘Yeah, and will talk about everything but what happened.’

Dean drove dangerously fast across the country, refusing to leave her in that hospital longer than she needed to be. She was coming home with him. He could get answers later. But right now, he just needed to know she was safe. And that he was there to stop anything else, anyone else, getting close.

He met Jodie in the foyer, barely stopping long enough to greet her as she explained what room Y/N was in.

‘She drove herself here,’ Jodie said quietly. ‘Her place is trashed. There’s semi packed bags, but I don’t know if she was leaving or returning. But there’s a lot of blood. Based on the injuries and what I’ve seen, I’d say she was attacked from behind. The blow to her head would have caused issues with her trying to fight back.’

‘How big of an issue?’ he whispered as he moved outside her room. He watched her through the glass. Her normally glowing skin now black, blue and yellow. Her hair matted and oily. Her cheek and eye swollen. Her arm was in a splint and rested on a pillow. Christ, she came out of hunts in better condition than she was now. Bobby fussed about her and the room, an action that would normally cause her to groan and roll her eyes. Now seemed to do nothing as she zoned out and paid little attention to the man that had taken her in when she was 11.

‘She put up her fight.’

Dean nodded, ‘Sam’s running an EMF over it. Checking for stuff,’ he whispered.

Jodie nodded, squeezing his shoulder as she headed back towards the nurse’s station.

He stepped into the room, Y/N’s eyes flicking to him as tears filled them. She looked away quickly, focusing on life outside her window. Bobby said something quietly in her ear and excused himself, leaving the two alone.

‘Tell me it’s not as bad as it looks?’ Dean whispered, moving closer. His fingers trailed her temple and jaw as he took in just how bad it was.

‘Then I’d be lying.’

He tensed, hoping that he’d heard wrong. But the look on her face said otherwise.

‘What happened?’

‘Don’t want to talk about it.’

‘Was it a hunt? We need to know, Sweetheart. You know that.’

‘If it was a hunt and someone needed to finish it I would have said.’

‘So, it wasn’t a hunt?’

‘Not discussing it.’

‘Y/N?’ he pleaded. ‘Give me something? Anything? What about Laws-.’

‘He’s not in the picture anymore.’

‘Did he do this?’

‘He’s not in the picture. And that’s all you need to know. Please, Dean,’ she whispered, finely pulling her eyes from the window to look at him once more. ‘Don’t push.’ Tears rolled down her cheeks as he nodded. Whatever it took. There was a look in her eyes he’d never seen before. A look he couldn’t decode. In their entire lives, that had never happened before, not once. She was an open book to him and this, right now, only made it worse.

He kissed her temple as he stood up, ‘I’m guessing you want out of here?’

She nodded quickly, a ghost of a smile playing on her lips. She obviously wasn’t facing life threatening injuries.

‘I’ll go see what I can do. Under the condition that you come back with us.’

‘I don’t want to be anywhere else.’

Dean nodded, pride and warmth filling him. He was still her hero. And that was something. Hopefully it would be enough.

She’d been at the bunker for two weeks, not that the boys would know, they never saw her. She’d locked herself in her room and refused to come out unless she had to. When she did, they did everything in their power to talk to her. To try to convince her to stay and watch a movie, help them research, do something, anything that involved bringing some form of life back into her eyes.

‘Do you think he’s dead?’ Sam asked quietly as she walked back towards her room once more.

‘Not sure. Possibly. But surely, she would have said, she knows Jodie’s looking for him.’

‘Taken?’

‘She would have sent everyone looking. She may not have loved him, but she cared.’

‘Dean,’ Sam said gently. ‘If she didn’t love him, why’s she acting like this?’

‘Trust me, she doesn’t. I know Y/N, better than I know myself. She doesn’t love him, never did. If she did, I’d know.’

Sam nodded as he gave Dean a tight smile, before focusing back on the book in front of him.

‘There’s no way,’ Dean whispered, staring at the doorway.

He followed her, standing in the doorway of her room as he watched her read something on her phone.

‘Wanna go to the bar?’

She shook her head.

‘Since when do you turn down the bar?’ he chuckled, crossing the room to climb into the bed next to her.

‘Since I’m not exactly up for going.’

Dean sighed, brushing the hair from her face. ‘You can barely see it now.’

‘It’s not the bruises, Dean. I’m just not up for it. Drinking, hunting. I just need some time off.’

‘Oh God, this wasn’t some drunken hunt thing, was it?’

She shrugged, shutting her phone down and placing it on her cabinet, ‘It is what it is, Winchester. If you want to go out, go. Don’t let me stop you,’ she sighed, standing up.

‘The whole point was spending time with you. Trying to make you feel better. You’re home, Y/N. Finally, after years, you’re back. I just…I want things to be ok. I want you to be ok.’

‘I will be,’ she smiled sadly. ‘I’ve been gone a while, Dean. I’m different. We all are. And it may never be like it was. I’m going to shower.’

Dean sighed, watching her leave. She was right, he knew that. But it wasn’t going to stop him from trying. He picked up her phone, knowing she’d kill him if she found him snooping. But he didn’t care. She was scaring him. And he wanted answers. He frowned at the lock screen, fingerprint ID needed. Not once, had she ever felt the need to hide her life from them. From him. Christ, this was the girl who left her diary out. Not caring if they read it. She had nothing to hide. Until now.

She came back in a short while later, blinking at him as he sat there with her phone in his hands.

‘Since when do you need to lock it?’

‘Since my housemates can’t mind their own business.’

Dean sighed, putting it back on the cabinet. He didn’t want a fight.

‘Your housemates are worried. Just answer me one questions. Is he alive?’

‘Last I heard.’

‘Did he do this?’

‘You said one,’ she hissed.

‘Fine, make it two!’ he snapped. ‘Do I need to hunt the bastard down?’ In the dull light of her room, something seemed to flicker in her eyes. At least he thought it did, but no sooner had it appeared it disappeared again. Leaving no proof of its existence behind. Leaving Dean wondering if he imagined it.

Sam cleared his throat behind them, causing the two of them to stop glaring at each other.

‘Sorry, but we have a hunt. A wendigo,’ he offered, looking hopeful at Y/N. She was their tracker. The one who could track anything.

She shook her head, ‘I’m not up for a hunt.’

‘You don’t seem up for much of anything,’ Dean muttered. He knew how much she loved their job. How much she relied on the hunt to deal with her emotions.

‘If I go, I’ll end up in a fight. We both know that. And as much as I want to, my ribs still aren’t healed. I can’t,’ she commented through gritted teeth.

Dean stared at her for a few minutes before he nodded, not pushing the argument any further. He went to leave to pack when he saw the look on Sam’s face and stopped. Watching the confusion for a few moments before slowly turning back to Y/N.

‘You didn’t crack your ribs,’ Dean frowned, realisation about Sam’s confusion taking over.

She paled slightly, before recovering quickly. ‘I never said I did. I said they weren’t healed. I’m still bruised. Still sore.’

‘Bullshit,’ Dean snapped, seeing through the lie. ‘What the hell is going on?!’

Her lip quivered slightly before she regained control once more, ‘That’s my business!’

‘Not anymore! Start talking!’

‘I can’t trust that if I go, you won’t keep hounding me for information that I’m not going to share,’ she snapped. ‘The idea of being locked in a car with you two, or stuck in the middle of nowhere with nothing but time to talk horrifies me.’

Dean glared at her, he would never put her in that sort of position. Never force her to tell him before she was ready. Damn it, yes, he’d approach it. Ask. But he’d never force it.

‘Now leave, before I do,’ she threatened, gesturing to the door. ‘And if I go, I ain’t coming back.’

He grew desperate, torn between needing answers and needing her stay. The two glared at each other, it wasn’t until Sam took hold of his elbow that he stepped back. Doing what was needed to keep her here.

The boys drove in silence, neither had spoken since Y/N’s room, other than Sam giving Dean the location.

‘He’s alive,’ Dean admitted, quietly.

‘Do you think he did it?’

Dean sighed, ‘I don’t know. The Y/N I know, wouldn’t let him get away with that. If anyone hit her, they’d only be doing it once.’

‘Yeah, that was my thoughts. I’m thinking, maybe they split and she went on a hunt out of anger and got herself hurt.’

‘That’s was my first thought. And if she planned on it, she knew she’d get hurt, which was why she cancelled coming to see us. I’m guessing, she knew it would end badly, she just didn’t expect hospital bad.’

‘It wasn’t even that bad though, she’s gone back to the motel with worse,’ Sam pointed out. ‘And given her hatred for hospitals, why then?’

‘The head injury. She was concussed.’

Sam nodded, shifting in his seat, ‘We’re still missing something,’ he mumbled.

‘Like why she was that upset about their break up?’

‘Exactly. Dean, when you two split…Christ, she was bad then but never like that. And she fights better when she’s pissed. She focuses on the fight to avoid her emotions.’

‘I know,’ he admitted quietly.

The next week and a half was spent hunting the Wendigo and killing it. Dean couldn’t decide if the time away from her was good or not. It gave him time to think. Not that it gave him any answers. But it allowed him to calm down. Sort of anyway. He messaged her when he could, making sure she was ok. He was relieved that she had calmed down enough to reply. She even apologised. That in itself was odd.

He sat on his bed listening as the phone rang.

‘Hey,’ she said quietly as she answered.

‘You ok?’ he frowned, listening to the slight catching of her voice.

‘Yeah, I just found some chicken thing in the freezer and had it for dinner…’

‘Christ, Y/N. I don’t remember the last time we had chicken.’

‘I gathered that from the taste. You’re down a container by the way. The whole thing went in the bin. The autopsy report I’m looking at for Larry, looks more appealing.’

He chuckled, it was the most like her old self she had sounded since Jodie’s call.

‘I need to ask you something, Sweetheart,’ Dean admitted, hesitating slightly. He didn’t want to ruin her mood, or have another fight but it had been bugging him.

He heard her take a breath. Listening as she braced herself for what was coming.

‘You know I love you. Always have. And no matter what, I’d be there for you. If you were in trouble, if a hunt went wrong or whatever it was, I’d be there.’

‘I know,’ she whispered.

‘Did you get bit? Turned? Or something? Was the attack some kind of hunt gone wrong? I know you’ve dealt with it. With whatever it was. But since then, you’ve not been yourself.’

‘Dean, if that had happened I would never have gone to the hospital. I would have called you, said my peace, said everything I should have said years ago and a million times since and ended it. I wouldn’t risk another person.’

He nodded, clearing his throat as tears welled in his eyes, ‘I would have stopped you.’

‘I wouldn’t have expected anything less,’ she breathed. The tears creeping their way into her voice. ‘I’ll explain what happened. I promise. Just not now. Not over the phone. I just need some time. But when I’m ready, I will.’

‘Just promise me, you’re not in any kind of trouble or danger?’

‘I promise. I need to go, I have to call Larry.’

He said his goodbyes and went to hang up when he heard her call his name.

‘Yeah?’

‘Thank you.’

‘What for?’

‘For being you, for all you’ve done. For all I know you will do.’

Dean frowned as the call disconnected. His hand eventually falling from his ear and into his lap as he stared at the phone. A sense of dread filled his veins. The call had done nothing to settle his nerves. Nothing to settle him. The only difference was, she seemed better. Happier. More herself.

He sat at the bar with Sam, staring at the beer in his hands. Both men still trying to figure out what she meant.

‘Maybe there was more to it, maybe she was bit but thinks she has time. Werewolf or something. Maybe she’s not even sure if she’d turn and is just preparing herself for the worst.’

‘Maybe she should just bloody say,’ Dean grumbled.

Sam chuckled, as he shook his head. ‘She’s never needed to in the past. Christ, Dean, it was always like you had transcripts of her thoughts constantly playing through your head.’

‘Hasn’t been that way for a while,’ Dean admitted sadly.

‘Winchesters,’ the deep voice broke through the noise of the crowd causing them to look up.

‘Larry, Ed,’ Dean nodded, gesturing to the seat.

The men sat, making small talk. Discussing latest hunts. No one seemed in the mood to talk. Dean listened as Larry described the victim of a ghoul.

‘That the case you’re on now?’

Larry shook his head, ‘No case at the moment.’

Dean frowned, ‘I thought…Y/N said she was helping you?’

‘Last week,’ Ed grumbled. ‘If you can call that helping. She’s not been the same this past month. Sure, she picked it. But she was annoyed we asked for her opinion.’

Dean frowned, as Larry shot Ed daggers.

‘What do you expect. I told you we shouldn’t have called her. Not with everything that happened.’

Both Winchesters, shifted in their chairs, suddenly interested in their friend’s company.

‘What do you know?’ Dean asked icily. ‘And I advise you don’t hold back any information.’

*

Dean stood in the shadows of the hall, watching her silently as she read something on her laptop. He was still seething that he hadn’t been told. That she thought she could hide this. That the whole world knew the truth and he was left in the dark. Him. Her best friend. The one she told everything to. The one she turned to. He stepped into the door frame, prepared to take the gentle but firm approach. Her time was up. He wanted to hear it from her. Then he would deal with it. Deal with Lawson. Sam was already on the hunt.  

‘Why didn’t you tell me?! Is this why you broke up?! God, Y/N, tell me he didn’t put you in hospital because you’re pregnant?! Did he hurt your kid?!’ he blurted, the approach nothing like he planned. Nothing like he rehearsed.

The blood drained from her face as she lifted her eyes to meet his. Her whole body shook but she refused to answer. He wasn’t sure if it was because she couldn’t or because she didn’t want to.  

‘Y/N?’

She shook her head slightly, ‘I can’t…Not now. Don’t ask me about it now.’

‘Don’t ask you about it now? When, Y/N? When some hunter in a bar tells me you’ve delivered?’

Her jaw dropped as she continued to shake her head. Her hands brushing tears from her face.

‘Do you know what it’s like finding something like that out from someone else?’ he yelled. ‘It should have come from you.’

Her tears fell heavier as her whole body shuddered. Dean sighed, grabbing the tissue box from the desk and handing it to her before sitting down at the bottom of her mattress.

‘I’m sorry. I just thought…We tell each other everything. At least, I thought we did.’

‘Dean,’ she pleaded. ‘Leave. Please.’

‘Is the baby ok?’

She hesitated, and in that moment, he saw more truth than he had for a while.

‘You’re not thinking of…Y/N?’ he whispered.

‘It’s complicated,’ she sobbed. ‘I can’t… I don’t…’

‘Sweetheart, you’re not alone. I can help. But you need to talk to me. You should have talked to me!’ he growled. ‘To Sammy even! Christ, Y/N this whole time. You need stuff. Vitamins, support, special foods. Its dad might not be around but we are. The bunker needs baby proofing, but we’ll do it. Bobby’s going to need time to clean up his place.’

She shook her head as she buried it in her hands, ‘Stop,’ she sobbed.

‘We’re here, Y/N, and we’ll help. The whole way, I swear. You’re not alone. You’ve never been alone.’

‘Dean,’ she pleaded once more, lifting her tear stained face to meet his. ‘Please.’

‘Can you tell me how far?’ he argued. Fighting every urge he had to scream at her. He still struggled to believe she’d kept this hidden. That he hadn’t noticed. That said, he’d barely seen her. It explained so much about her time since coming home. Her reason for avoiding them, alcohol and the hunt. He hated himself for not realising earlier.

‘If I do will you leave?’

Dean sighed, nodding sadly. It was something at least. And a start. The rest, he hoped, would come.

‘9 weeks.’

He nodded, standing up. He gently kissed the top of her head.

‘You won’t be doing this alone, Y/N. We’ve got your back. Always have.’

Dean lay in bed, letting his music play softly in his ears. Letting his thoughts wander. Thinking. Imagining what it would be like to have a baby around. A small smile played on his lips. Sure, he’d never wanted kids. But he had to admit, a part of him was excited about the prospect of Y/N’s kid filling these halls with giggles. He’d keep them safe, no matter what. There was no way her ex coming anywhere near them. Not after what he did. Blood or not, he wasn’t even going to be informed of when the baby came or the details. Dean would see to that. And once he found the bastard, he’d kill him. For what he did to her. For what he did to his own kid. What kind of father beats his child’s mother?

His mind wandered to Y/N as he struggled to contain his anger. She’d need things. The baby will need things. Clothes, prams, car seats, toys…the list went on. Nine weeks, that meant 31 weeks till it’s here.

Flashes of Y/N and her ex crossed his mind and he gripped the sheets as anger rippled through him. Not just at Lawson for what he did, but for touching her in the first place. She was his girl. His. He should never have broken up with her. Never have let her walk. Never have left it so long. No, Lawson didn’t deserve her. She was his girl. Was all those years ago. Still was now. Despite the circumstances. She’d proven that time and time again as she came back to visit. Every major holiday was with the boys. Every birthday…

He blinked, yanking the headphones from his ears as he threw himself out of bed. He took off running for her room. Grabbing his doorframe as he used it to swing himself around the frame.  

He slammed into her door, ignoring the crash as it hit the wall behind it.   ‘It’s not his baby!’ he blurted.

Her jaw dropped as she looked up at him. Her nose red, her eyes puffy and moist. Her cheeks coated in warm trails that tugged at his chest.  

‘It’s not…it’s not…’ he ran a hand through his hair as everything came crashing down. His legs seemed to turn to jelly as they wobbled beneath him. He grabbed her desk chair, steadying himself as the words played through his mind over and over again.

Y/N tried to talk, a small squeak left her lips but that was all.

‘He put my girl in hospital and tried to kill our kid!’ he roared suddenly, jumping up.

Y/N jumped, watching helpless as Dean stormed from the room.

‘Have you found him?!’ he growled as he walked into the library.

‘Not yet,’ Sam admitted.

‘Find that son of a bitch, now!’ Dean snapped. ‘Call me as soon as you do.’

He stomped back towards Y/N’s room. Her sobs echoing off the halls as he approached, slowing his steps to a complete stop. He sighed, taking a deep breath he walked into her room. He grabbed her chair and placed it next to her bed, before sitting down. He reached out, gently brushing his fingers across her stomach.

‘Tell me our baby’s ok? That he didn’t hurt it.’

‘It’s fine,’ she whispered.

‘Why the hell didn’t you tell me?’

‘Because I didn’t even know how to tell me,’ she cried. ‘You never wanted kids. Not now. Not while we were still hunting. Neither did I. Christ, Dean. I wouldn’t know what to do with a baby. A kid fine, I helped look after Sammy but a baby…Jesus. The last baby I held I thought I was going to drop when it moved. And don’t even get me started on changing it. Blood and guts I can handle, but dirty nappies and vomit?! I don’t even help you when your hung over. I’m a damn sympathetic vomiter!’

Dean chuckled; yes, she was.

‘I wasn’t prepared for this. I wasn’t ready. I… I was still struggling to cope with the fact that we’d slept together. I hate cheating…I…’

Her tears fell once more and Dean reached out and wiped them from her cheeks.

‘I know. And I’m sorry for the guilt it made you feel. I know I shouldn’t have kissed you. But I couldn’t not kiss you either. I hated that you were with him. With anyone other than me,’ Dean mumbled. ‘But I ain’t sorry for what I did. For being with you. For this,’ he admitted, a small smile flickered on his lips as he reached for her stomach again. ‘I am sorry I wasn’t there to kill the bastard though, the moment he raised his hand the first time,’ Dean growled.

Her lip quivered as she watched him. Dean let his hand fall, clasping his hand around hers.

‘Why tell him first?’

‘He guessed,’ she admitted. ‘I was sick and I hadn’t started... He knew straight away. We hadn’t had sex, it had been months since our last time.’

Dean gaped at her, he wasn’t expecting that.

‘I’d been trying to break up with him, but I felt terrible. He honestly felt something for me and I couldn’t return it. Not when I love you. Not when I spent every night lying in bed wondering how it came to this. How we came to this. And all I wanted was to come home. To be back where I belonged.’

Dean gave her a sad smile as he squeezed her hand.

‘We got into a fight and he left. I was packing to come here when he attacked.’

Dean’s grip in her hand grew tighter, as he tried to stop the trembling that coursed through him.

‘Dean,’ she whispered, glancing down at her hand.

He nodded, loosening his grip slightly.

‘It was the only reason I went to the hospital,’ she admitted. ‘I had plans to tell you. But when I saw you, I just…God it was so hard. I’d gone from knowing I needed to end things with him so I could be with you, to having to admit I cheated, to realising I was pregnant and everything just happened so fast. And all I could think was you didn’t want me anymore when I wasn’t pregnant…you wouldn’t want me now.’

‘Bullshit! I never stopped. I never stopped loving you. Never stopping wanting you. Never stopping waiting for you,’ he cried, the tears now falling down his cheeks. ‘I didn’t sleep with you because I needed sex. I slept with you because I needed you. Because I was prepared to beg you to leave him to come back to me. But you kept shutting down the conversation.’

His eyes dropped to her stomach, as it lay hidden beneath a thick woollen sweater and blankets.

‘Why not tell me once we got back here?’

‘There was a chance, that the baby wouldn’t survive,’ she whispered. ‘I was told to stay as stress free as possible until the danger passed at 12 weeks.’

Dean froze. Unable to breathe as the words left her lips.

‘I had a check-up while you were gone, it’s fine. Heartbeats strong, it’s growing properly and all that. The worst was over and they’re pretty sure we should be fine.’

He let out his breath as the tension left his muscles, ‘I’m sorry I pushed. If I had of known I wouldn’t have. I wouldn’t have even taken the hunt. I would have-.’

‘I needed you to. Dean, it was worse having you here and not telling you. I knew how you’d react. Although, there’s less yelling than I expected,’ she admitted.

‘That will come. Once I find him.’

‘Dean,’ she sighed.

‘He’s not getting away with this, Y/N. I’ll either kill him or maim him and hand him over to Jodie.’

‘I did that already.’

‘But I haven’t. No one hurts my girl, you know that. And to hurt our kid…he’s going to pay, Y/N. He won’t even know what pain is until I’m done with him.’

She gave him a sad smile as she relaxed against the headboard, ‘I’m so sorry, Dean.’

He lifted her hand, gently bringing it to his lips, ‘So am I.’

He watched as she too a shuddered breath and sunk back into her pillows. Her face relaxing as she closed her eyes. A kid wasn’t something he expected. Something he never thought was possible. His eyes drifted to her stomach as he watched it carefully, protectively. Knowing he would give his life to keep their baby safe. A smile tugged at his lip, this was the best birthday yet.  

@thegreatficmaster @torn-and-frayed @hamartiamacguffin @illisea

@tornjeansandabrokenheart @msimpala67 @gabavaldman @raylin19 @kgbrenner @thatfangirl46  @theskytraveler @upon-a-girl @wishedworld @scamanders26newtcase @shame lesslydean  @calaofnoldor @stylesismyhubs  @mrspeacem1nusone

[richardgrimes]

being so serious when i say that mon el and lex ruined supergirl

[mephisto-reporting]

Wearing This Dress Was a Mistake…or Was It?

Premise: You decide to prank him by making him think that you'd be wearing that risque, revealing outfit when you are about to head out... only to find out that pranks have consequences. Pairing: Reader x Xavier, Zayne, Rafayel, Sylus, Caleb (Seperate) Note: Reader and the men are in a relationship. This is suggestive. Please do not interact if you are a minor. If you wanted to be added to my taglist, please DM, ask or comment :D Content warning: Suggestive. MNDI.

CALEB

Caleb was lounging on your couch like he owned the place, one arm draped lazily over the backrest, the other holding a can of soda that he swirled absentmindedly. He had taken a few days off, escaping from his duties as Colonel to come back to Linkon. And now, here he was, making himself right at home in your apartment like he had never left. The sight was almost domestic, but you knew better—there was nothing ordinary about Caleb. Not anymore.

He was on leave, a rare moment where he could shed the weight of his uniform and just be Caleb. It was a refreshing change to see him like this—less guarded, more relaxed—but something about it sparked mischief in you. You'd always had a playful, mischievous relationship with Caleb when you were younger. Pranks, jabs, teasing—it had all been part of the dynamic. And now that he was back, you couldn't help but feel a familiar tug to push his buttons just a little.

You'd planned this prank for a while. Slipping into the most scandalous, revealing outfit you could find in your closet, one that certainly wasn���t something you'd wear out in public. You had no intention of actually leaving—just giving Caleb the briefest hint that you were about to, and seeing how he’d react.

You walked into the living room, draped in the most inappropriate outfit you could manage. A fitted dress that barely covered your thighs, a deep V that left little to the imagination, and a loose, barely-there wrap that hung carelessly from your shoulders. Your intention was to get under Caleb’s skin, to push him just a little—just enough to remind him that the old pranks hadn’t gone anywhere.

When Caleb glanced up, his relaxed demeanor faltered for just a second, his sharp gaze lingering on you. There was a flicker of something darker in his eyes, something predatory. But he said nothing at first, just observing you with a cold silence that sent a chill down your spine. Your pulse quickened slightly under his intense gaze, but you pushed down the thrill crawling up your spine. This was just a joke.

You took a deep breath, feigning innocence. "I'm heading out to meet some friends," you announced, grabbing your purse.

The shift was instantaneous.

The lazy, relaxed Caleb from moments ago was gone. His can hit the coffee table with a soft thud, his entire frame tensing as he straightened up. His gaze darkened, trailing over your figure with slow, possessive deliberation.

"You're wearing that?" His voice was low, almost casual—but you could hear the undercurrent of something dangerous lurking beneath it.

You swallowed but kept up the act. "Yeah. Why?" You tilted your head, feigning confusion. "It looks good, doesn't it?"

"You’re not going anywhere dressed like that." he muttered, the words falling from his lips in a near-growl.

You smirked, crossing your arms over your chest. "What, you think I can’t pull it off?"

He stood in one smooth motion, and before you could react, he was standing in front of you, his hand gripping your wrist with a surprising amount of force. His fingers were warm, rough, as if he were trying to ground himself with the touch.

"If you're so insistent on showing this side of you to others," he whispered, his breath hot against your ear, "then it’s only fair that I get to see more of it, isn't it?"

Before you could protest, he hoisted you effortlessly onto his shoulder, your legs dangling in the air as he carried you toward your room like a caveman claiming his prize.

"Caleb!" You gasped, half-laughing, half-embarrassed by the sheer force of his actions. But Caleb wasn't listening. His grip was firm, his footsteps purposeful as he crossed the room.

He threw open your bedroom door, his eyes locking with yours with an intensity that made your heart race. "You think you can strut around like this for anyone else?" His voice was dangerously calm, but the heat in his gaze betrayed the undercurrent of rage—jealousy, possessiveness—swirling just beneath the surface.

You opened your mouth to say something, but he silenced you with a heated kiss, his lips claiming yours in a way that left no room for argument. His lips were urgent, demanding, but still with an edge of care as if he couldn’t bear the thought of anyone seeing you in that outfit.

"Do you want me to show you what that outfit can do to any individual with a working braincell?" Caleb murmured against your lips, his breath shallow as he gently pushed you onto the bed. He towered over you, his body a wall of heat and strength, completely commanding your attention.

You couldn’t help but laugh breathlessly, still shaken by the intensity of the moment. "It was just a prank, Caleb. I didn’t mean—"

His fingers traced the line of your jaw with surprising gentleness before his eyes darkened. "No," he whispered. "You didn’t mean to tease me like this, but now that you have, you’re not going anywhere. Not until I’ve had my fill of you. I don’t like the idea of anyone else looking at you like this.”

You opened your mouth to explain, to tell you weren’t actually heading out like this, but before you could say a word, he was on you, his lips crashing against yours with a possessiveness that left you breathless. His hands roamed down your body, tracing the curve of your waist, gripping you tightly as if he were afraid someone might take you from him.

You could feel his breath on your neck, hot and heavy, as he pulled away just enough to whisper, “You’re mine, understand?” His words were both possessive and adoring, a dangerous combination you knew too well.

And as your neighbors found out soon after, the only sounds that filled the air that evening were far less friendly than the teasing words you’d exchanged earlier.

RAFAYEL

Rafayel was early. Again.

Technically, he was supposed to be on time tonight—after all, it was his gallery event. But you knew better. You had predicted, with painful accuracy, that he'd find some way to ding-dong ditch his own damn celebration. Which was exactly why he was here at your apartment an hour before you needed to leave.

"I'm only here because Thomas would physically drag me if I didn't show up at all," he muttered from the other side of the door of your bedroom. "Consider this me being a responsible artist. All of you should be grateful."

You hummed, feigning disinterest as you checked your reflection in the mirror. "Oh, I am grateful, Rafayel."

"Good, as you shou—"

He cut himself off entirely as you stepped out from your bedroom.

You had planned this prank the moment you'd heard he was coming early. Because if Rafayel wanted to ditch the gallery, you'd at least make sure he suffered before he got his way. So, instead of slipping into something elegant and refined for an art exhibition, you had opted for something else entirely. It wasn’t even an outfit you would wear outside—it barely covered anything at all, and the material clung to your body in all the wrong places. A sheer, tight-fitting slip with lace accents, enough to leave little to the imagination. The fabric wasn’t completely transparent, but it did the job well enough to make every inch of your skin noticeable. Every inch of skin exposed was deliberate. Calculated. A direct attack on Rafayel's composure.

And oh, it worked.

His entire body stiffened, the lazy smirk on his lips frozen mid-form. His next grape missed his mouth completely, bouncing pathetically off his chin and rolling onto the floor. But he didn't even notice.

For a long, silent moment, all Rafayel did was stare.

Then, dramatically, he clutched his chest. "No."

You blinked. "No?"

"I can't take you anywhere like this," he lamented, waving frantically at all the exposed skin. "You—You will steal the show! The gallery will forget my masterpieces the moment you walk through the door!" Rafayel’s eyes flickered to the door, then back to you, his expression a mix of shock and something darker. “You’re kidding. You want me to take you to the gallery dressed like… this? Everyone will be staring, and I can’t have that.”

He turned his back to you with a huff, clearly flustered. He spun around to face you again, his eyes narrowing, and a flicker of possessiveness flashed across his face. “This is too much. I’m not taking you out like this.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Are you saying you’re embarrassed to be seen with me?”

His expression faltered, and for a split second, you saw a vulnerability in his eyes. But it was quickly replaced by his usual dramatic demeanor. “Embarrassed? No!! I just don’t want everyone gawking at my—especially when I’m the one who’s supposed to admire you tonight. How am I supposed to take you out like this? All eyes will be on you, and I don’t know if I’m prepared for that level of attention. How am I supposed to look at this…”

"Is that such a bad thing?" You teased, twirling a loose strand of hair around your finger.

"Yes!" Rafayel practically whined. He circled you like a predator, eyes flickering with a hunger he hadn’t quite named yet. "Some art should be displayed for the world, sure," he murmured, voice turning dangerously low. "But some art? This should be kept private. Mine."

You bit your lip, barely suppressing a laugh. "Raf, it's just a prank. I'm not actually going like this."

He stilled. Then, very slowly, he grinned.

"Oh?" he purred, stepping closer until there was barely any space left between you. His fingers skimmed the edge of your exposed thigh, tracing your skin before gripping it lightly. "Then you should go change, hmm?"

You moved to step back, but Rafayel caught your wrist. His grip was loose, teasing, but there was no mistaking the heat behind it.

"Ah, wait," he murmured, feigning deep thought. "Actually… No. That would take too long."

You frowned. "What—?"

"We're already late," he sighed, tone laced with mock regret. "And if we're already late, then it doesn’t really matter, does it?"

Before you could say anything else, Rafayel scooped you up in one swift motion, his hands firmly gripping you. “Forget the gallery,” he said, his voice practically a growl. “You’re not leaving this apartment until I’ve taken my time enjoying this… work of art.”

“Rafayel, wait!” You tried to protest, but he was already striding toward your bedroom, his grip firm around you.

“You don’t deserve to wear something this distracting for anyone else,” he muttered, his voice laced with a possessive hunger. “I’ll be the only one to appreciate it properly.”

Before you could even respond, his lips were on yours, demanding and heated, the rest of the world completely irrelevant. You could barely keep up with the intensity of his kiss as he stripped away the fabric, each motion more urgent than the last.

As the sound of Thomas’ calls rang through both your phones, going straight to voicemail, Rafayel didn’t spare it a second thought. The gallery? It was already a lost cause. Tonight, he had you—and he was taking his sweet time with it.

SYLUS

As Sylus prepared for his mission, a sense of anticipation hung thick in the air. He was packing his gear with the meticulous attention of a man who thrived on the chaos he created, readying himself for whatever dangerous task lay ahead. This lifestyle was no stranger to him —the dangerous, dark heart of his empire. But you couldn’t shake the worry that gnawed at you every time he walked out the door. Dangerous, illegal missions were a regular part of his life, and while you knew he could handle himself, the thought of him in harm’s way left you restless.

But you weren’t about to voice that concern—not when he took so much pleasure in riling you up with his teasing. Tonight, you had decided to give him a taste of his own medicine—payback, as you saw it. After all, his teasing and his ability to keep you on edge with his deep voice, knowing smirks, fleeting touches, and that intense gaze deserved a little retaliation. This time, you were going to make him work for it.

Fair was fair.

You stepped into the study, heels clicking against the floor, the sharp sound enough to draw his attention. His red eyes flickered up from his preparations, widening just slightly before narrowing with intrigue. You had dressed specifically to get a reaction—a short, black mesh dress that left little to the imagination, the sheer material teasing glimpses of lace underneath. The plunging neckline dipped scandalously low, while the cutouts along your waist accentuated every tempting curve.

Sylus let out a low, appreciative hum as he leaned back against the wall, taking his time raking his gaze over you.

“And where exactly do you think you’re going dressed like that, sweetie?” His smirk was lazy, but the sharp glint in his crimson stare was anything but.

You let your eyes linger on his figure for a moment, before casually offering, "Actually, I’m heading back to Linkon for a night out—clubbing with some friends." Your heels clicked softly against the floor as you took a few steps closer, and you could see his pupils dilate briefly, his reaction evident, though he masked it quickly with another smirk.

"Well, well," he drawled, his eyes still locked on your attire. "Funny, I’ve never gotten the pleasure of seeing you in such bold outfits before."

You shrugged nonchalantly, your lips curling into a playful smile. "I dress for the occasion."

A small chuckle escaped him, the sound rich and dark. "Interesting, these 'occasions' never seem to happen when I'm around." His eyes trailed over you once more, the intensity of his gaze making your pulse quicken.

He walked slowly, closing the distance between you in a few slow, measured strides. When he reached you, his fingers brushed against the exposed skin of your thigh, the touch featherlight, deliberate.

“I suppose I should consider myself unfortunate, then,” he murmured, trailing his hand higher. “But I’ll be damned, sweetie, you do look ravishing.”

You hummed, feeling the heat of his touch ghosting over your skin. "Maybe ypu were just not paying enough attention before."

His laugh was low, dark, full of amusement. "Oh, kitten," he purred, his hands drifting lower, tracing the dip of your waist before pulling you just a little closer. "Trust me, I pay attention. Especially when it comes to you."

Your breath hitched as his palm splayed possessively over your hip, his fingers teasing the hem of your barely-there dress. “Not worried about all the attention I’ll get?” you teased, meeting his gaze.

He let out a soft chuckle, the sound almost like a growl. "Sweetie, I know you can handle yourself if things go wrong." he said, his hands suddenly roaming over your skin, slow and deliberate, almost as if he were marking his territory. His touch was magnetic, entrancing. His fingers traced your jawline, grazing over the curve of your neck, and you felt the weight of his presence pull you in, closer to him with each movement.

He smirked, as if he could sense the effect he was having on you. "Go ahead. Have fun tonight," he murmured, pulling out his black card from his wallet and offering it to you. "Just don't have too much fun without me." His breath ghosted over your lips, hot and tantalizing, and you could feel his eyes trailing lower

You saw it then—the flicker of something dark and hungry in his stare, a silent challenge laced with possession. It made you want to push just a little further.

“What if I do?”

The moment the words left your lips, you barely had time to react before Sylus’s hands were on you. A startled gasp escaped you as he lifted you effortlessly, locking your legs around his waist. The back of your dress rode up, and his fingers pressed into your thighs, holding you firmly in place as his mouth found yours. The kiss was deep, slow, devastating. He wasn’t just kissing you—he was claiming you, drawing you in until the thought of leaving, of doing anything other than this, felt ridiculous. “Then I guess I’ll have to make sure you’re more entertained...” he murmured against your ear, his voice dripping with possessiveness, as if you were already his in every sense.

Without another word, he carried you through the mansion, his lips never leaving yours as his pace quickened. He didn’t even give you a chance to respond, his hold on you firm, commanding, as though the very idea of you going out tonight was laughable. His smirk never faltered, his confidence radiating in waves.

“You think I’d let that happen?” he said in a husky whisper against your lips, his voice thick with amusement. As he kicked open the door to his bedroom, he laid you down on the bed with a grin that sent a shiver down your spine. “Guess neither of us is going anywhere tonight…”

You tried to speak between stolen breaths, to tell him it was a prank, but he only smirked against your mouth, cutting you off with another slow, intoxicating kiss.His weight pressed you down onto the bed, his hands sliding over every inch of exposed skin. “It’s a good thing you weren’t actually going out,” he mused, voice dripping with amusement. “Because I plan to keep you here… All. Night. Long.”

A thrill ran through you as you realized just how easily he'd flipped the situation in his favor. And you weren't sure if you could—if you wanted to—fight it.

XAVIER

You had been scheming for a while, setting the perfect trap to prank Xavier, and today was the day you were finally going to execute your plan. You’d texted him earlier, asking him to swing by your apartment to pick up the meals you had prepared for him. You knew full well Xavier could barely cook an egg without burning it, so he was always appreciative when you made him something special. You always made quite a batch of food whenever he came over to pick it up so he could store them in his freezer.

He had a spare key to your apartment in case of emergencies, but today, you were going to make sure he’d get more than just food when he came over. He’d always been so calm and collected in most situations that it was infuriating at times. You had tried to get a reaction out of him before but had always failed. But today, it would be different. Today, you knew you would get him to falter. You’d been thinking of a little prank to get a rise out of him—and you knew exactly what would get under his skin.

When you heard the door click open, you made sure to pick up your purse slowly, letting Xavier get a good look at the outfit you’d chosen: A tight, revealing midnight blue dress that clung to your curves like a second skin, the plunging neckline barely covering what was necessary and the high slit on the side showing just enough leg to drive anyone wild. The fabric was soft, almost like a second layer of skin, and you knew it would make his blood run hot.

Xavier’s footfalls slowed, and the air seemed to thicken with tension as he entered the room, his eyes immediately darkening the moment they landed on you. His usually calm expression shifted, but only slightly, and his voice, low and even, carried an edge. “You have plans?” His tone was casual, but you could tell it didn’t match the storm brewing in his gaze.

“Oh, yeah, I’m heading out with some colleagues,” you answered nonchalantly, knowing full well that would get him riled up. In your mind, this was all part of the prank. You were expecting a laugh, a joke, maybe even a playful remark.

His eyes narrowed, the calm veneer slipping away. “Wrong answer.”

You tilted your head slightly, looking at him with feigned confusion. “Huh?”

“I said, wrong answer. You are not going out to meet them… in that?” He spoke slowly.

“Why not? What’s wrong with the dress? I think it makes me look nice.” You looked at your dress pretending that you didn’t know what was wrong with it. “Plus, I already made plans with them…”

He didn’t hesitate, slamming the door behind him with a soft thud. His hand rested on the doorframe as he leaned in, towering over you. “Your plan,” he said, voice gruff with unspoken demand, “is with me. Right here. And only I should be the one seeing you in that dress. And outside of it.” he added, his voice dark with possessiveness.

Your heart raced, though you maintained an innocent air. “Xavier, come on... I’m just going out for fun. It’s not a big deal.” You tried to laugh it off, but your breath caught as his hands trailed over your skin, tracing your body with an intention that left no room for interpretation.

 You didn’t have a chance to react before he was right in front of you, his frame crowding you against the door, his hands gripping your hips as he lifted you slightly.

He didn’t respond to your attempt at casualness. Instead, his gaze was fierce, intense, and utterly unyielding. The meals you had prepared was forgotten. The only thing on his mind was you—and the dress you wore, too.

“Why do they get to see you like this when it’s meant for me?” His voice dropped, each word heavier than the last.

Your breath hitched at the intensity in his voice. The heat between you was immediate, pressing, suffocating. Xavier reached up, his fingers gently grazing your neck, then sliding down to your waist, his touch possessive and slow.

You tried to laugh it off again, your playful nature not quite prepared for how serious he had gotten. “It’s just a prank,” you said, offering an innocent smile, hoping to break the tension. “I am not going anywhere…” You giggled, but it came out a little nervous. “I swear… It’s just a prank, Xavier.”

He blinked once,  the twice, confusion flickering in his eyes. His boyish, innocent looked returned, stunned at your words. He seemed to process it for a moment. Then, the intensity of his gaze returned, fiercer than before. He took a step forward, closing the non existent distance between you, and his lips were suddenly on yours—hard, commanding. His lips crushed against yours, his tongue immediately claiming dominance as he growled low in his throat.

Before you could even process what was happening, you were on the couch, his body pressing you into the cushions. His hands roamed, touching you everywhere. as he leaned down to whisper in your ear.

“Prank or not,” he said, his voice hushed but full of intensity, “you’ve got me thinking about you in that dress with them—with anyone else.” His hands moved lower, sliding over the fabric of your dress. “You thought teasing me would be funny, huh? Let’s see how funny it is now.” His tone was equal parts teasing and threatening, a dangerous mix that made your heart race.

You gasped as his hands found your thighs, pulling you against him, his body already pressing into yours. There was no more pretending, no more games. Xavier’s need was undeniable, and you couldn’t escape the heat between you.

His lips met yours again, deeper, more frantic this time, as if making sure you understood just how serious he was about what was happening between you. You didn’t stand a chance against him.

And when the night ended, teasing Xavier definitely wouldn’t be on your list of things to do again... or maybe it would be.

ZAYNE

The dress was daring—too daring, perhaps. The fabric clung to your body, smooth and sultry, dipping dangerously low in the front and riding scandalously high on your thighs. The sheer lace along the sides barely covered enough, teasingly revealing glimpses of skin beneath. It was the kind of dress that would have heads turning, and you knew it.

That was the point.

You had planned this all too perfectly. A new pastry café had just opened downtown, and you’d invited Zayne out for a date. You had been expecting a reaction when he arrived—maybe a subtle quirk of his brow, a small shift in his usual stoic demeanor. Something.

Instead, when you opened the door and greeted him with an innocent smile, his gaze flickered over you, and for a moment, there was nothing but silence.

Then, the door clicked shut behind him.

His expression remained unreadable, but his movements weren’t. The way he took his time removing his gloves, slipping them off with methodical ease before placing them neatly on the nearby counter. The way his fingers traced the hem of his coat, unbuttoning it in a slow, deliberate motion.

“Interesting choice,” he finally said, his voice calm—too calm—as his gaze finally lifted back to meet yours.

You grinned, shifting your weight just slightly to make the dress slide a little higher along your thigh. “Do you like it?”

He didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he took a step forward, and you felt the weight of his presence settle over you. His fingers brushed your arm, barely there, before trailing down your wrist. The lightest touch. A doctor’s touch—controlled, precise. But beneath it was something else.

Something simmering.

“Tell me.” His voice was still even, his tone almost thoughtful as he lifted your hand to his lips, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your fingertips. “How far were you planning to go with this little game of yours?”

Your heart stuttered. He knows.

You feigned innocence, tilting your head as if confused. “Game? I was just dressing up for our date.”

“Is that so?” His lips curved, the barest hint of amusement slipping through. “Then I suppose you wouldn’t mind if we went outside right now.”

Your stomach flipped. He wouldn’t.

Would he?

Before you could respond, his other hand moved—so subtle, so swift—and in one seamless motion, he pulled you closer, his fingers splaying over your lower back. Your breath hitched as your bodies pressed together, the warmth of him seeping through the thin material of your dress.

His lips were close now, brushing against your ear. “You forgot,” he murmured, “I know you.”

Your skin burned.

You swallowed, trying to keep your composure. “Okay, fine. It was a prank.”

Zayne chuckled softly. The sound was low, velvety, but it sent a shiver down your spine. “I knew that before coming over.”

His fingers traced slow, idle circles against the small of your back, and suddenly, you were all too aware of how little there was between you. How easy it would be for him to simply pull—just a little—and the dress would slide right off your shoulders.

You blinked. “Wait, you—?”

“Of course I knew.” He leaned in, his breath brushing against your jaw. “You think I don’t know when you’re trying to get a rise out of me?” The heat in his voice made your knees weak.

Your heart pounded against your ribs as his fingers traced a slow path up your spine, dragging along the zipper of your dress.

“I knew the moment you picked up my call earlier and sounded too innocent. The way you sent me a picture of the food but conveniently cropped yourself out.” His fingers pressed, teasing, against the small of your back. “And now? Now you’re here, looking like this and expecting me to just let you waltz out into a crowded café?”

You barely managed a breath before he tilted your chin up with two fingers, his expression unreadable save for the faintest glint of something more. “Cute.” His lips brushed against yours, feather-light. “But you knew better.”

You shivered at the subtle challenge in his voice, the sheer restraint beneath it. “Zayne, we have a reservation—”

“Mm.” He kissed the corner of your mouth, slow and deliberate. “We’ll reschedule.”

“I—”

Whatever you were about to say was swallowed by his kiss. It wasn’t rushed or frantic—it was deliberate. A slow, consuming thing that left no room for escape. His hands were firm but unhurried as he guided you back, step by step, until your back met the nearest surface—the couch, the wall, you didn’t even know anymore.

Zayne finally pulled away, but only just. His breath fanned across your lips, his fingers still resting against your waist. He looked at you then, truly looked at you, his eyes dark with something unspoken.

“You wanted my attention.” His voice was a whisper now, a dangerous kind of quiet. “You have it.” Your protests faded the moment his hands slid lower, gripping your thighs just enough to make your breath hitch. His lips trailed downward, past your jaw, tracing a searing path along your neck before murmuring, “Tell me, was the prank worth it?”

And as his hands began to move, taking their time, exploring, savoring—one thing became very, very clear.

Prank or not, you wouldn’t be leaving for that café tonight.

AN: reblogs, feedback and opinions are appreciated!

Taglist: @cordidy, @natimiles @leighsartworks216 @notisekais @raining4food @fallthelong @pomegranatepip @juliuscaesarsstabbedback @krystallevine @lemurianmaster @nenggie @loverindeepspace@sinsodom@m00nchildwrites

[luv-lock]

ㅤֹㅤ⊹ㅤ #ㅤEVERY INCH IN THAT SUITㅤ.ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱

☆⁠ PAIRING : Batboys x Fem Reader

☆⁠ SYNOPSIS : He looks good in his thight suit, so why not just fuck him?

☆⁠ CHARACTERS : Bruce Wayne, Dick Grayson, Jason Todd, Damian Wayne.

☆⁠ WARNINGS : NSFW, MINORS DNI, Daddy kink, breeding kink, rough sex, degradation, overstimulation, unprotected sex, a lil bit gun play, blow job, choking, spitting, slapping, riding, power play.

☆⁠ NOTES : Damian is an adult. And yes we have an adult version of Damian who is still Robin and wear a Robin suit. English is not my first language. Hope you enjoy!

— BRUCE WAYNE ⋆

The cave’s damp air clings to your skin as you stumble in, heels clicking against the stone floor, your breath hitching at the sight of him. Bruce stands there, the suit clinging to every muscle like it was poured over him. The cowl’s still on, those white slits glaring at you, and fuck, it’s doing things to you—your thighs clench just looking at him. He’s fresh off patrol, chest heaving, a thin sheen of sweat making the black Kevlar gleam under the dim lights. Gotham’s knight, your goddamn ruin.

“You shouldn’t be down here, sweetheart,” he growls, voice low and modulated through the mask, but you hear the edge—raw, hungry, barely restrained. He steps forward, boots thudding heavy, and you’re already wet, practically dripping down your thighs because fuck, it’s Bruce, and he’s looking at you like prey.

“Don’t care,” you breathe, bold and stupid, stepping closer ‘til you’re in his shadow. “Needed to see you, Daddy.”

That word—Daddy—hits him like a punch. His head tilts, cowl shifting slightly, and you swear you hear a sharp intake of breath under that mask. “You’re playin’ a dangerous game, little girl,” he rasps, gloved hand flexing at his side, and you grin, all teeth and heat, because you want him.

“Then punish me,” you whisper, reaching out to drag your fingers down the bat emblem, feeling the hard planes of his chest. “Show me what happens when I’m bad.”

He snaps. One second you’re standing, the next he’s got you slammed against the Batcomputer console, the cold metal biting into your ass as he looms over you, massive and unyielding. “You wanna be a brat for Daddy?” he snarls, ripping your skirt up with one brutal yank, exposing your soaked panties. “Gonna regret that, sweetheart.”

You whimper, and he’s already tearing the lace off—gloved fingers rough, calloused through the fabric, shoving between your legs. “Fuckin’ drenched,” he mutters, sliding two fingers into your cunt without warning, stretching you open while you arch and gasp. “This all for me? Huh? My needy little slut, soakin’ herself for me?”

“Yes—Daddy—just for you,” you moan, hips bucking into his hand, and he growls, pumping harder, curling those thick digits ‘til your vision blurs. The suit’s rubbing against your thighs, coarse and unforgiving, and it’s filthy—he’s filthy—still stinking of smoke and adrenaline, fucking you with his gloves on.

He pulls his fingers out, slick and glistening, and smears your mess across your lips before shoving them into your mouth. “Taste yourself,” he orders, and you suck, desperate, gagging around the leather while he watches, those white slits narrowing. “Good girl. Daddy’s gonna fuck you ‘til you can’t walk, ‘til you’re full of me.”

You whine, and he’s unbuckling the lower half of the suit—just enough to free his cock, thick and heavy, dripping pre-cum like he’s been hard for hours.

He grabs your throat with one gloved hand, squeezing just enough to make you dizzy, and lines himself up, the fat head of his cock nudging your entrance. “Beg for it,” he demands, voice a gravelly snarl, and you’re too far gone to care how pathetic you sound.

“Please, Daddy, fuck me—breed me—fill me up, I need it,” you plead, voice breaking, and that’s all it takes. He thrusts in hard, splitting you open, the stretch burning as he bottoms out in one brutal stroke. You scream, nails clawing at the suit, and he doesn’t wait—starts pounding you, relentless, the console rattling with every slam.

“Fuckin’ take it,” he grunts, hips snapping, the wet slap of skin on skin echoing in the cave. “Gonna stuff this tight little cunt—make you mine, princess.” The glove on your throat tightens, cutting your air just enough to make your head spin, and you’re sobbing, legs shaking as he fucks you raw—Bruce's cock wrecking you, the suit chafing your inner thighs red.

He leans down, cowl brushing your cheek, and the modulator makes him sound obscene. “You want Daddy’s cum? Want me to breed you ‘til you’re dripping, ‘til you’re swollen with it?” he growls, and you nod, frantic, clenching around him like you’re trying to milk him dry.

“Yes—fuck, yes, Daddy, fill me up, please,” you gasp, and he shifts, hoisting your legs over his shoulders, folding you in half under him. The angle’s insane—his cock hits so deep you feel it in your guts, and you’re screaming, cumming so hard your whole body locks up, gushing around him while he keeps going, fucking you through it ‘til you’re a trembling, overstimulated mess.

“That’s it, cum on Daddy’s cock,” he snarls, pace turning feral, and you feel him swell, twitching inside you. “Gonna pump you full—gonna make you my little breeding bitch.” He slams in one last time, burying himself to the hilt, and cums with a guttural roar—hot, thick spurts flooding your cunt, spilling out around his dick as he keeps thrusting, forcing it deeper, marking you inside.

You’re a wreck—pussy throbbing, leaking his cum down your thighs, the suit’s rough edges still digging into your skin—and he doesn’t stop. He pulls out just to flip you over, bending you across the console face-down, ass up, and shoves back in, fucking his cum into you like he’s trying to make damn sure it sticks. “Not done,” he growls, gloved hands bruising your hips. “Gonna fuck you ‘til you can’t think, ‘til all you know is my cock.”

You’re whimpering, incoherent—“Too much, Daddy, fuck”—but he doesn’t care, keeps railing you ‘til your knees buckle, ‘til you’re drooling on the keyboard, another orgasm ripping through you so hard you black out for a second. He’s relentless, a machine, the suit creaking with every thrust, and when he cums again, it’s a flood—dripping down your legs, pooling on the floor, a nasty, freaky mess that only Bruce could leave behind.

Finally, he slows, breathing ragged through the modulator, and pulls you back against his chest—the suit cold and hard, his cock still twitching inside you. “Such a good girl for Daddy,” he murmurs, softer now, gloved hand stroking your hair as you tremble, fucked-out and full. He doesn’t take the cowl off, just tilts your chin up to kiss you—lips rough against yours, tasting of sweat and sin.

“Mine,” he growls, possessive, and you feel it—his cum leaking out, the ache settling in, the way he’s claimed you. You’re his, alright—Daddy’s little breeding toy, fucked stupid in the heart of his cave.

— DICK GRAYSON ⋆

The Blüdhaven night’s alive with neon and grime, and you’re perched on a rooftop, waiting for him—Nightwing, the city’s golden boy turned reckless tease. You’ve been playing this game too long: flirting over comms, brushing hands during stakeouts, until he finally snapped last week and fucked you senseless in an alley. Now, he’s late, and you’re antsy—legs dangling over the edge, heartbeat ticking up—when you hear that familiar whistle, cocky and bright.

“Miss me, babe?” he calls, flipping down from a higher ledge, landing in a crouch that shows off every damn line of that skin-tight Nightwing suit. The black and blue clings to him like a second skin, outlining his broad shoulders, tight ass, and the bulge you’ve been dreaming about all day. He straightens, grinning—those white lenses glinting in the dark—and saunters over, all swagger and mischief. “Caught you waiting. That’s cute.”

“Caught you staring,” you fire back, smirking, and he laughs—bright, infectious—before he’s on you, fast as a blur. One gloved hand cups your jaw, tilting your face up, and he kisses you like he’s been dying for it—hot, messy, a little sloppy with how eager he is. His tongue’s in your mouth instantly, tasting you, teasing, and you can feel him grinning against your lips. “Fuck, you taste good,” he murmurs, pulling back just enough to nip your bottom lip, eyes twinkling behind the mask.

Dick’s playful, needy, and oh-so-fucking horny. He spins you around, pressing you chest-first against a rusted billboard frame, and you feel the hard planes of his suit grind against your ass. “Been thinking about this all patrol,” he groans, hands sliding down your sides, gripping your hips as he rocks into you. “You in my head, driving me nuts—gonna make you pay for it, sweetheart.”

He doesn’t waste time—fingers deft and quick, peeling your pants down just enough to bare you to the night air. The suit’s rough against your skin, textured where it brushes your thighs, and you hear him fumble with the hidden zipper at his crotch, freeing that gorgeous cock—long, thick, already leaking for you. “Look at you, all ready for me,” he teases, smacking your ass lightly, playfully, before dragging the tip through your slick folds. “So fucking wet—bet you’ve been thinking about me pounding you, huh?”

“Shut up and do it,” you snap, half-laughing, half-desperate, and he chuckles—low and dirty—before sinking in, slow at first, letting you feel every inch stretch you open. “Oh, fuck, yes,” he moans, head tipping back, suit creaking as he bottoms out, balls snug against you. He doesn’t go brutal like Bruce—he’s all rhythm, hips rolling smooth and deep, fucking you with a grin you can hear. “That’s my girl—taking me so good.”

He’s a talker—won’t shut up even as he picks up the pace, slamming into you now, the wet slap of skin on skin mixing with the city’s hum. “Goddamn, this pussy’s perfect—gonna dream about this later,” he pants, one hand slipping around to rub your clit with those clever fingers, the gloves slick and cool against your heat. You moan—loud, shameless—and he laughs again, delighted. “Yeah, let me hear you, babe—scream for Nightwing.”

He’s relentless but fun—grabbing your hair to pull you back just enough to kiss your neck, sucking bruises there while he fucks you harder, the suit’s edges scraping your skin in the best way. “Wanna flip you over—see that pretty face when you cum,” he says, and before you can blink, he’s spinning you, lifting you like you weigh nothing—acrobat strength on full display. He hooks your legs over his shoulders, pinning you against the billboard, and thrusts back in, grinning like a kid who stole the candy jar.

“Fuck—Dick—” you gasp, and he winks—those lenses flashing—driving deeper, hitting that spot that makes your toes curl. “That’s it, say my name—gonna make you lose it,” he promises, voice husky now, less playful, more feral. His fingers circle your clit faster, and you’re done—cumming hard, clenching around him, crying out as your whole body shakes. He groans, watching you fall apart, “So fucking hot—love it when you squeeze me like that.”

He’s close—hips stuttering, grip tightening—and he pulls you flush against him, suit rubbing your tits raw as he chases it. “Where do you want me, huh? Tell me quick,” he pants, and you smirk, breathless—“On me, all over me.” That’s his cue—he pulls out, stroking himself fast, and cums with a loud, “Fuck, yes—” painting your stomach, your thighs, even catching your chin with hot, thick ropes. He’s grinning, chest heaving, swiping a finger through it and popping it in his mouth like a goddamn tease. “Tastes better with you.”

You’re a mess—panting, covered in him—and he’s still got that cheeky spark, tugging you close, kissing you soft now, all lazy and satisfied. “Round two back at my place?” he murmurs, tucking himself back into the suit, adjusting the escrima sticks on his back like he didn’t just fuck you stupid. “Got a bed with your name on it—and maybe some handcuffs.”

“Lead the way, Grayson,” you say, and he scoops you up—half-carrying, half-dragging—already plotting the next way he’ll wreck you.

— JASON TODD ⋆

The safehouse reeks of gunpowder and copper when Jason kicks the door open, his heavy boots thudding against the floorboards. He’s a fucking mess—blood streaked across his Red Hood helmet, leather jacket torn at the shoulder, crimson dripping down his gloves from a night of cracking skulls. The guns strapped to his thighs clink with every step, and he’s still riding that adrenaline high, chest heaving, muscles coiled tight. He wasn’t expecting you here—not tonight—but there you are, sprawled on his shitty mattress, fingers buried deep in your own cunt, moaning his name like a prayer.

“Fuck me,” he rasps, voice distorted through the modulator, low and guttural as he freezes in the doorway. His helmet tilts, taking in the sight—your legs spread wide, pussy glistening, eyes half-lidded with lust. You don’t even flinch, just keep fucking yourself, smirking like you knew he’d walk in like this. “Couldn’t wait, huh, you needy little slut?” he growls, kicking the door shut with a bang, already shrugging off the jacket but leaving the holsters on—guns and all.

“Jason—” you whimper, fingers slowing, and he’s on you in a flash, still bloody, still armored, grabbing your wrist and yanking your hand away. “Oh no, you don’t get to stop now,” he snarls, smearing your slick over his glove as he shoves your thighs apart wider, the cold metal of his gauntlets biting your skin. “You wanted me, you’re fuckin’ getting me.” His free hand rips at his belt, pulling his cock out—thick, hard, tip already leaking—and you barely get a breath before he’s hauling you up by your hair, forcing you onto your knees.

“Open that pretty mouth,” he orders, voice rough as gravel, and when you do—lips parting, tongue out—he doesn’t wait. He grabs one of his guns from the holster, still warm from the fight, and presses the barrel to your temple, cold steel kissing your skin. “You like this, don’t you? My dirty fuckin’ girl,” he taunts, smearing blood from his glove across your cheek as he shoves his cock past your lips, deep and brutal, hitting the back of your throat ‘til you gag.

He’s feral—nothing gentle, nothing soft—just pure, unfiltered Jason. His hips snap forward, fucking your face like it’s a goddamn mission, the wet choke of your throat filling the room as he grips your hair tighter, pulling ‘til your scalp stings. “That’s it—take it, choke on me,” he groans, modulator crackling with his ragged breaths, the helmet’s red glow casting shadows over your tear-streaked face. The gun stays steady, a fucked-up promise—he won’t pull the trigger, but the threat’s got your cunt dripping, thighs clenching as he uses you.

“Fuck, you’re a sight—drooling all over my dick,” he mutters, yanking you off with a wet pop, strings of spit hanging between your lips and his cock. He doesn’t give you time to recover—just drags you up by the hair, spinning you around, and shoves you face-first into the mattress. “Ass up, now,” he barks, smacking your thigh hard enough to leave a welt, and you scramble to obey, pussy throbbing, aching for him.

He doesn’t bother stripping—keeps the helmet on, the leather creaking, blood still tacky on his hands as he lines up, slamming into you with one vicious thrust. You scream, the stretch burning, and he laughs—dark, filthy—grabbing the gun again and pressing it to your lower back. “Move, baby—fuck yourself on me,” he growls, but he’s already pounding, hips slamming so hard the bed shakes, his cock splitting you open, hitting deep and relentless.

“Jason—fuck—too much—” you gasp, but he just pulls your hair ‘til your back arches, forcing you to take more, the gun sliding up your spine, cold and dangerous. “Too much? Nah, you can take it—you were begging for it with your fingers in that slutty little cunt,” he snarls, voice dripping with lust and menace. Blood smears on your skin where he grips you, and the helmet’s modulator makes every grunt sound inhuman, primal—fucking you like an animal fresh from the hunt.

He leans over, chest plate digging into your back, and bites your shoulder through the suit—teeth scraping, bruising. “Gonna mark you up—let everyone know who owns this pussy,” he rasps, thrusting harder, the gun now tracing your jawline as he reaches around, shoving two bloody fingers into your mouth. “Suck ‘em clean, c’mon,” he demands, and you do—tasting iron and him, moaning around them while he fucks you into the mattress.

You’re close—too close—clenching tight around him, and he feels it, growling, “Cum for me, you filthy bitch—let me feel it.” The gun presses harder, his pace turning sloppy, brutal, and when you shatter—screaming, gushing all over his cock—he doesn’t slow down, just keeps railing you, chasing his own end. “Fuck—gonna fill you up,” he grunts, yanking your head back one last time as he cums, hot and thick, spilling deep inside you ‘til it’s leaking out around him.

He pulls out, panting, helmet still on, and smacks your ass one more time for good measure, leaving a bloody handprint. “Stay there—look at that mess,” he says, voice low and smug, watching his cum drip down your thighs. He drags the gun barrel through it, smearing it over your skin, then leans close—modulator crackling—“Next time, I’m fucking you with this loaded.”

You’re wrecked, trembling, and he’s already holstering the gun, adjusting his jacket like he didn’t just destroy you. “Clean up, princess,” he tosses over his shoulder, but the way he lingers by the door says he’s not done—not by a long shot. Red Hood doesn’t play nice, and you’re his favorite fucking toy.

— DAMIAN WAYNE ⋆

The Wayne Manor study is a damn fortress—dark wood, flickering lamplight, and Damian hunched over a desk littered with maps and case files, looking like he’s about to murder someone. He’s in that stupidly hot Robin tunic—green and red clinging to his lean frame, mask off, black hair mussed from running his hands through it too many times. You’ve been pacing behind him for twenty minutes, thighs rubbing together, pussy throbbing, because he promised he’d fuck you hours ago and now he’s buried in work like some self-righteous little bitch.

“Damian,” you snap, voice dripping with heat, leaning over his shoulder so your tits brush his back. “Put the damn papers down and fuck me already.” He doesn’t even flinch—just keeps scribbling, muttering something about “Gotham’s safety” like you give a shit. “Beloved, I’m occupied,” he says, all clipped and cold, that posh accent making your blood boil hotter. Occupied? Oh, fuck that.

You grab his chair, spin it around so fast he drops his pen, and he’s glaring up at you—emerald eyes sharp, jaw tight, all that bratty defiance he’s so damn good at. “I said I’m busy,” he growls, but his hands twitch, like he’s fighting not to grab you, and you clock it—he’s hard under those tights, bulge straining like a liar’s promise. “Busy being a little bitch,” you spit back, and before he can snap, you slap him—hard—right across that pretty face. His head jerks, cheek blooming red, and his eyes widen, stunned, then darken with something feral.

“You—” he starts, but you don’t let him finish. You climb onto his lap, straddling him, yanking his head back by his hair ‘til he’s forced to look at you. “Shut the fuck up,” you hiss, grinding down on that thick, trapped cock, feeling it twitch under you. “You don’t get to play martyr while I’m soaking wet and dying for it.” He groans—low, broken—and you smirk, spitting right into his open mouth. He chokes, swallowing it, and you see it: the moment he cracks, pride crumbling, lust taking over.

“Fuck, you’re disgusting,” he rasps, but his hands are on your hips now, gripping tight, and you know you’ve got him. “Yeah, and you love it,” you taunt, ripping your shirt off, letting your tits spill out, nipples hard and begging. His eyes lock on them, hungry, and you slap him again—lighter this time, playful, but it still stings. “Eyes up here, asshole,” you say, spitting again—this time on his cheek, watching it drip down as he shudders, cock jumping against you.

You don’t bother with his tunic—just shove the tights down enough to free that gorgeous dick—long, veiny, leaking precum like he’s been aching as bad as you. “Gonna ride you ‘til you cry,” you promise, lining him up, and he snarls—“Try it, harlot”—but it’s all bravado, because when you sink down, taking him in one brutal drop, he moans like a fucking virgin, head tipping back, throat bared. “Oh—fuck—” he gasps, and you laugh, nasty and loud, starting to bounce.

You ride him hard—hips slamming down, pussy clenching tight around him, wet and messy, soaking his lap. The chair creaks, threatening to collapse, and you don’t care—let it break, let the whole damn manor hear. “Look at you,” you pant, grabbing his jaw, forcing him to meet your gaze. “All that big talk, and you’re just my little fucktoy now.” He growls, but it’s weak, hips bucking up to meet you, desperate, and you spit into his mouth again—harder this time. “Swallow it,” you order, and he does, choking, eyes glassy with need.

Your pace is relentless—grinding, bouncing, thighs burning as you fuck him stupid. His hands claw at your ass, your tits, everywhere, and you slap them away, pinning his wrists above his head. “No touching,” you snarl, and he whines—actually whines—struggling but loving it, cock pulsing inside you. “Please—fuck—beloved—” he begs, voice cracking, and you grin, feral, leaning down to bite his lip ‘til it bleeds, licking it clean while you ride him faster.

“Thought you were too busy,” you mock, spitting on his chest now, rubbing it into the Robin emblem with your fingers. “Too good for this pussy—guess you’re not, huh?” He’s a mess—sweat-slick, bloody-lipped, moaning your name like a prayer—and you feel him throb, close, so you slow down, dragging it out ‘til he’s thrashing under you. “No—no, don’t stop—” he pleads, and you slap him again, sharp and loud. “You don’t tell me what to do,” you growl, picking up speed, riding him so hard the desk rattles.

“Gonna cum for me, Dami?” you purr, clenching tight, and he nods, frantic—“Yes—fuck, yes—” You feel it building, that tight, hot coil in your gut, and you spit one last time—right on his tongue—as you slam down, cumming hard, screaming his name as your pussy milks him dry. He breaks—crying out, hips jerking, spilling deep inside you, hot and thick, shuddering through it ‘til he’s whimpering, wrecked.

You don’t stop—keep riding, slow and mean, overstimulating him ‘til he’s squirming, gasping, “Too much—fuck—” but you just laugh, grinding ‘til he’s twitching, cum leaking out around his cock, staining his tights. “Should’ve fucked me sooner,” you say, climbing off, leaving him slumped, panting, a sweaty, bloody mess in that chair—work forgotten, pride gone, just your perfect, ruined boy.

“Next time,” you warn, wiping your spit-slick hand on his tunic, “don’t make me wait.” He looks up, dazed, lips swollen, and mumbles, “Never again,” voice hoarse, and you know he means it.

— MASTERLIST ☆

— © luv-lock. Don't copy, use or translate any of my works here or any other websites ☆

[enhaflixer]

GOLDEN BOY!

golden boy hard dom!Jake x masturbation addict f!reader

ENHA HARD HOURSSSSSSSSSSS 18+ MDNI: masturbation so much of it, really not suitable for work, weed smoking, temp play, filming, ass play, vibrator. this is the filthiest shit i have ever written in my life type shit. but also fluffy so its fine. plot? what plot

your mornings follow a strict routine: wake up. Ignore your alarm. Spread your legs and ruin yourself to the thought of Jake Sim. he doesn’t know you exist. star student, always on time. you stumble into class late, wrecked, barely holding it together. you get paired up for a project. when he figures out why you’re always late? you’re fucked.  literally.

You woke up soaked. Literally, fucking soaked, the sheets beneath you damp with sweat and slick from how hard you’d been grinding against them in your sleep. It was always like this—an unbearable need that gripped you before you were even fully conscious. And you knew exactly who caused it.

Jake Sim.

The moment your hazy mind conjured up his name, your pussy gave a hard throb, as if your body was starved for him. It didn’t matter that you’d never even held a real conversation. All that mattered was that he existed—perfect, unattainable—and you were so pathetically desperate for him that you’d turned it into a daily routine.

With a shaky sigh, you slid your hand under the thin waistband of your panties, fingers pressing into the sticky mess already pooling there. You hissed out a curse at how sensitive you were, thighs twitching as your digits smeared your own arousal around your clit.

“Fuck,” you whispered, voice breaking, as your eyes fluttered shut and your mind fed you the same filthy fantasies it always did. In them, Jake was every bit the cocky bastard you imagined him to be—towering over you, smirking with that lazy confidence, telling you to spread your legs wider so he could see just how ruined you were for him.

You could practically hear his voice:

“That’s it, baby. Show me how wet you are.”

A guttural moan fell from your lips. Your fingers trembled as you sank them deeper, sliding between your folds until you were massaging the swollen, throbbing knot of nerves that made your back arch off the mattress. Every movement sent sparks racing up your spine, and you chased the friction like a fucking addict—because that’s exactly what you were: addicted to the thought of him.

Your other hand fumbled for your phone, nearly dropping it on your face in your clumsy rush. The screen glowed to life, and you immediately opened that private folder. The nerve-wracking thrill of seeing your own explicit videos made your pulse throb.

Your finger hovered over the most recent one for half a second, heart hammering. Then you pressed play.

Instantly, the room filled with the ragged sounds of your recorded moans. On the screen, you were splayed out, hips rolling in a shameless rhythm as you fucked your own fingers like your life depended on it. The memory of that moment made your cheeks burn, but it also made you fucking wetter.

“Jake… please… fuck—” your recorded voice whimpered, your cheeks flushed and your tits bouncing with each thrust of your own hand.

The real you let out a choked noise, clit pulsing under your insistent fingertips. You drove them harder against your flesh, trying to match the frantic pace you’d seen in the video. A filthy squelch echoed in the room, your soaked folds giving you away, and you bit your lip to stifle a cry.

God, you were so damn desperate. It made you feel dirty as hell—and yet, you couldn’t stop. In your mind, you pictured Jake looming over you, grabbing your wrists and pinning them above your head. He’d probably sneer down at you, that smug grin twisting his gorgeous mouth, telling you how pathetic you looked, cumming all over your own damn fingers just for him.

“Such a fucking slut,” you imagined him saying, and your body convulsed.

You rammed your fingers harder against your slick heat, each drag of your knuckles sending you spiraling higher. Your recorded moans continued to play on loop, mixing with your real ones until you couldn’t tell which was which. Every muscle in your body tensed, bracing for the orgasm that was cresting in your gut like a tidal wave.

“Jake,” you whimpered. It was a half-sob, half-prayer. “Jake, oh God—”

And then it hit.

Your orgasm slammed into you, white-hot and wrenching. Your hips jerked off the bed, your thighs squeezing around your hand so tightly you could barely move. A harsh, broken sound tore from your throat as your body locked up, wave after wave of bliss rippling through your core. You ground your fingers against your clit one last time, milking every second of the high until you thought you’d black out.

Finally, you collapsed, trembling, onto the mattress, breath sawing in and out of your lungs. Your vision blurred with unshed tears from the sheer intensity. Slowly, the quivering in your limbs began to subside, and you eased your damp fingers from between your legs, wincing at how oversensitive you already were.

For a moment, all you could do was lie there, the sticky remains of your orgasm coating your inner thighs, your mind still buzzing with echoes of Jake’s name. You felt disgusting, you felt euphoric—you felt alive in a way that made you crave more.

But reality crashed down the second you glanced at the time on your phone. Fifteen minutes until class started.

“Shit,” you whispered, bolting upright so fast your head spun. Your legs wobbled when you tried to stand, a dull ache centered between your legs reminding you of just how hard you’d gone. You grabbed the first hoodie you saw, yanked it over your head, and fished around for a pair of rumpled jeans from the floor. There was no time to shower, no time to even catch your breath.

As you dashed out of your room, the remnants of your orgasm still clung to your thighs, a humiliating reminder of why you were late in the first place. You couldn’t help but picture what Jake would say if he ever found out the real reason you stumbled through that lecture hall door every day, hair a mess and cheeks still flushed from your obscene morning routine.

He’d probably smirk, crossing his arms and leaning against the wall. “Couldn’t get enough of me, huh?”

The thought made your cheeks flare with shameful heat as you tore across campus, trying not to trip over your own feet. You’d never let him find out—you were certain it would kill you. Yet, a tiny voice in the back of your mind wondered what it would be like if he did know. If he whispered filthy praise in your ear about how you were always late because you were too busy drenching your sheets for him.

Your core clenched at the mental image, and you forced yourself to shove it down. There was no time for daydreams—you were late enough as it was, and your professor was already on the verge of losing his patience with you.

Still, no matter how many times you told yourself you couldn’t keep doing this, you knew you would.

Tomorrow morning, you’d wake up soaked again, thighs trembling, and you’d inevitably plunge your fingers back into that slick warmth while moaning Jake’s name. The filthy cycle would continue, and you wouldn’t be able to stop it, because nothing else felt as good as imagining him breaking you into a moaning, dripping mess.

As you reached the lecture hall, panting and disheveled, you couldn’t help but wonder: what if—just what if—Jake Sim ever saw exactly how bad you had it for him?

But that was a thought for another day, another dirty, mind-shattering morning.

Because you both knew: this wouldn’t be the last time you came undone at the mention of his name.

-

You were already a mess when you stumbled through the lecture hall doors, breath ragged and heart pounding so hard you could feel it in your throat. You were late. Again. The professor’s disapproving glare followed you as you practically crashed into your usual seat in the back row, muttering a hastily whispered apology under your breath.

God, you probably looked like you’d rolled straight out of bed—which, let’s be honest, you basically had. Not that you’d been sleeping. No, you’d spent your precious morning minutes rubbing out a frantic orgasm, fueled by thoughts of Jake Sim and all the ways he could ruin you if he ever laid a hand on your needy, desperate body.

Your clit still throbbed with the memory.

You tried to steady your breathing, force your mind to focus on the lecture happening around you. But your professor’s words were just a dull roar in your ears. You caught phrases like “group project” and “semester-long assignment,” but your brain refused to process them, still half-fogged from the wave of pleasure you’d torn out of yourself not fifteen minutes ago.

Then the professor called your name.

You blinked, snapping out of your daze just in time to see that he was pairing you off with someone. The rest of the class fell silent, heads turning toward you as you awkwardly cleared your throat, cheeks warming under the sudden attention.

“Jake Sim,” the professor said, scanning the attendance sheet. “You and Jake will be partners for the entire project.”

Your entire body stiffened.

Jake Sim.

Jake fucking Sim.

Your clit gave a punishing pulse at the mere mention of his name, so strong it sent a hot jolt of need straight through your core. You barely managed to swallow a gasp, thighs clenching under the desk as if that might calm the ache.

Across the room, Jake lifted his head. He had been taking notes, or maybe doodling—hell if you knew. He looked up when he heard his name, and his eyes flicked briefly over to you. He didn’t seem particularly surprised or amused. He just…nodded. Like it was no big deal.

Meanwhile, you sat there, completely frozen, trying not to let your face betray the fact that your cunt was literally fluttering at the prospect of spending hours—hours—with him on this project. Your mind spun with a million frantic thoughts: how were you supposed to look him in the eye when you had fingered yourself that same morning while moaning his name?

You almost wanted to run.

But there was nowhere to go, and the professor’s gaze was still locked on you, waiting for some sign of acknowledgment. So you forced a nod, swallowing hard, your pulse thundering in your ears.

When class finally ended, you practically bolted up from your seat, gathering your things in a clumsy rush. All you could think about was escaping before you did something mortifying—like spontaneously combusting from the intensity of the situation.

But you weren’t fast enough.

Jake Sim stood waiting for you in the aisle. You noticed, with a sinking sensation in your stomach, that he was even taller up close, shoulders broad under that signature hoodie, a slight quirk to his full lips as he watched you fluster about.

“Hey,” he said, his voice low but clear in the post-lecture murmur. “Guess we’re partners, huh?”

Your heart just about crawled up your throat and died there. You couldn’t form coherent words. Instead, you let out some pathetic sound halfway between a squeak and a cough.

Jake’s brows rose a fraction, and that quirk at the corner of his lips deepened. “You okay?”

No. Absolutely not. Your palms were sweating, your cheeks were on fire, and your core was still buzzing with the aftereffects of your morning orgasm. Knowing he was so close—close enough to smell the faint hint of laundry detergent clinging to his hoodie—nearly made your knees buckle.

“Uh, yeah,” you managed, trying to sound casual and failing miserably. “Just—tired.”

“Tired,” he echoed, giving you an appraising once-over. “Rough morning?”

You swallowed, a traitorous flush creeping up your neck. He had no idea just how rough.

“Something like that,” you muttered, pretending to rummage in your backpack to avoid meeting his gaze.

Jake shrugged. “Well, we should probably figure out a time to meet up for the project. Professor wants a proposal next week.”

He said it so matter-of-factly, so…normal. Meanwhile, your head was spinning because you were about to be in a room alone with him, studying economics, while your body screamed for him to fuck you senseless.

“Uh, yeah,” you repeated, feeling like a malfunctioning robot. “We…should definitely do that.”

God, you wanted to slap yourself. Could you be any more awkward?

Jake tilted his head, brown eyes flicking over you again, a subtle curiosity in his gaze. “How about tomorrow? Afternoon?”

Tomorrow. That meant you had less than twenty-four hours to get your shit together—to not end up a quivering puddle of arousal at his feet. Less than a day to build up some sort of immunity to his existence.

But you nodded anyway, because what else could you do? “Sure. Works for me.”

He gave a little smile, just a quick curve of his mouth, but it was enough to make your stomach tighten painfully. “Cool. I’ll, uh—text you, I guess?”

“Yeah. Text. Right.”

Your tongue felt leaden and stupid, and your heart hammered wildly against your ribcage. You wondered if he could hear it—wondered if he’d notice the pulse beating in your throat or sense the way your entire body vibrated with the memory of your morning orgasm.

But Jake just nodded again, hands sliding into the pockets of his hoodie. “See you tomorrow, then.”

He turned and left, effortlessly blending into the crowd of students filtering out the door. You stood there like an idiot, your mind replaying the conversation, analyzing every second for hints of pity or amusement on his part.

He didn’t seem weirded out. Didn’t seem suspicious of why you were so…flustered. He’d probably forget about you the moment he headed to his next class.

Meanwhile, you?

You tried to breathe, leaning heavily against one of the desks as you clutched your notes to your chest. Your thighs pressed together, a pitiful attempt to quell the ache that refused to leave you alone. It was as if your body recognized him on some primal level and refused to let go of the fact that he was standing right in front of you.

He had no idea how badly you wanted him—no clue you literally jacked off to his name almost every morning, that you were always late because you were too busy chasing orgasm after orgasm in a delirious haze of lust.

Well, now you’d have to fake it—pretend that you were normal, that you weren’t some perverted mess drooling over him in secret. You just hoped you could keep it together, especially once you were locked in a study room together, going over spreadsheets and supply-demand curves while your body screamed for something entirely different.

And worst of all, you had the sinking feeling that tomorrow’s routine wouldn’t be any different. You’d probably still wake up, still stroke your throbbing clit to the thought of Jake’s voice, Jake’s hands, Jake’s cock…

But maybe, just maybe, you’d manage not to be late this time.

Fat chance.

-

Studying with Jake Sim was a fucking nightmare—in the filthiest, most torturous way possible.

He had this infuriating habit of showing up in the laziest outfits imaginable, usually some combination of sweatpants and a hoodie. You might’ve thought the casual attire would make him look approachable or less intimidating, but it only did the opposite. He wore those gray sweats like a second skin, settling into his chair with an ease that bordered on sinful. His legs spread obscenely wide, claiming space that shouldn’t be his to claim.

The hoodie was somehow worse. It clung to his broad shoulders, emphasizing the sharp line of his collarbones and the solid build of his chest. And since he always—always—rolled his sleeves up to the elbows, you were treated to the tantalizing sight of his forearms: faint veins tracing a path over lightly tanned skin, muscles shifting whenever he flexed his fingers or picked up a pen.

It drove you insane.

Every time he tilted his head in thought, his hair would slip across his forehead, drawing attention to the dark, intense eyes beneath. Sometimes he licked his lips—absently, like he wasn’t even aware he was doing it—and every time it happened, a low, pulsing heat rippled through your stomach.

But the worst part? Jake had a thing for tits.

You first noticed it in the little stuff: the way his gaze drifted south whenever you leaned over your notes, the split-second hesitation in his voice if your shirt happened to be cut too low. His eyes would flick to your chest, then dart away so quickly you’d think you’d imagined it—except the slight tension in his jaw proved otherwise.

He tried to hide it. Tried to keep himself polite and focused on the assignment, but the more you studied together, the more obvious it became. He had to physically force himself not to stare, clenching his jaw or gripping his pen with a little too much force whenever your shirt shifted in just the right way.

Eventually, you decided to test him.

One night, you showed up at his place wearing a tight little tank top—no bra underneath, of course. The fabric hugged your curves, thin enough that your nipples peaked through whenever the room got too cold. You pretended to be completely oblivious, scrolling through your laptop as though there wasn’t a very obvious reason Jake’s gaze kept snagging on your chest.

His reaction was immediate. The second you walked in, his eyes darkened, pupils dilating as they betrayed his interest. He coughed, cleared his throat, and busied himself with the project notes, but he couldn’t hide the subtle tremor in his voice when he asked, “So, um, ready to start?”

You dragged a chair up to the small desk, taking care to sit opposite him so he’d have an unobstructed view. For a while, you both pretended to work—typing away, sorting through textbooks, exchanging random facts about supply and demand. But every time you spoke, his attention drifted down, no matter how hard he tried to stay focused on your face.

Your heart pounded every time you caught him looking. Desire coiled low in your belly, and your nipples tightened beneath the thin fabric, practically begging for him to notice. Your entire body thrummed with this heady mixture of confidence and need, and you couldn’t help but push it further.

“Ugh, it’s so hot in here,” you sighed dramatically, arching your back to stretch. The movement sent your breasts straining against the tank top, and you saw Jake’s jaw clench, the tendons in his neck standing out as he forced himself not to stare directly at you.

He tried to keep his cool, but his next words came out more clipped than usual. “I can open the window.”

You shrugged, letting the straps of the tank top slide a fraction of an inch down your shoulder. “Nah,” you said, voice laced with feigned innocence. “Don’t worry about it.”

The tension in the air was palpable, an almost electric charge crackling between you. Your thighs pressed together beneath the desk, desperate for some kind of friction. You could practically feel his gaze lingering on your chest when you looked away, fueling that simmering warmth between your legs.

Finally, Jake snapped.

“You do that shit on purpose, don’t you?” he muttered, voice pitched low and tight enough to send shivers skittering down your spine.

You fought the smirk threatening to curve your lips. Your stomach flipped with excitement and arousal. “Do what?” you asked, feigning obliviousness, even though your heart was about to hammer out of your chest.

He exhaled slowly, eyes flicking to the tank top that was barely containing your chest. “You know what,” he ground out, then made a visible effort to calm himself, dragging his gaze to your face.

It took everything in you not to let out a triumphant laugh. You could see the frustration warring with desire in his dark eyes, saw the way his fingers curled into fists as if he had to physically restrain himself. There was a fine tremor in his forearms—those fucking forearms—that made your insides clench with a perverse satisfaction.

Your own arousal pulsed, nipples practically aching as they brushed against the fabric. There was this suffocating urge to crawl into his lap, to press your tits against his chest and see just how fast you could break that composure. But you held back. Because that wasn’t the plan. Not yet.

“I’m just trying to study,” you said, tone as sweet as sugar, batting your eyelashes in an overdone performance of innocence.

Jake’s stare hardened, and for a moment, you thought he might say something brash—something that would make the air sizzle. But he merely set his jaw, took a long, measured breath, and turned back to the notes.

“Right. Study,” he mumbled, jaw working like he was trying to chew through nails.

You bit your lip to smother a grin, your pulse still thrumming in your ears from the pure, uncut tension between you. Your nipples were so stiff they practically throbbed; you had to shift in your seat to accommodate the constant, nagging ache in your core.

Nothing else happened that night—no heated kisses, no tangled limbs—but it didn’t need to. The filth was already there, simmering beneath every glance, every roll of his shoulders, every suppressed flick of his gaze toward your tits. You could sense the unspoken hunger radiating off him like heat waves, matching the relentless heartbeat pounding in your own chest.

And that was more than enough to leave you soaking by the time you finally left.

-

You woke up with a pounding need at the base of your spine. It was deeper than usual, an ache that gnawed at you relentlessly, demanding satisfaction. The worst part? You already knew exactly who you were going to picture to take the edge off:

Jake Sim.

Every nerve in your body thrummed with anticipation, remembering the way he’d looked at you during your last study session—eyes flickering from your face down to your chest, jaw clenched like he was fighting some internal battle. You’d left his dorm with slick thighs and your mind racing, your entire body aflame.

Today, you wanted to push your usual routine even further. Your fingers alone wouldn’t cut it. With your teeth worrying your bottom lip, you slipped out of bed and rummaged through your nightstand until your hand closed around the small, discreet vibrator you’d impulsively bought a few weeks ago. It was sleek, silicone-coated, made for exactly the kind of play you were craving.

You bit back a trembling sigh and grabbed your phone, propping it against a pillow at the foot of your bed. The little red light began to blink, capturing you in all your messy, unmade-bed glory—hair tangled, cheeks still carrying the warmth of sleep, and a fiercely determined look in your eyes.

“I can’t believe I’m doing this,” you whispered, half to yourself, half to the imaginary version of Jake you conjured whenever you got off.

But you didn’t hesitate. You shed your oversized T-shirt, tossing it aside to expose bare skin. Your nipples peaked in the cool air, and you ran a hand over one breast, giving it a light squeeze before trailing your palm down over your stomach. You settled into the pillows, propping your hips up slightly so the camera had a perfect view.

“Jake,” you murmured, letting your thighs fall apart, “I can’t stop thinking about you.”

Your free hand teased your clit, already slick with arousal, while the other clutched the vibrator. The buzzing anticipation in your veins intensified as you clicked it on, feeling the soft hum rattle against your palm.

Normally, you’d sink it straight into your cunt, but today, you were craving something more depraved. Your breath hitched at the thought of that taboo stretch you barely ever indulged—your ass. The mere idea of Jake guiding it inside you, watching you squirm as you took it deeper, was enough to send a fresh gush of heat through your body.

“Fuck,” you mumbled, heart hammering as you angled the toy behind you. “Jake, I want you…want you here.”

Carefully, you smeared your own wetness over the silicone, letting your middle finger gather some of the slick so it’d slide in smoothly. A gasp broke from your throat the moment you pressed the vibrator’s tip to that tight ring of muscle—just the tiniest bit of pressure made your nerves light up like a live wire.

You couldn’t help the shameless moan that echoed off your bedroom walls. Even though it was just the tip, the sensation had you delirious. You spread your cheeks with one hand, guiding the buzzing silicone in a fraction of an inch, your body tensing and then relaxing around it. A ragged whine tore from your lips.

You could almost feel Jake’s hands there, big and warm, whispering filth in your ear:

“Relax. You can take it. Just like that—fuck, look at you…”

Your other hand found your clit, rubbing messy circles that turned your moans into broken sobs of pleasure. Each slow push of the vibrator inched deeper, stretching you in a way that made your eyes roll back.

“Nngh—Jake, please,” you babbled, voice shaking as you tried to push it just a bit further. “Wish it was your cock…wish you’d pin me down and shove it all the way in…”

You couldn’t hold back. The pressure and vibration melded into something explosive, your clit throbbing under your frantic fingertips. Every muscle in your body coiled tighter, lungs seizing as you hovered on the precipice. The camera recorded it all—the sweat beading at your temples, the flushed curve of your cheeks, the wet, filthy sounds filling the room.

Then it hit. Your orgasm came crashing down, ripping a strangled scream from your throat. Your legs shook, your ass clamping around the toy, your cunt pulsing in sympathy. You writhed against the sheets, half-blinded by the force of it, tears pricking your eyes from the overwhelming relief.

It felt like forever before you could breathe again, the buzz in your nerves slowly receding. You eased the vibrator out, wincing at the hyper-sensitivity, then stopped the recording with a trembling hand. On the screen, the thumbnail showed a glimpse of you with your mouth open in a silent cry, body arched off the bed, pure rapture etched on your face.

Fuck. If Jake ever saw that…

But there wasn’t time for guilt or second thoughts. A glance at the clock made your heart plummet—it was late, and you had to scramble to get to class before your professor threatened to fail you for tardiness. Again.

You only managed a quick wipe-down, barely rinsing the toy and tossing it in a drawer, before you yanked on clothes and sprinted out the door, phone still warm in your pocket from the video you’d just recorded.

The lecture hall was already half-full when you snuck in. You found your seat, cheeks still hot from both the run across campus and the memory of the vibrator filling your ass less than an hour ago. You avoided Jake’s eyes completely, which was easy because he was focused on the front of the class—though you could still feel the tension that seemed to magnetize you whenever he was close.

Throughout the lesson, your mind wandered, replaying the moment of penetration, the hum of the toy, the fantasy of Jake’s hands gripping your hips. You clenched your thighs under the desk, wishing you could burn the images out of your head.

Little did you know, in just a few hours, your world would implode in the filthiest way imaginable.

That evening, you met Jake for a study session in his dorm. The room was small but cozy, a lived-in space with a single bed in the corner, textbooks piled on the floor. He greeted you at the door, wearing a fitted T-shirt that stretched across his shoulders in a way that made your pulse flutter.

“Hey,” he said, stepping aside so you could walk in. “Let’s try to knock out the rest of the research tonight.”

You nodded stiffly, mouth dry. You were always too aware of him—his scent, the way the muscle in his jaw worked when he concentrated, the slight furrow of his brows. It didn’t help that you’d spent your morning taking a vibrator in your ass, moaning his name like you were possessed.

You settled at the small desk with your laptop, while Jake sat on the bed flipping through a shared Google Doc on his phone. The tension was thick enough to taste. Sometimes you swore you caught him watching you from the corner of his eye, but every time you glanced over, he was scrolling or typing, expression neutral.

After about twenty minutes, the soda you’d chugged on your way over came back to haunt you. You needed the bathroom—badly.

“I’ll be right back,” you muttered, closing your laptop’s lid but not fully locking it. Nerves and bladder pressure made you forget the simplest precaution: you’d left a minimized window open from transferring your new “vibrator video” into your private folder.

Jake just nodded. “Sure. Down the hall, last door on the left.”

You slipped out of the dorm, heart still fluttering, mind on autopilot. The hallway was dimly lit, and you disappeared into the bathroom, exhaling a relieved sigh once the door clicked shut.

Alone in the room, Jake glanced at your laptop, noticing the faint glow beneath the lid. Curiosity—mixed with something deeper—bubbled in his chest. He’d been suspecting something was up with you, ever since you arrived late looking thoroughly wrecked every morning. The tension you carried around him was obvious, and he’d caught glimpses of…subtle clues.

With a swift move, he lifted the laptop’s lid. The screen flickered back to life, revealing a folder half-tucked behind your research notes. A folder labeled something simple, but ominous: “Private.”

He should’ve stopped. Should’ve told himself it was none of his business. But a stubborn, electric thrill spurred him to open it. A series of video files stared back at him, each with a plain name—things like “Vid001,” “Vid002.” And the most recent one? Time-stamped that morning.

His heart thudded. He clicked on it.

What loaded made his blood run hot.

You. Naked. Bent back on your bed with a vibrator in your ass, face scrunched up in a mix of pain and pleasure as you eased it deeper. The audio kicked in, and Jake’s eyes went wide when he heard your moans:

“Jake…God, I want you so deep in me…wanna be stretched by your cock…”

His pulse roared in his ears. The image on the screen was so explicit it felt like a punch to the gut. You whimpered, back arched, your hand working your clit with desperate speed, all while the vibrator buzzed between your spread cheeks. And the filthy things you were saying—how you wanted him to shove it all the way in, how you wished it was his cock instead of cold silicone.

Jake’s cock twitched in his pants, heat pooling low in his gut. He watched, transfixed, as your face contorted in a mind-blowing orgasm, your body jerking, thighs trembling. You were screaming his name through it all.

A low, shaky exhalation left his lips. He couldn’t believe what he was seeing. Sure, he’d suspected you had some kind of thing for him, but this? This was on another level. You were a wrecked, filthy, ass-play-obsessed mess, and all of it was for him.

He paused the video at the peak of your orgasm, hand nearly trembling with adrenaline. Blood pounded in his ears, a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. Part of him wanted to keep watching, to see every second of your depravity, but he had to be quick. You’d be back any minute.

With an almost reverent care, he closed out of the folder and gently lowered the laptop’s lid. Then he dragged in a ragged breath, trying to get his heart rate under control.

His mind raced. You were a shy presence at times, stumbling over words, blushing whenever he looked at you too long. Yet behind closed doors, you were filming yourself stretching your ass with a vibrator, moaning his name like he was the only person in the world.

Jake could barely contain the predatory thrill that coursed through him. He tried to shove the arousal down, adjusting his position on the bed so he didn’t look painfully hard if you walked in that second. But there was no ignoring the fact that everything had changed.

You had no idea what you’d just handed him, and Jake was more than ready to see how you’d squirm now that he had proof of just how desperately you wanted him.

-

You barely made it through class without combusting.

Your skin felt too hot, every nerve in your body on edge, a lingering burn still coiled between your thighs from the morning’s routine. As if that wasn’t bad enough, every time Jake so much as shifted in his seat, your body reacted—trained by weeks, months, of late mornings spent getting yourself off to the very thought of him.

And then, class ended.

The moment you stepped into the hall, still shaken, still barely holding it together, Jake was waiting for you.

He leaned against the wall, arms crossed over his broad chest, looking infuriatingly calm while you felt like you were on the verge of collapsing. His dark eyes flicked over you, a slow drag, lingering just long enough to make your stomach tighten. He wasn’t just looking at you—he was studying you, examining you, as if piecing together a puzzle that had finally clicked into place.

A slow curl of heat unfurled in your belly. Something about the way he held your gaze, the faintest smirk tugging at his lips, made you feel exposed. Laid bare.

Something was wrong.

Your hands curled into fists at your sides, breath uneven as you tried to keep your face neutral. “What?” you asked, attempting to sound indifferent, but your voice betrayed you, cracking slightly on the single word.

Jake didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he let the silence stretch, dragging his tongue over his lower lip in thought. His fingers twitched against his arms where they were crossed over his chest, and his gaze dipped lower—not just over your body, but like he was seeing straight through you.

Your stomach clenched. He knew something.

“Didn’t sleep well?” he finally asked, voice deceptively casual.

Your heart lurched. He was playing with you.

You forced yourself to scoff. “What are you talking about?”

Jake hummed, tilting his head slightly, and your stomach sank at the knowing glint in his eyes. You felt yourself locking up, body screaming at you to flee, but it was too late.

“I wonder…” he mused, tapping his fingers against his arm. “Is that why you’re always late?”

The world tilted beneath you.

Your throat closed, fingers twitching at your sides, because he didn’t say it like an accusation—he said it like a revelation.

Jake took a step closer, and you swore your knees almost buckled.

“You’re always late,” he murmured, voice smooth as sin, laced with amusement. He tilted his head slightly, eyes never leaving yours as he leaned in just enough for you to feel the warmth of his breath against your skin. “Always looking like you’ve just been fucked.”

Your breath hitched. Your pulse roared in your ears.

“What—” Your voice barely worked, caught between panic and something even deeper—something raw, electric, dangerous.

Jake’s lips curved, dark amusement flashing across his face. “You get off before class, don’t you?”

Your entire body went up in flames. Your thighs clenched so tightly that you swore he could see it, see the way his words wrecked you from the inside out.

Jake didn’t wait for you to answer. He already knew. He had proof.

The realization crashed into you like a truck. The video.

Your breath caught in your throat.

Your laptop. The folder. The fucking recording from that morning.

The vibrator. The way you moaned his name. The way you begged for it to be him.

Jake had seen it.

Oh my god.

He had fucking seen it.

A low chuckle vibrated from deep in his chest, his lips twitching upward at the sheer horror that must have been written all over your face. His eyes darkened, filling with something lethal, something triumphant.

And then came the final blow—the words that shattered you, sent that familiar ache between your legs into something unbearable.

“You could’ve just asked me to help, baby.”

Your stomach dropped. Your knees almost buckled.

You were done for.

The world tilted on its axis. Everything else around you—the bustling students, the muffled sounds of conversations, the faint scraping of chairs against tile—blurred into meaningless background noise. All that existed was him. His smirk. His words. The absolute certainty in his voice that left no room for denial.

Your mouth opened, some kind of weak protest forming on your tongue, but Jake moved closer, shutting you down before you even had a chance to breathe. His presence was overwhelming, his body heat radiating off him like a furnace, his scent—clean, musky, laced with something so distinctly him—filling your senses, making your knees weak.

“You get off before class,” he repeated, softer this time, almost teasing, like he was savoring the confession he had yet to hear from your own lips. His voice dropped lower, becoming something dark, possessive. “And you think about me when you do it, don’t you?”

Your lungs seized. You couldn’t move. You couldn’t breathe.

Jake tilted his head, studying you, watching the way your fingers twitched at your sides, the way your lips parted in a silent gasp, the way your thighs pressed together instinctively—as if that would do anything to stop the inevitable, the brutal ache between your legs that he had just made ten times worse.

“Tell me I’m wrong.” His voice was smooth, dripping with mocking confidence, because he knew you couldn’t.

Your brain scrambled for an escape. For an excuse. For anything that might get you out of this, because if you admitted it—if you said it out loud—there would be no turning back. You’d be his. Completely. Utterly.

Jake was too close now, his breath fanning over the shell of your ear, his tone taunting. “What is it, baby?” His fingers ghosted along your wrist, not quite touching but close enough to drive you insane. “Cat got your tongue? Or are you too busy thinking about the way you spread your legs for me every morning?”

Your breath left you in a shattered gasp.

You shouldn’t have reacted. You knew better. But your body betrayed you—your thighs clenched harder, your nipples tightened under the thin fabric of your shirt, your entire core clenched around nothing, desperate for the friction you had been denying yourself all class.

Jake saw it. He saw everything.

He chuckled, voice dark and satisfied. “Oh, you really are a filthy little thing, aren’t you?”

Your body burned.

Jake smirked. His fingers—strong, veined, perfect—finally reached you, just the barest brush of his knuckle against the inside of your wrist, but it sent a violent shudder through you.

And now, he fucking knew it.

“I’ll see you tonight,” he said smoothly, turning away like he hadn’t just left you a trembling, soaking mess in the middle of the hallway.

-

You spent the entire day in a state of absolute wreckage.

After Jake’s confrontation in the hallway, after his words had wrapped around you like a noose, you had barely functioned. Your thoughts were a mess, your body useless, stuck in a constant loop of shame, arousal, and anticipation. He had seen it. He had seen you—spread out, stuffed full, moaning his name like a desperate, filthy thing. And now, tonight, you had to face him again.

Your stomach flipped violently as you stood in front of your bathroom mirror, gripping the sink, forcing yourself to take slow, measured breaths.

You had to get it together. You had to act like you weren’t already falling apart before you even stepped into his dorm.

But the problem was—you were. You so were.

The moment you let your mind wander, it all came rushing back. Jake’s voice, low and taunting. His gaze, dark and knowing. The way his fingers had hovered so close to your skin, how he had whispered filth into your ear like he already owned you.

And now, tonight, he would.

Your breath shuddered. Your thighs clenched.

You couldn’t go to him like this, already weak and needy. You needed to take the edge off, just enough to think clearly, just enough to face him without completely unraveling the second he looked at you.

Your hand slipped beneath the waistband of your shorts before you could think twice.

You sighed, the relief instant as your fingers slid through the ridiculous mess between your legs. You were soaked, soaked, had been all day. It was humiliating, how little it took. The heat, the tension, the memory of him catching you—it had left you dripping, thighs sticky and aching since the moment he walked away from you in that hallway.

But tonight, you needed more than your fingers.

Your eyes flicked to the cool bathroom sink, and your breath hitched.

You turned around, hands bracing against the counter, angling yourself just right before slipping your fingers behind you, dragging them through your folds from the back, teasing your entrance in a way that made your legs tremble.

A gasp ripped from your throat as you pressed two fingers inside, stretching yourself open while your hips rocked forward, grinding your clit against the cold, smooth porcelain. The sensation was overwhelming—the deep, slow stretch inside you paired with the delicious friction against your swollen, aching clit.

“F-Fuck,” you whimpered, forehead pressing against the mirror as you humped the sink, fingering yourself deeper, imagining it was Jake standing behind you, one big hand on your hip, the other sliding down between your legs to keep you in place while he filled you up.

Your breath came ragged, hips stuttering, thighs quivering as you rode the edge, grinding your clit down harder, fucking your fingers deeper, thinking about how Jake would hold you still, how he’d groan against your ear, whispering, “You’re such a needy little thing, aren’t you?”

Your stomach tightened, the orgasm coiling, building, about to—

And then your phone buzzed.

You froze.

Your heart stopped. Your stomach plummeted. Your fingers stilled immediately, guilt crashing over you in suffocating waves.

You scrambled for your phone, unlocking it with shaking hands.

Jake: Don’t. Touch. Yourself.

Your blood ran cold.

You swallowed, staring at the text, heart pounding as another one came through.

Jake: You’ll do that when you’re here.

Your breath left you in a shaky exhale, thighs clenching involuntarily at the absolute authority in his words. You couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe, could only sit there, fingers still buried inside yourself, aching, trembling, waiting.

Then—

Jake: And when you get here? You’re going to show me just how much you need it.

Your entire body shuddered.

Your clit pulsed beneath your untouched folds, but you didn’t dare move. Not now. Not when you were seconds away from finishing, and Jake had just ripped that privilege away from you.

Another text buzzed onto the screen.

Jake: If you’re even a second late, I’ll make you wait even longer.

You swallowed a whimper. You had to go. Now.

Your legs felt like they barely worked as you stumbled up from the sink, heart hammering, stomach twisting into knots of frustration, anticipation, arousal so thick you could choke on it.

You had no idea how you were going to survive this night.

-

You hesitated outside Jake’s door, hands clammy, thighs pressed together so tightly it almost hurt.

Your body wasn’t over it.

Not even close.

The bathroom incident had left you on the brink, your body still buzzing, still needy, still aching for something you weren’t allowed to have until you stepped inside. You could still feel it—the cool sink against your clit, the way your own fingers had stretched you open from behind, the way Jake’s texts had snapped you back to reality at the worst possible moment.

And now you were here.

You wiped your palms on your thighs, forced yourself to breathe, forced yourself to knock even though every part of you screamed run.

The door opened almost immediately.

Jake stood there, leaning against the frame, one hand braced above his head, the other resting casually in the pocket of his sweatpants. His eyes raked over you, scanning your body like he already knew what kind of state you were in.

Like he could smell it on you.

You swallowed hard, barely holding back a whimper.

“Come in.”

His voice was smooth, deep, dripping with something dangerous. He stepped aside, leaving just enough space for you to squeeze past him. The second you moved, his hand brushed against your lower back—a simple touch, barely even there, but it felt like a brand.

Your breath hitched.

The door clicked shut behind you.

You were alone with him now.

The air felt thick, suffocating, charged. You could hear your own pulse pounding in your ears, the faint sound of your breath coming in quick, uneven puffs. Your nerves were a mess, anticipation tangling with embarrassment because—

You knew why you were here.

And so did Jake.

You took a shaky step forward, barely processing the way Jake moved behind you. Slow. Calculated.

“So,” he murmured, the heat of his breath suddenly right at your ear. “Are you gonna tell me how close you were?”

Your entire body seized up.

He wasn’t touching you—not yet—but his presence alone was suffocating, pressing against you like a heavy weight.

You licked your lips, swallowed hard. “W-what?”

Jake chuckled.

“Don’t play dumb, baby.” His fingers ghosted over your hip, just enough to make you tremble. “I told you not to touch yourself. And yet…”

You sucked in a breath as his other hand trailed up, dragging two fingers over your exposed throat, pressing just lightly enough that your head tipped back on instinct.

“You couldn’t help yourself, could you?”

Your thighs clenched.

His touch was barely there but it was too much. Too much, because you were already soaked, already aching, already at the point where you’d do anything—

But he wasn’t giving it to you.

Not yet.

Instead, he pressed his fingers just a little more firmly against your throat, tilting your head back so you had no choice but to look at him. His dark eyes held yours, and the corner of his mouth curled.

“Be honest with me.”

You swallowed hard, heat pooling between your thighs.

Jake’s fingers brushed down your throat, slow, teasing, until they rested just beneath your collarbone. His thumb dragged lower, just barely dipping beneath the neckline of your shirt.

You could barely breathe.

You shouldn’t have been this turned on just from a few words. Just from the way his thumb traced your skin, from the way he was looking at you like he already owned you.

But then he leaned in, so fucking close, lips just barely brushing against your ear as he whispered—

“How close were you when I told you to stop?”

A whimper escaped you before you could stop it.

Jake groaned, low and satisfied. His fingers tightened, just enough to make your breath catch, just enough to make your body scream for more.

“I bet you were close.” His breath was hot, his tone mocking. “I bet you were right there, fingers dripping, about to make a mess of yourself.”

You bit your lip hard enough to sting, trying to stop the truth from slipping out.

Because if he knew the full truth—if he knew what you’d actually been doing—

Grinding against the bathroom sink, rubbing your clit against the cool porcelain like some desperate, shameless thing—

You’d die on the spot.

Jake must have sensed it. Felt it. Because his fingers curled against your chin, tilting your face up. His eyes searched yours, his smirk deepening, his voice dropping even lower.

“What else?”

Your pulse skipped. “W-what?”

His lips nearly brushed yours. “You were doing more than just touching yourself, weren’t you?”

You couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. Your silence was a dead giveaway.

Jake chuckled, dark and knowing. His grip on your chin tightened. “Tell me.”

Your stomach dropped.

“I—I…” The words got stuck in your throat.

His smirk widened. “You’re gonna say it out loud, baby. Or I’ll make you.”

Your breath shook, your entire body on the verge of collapse. You wanted to fight it, wanted to pretend you still had some dignity left, but Jake’s gaze was relentless.

And he wouldn’t let you go until you gave him what he wanted.

A deep, humiliating heat spread over your body as you finally whispered, “I—I was…grinding against the sink.”

Jake inhaled sharply, his entire body going still.

His grip on your chin tightened, and for a moment, you thought he might snap. He didn’t move, didn’t speak—just processed what you’d just admitted.

Then, slowly, so deliberately that it made your stomach flip, he let out a low, dark chuckle.

“Fuck,” he muttered, his free hand flexing at his side. “That’s what you were doing?”

You nodded weakly, shame pooling in your stomach.

Jake exhaled through his nose, his jaw clenching, and suddenly, his hand slid from your chin to your throat, holding you there—not squeezing, just keeping you still.

“You’re a filthy little thing, aren’t you?”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t.

Jake smirked, something dangerous flashing in his gaze, something calculated.

“You’re gonna show me,” he murmured. “Later.”

Your breath hitched.

“And I’m gonna take a video.”

Your knees nearly gave out.

Jake sat back on his bed, legs spread wide, leaning against the headboard with an ease that only made the situation worse—or better, depending on how you looked at it. His hoodie was gone, discarded somewhere in the room, leaving nothing but smooth, bare skin, the sharp lines of his collarbones, the toned muscles of his chest, and the faintest trail of hair disappearing beneath the waistband of his sweatpants.

But what really ruined you was the bulge straining against the soft fabric of his grey sweats.

It was… big. Heavy. Obscene. The kind of size that made your stomach clench with something dangerously close to desperation. He wasn’t even touching himself, wasn’t even adjusting—just sitting there, watching you like he had all the time in the world.

And then he did something that made your breath stutter.

He reached over to his nightstand and grabbed his phone, unlocking it with a single flick before tilting his head at you, smirk lazy, expectant.

“I’m filming this,” he murmured, voice dripping with authority. “Start stripping.”

Your stomach flipped.

Your body burned.

You should have hesitated—should have felt embarrassed, should have tried to argue—but the only thing you felt was a deep, thrilling pulse between your legs.

You didn’t even question it.

Your hands moved before your brain caught up, fingers gripping the hem of your shirt, peeling it up slowly, dragging it over your stomach, higher, teasing yourself as much as you were teasing him. The air felt thick, charged, electric as you bared more skin, the camera recording every second.

Jake hummed approvingly. “Good girl. Keep going.”

The shirt hit the floor. You reached for your shorts next, hooking your thumbs into the waistband, dragging them down inch by inch, knowing exactly how much of a show you were giving him.

By the time you stood before him, stripped down to nothing but your soaked panties, Jake’s smirk had sharpened into something dangerous.

“Lose those too,” he ordered, tilting the phone slightly to capture your every movement.

Your breath hitched, but you didn’t stop.

You slid your hands down, curling your fingers beneath the waistband, peeling them down agonizingly slow, letting the fabric drag over your thighs before stepping out of them completely.

Now you were bare.

Jake exhaled through his nose, pleased. His free hand dragged over his own thigh, fingers flexing, his grip tightening the moment you stepped forward, fully exposed, completely his.

“Touch yourself,” he commanded. “Let me see what you do when you think about me.”

You obeyed instantly, trailing your fingers over your stomach, your thighs, your hips—everywhere but where you needed it most. Your breath came in slow, teasing gasps as you let your fingers finally slip lower, grazing your clit, a sharp whimper escaping as you made contact with the aching heat between your legs.

Jake groaned, the sound low, filthy.

“Louder.”

You whimpered, fingers pressing deeper, moving slower, dragging the pleasure out just to tease him, just to see how long he’d let you keep control.

“Louder,” he said again, voice darker this time. “I want to hear every filthy little sound you make.”

Something inside you snapped.

You moaned. Loudly.

Then again. And again.

It was like you couldn’t stop. The moment the first shameless, desperate noise slipped past your lips, your mouth wouldn’t close, your voice wouldn’t stop spilling every thought you had.

“Jake—fuck—I think about you all the time—”

Your fingers slid deeper, your hips rocking into the pressure.

“I think about your hands, how big they are, how rough they’d feel on me—”

Jake let out a low, ragged groan, his fingers twitching against the bed.

“I think about your mouth, how you’d ruin me with it, how you’d hold me still and make me take it—”

Your breath hitched as you spread your legs wider, rubbing yourself faster, your mind a mess of filth.

“I think about your cock,” you gasped, your fingers slick, sliding in and out shamelessly. “How big it is, how you’d stretch me open, how you’d fill me so fucking deep—”

Jake exhaled sharply, his jaw locked, his knuckles turning white against his thigh.

Then, in an instant, he moved.

You barely had time to react before his hand wrapped around your throat, gripping firm, dominant, unrelenting as he dragged you forward. Your breath caught, a choked gasp escaping as he pulled you right into his lap, forcing you to straddle him, the heat of his body pressing against you.

His grip tightened, not enough to hurt, just enough to make you feel it.

“Stop pretending,” he growled, his breath hot against your lips, his other hand pushing between your thighs, feeling how soaked you were. “You want to act like a shy little thing? Like you’re so innocent?”

His fingers dragged through your slick, making you tremble, making you whimper as your hands gripped his shoulders for support.

“Enough of that.” His thumb pressed against your throat, tilting your head back, his gaze dark, dangerous. “Start acting like the filthy little slut you actually are.”

Something in you broke open.

You whimpered, thighs clenching, your fingers digging into his skin as your hips rolled forward, grinding against his sweatpants, against the huge, heavy bulge pressing against you.

Jake groaned, his grip on your throat flexing, his lips twitching into something darkly amused as you completely fell apart for him.

“There she is,” he murmured. “That’s what I wanted.”

Your mouth ran wild, the words spilling before you could stop them—

“I want you to ruin me, Jake—”

You rocked against him, panting, desperate, his hand tight in your hair now, keeping you in place, making you take it.

“Want you to spread me open—make me take every inch of you—”

Jake groaned, low and wrecked, his hands gripping your hips, holding you against him as you rubbed yourself raw against his cock, soaking his sweatpants with how desperate you were.

You did exactly that.

You pulled your fingers out, spreading your slick between them, before shifting positions—

Turning around.

Bending over.

Spreading yourself open for him.

A sharp, gritted curse came from behind you.

Jake’s fingers flexed against his thigh, his entire body going rigid as he took in the sight before him—your ass up, your fingers teasing at your entrance, the shameless, dripping mess you were making of yourself.

He let out a slow, heavy breath, one that sounded so ragged, so fucking strained, that you almost moaned just from hearing it.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” he muttered, voice low, wrecked.

And that was the moment you knew.

Jake was going to destroy you.

Jake let the silence stretch, let the weight of his gaze sink into you, let you feel just how much he was holding back—barely.

You were still bent over in front of him, still spreading yourself wide, still waiting, dripping, panting, desperate, while he sat back and took his time.

His voice, low, rough, taunting:

“You think this is how I’d fuck you?”

Your stomach plummeted.

Jake exhaled sharply, dragging a hand over his jaw before shaking his head, clicking his tongue in mock disappointment.

“That’s cute, baby,” he murmured, shifting forward until you could feel his heat against you, his presence looming over your back, his breath hitting your spine.

But then—

He grabbed your hips, both hands firm, controlling, and yanked you back against him. Your breath hitched, a choked gasp slipping from your lips at the sudden contact—your bare, slick heat pressing against the thick, hard outline of his cock.

Jake groaned, low, deep, wrecked, his fingers tightening, his chest heaving as he held you there, perfectly still, completely at his mercy.

“First mistake,” he muttered, voice rough against your ear. “You wouldn’t be in charge of how fast or slow I fuck you. That’s my job.”

A shudder ran through you, your hands clenching against the sheets as Jake’s grip ground you against him, making you feel every inch of his cock through his sweatpants.

“Second mistake?” he continued, dragging his fingers over the curve of your ass, featherlight, teasing. “You think I’d let you touch yourself first?”

Your breath caught as his hand moved lower, closer, his touch just barely skimming over your soaked entrance, not enough, not even close, just a tease.

His fingers—elegant, veined, strong—dragged through your slick, gathering it, smearing it over you, spreading you open, making you tremble.

“I’d have you like this first,” Jake murmured, voice silk and gravel, his breath hitting the nape of your neck as his fingers teased, circled, prodded, but never gave you what you needed. “Dripping. Begging.”

His fingers brushed over your tight, untouched entrance, slicking it up with your own mess, and you whimpered, hips jolting forward on instinct, trying to escape the sensation—

But Jake just chuckled.

“Oh?” His tone was mocking, amused. “That got your attention?”

Your whole body seized, heat flaming through your spine, burning at your core, because—

He was still teasing your ass.

Just barely, just the pad of his fingertip, smearing your slick in slow, lazy circles, pressing, nudging, teasing, but not pushing inside.

And he wasn’t letting you run from it.

His free hand pressed into your lower back, keeping you right where he wanted you, keeping you spread, exposed, open.

“You think about this too?” he murmured, voice dark, edged with pure sin. “You think about my fingers stretching you out?”

Your throat closed, your body burning, your breath hitching in a desperate, humiliated whimper, because—

Yes.

Yes, you did.

Jake chuckled, pleased, tilting his head as if piecing it all together.

“Oh, baby,” he whispered, his fingertip pressing just a little more insistently, not pushing in yet, just teasing, just threatening to. “You should’ve seen yourself.”

Your pulse pounded.

“I bet you don’t even know how messy you looked,” he continued, mocking, condescending. “Whimpering, drooling all over your pillow, fucking yourself open for me.”

Your entire body jerked, because you knew exactly what video he was talking about.

Jake just laughed under his breath, slow, deliberate, dragging it out.

“I don’t even think you knew what you were saying, baby,” he murmured, voice almost affectionate, like he was reminiscing. “Kept whining about how you wished it was my cock stretching you open, stuffing you full.”

A wrecked, desperate moan tore from your throat before you could stop it.

Jake groaned, low, pleased.

“There it is,” he murmured. “That’s what I wanted to hear.”

His finger pressed harder, circling, coaxing, never giving you enough—just teasing, just pushing your body past what it thought it could take.

His other hand moved.

His fingers found your clit, pinching, rolling, flicking over the swollen bud with zero mercy.

You gasped, your legs nearly giving out, your moan high, broken, utterly wrecked.

Jake groaned at the sound, his own restraint hanging by a thread, but he wasn’t done yet.

“Stick your tongue out,” he ordered, voice deep, commanding.

You barely had time to process the words before your mouth obeyed, tongue slipping out, slick and needy, desperate for whatever he’d give you.

Jake exhaled through his nose, satisfied.

He shoved his fingers inside your mouth.

You whined, head tilting back as he pressed deeper, letting you taste the salt of his skin, letting you soak them, letting you understand exactly what he was about to do.

“Suck,” he murmured, and you did, your lips wrapping around his fingers, your tongue laving over them, your moans vibrating through your chest.

Jake cursed under his breath, his cock twitching hard beneath his sweatpants, his control hanging on by a fucking thread.

He pulled his fingers out, slick, wet, dripping with your spit.

And then he shoved that same finger inside you.

Your whole body jerked, your breath stuttering, your mind blanking completely as the wet stretch burned, as your body took him, clenched around him, pulled him deeper.

Jake groaned, his free hand slamming onto your lower back, keeping you still, forcing you to take it.

“God,” he muttered, voice strained. “Look at you.”

His finger slid deeper, fucking into you, spreading you open, filling you slowly, deliberately, ruining you.

“You were made for this, weren’t you?” he murmured. “Made to be filled.”

Your moans shattered, your legs trembling, your hands gripping the sheets, your whole body unraveling under him.

Jake just smirked, watching you come apart.

“That’s okay, baby,” he murmured, his lips curling against your ear. “I’m gonna make sure you take it better than that next time.”

Your stomach dropped.

Next time.

Jake just smirked.

“Oh,” he murmured, voice lethal. “And don’t forget—I’m filming the next one.”

Jake had had enough.

Enough of teasing, enough of waiting, enough of holding back while you squirmed, while you whimpered, while you dripped all over yourself without him even needing to try.

Now he was going to ruin you.

His fingers slid out of you slowly, deliberately, letting you feel every inch of the slick drag, letting your body clench around nothing, aching, desperate for more.

You whined, shifting, pushing back instinctively, chasing friction, but Jake’s hands were already on you, pushing you down, flipping you onto your back in one smooth motion.

Before you could even catch your breath, he was on you.

His grip locked onto your thighs, spreading you wide, forcing your legs apart so you had no choice but to bare yourself to him completely.

Your pulse roared in your ears.

Jake exhaled slowly, his eyes dark, hungry, his gaze locked onto the messy, dripping heat between your legs.

“Fuck,” he muttered, almost to himself, his fingers flexing against your thighs, holding you open like you belonged to him.

Your stomach flipped. Your breath hitched. Your body throbbed.

“Be a good girl and show me how bad you want it.”

Your brain blanked.

You knew what he meant. Knew he was testing you. Knew he wanted to see if you were still pretending, still holding back, still playing shy when you were already dripping for him.

He would stop.

He would kick you out.

His voice was low, slow, unforgiving when he spoke again. “If you don’t act like the whore I know you are, I’m gonna stop. And I’m gonna make you leave.”

Your breath shattered.

The weight of his words hit you like a slap to the face.

No more hesitation. No more nerves. No more pretending.

Your whole body flushed hot, heat spreading from your cheeks down to your core as you swallowed your pride, swallowed your shame, and did exactly what he asked.

You let your thighs fall even wider, your hands sliding down your stomach, past your hips, until your fingers spread yourself open for him, letting him see everything.

Jake’s breath left him in a ragged curse.

“That’s it,” he muttered, almost to himself. “There she is.”

His mouth latched onto you immediately, tongue dragging through your folds, hot and wet and messy, licking up every bit of slick that had spilled from you since he started his torment.

You screamed.

Your hands flew to his hair, fingers tangling in the soft strands, pulling, gripping, holding on for dear life as Jake ate you alive.

He groaned against you, the vibration sending shockwaves through your core, making your hips buck, making you writhe beneath him.

But Jake was ready for it.

His arms hooked under your thighs, locking them over his shoulders, his hands gripping your hips tight, pinning you down as he worked you over with his tongue, messy and relentless, like he was trying to drown in you.

“Oh my fucking—Jake—”

You gasped, sobbed, choked on your own moans, because he wasn’t just licking you,

He was devouring you.

Sucking, flicking, rolling his tongue over your clit, dipping lower to fuck you with it, groaning into you every time your walls fluttered around the slick muscle.

Your body twitched, overwhelmed, shaking under the pressure of his grip, the raw, unrelenting pace of his tongue.

He was merciless.

No teasing. No holding back.

Just Jake, consuming you, controlling you, wrecking you.

Your thighs tensed, your stomach tightened, your breath coming in short, sharp, desperate gasps, and Jake fucking felt it.

He knew you were close.

So he got mean.

He pulled away just enough to whisper against your swollen, drenched folds—

“Make a mess of my face, baby.”

Your stomach dropped.

He sucked your clit into his mouth and flicked his tongue over it hard.

Everything snapped.

Your whole body bowed, your mouth falling open in a silent scream, your vision blurring, blanking, as pleasure slammed into you, violent and unforgiving.

You came hard, your body convulsing, your legs trying to snap shut around his head, but Jake just held you there, kept you wide open, kept his tongue right where you needed it, licking you through it, dragging it out until you were a shaking, sobbing mess beneath him.

When it finally became too much, when your whimpers turned into soft, wrecked sobs, Jake eased up, pressing slow, teasing kisses against your oversensitive clit before finally pulling away.

Your chest heaved, your skin flushed, your whole body buzzing, as you blinked up at the ceiling, completely wrecked, ruined, destroyed.

Jake sat back, grinning, his lips and chin shiny, slick, messy with you.

His voice was smug, satisfied, when he finally spoke.

“That’s my girl.”

You were still panting, still trembling, your body wrecked from the brutal pace of his tongue. But Jake wasn’t done with you yet.

Not even close.

Before you could recover, before you could even think, his hands were on you again, flipping you onto your stomach with zero effort, pressing his weight down against you, his body hot, heavy, overwhelming.

You barely had time to catch your breath before you felt it,

The thick, hot length of his cock pressing between your thighs, dragging through your slick, coating himself in the mess he’d made of you.

Your whole body shuddered.

“Gonna fuck you now,” he murmured against the shell of your ear, voice dark, dangerous. “You ready for me, baby?”

You barely managed to nod, your hips tilting up, your back arching, offering yourself up to him in the filthiest display of submission.

Jake groaned, his breath shuddering against your shoulder.

“Yeah, you are,” he muttered, almost to himself. “You’ve been ready for me since day one.”

Your breath hitched when he pulled back, when you felt him shift, when you felt him line himself up,

You felt it.

The thick, heavy weight of his cock sliding between your folds, dragging over your clit, teasing your entrance, spreading you open inch by inch, but not pushing in yet.

You whimpered, a wrecked, frustrated sound, trying to push back, trying to take him, but Jake’s hands were on your hips immediately, holding you still.

“Not yet,” he murmured, voice taunting, smug. “You feel that?”

Your whole body tightened as he dragged himself over your entrance again, so close but still not giving it to you.

“Feel how big I am?”

You nodded furiously, eyes blown wide, unfocused, needy, trying to breathe through the overwhelming feeling of his cock stretching you open already before he was even inside.

Jake chuckled, one hand leaving your hip, gripping the thick base of himself, dragging the fat, swollen head against your entrance over and over, smearing your slick across his length.

“Bet you thought about it, huh?” he murmured, his free hand sliding up your back, pressing between your shoulder blades, forcing you further into the mattress. “Bet you imagined how deep I’d be.”

A wrecked, whiny little moan tumbled from your lips.

Yeah. You had.

And now you could feel it.

Jake was thick. Heavy. Long enough that you knew he was going to ruin you completely.

The head of his cock was flushed a deep, angry red, already slick with precum and the mess you’d made of yourself. A thick vein ran down the underside, pulsing against your entrance as he dragged himself over your folds again and again, teasing, taunting, letting you feel every single inch of what was about to wreck you.

Your thighs shook, your hands fisting the sheets, your whole body fighting to stay still.

Jake smirked.

“Want it that bad?”

You nodded frantically, whimpering, pressing back against him, desperate to be filled.

Jake groaned, low, dark, lethal.

He spat directly onto your asshole.

Your whole body jerked violently, your breath choking out of you, a sharp, desperate gasp breaking from your throat at the filthy, messy sound of it.

Jake chuckled darkly, rubbing the wetness into you with his thumb, spreading it over your tight entrance, teasing, circling, smearing it with your own slick.

“Thought about this too, huh?” he murmured, pressing just the tip of his thumb against it, making your thighs tremble, making your stomach flip, making you whine.

But he didn’t push in.

No—he dragged his spit-slicked thumb down, tracing it between your folds, pressing it against your clit in a slow, taunting rub just as he finally—

Pushed inside.

Your mouth fell open in a wrecked, silent scream, your entire body going taut, because Jake didn’t ease in.

He split you open.

A long, low groan rumbled in his chest, his fingers tightening on your hips, his breath shaking as he forced you to take every inch.

“Fuck, baby,” he hissed, his voice strained, wrecked, strained as he buried himself to the hilt. “So fucking tight.”

Your fingernails dug into the sheets, your legs shaking, your breath completely gone, because the stretch was unbearable, overwhelming, perfect.

Jake didn’t move right away.

He let you feel it.

Feel how deep he was, how full he made you, how there was no more space inside you for anything else but him.

He pulled back, 

And slammed back in.

Your whole body jolted forward, a sharp, shocked moan spilling from your lips as Jake set a brutal, punishing pace immediately.

“You’re gonna take it like a good little slut, yeah?” he growled, his voice low, rough, filthy. “Gonna take it just like you do in those videos?”

You sobbed, whimpered, nodded frantically, barely able to form words, barely able to breathe.

Jake groaned, watching you fall apart, watching you drool all over his cock, watching your mouth fall open in perfect, wordless pleasure.

He leaned down, teeth grazing your ear, his pace never faltering, pounding into you so deep you saw stars.

“Push back on it,” he ordered.

You barely even registered the command—just obeyed immediately, rocking back against him, meeting every thrust, taking him like you were made for it.

Jake growled, his grip tightening, watching the way his cock slid in and out of you, watching the way you took every inch, watching the way you spread yourself open for him completely.

“Good girl,” he gritted out, sweat dripping from his temples, his breath ragged. “That’s it, baby. Show me what a good little whore you are.”

His fingers slid back down, toying with your clit, rubbing it in tight, filthy circles, his thrusts getting harder, deeper, meaner.

Your vision blurred.

Your body shook violently.

“Jake—fuck—I can’t—”

He chuckled darkly, leaning over you again, his lips brushing your ear as he ruined you completely.

“Yes, you can.”

“Be a good girl and come all over my cock.”

Your whole world shattered.

The air in the room was thick, heavy with the scent of sex and sweat and everything filthy you’d just done.

Your body was still shaking, your limbs still boneless, every nerve still buzzing from the way Jake had just completely, utterly wrecked you.

His hands were on you again.

Gentle.

You barely registered the shift at first—too dazed, too exhausted, too blissed out to notice the way Jake’s grip had softened, the way his rough, dominant touch had turned into something careful, careful, careful.

You blinked, still coming down, still floating, as Jake slowly eased himself out of you, hushing you immediately when you whimpered at the loss.

“I know, baby,” he murmured, his voice softer now, a stark contrast to the filthy, merciless way he’d been talking to you minutes ago.

Your brows furrowed in confusion.

Because Jake sounded different.

You barely had time to process it before he moved, scooping you up effortlessly, pulling you into his lap like you were the most precious fucking thing in the world.

Your stomach flipped.

“Jake—”

“Shh.”

His lips brushed your forehead.

Your heart skipped. Your breath caught.

Because Jake had kissed you.

For the first time. But not on your lips.

Not yet.

His hands rubbed slow, soothing circles over your back, his voice a quiet murmur against your skin. “Are you okay?”

You blinked at him, completely thrown. Because what the fuck?

Where was the cocky, filthy-mouthed Jake who had just spent the past hour ruining your entire existence?

Where was the smug, insufferable bastard who had made you beg for it, who had spat on your ass, who had laughed while you drooled all over his cock?

Because the guy holding you now? Was someone else entirely. His hands were warm, steady, grounding. His gaze was soft, searching, real.

Your lips parted, still stunned, but before you could say anything, Jake let out a quiet, almost nervous chuckle.

“Fuck,” he muttered, rubbing a hand over his face before looking back at you. “I should’ve kissed you first.”

Your breath hitched.

Jake exhaled, shaking his head. “Before all of that.” His fingers traced light, delicate patterns up and down your spine. “Didn’t want the first time I kissed you to be during sex.”

Something in your chest ached. You didn’t know what to say.

Because this wasn’t what you expected.

Jake had spent weeks taunting you, teasing you, pushing you past your limits— Now he was holding you like he never wanted to let go. You swallowed, watching him carefully, studying him, trying to understand.

“Why?” you whispered.

Jake’s lips curled into a small, almost sheepish smirk.

His fingers found your chin, tilting your face up to his.

“Because I wanted it to mean something.”

Your entire body stilled. Your pulse roared in your ears.

Jake held your gaze, serious now, voice soft but firm.

“I don’t share,” he murmured.

Your stomach plummeted.

Your lips parted, but no sound came out. Jake tilted his head, his fingers sliding up to cup your jaw, his thumb brushing over your cheekbone, so gentle, so intimate, so fucking real.

“I don’t want this to be a one-time thing,” he continued, his voice low, steady, certain. “I don’t want you fucking anyone else.”

Your breath shuddered. Jake’s eyes flickered down to your lips, slowly He finally kissed you.

Slow. Deep. Consuming.

And just like that, you knew you were done for.

-

Jake’s words from that first night still haunted you.

“You’re gonna show me later.”

You were.

The bathroom lights were dim, the mirror already fogging up from the heat of the room, but none of that mattered. Not when Jake was standing behind you, one hand gripping your hip, the other holding his phone, recording every filthy, desperate second.

Your palms were pressed against the edge of the sink, your body bent forward, the cold porcelain digging into your clit as you grinded against it, mimicking exactly what he had caught you doing before.

Only this time, Jake was fucking you through it.

His cock dragged in and out of you, slow at first, deep and deliberate, splitting you open, making you feel every thick, devastating inch as you rocked your hips forward, rubbing yourself against the sink just like you had before he ever touched you.

Now, Jake was watching.

Now, Jake was inside you.

His breath was hot against your neck, his free hand trailing up your spine, fingers pressing between your shoulder blades, pushing you further down against the sink, making you spread your legs wider, making you take more of him, making you completely his.

“That’s it, baby,” he murmured, his voice wrecked, low, approving, his free hand digging into your hip, holding you exactly where he wanted you. “Just like that. Just like you did for me before I ever fucking touched you.”

Your moans were high, gasping, desperate, bouncing off the tile walls, growing louder and louder as Jake’s thrusts grew faster, sharper, filthier.

“Look at yourself,” he growled, angling the phone so you could see the reflection—see the way your face was contorted with pleasure, see the way your tits bounced with every thrust, see the way his cock disappeared inside you, stretching you wide, filling you completely.

You locked eyes with him through the mirror, and something snapped.

A slow, wicked smirk curled on your lips, and suddenly, the whimpering mess you had been was gone.

You arched your back further, pushing your ass back against him, grinding onto his cock, fucking yourself onto him even harder, your mouth spilling filth without hesitation.

“You see that, baby?” Your voice was thick with sin, sultry and commanding. “See how good your cock looks inside me? Stretching me open like I was fucking made for it?”

Jake groaned, dark and wrecked, his grip tightening on your hips.

“Oh, you like that?” you cooed, deliberately clenching around him, making him hiss through his teeth. “Like watching me fuck myself on you?”

He gritted his teeth. “Jesus Christ.”

“Thought about this for so long,” you purred, rolling your hips. “Thought about you taking me like this—filming me—showing me what a good little slut I am for you.”

Jake cursed under his breath, his thrusts growing harder, faster, deeper, his control shattering as he pounded into you, forcing you against the sink, making you feel every fucking inch.

“You wanna keep talking, baby?” he gritted out, his hand snaking up to grip your throat, making you hold his gaze in the mirror. “Or do you wanna fucking come?”

Your moan broke, your whole body trembling, your legs shaking violently.

“I—I want both,” you gasped, a shameless, breathless mess. “Wanna come all over your cock while you fucking record it. Wanna make the dirtiest fucking video for you—so you can watch me fall apart over and over—”

Jake groaned, his restraint snapping completely.

His hand slid between your thighs, rubbing you mercilessly, his cock slamming into you faster, harder, filthier, and before you could even process it—

You were screaming, your orgasm ripping through you violently, your whole body convulsing, shaking, breaking apart.

Jake got every second on video.

-

Jake liked to smoke weed after long days.

He liked to do it while wrecking you.

The air was thick with smoke, the room hot, hazy, suffocating in the most intoxicating way. You were sprawled out on his bed, your thighs spread wide, your wrists pinned beside your head as Jake’s tongue dragged lazy, filthy circles over your clit, lapping at you with zero urgency, completely unbothered by how fucking desperate you were getting.

In his free hand? A joint.

Burning slow. The smoke curling through the air, weaving between your tangled bodies, seeping into your skin, into your mind, into your bones.

Every nerve in your body was on fire. Every slow, teasing flick of his tongue felt magnified, every inhale he took deepening the fog that was swallowing you whole.

You moaned, squirming, your fingers digging into the sheets as your hips lifted, chasing his mouth, trying to get more, but Jake just chuckled darkly, pinning you down, refusing to let you take control.

He lifted his head slightly, blowing a long, slow stream of thick, warm smoke over your drenched, swollen clit.

Your body jerked violently, a sharp cry breaking from your throat, the sensation too much, too overwhelming, too fucking filthy.

“Fuck—Jake—”

He groaned, lazy, satisfied, licking his lips before dragging his tongue through your folds again, so slow, so teasing, so fucking unbearable.

“Sensitive, baby?” His voice was thick, taunting, dripping with amusement. He took another deep inhale from the joint, holding the smoke in his lungs, letting his fingers slide through your wetness, teasing, circling, rubbing—but never giving you enough.

He exhaled another thick, slow drag of smoke, letting it roll over your heat, watching as the wisps curled around your trembling thighs, your stomach, your completely wrecked, ruined body.

A wrecked, filthy moan spilled from your lips.

Jake smirked against your inner thigh, watching you twitch, tremble, shake, watching your chest rise and fall rapidly, watching the way your fingers clawed at the sheets, desperate for more.

“You like that, baby?” he murmured, his fingers sliding deeper, pressing inside you so fucking slow, dragging against your walls, curling just right.

You whimpered, back arching off the mattress. “Yes—fuck, yes—”

Jake hummed approvingly, the sound low and sinful, his lips dragging over your inner thigh, nipping at the soft flesh, teasing, taunting.

He did something unholy.

He brought the joint down,

And pressed the burning tip directly to your clit.

It didn’t hurt—it was barely a graze, the heat of the ember just close enough to send a violent shockwave of pleasure-pain through your entire fucking body.

You screamed, your legs snapping closed around his head, but Jake just growled, gripping your thighs and spreading them wide again, forcing you open for him.

“Ah, ah,” he tutted, bringing the joint back to his lips for another slow, deep pull. “Keep those legs open, baby.”

Your chest heaved, your mind spinning, every part of you hypersensitive, overstimulated, teetering on the fucking edge.

Jake watched you, eyes blown, hungry, dark, as he reached between your thighs again, his fingers finding your swollen, overstimulated clit, rubbing messy, lazy circles, smearing your slick, keeping you right there, right on the brink.

He exhaled another cloud of smoke, letting it roll directly over your heat.

Your moan broke, a sharp, wrecked sob, your body tensing, shaking, fighting the unbearable pressure building inside you.

“Oh, baby,” Jake mocked, his voice thick with sin, his fingers never stopping, never slowing. “You’re gonna fucking come just from this, aren’t you?”

You nodded frantically, whimpering, writhing, your whole body fighting to hold itself together.

Jake’s lips twitched, his cock straining against his sweats, his own control slipping as he dragged the joint over your soaked folds, rubbing the tip against your clit, watching you jerk, watching your legs tremble, watching you fall apart for him.

You said it.

Your voice was high, wrecked, desperate.

“Please, Daddy.”

Jake froze.

He let out a deep, low groan, something dark flashing in his eyes. His grip on your thighs tightened, his body tensed, his restraint snapping completely.

His voice was rough, strained, wrecked beyond recognition.

“Say that shit again.”

You whimpered, grinding against nothing, teetering right on the edge of something violent.

“Please, Daddy,” you repeated, voice syrupy sweet, dripping with sin. “My pussy wants a hit too it needs it. Need you to make me come so fucking hard I forget my own name—”

Jake growled, his entire body shuddering, his control obliterated.

He took another slow inhale,

He pressed the joint back to your clit, the heat searing, shocking, sending a violent shudder through your entire body.

Your legs spasmed, your stomach tensed, and suddenly you were gushing, soaking his face, his chest, the sheets beneath you, every single muscle in your body seizing as you squirted all over him.

Jake groaned loudly, his hand gripping your thigh bruisingly tight, his tongue lapping up the mess you made, drinking you down, humming against your dripping folds like he’d just found his new favorite way to get high.

Jake took the joint, still damp from where he’d pressed it against your soaked heat, brought it back to his lips, and took one final, slow hit.

His exhale was slow, deep, pure sin as he looked down at you, wrecked, spent, twitching beneath him.

He leaned in, grabbed your jaw, and kissed you.

Filthy. Deep. Destroying.

Smoke still lingered on his tongue, on his breath, invading your lungs, intoxicating you more than any drug ever could.

His teeth tugged at your lower lip, his hand gripping the back of your neck, holding you exactly where he wanted you.

And as he pulled away, leaving you breathless, ruined, completely fucking gone, he grinned against your lips, voice nothing but a low, wrecked murmur.

“Bet you taste even better than the high, baby.”

-

The bathroom was already steaming, condensation rolling down the glass shower door, the air thick with humidity—and the sounds of Jake fucking you senseless.

Your body was pressed against the glass, the cool surface a stark contrast to your feverish, flushed skin, your nipples dragging against it with every brutal thrust, leaving streaks of your desperation across the fogged-up surface.

Jake’s hands were everywhere—one gripping your hip tight enough to bruise, the other wrapped around your throat, holding you in place, keeping you exactly where he wanted you.

Fucking lethal.

“You wanted this, huh?” he growled, his breath hot against your ear, his cock slamming into you from behind, deep, ruthless, unforgiving. “Wanted Daddy to take you like this?”

You whimpered, your forehead pressing into the glass, your nails scraping uselessly against it, because you had no control over anything anymore.

Jake wasn’t just fucking you. He was owning you.

His hand on your throat tightened, forcing you to lift your head, making you stare at your own fucked-out reflection in the glass.

“Look at you,” he murmured, his tone condescending, filthy, dripping with amusement. “You see yourself, baby?”

Your mouth hung open, your lips puffy, swollen, wrecked, your body shaking with every deep thrust, your nipples dragging against the slick surface of the glass, leaving desperate little streaks with every movement.

Jake chuckled darkly. “So fucking dumb for me, huh?”

You tried to speak—tried to say something, anything—but all that came out was a wrecked, helpless little sob.

Jake groaned, his free hand sliding down, gripping your jaw, forcing your head back, forcing you to keep looking.

“You wanted to fuck me in the shower?” he mocked, his hips snapping forward, burying himself so deep you saw fucking stars. “Now you can barely even stand.”

Your whole body convulsed, your walls clenching tightly around him, and Jake felt it.

Felt how fucking wrecked you were.

Felt how close you were.

And he wasn’t having it.

Not yet.

His thrusts suddenly slowed, the brutal, relentless pace shifting into deep, slow, torturous rolls of his hips, dragging his cock out of you so slowly, before slamming back inside.

You sobbed, the glass fogging up from your panting, helpless gasps.

“Oh, you don’t like that, baby?” he taunted, his grip on your jaw tightening, his thumb pushing into your mouth, forcing it open. “Thought you wanted Daddy to fuck you. What happened, huh?”

You whimpered around his thumb, your tongue lapping at the rough pad, sucking instinctively, needing something to hold onto before you fucking lost your mind.

Jake groaned, his pace picking up again, faster, harsher, filthier, his cock hitting deep, devastating spots inside you that made your legs buckle beneath you.

Your moans grew louder, more desperate, high, gasping little cries that bounced off the tile walls, mixing with the sounds of skin slapping against skin, the shower running, the heavy panting of both of you completely fucking falling apart.

Jake leaned in, his teeth grazing the shell of your ear, his hand on your jaw sliding down, wrapping fully around your throat.

“You’re gonna take everything I give you,” he murmured, low, dark, dangerous.

You nodded frantically, whimpering, your hands bracing against the glass, leaving messy little fingerprints in the condensation.

Jake groaned, watching you lose yourself, watching the way your body responded to him, the way you trembled, the way you fucking fell apart for him.

“Go ahead, baby,” he murmured, his thrusts turning erratic, ruthless, brutal, perfect. “Come for me.”

Your whole body snapped.

A shattered, broken moan spilled from your lips as your orgasm slammed into you, your walls clenching, pulsing, milking him, your body shaking violently as wave after wave of pleasure consumed you.

Jake cursed, his grip tightening, his own breath shattering against your ear as he thrust into you a few more times, then he buried himself deep, groaning through gritted teeth, coming inside you, his body tensing, shaking, completely fucking wrecked.

The only sound left in the room was your panting breaths, the steady patter of the shower, the faint creak of the glass as your bodies pressed against it, spent, ruined, completely fucking gone.

Jake’s hands slid to your hips, his grip softening, pulling you back against his chest, wrapping his arms around you as his forehead pressed against the back of your neck.

A quiet, breathless chuckle escaped him. “Damn, baby.”

You laughed, weak, fucked-out, completely ruined.

“Next time,” he murmured, pressing a slow, lingering kiss to your shoulder. “You’re riding me.”

-

Jake had never been gentle.

Not really. Not when it came to you.

Because you pulled something reckless, desperate, uncontrollable out of him.

Tonight was different.

The candles flickered softly, the scent of warm vanilla filling the air, mixing with the faint traces of Jake’s cologne on his sheets. The playlist he made for you played quietly in the background, soft, slow, achingly sweet.

Jake was looking at you like you were the only thing in the world that mattered.

His hands were slow, careful, reverent as he traced your body, fingertips ghosting over your bare skin, leaving shivers in their wake.

He hovered over you, his gaze heavy, intense, the way he always looked at you when he was about to ruin you.

Tonight, he was going to love you.

“Happy one month, baby,” he murmured, brushing his lips over yours, soft, teasing, unbearably tender.

Your stomach flipped, your chest aching, your fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him down, needing more.

Jake chuckled against your mouth, letting you kiss him, letting you taste the slow, burning affection behind every drag of his lips.

“You always so needy for me, huh?” he teased, grinning against your mouth, teasing but soft, always so soft.

You pouted, fingers tightening in his hair, pulling him closer, deeper, slower.

Jake groaned, his body pressing into yours, his warmth wrapping around you, completely engulfing you.

And when he finally—finally—pushed inside you, it was the slowest thing you’d ever felt.

A sharp gasp slipped from your lips, your head falling back as Jake’s body sank into yours, inch by inch, stretching you, filling you completely.

“Fuck,” he whispered, his forehead pressing against yours, his breath uneven, wrecked, completely lost in you.

You clenched around him, your thighs tightening around his hips, pulling him deeper, needing more,

But Jake just smirked, shaking his head, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your jaw.

“Not rushing tonight, baby,” he murmured, voice low, gentle, soothing, but firm. “Gonna take my time with you.”

Your chest ached, your breath shaking, your fingers sliding down his back, gripping onto him, holding him close.

Jake moved slowly, agonizingly so, rolling his hips into yours in long, deep strokes, his body pressed flush against you, his lips tracing every inch of your skin.

It was everything.

The way he whispered against your lips, soft, teasing, murmuring about how perfect you felt, how much he loved being inside you.

The way he kissed you between every word, slow, messy, deep, like he needed you to feel every bit of how much he wanted you, adored you, fucking loved you.

The way his hands caressed your body, memorizing every inch of you, fingertips dragging over your waist, your ribs, your thighs, like he needed to burn you into his skin.

It was soft.

It was overwhelming.

It was Jake, giving you every single piece of himself.

“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he whispered, voice thick, wrecked, raw, his lips pressing against your temple, your cheek, your jaw, before finding your lips again.

And when he finally—finally—pushed you over the edge, it was like drowning.

Your orgasm hit slow, deep, all-consuming, your whole body melting into his, your fingers gripping his shoulders like he was the only thing keeping you tethered to this earth.

Jake followed right after, burying himself deep, shuddering, groaning into your mouth, completely fucking lost in you.

When you were spent, ruined, completely wrapped up in him, he didn’t move.

Didn’t pull away. Didn’t let you go.

Instead, he cupped your face, brushing his thumb over your cheek, soft, tender, adoring.

He kissed you.

Slow. Lingering. Perfect.

“I Love you,” he murmured, lips still pressed against yours, his voice barely above a whisper.

Your heart skipped.

Your breath hitched.

When you whispered it back, Jake smiled against your mouth.

-

Jake had been staring at you for a full ten minutes.

Not subtly. Not in passing. Full-on, pouty-lipped, arms-crossed, lovesick puppy-dog-eyes staring.

You had noticed, of course—you always noticed when Jake was desperate for attention—but you had been trying to see how long he would hold out before cracking. You scrolled through your phone lazily, sipping from your water bottle, pretending to be completely oblivious to the fact that your boyfriend was sulking next to you like you had just broken his heart.

A deep, dramatic sigh.

You smirked, tilting your head just slightly to catch him in your peripheral. Sure enough, he was still pouting, still glaring at you like you had done something terrible.

You raised a brow. “What?”

Jake let out another, even heavier sigh, rolling onto his side to face you, his arms curling around your waist, pulling you against him like you were his last source of oxygen.

“You haven’t kissed me yet,” he muttered, muffled against your shirt.

You blinked. “What?”

Jake lifted his head, his expression pure devastation.

“You haven’t kissed me,” he repeated, dead serious.

You couldn’t stop the laugh that bubbled up in your throat. “Jake—”

“Jakey,” he corrected, pointing to his cheek expectantly.

You bit your lip, eyes glimmering with amusement, but leaned in anyway, pressing a soft, slow peck to his cheek.

Jake let out the happiest sigh, his lips curling into the softest, sweetest little smile, eyes fluttering shut like he had just been granted salvation.

“Mmm,” he hummed, squeezing you tighter. “Better.”

You shook your head, laughing softly, trailing your fingers through his hair, but before you could pull away, he was tilting his chin up, tapping his other cheek.

“Missed a spot.”

You rolled your eyes, but indulged him, pressing another gentle kiss to his other cheek.

Jake sighed even deeper, his hands tightening around your waist, his grin growing even wider.

“Good girl,” he murmured, pressing his face into your neck, breathing you in.

You bit your lip, heart melting at how soft, sweet, and completely in love he was. Jake had his moods—he could be cocky, insatiable, dominant, but this? This was your favorite.

He nuzzled against you, sighing softly. “You know, I’ve been thinking about our wedding.”

Your breath hitched. “Oh?”

Jake just nodded, his smile so content, so blissful.

“Yeah. I’ve got it all planned out,” he mused, tilting his chin up expectantly again.

You smirked. “What?”

Jake pointed to his lips.

You giggled, leaning down, kissing him slow, savoring the soft little hum he let out, the way his fingers curled tighter into your sides.

When you pulled away, he was grinning like an idiot.

“Okay, so,” he started, eyes glimmering. “It’s gotta be on a beach. You in some flowy-ass dress, looking like a literal angel.”

You smiled at the thought, pressing another kiss to his temple.

Jake sighed, eyes slipping shut for a moment, his body completely relaxed, completely wrapped up in the idea.

“And our honeymoon?” he continued, his voice getting even softer, even dreamier. “Bora Bora. Or the Maldives. Somewhere I can keep you in bed for a whole week.”

You gasped, swatting his chest playfully. “Jake—”

“Jakey,” he corrected again, glaring immediately.

You sighed dramatically, leaning down and pressing a peck to his nose.

Jake sighed, so blissed out he could barely speak for a second.

“God, I love you,” he murmured, pressing tiny kisses to your collarbone, your shoulder, anywhere he could reach.

You smiled against his skin, your lips still ghosting over his temple. “Love you too.”

Jake hummed, shifting so he could press his forehead against yours, his fingers tracing slow, lazy circles on your back.

“You know,” he started, his voice lower, softer, full of something even deeper. “I was thinking three kids. Two boys, one girl.”

You smiled. “Oh yeah?”

“Or,” he continued, grinning, “what if we get twins? Like, one of each?”

You kissed his cheek. “You’re ridiculous.”

Jake huffed, tugging you closer, burying himself into your warmth. “Not ridiculous. Just in love.”

He closed his eyes, sighing. “You’re gonna stay home, right? Take care of the house, the kids, let me take care of you?”

Your chest tightened. “You’d be okay with that?”

He snorted, pulling back to look at you like you had lost your mind. “Baby, I’d love that. I’d spoil you rotten.”

Your stomach flipped.

“Think about it,” he murmured, his voice turning lower, teasing. “You, waiting for me when I come home, wearing one of my shirts, telling me how much you missed me.”

You felt hot all over.

He smirked. “God, you’d be the best little housewife.”

You pressed your face into his chest, flustered, overwhelmed, completely wrapped around his finger.

Jake just laughed, holding you so tight, so safe, so his.

“And the house?” he murmured, squeezing your waist. “We need something big, but cozy. A huge kitchen—‘cause I know you love to cook. A fireplace, maybe? A backyard for the kids. A big-ass bed so I can keep you all to myself.”

You whined, squeezing your eyes shut. “Jake, stop.”

Jake grinned. “Jakey,” he corrected one last time, tapping his lips.

You rolled your eyes but leaned down anyway, kissing him slow, soft, deep.

He sighed into it, his fingers curling into your hair, holding you there, kissing you like he had all the time in the world.

And when you pulled away, breathless, hearts pounding, he whispered against your lips, “You’re gonna marry me.”

Your chest ached.

You couldn’t wait to. “Yeah, Jakey. I’m gonna marry you.”

-

The morning had started innocent enough.

At least, as innocent as waking up naked and tangled with Jake Sim could be.

You were supposed to get up early. You were supposed to go to class on time for once. But then Jake shifted, his warm, bare skin pressing into yours, his breath heavy against your ear, his hand already sliding between your thighs before you were even fully awake.

“Morning, baby,” he murmured, raspy, teasing, completely unbothered by the fact that you were already running late.

You lost all track of time.

Jake didn’t need to touch you to ruin you.

Sometimes, all it took was his voice.

“You’re not gonna make it to class, are you?” he mused, low and smug, his lips brushing against your ear.

You shuddered, squeezing your eyes shut as you pressed your thighs together, trying to ignore the way your body reacted to just his words.

Jake chuckled, shifting so he was propped up on one elbow, looking down at you like he was already planning how much worse he was going to make it. Slow, teasing, torturously confident.

“You always do this,” he murmured, tracing lazy patterns along your stomach. “Pretend you’re gonna leave. Act like you’re strong enough to walk away from me.”

You swallowed hard, gripping the sheets, your chest rising and falling too quickly.

Jake smirked. He noticed.

“What’s wrong, baby?” His voice was taunting, almost sympathetic. “Already shaking and I haven’t even touched you yet?”

You exhaled sharply, squeezing your legs tighter together.

Jake tsked. “Oh, sweetheart.”

His hand ghosted down, his fingers dragging over your hip, down the outside of your thigh, barely there, completely teasing.

“You’re already soaked, aren’t you?”

You whimpered, biting your lip, refusing to answer.

He hummed, shaking his head. “So easy for me.”

You turned your head, hiding your face against the pillow, but Jake wasn’t having that.

“Look at me,” he murmured, low and firm, the kind of tone that made your stomach flip.

You hesitated, but turned back, meeting his gaze. His eyes were dark, heavy, filled with pure amusement.

“There’s my good girl,” he murmured, running a finger down your cheek, his voice turning softer, but still full of that unbearable smugness.

You swallowed, trying to keep your breathing even, but Jake could see right through you.

“You don’t wanna go to class,” he whispered, pressing his lips to your jaw, so soft, so slow. “You wanna stay right here, let me ruin you all over again.”

Your fingers dug into the sheets.

“Say it,” he coaxed, his hand sliding lower, his mouth hovering just above yours. “Tell me you’d rather be late.”

Your lips parted, your breath shaky.

Jake smirked, running his nose along your cheek, his lips brushing against the corner of your mouth.

“You wanna be good for me, don’t you, baby?”

You whimpered, your resolve crumbling.

And that’s all it took.

Jake chuckled, shifting over you fully, pressing you back into the mattress.

“That’s my girl.”

-

By the time you both finally dragged yourselves out of bed, you were already doomed.

Jake smirked as you struggled to stand on shaky legs, his grip on your waist firm as he steadied you, smug as ever.

“Careful, baby,” he murmured, biting his lip as he took in the mess he had made of you.

You shoved him, grumbling under your breath as you pulled on your sweater, knowing full well that no amount of adjusting was going to hide the way you looked thoroughly ruined.

Jake didn’t even try.

He pulled on the first hoodie he could find, rubbing a hand through his already-mussed-up hair, his lips still swollen from kissing you senseless.

By the time you actually left, you were beyond late.

Your professor narrowed his eyes immediately.

Jake grinned, throwing an arm around your shoulders like it was no big deal, guiding you to your seats with zero shame, zero regret.

“Nice of you to finally join us,” your professor said dryly, crossing his arms, glancing between the two of you.

You swallowed hard. “Uh, yeah, sorry,”

Your professor raised a brow. “You both look… disheveled.”

You felt your entire body heat up, shifting in your seat as Jake just smirked.

“Must’ve been the wind,” Jake said smoothly, kicking his feet up under the desk, looking completely unbothered.

Your professor wasn’t convinced.

He squinted, glancing at you, then at Jake, then back at you.

“Uh-huh,” he said slowly. “The wind.”

Jake grinned wider.

Your professor exhaled sharply, rubbing his temples. “You know what? Forget it. I don’t want to know.”

You nearly collapsed in relief, but Jake?

Jake was having way too much fun.

He leaned over, whispering in your ear, his voice low, teasing, smug.

“Baby, I think we’re getting too obvious.”

You resisted the urge to kick him under the desk.

From then on, every time you and Jake showed up late to class, looking like an absolute mess— Your professor just sighed, shook his head, and looked the other way.

fin.

-

TL: @ziiao @beariegyu @seonhoon @naurwayyyyy @somuchdard @ijustwannareadstuff20 @ddolleri @annybah @zzhengyu @elairah @dreamy-carat @geniejunn @kristynaaah @zoemeltigloos @mellowgalaxystrawberry @inlovewithningning @vveebee @m3wkledreamy @lovelycassy @highway-143 @koizekomi @tiny-shiny @simbabyikeu @cristy-101 @bloomiize @dearestdreamies @enhaverse713586 @cybe4ss @starniras @wonuziex

[tojisteddy]

Jumping The Gun

or: the one where John Price fucks the idea of marriage into you.

cw: 5.9k words (gawd DAMN), 18+ MDNI, klutz in love!Price, kinda toxic!Price, smut with plot, no use of y/n, dumbification, squirting, p in v, protected & unprotected sex, dubcon, dumbification, creampie, breeding kink, marathon!, cum eating, engagement, reader!has tattoos, reader!is in denial of Egypt, Daddy said a couple times idk, john visuals, reader visuals,

a/n: My Whole Life by Alina Baraz *chefs kiss*

Everyone in the 141 was shocked when John Price came back after taking a month an a half off for leave with a golden ring on his ring finger, a new picture frame to place on his desk, and practically jumping off the roof to fill out more paperwork for a special someone. Again.

You were his third marriage.

John was good at making quick decisions, making up his mind at the exact right time when it was do or die. But the old man was a complete klutz when it came to love.

The first marriage, admittedly, was never gonna last long. He was fresh out of highschool, still in the infantry and married his highschool sweetheart. His parents were sceptical but supportive. It wasn’t uncommon to marry early, hell, his parents did so why couldn’t he?

It just wasn’t in the cards.

The distance and the worry was just too much. The divorce was clean cut since they didn’t have any kids and we’re still young. Him and his ex-wife, Cara, were still fairly close. He’d get a call from the woman and her husband (surprisingly) to come over for dinner every once in a while. No bad blood.

But that second marriage? John was a goddamn idiot.

Was it his fault he married with his eyes and not with his brain? Yes. A man is still a man at the end of the day. You see a woman with an amazing set of knockers on her, pretty blue eyes, skinny waist and blonde hair— you’d fall for it too!

She was obnoxious, loud, and always, always, always needed new clothes, shoes, hair and nails done. Now John had no problem spending on his woman, he’d bring down Jupiter if had to. The problem was she complained and whined. Complained about the clothes not being ‘high quality enough,’ the house not being big enough, the brand new convertible not pink enough. Whined when she went over the already pricey budget the man set for her, that she couldn’t spend his life savings on her, that John was too hairy, ran too warm, too tall—no fucking sense.

He got out of the marriage by the scrape of his teeth, lucky that his siblings convinced him to get a prenup. She left with no pounds to her name, shoving all her belongings in that hot pink convertible and crying that no money went to her when the captain had sold the house.

But you? Oh you. His honey, sweet girl, little wanderer— you were the real deal.

John was walking with a couple friends heading to some bar a few hours after being back in the UK. You were walking the opposite direction, bags from different stores after a day of shopping in your hand. You looked like a model, long black trench coat on, a fitted baby blue crop top, black leather shorts that showed off the tattoos that went down your legs, slouched heeled boots that went mid calf. Curls blowing in the wind, you thankfully hadn’t noticed the hairy fellow till you bumped into him.

“You alright?”

Your brown eyes met his blue ones as he steadied you upright. You were awe struck, as if you were meeting a famous person on the street but you had just ran into a good looking older, muscular, brunette with a few stray grey hairs. You slowly started nodding, laughing aloud at yourself at how dumb you probably looked. “ ‘M just fine.” You said breathlessly.

You started to hear the passing cars, bustle of the streets and the murmur from your phone as your friend on the line was calling out to you. “Shit, I-I gotta go.”

And your feet was guiding you away without another word but your eyes were still glued to the man as you walked away. Looking back as he watched you walk away. You chuckles as you got back on the phone with your friend, disappearing into the croud.

The second time he saw you he was heading for a tea, as he walked past ‘Walker Travel Agency.’ John glanced inside and there a woman sat— no— you, sat turning in your chair towards the computer as you spoke to someone through your Bluetooth. You were dressed in an oversized white button up, black slacks, hair now pin straight in a low ponytail, pinned back by a few purple clips with very a light blush on your cheeks.

Even dressed casually, you were a sight for sore eyes. He tried his best not to look like a creep as he finally went to go get his tea but his eyes were glued to you as he walked past the office again. He figured it was fine just this once. Twice, three times— okay, maybe a forth that was completely out of the way of the military base and his own home but this was fine.

He was just getting tea after all.

But the forth time you stood by the water cooler sipping water, you caught those blue eyes. A small smile formed on your face as he tripped a bit once he saw you finally looking back at him. You gave him a small, shy wave with your fingers before he completely passed the building. Your angelic smile growing wider as he passed the building again to get to his car.

And that continued for another week, waves and smiles and stupid blushes that made his heart jump outs until he finally got the courage to pop his head in. He’d just say hello, this was a silly crush. Nothing more, nothing less.

The doorbell chimed once the door opened and you immediately sat straight in your chair, as you were trained to do when a potential customer came in.

“I was thinking of a trip?”

No he wasn’t. He knew that, you knew that by the way he was completely dressed in military attire and kept staring at you instead of the posters of different vacation spots on the wall. But you nodded your head, gesturing for him to take a seat in front of your desk.

“Where would you like to go sir?”

You two hit it off after that. John would pop his head in, leaving thirty minutes before his lunch break even started just to get his little dose of you, before running off to get a tea. You even started making tea so he didn’t have to go to the coffee shop.

Right, it was his lunch break?

You’d made sure to start packing lunch for two and arranging meetings so your lunch break was suddenly at the same time as his. You didn’t know why you did it for your new friend, it just felt right. You made that forty something year old man feel like a teenager again, he couldn’t just sit on this crush forever. He wouldn’t.

*Care to join me for a pint after work?*

A simple text that he’d debated on for two days had him flushed.

*new message*

Don’t usually drink beer :(

Two days down the drain. Maybe he should’ve asked for dinner instead? Or a movie? A walk? Too fucking causal—

*new message*

but if you’re the one asking, how can I say no?

text me where baby :))

Gaz had to make sure he wasn’t sick before he left work that day because he was as red as a cherry tomato.

You laid it out clean to John that you weren’t ready for a relationship.

“ ‘M too flighty ya see.”

“How so?” You two had already been in the crowded pub at a booth, you’d been chatting for 3 hours already senselessly. One pint for each of you, you weren’t good with beer while John just didn’t wanna make a drunken mistake.

“I told you I’ve just been here for a year, right?”

He hummed, nodding for you to continue.

“Well I was in Brazil before that, Osaka for a couple months before that. DR, LA and France before all that.”

“Oh, you’re a real traveler I see.”

“More than you.” You smirked and John laughed, “Think you can beat me sweetheart? Been all over the world ‘nd back. Thrice over.”

You teased, “I can beat’cha soon enough, just wait on it.” You sighed, picking up your half empty glass to take a sip, “But really, a relationship right now is a no-can-do for me. I’d hate to waste yer time after you’ve been so kind t’me honey.”

“Not a single moment with you has been a waste’ve time, believe me [+].” It was gentle but stern, your fingers brushed over the table which made your heart race faster.

John was too sweet, sinkingly so. It made you question how his marriages didn’t work sometimes but you kept your mouth shut about it. You gave him a smile, “I wouldn’t mind bein fuck buddies though.”

His thick eyebrows furrowed together, “Oh John come on now, you ain’t that old!”

Friends who fucked, he knew what it was. But with you? Someone that he’d grown to care for? This was a line he preferred not to cross.

But damn, those brown eyes under the dim light, the mid length blow out that went just below your shoulders, your long sleeve flared blouse that showed off your cleavage just right, wasn’t helping. He hadn’t even realized he’d given you a ‘sounds good to me’ before you gave him an okay and went on to another topic as if you two hadn’t just agreeded to be sex partners.

The night came to a close around 10:50, John didn’t want you at the station by yourself late at night since you were a woman so he took you home.

“I’m a grown woman, John.” You insisted for the thousandth time.

“Yer a grown woman that ‘m drivin home. Exactly. Yer right.” John nodded along with you nonchalantly and you groaned into a giggling fit, no longer being able to fight with him over this.

You pulled up to your apartment and pointed out a parking spot, John followed suit. Thinking you’d probably rather get out of a parked car than hold up traffic on a Friday night.

You got out the car, looking between your apartment building and the older man.

“You wanna come up?”

John fucking Price was a god damn problem.

The first time you two fucked, was just to dip your toes in. See if the older man could handle you, keep up with what you were up to.

The second time was for good measure. You had to make sure it wasn’t an illusion! Get your bearings in order.

The third time— looking back you should’ve known that’s when he caught you. And I mean really had you for good because you’d be damned if he was fucking some other girl the way he was fucking you.

You had to have a cordial briefing with your friend group, explaining to them how you were now a born again Christian because John didn’t just have you seeing stars. No— you saw Jesus resurrecting from the tomb, legs shaking as they were wrapped around his hips. Chest to chest, as John knelt on the bed, fucking up into you through your orgasm. You’d pushed yourself away from him but he snatched you up just before you passed out.

“Stay with me lovie, can’t have you passin out on me can I?” His pink lips connected with your neck again. Your entire body was trembling. This fool, this barbarian, loooved making you a dummy on his dick. You’d learned that the second time. But this time, fuck, it was strange.

“Strange, baby, it feels- mmph s-strange.” You mumbled through a moan, you were limp as he held onto your waist with one arm, bouncing you just the way he needed you to. He was practically using you as a sex toy and you hadn’t minded. You were drooling on his shoulder and down your own face and that freak kept lapping it up. Opening your mouth so he could spit it back in you and suck on your tongue.

“Your tight little cunt squeezing me so good. You love when I suck your tongue, don’t you pretty?”

Your eyes were rolling into each other again, “loooove it sooooo much Daddy.”

“Come on, kiss me while I give it to you.” He didn’t have to tell you twice to get your lips to latch onto his. John kissed so romantic like, slow, desperate— like he was trying to mold the two of you together and you loved it. John’s thrusts got fast, barley pulling out with every swing of his hips up into your tight walls. But he kept hitting your g-spot, clit rubbing right at the bottom of his hairy abdomen. It felt amazing— too amazing—

You yankied yourself away from him again, “wait! ‘M serious- J- fuuuck- John! It’s too weird! I’m- shit- ‘m gonna pee!”

“ ‘S not pee, let it go.” He gruffed, groaning at how good you felt around his swelling cock.

“It isssss!” You whined out, slapping at his arms but he wouldn’t let up.

“Come on sweet girl, squirt all over me. Wanna be covered in you.”

And the crash came, water works flying every which way and your eyes. John came right after you, babbling about how good you were, how amazing you felt around him. But you were crying real tears now, you swore you just peed all over this older man’s thighs even though you told him it was weird. It was humiliating.

“I told you I was gonna pee, ‘nd you didn’t listen!” You hiccuped, covering your face as John laid you back on the bed. He’s eyebrow lifted as he slipped out of you, removing the filled condom and examining the situation that was now on his pudgy stomach, his thighs, your legs and the bed.

“Sweetie,” he started chuckling at how cute were being, you shoved one of your wobbly legs at his chest. It didn’t do any damage. “Have you never squirted before?”

“No,” you sniffled, “ ‘s just pee!”

“ ‘S not the same thing lovie.”

“Yes it issss!” You retorted, going to kick him again but your own leg giving up on you.

John rubbing your thighs as he got inbetween them. Your pussy was glistening in the rooms light, too mesmerized, he let the pads of two fingers take a swipe of all the juices that sat on your vulva and putting it in his mouth. He moaned at the taste.

You gasped, “John!” You hadn’t meant to see the sight through your fingers but shit, it was making you even more wet. The older saw you squirm, shaking his head, he needed a front row seat this time. He lifted your thighs over his shoulders so his mouth was right in front of your cunt.

“Gotta feel it on my tongue baby, won’t you? Please?”

You two went on like that, calling each other whenever you needed. You were always the first to know when the Captain got home, before his own family, because he’d have his fat cock in you by the time you could finish saying ‘welcome back.’

John couldn’t lie and say it was inconvenient getting to let off steam other than exercising or taking a swing of bourbon. It didn’t help that you were actually such a sweet girl, he loved being around. You two would hang out when you had the chance, going out and about or just watching a movie at home. When you were out, all dolled up in a mid thigh, navy blue sun dress and white heels showed off those gorgeous legs, curls in a high ponytail— you two looked like a sugar daddy and a sugar baby. But you never cared about the looks people gave you, you’d grab his larger hand in yours that was freshly manicured with long soft yellow nails and swing your hands back and forth. Even taking the time to introduce the man properly when you ran into your friends on the street.

“He’s a real carin, smart and just all around incredible guy I swear,” Your eyes would beam at him, so longingly then back to your friends and back to John because you always found yourself getting lost in his pretty ocean blue eyes. “I’m real thankful to have met a man like him.”

How could he have not fallin for you?

It was when you and John accidentally ran into his parents while casually hanging out in his home town he knew he just had to marry you.

You were as charismatic as ever, your southern charm easily pulling them in. John thought for sure they’d be more careful since you were younger than the past two women that John brought to meet them. But despite how eccentric you looked in your shorts that hung off your hips, waist beads around your stomach, crop top and the tattoos that his parents generation definitely weren’t used to, layered necklaces and bracelets— they easily fell for you just like he did.

“You sure ‘bout takin them out for lunch, [+]? You don’t have to.”

You rolled your eyes, pulling out of the parking spot and onto the road.

“It’s only right to treat the folks who raised you John. They’ve done well with you, ‘nd ‘m sure your siblings ‘re just as kind. Plus I kinda wanna see more of your smile through your mom. It’s sooo fuckin cute.”

Yup.

That was right there confirmed, he was gonna put a ring on that fuckin finger. He could’ve blurted it out while at that quaint little lunch you had. His parents adored you, even got your number down to give you a call if you needed anything while you were still in the UK.

The man was gonna get you to stay in the UK.

The first time he’d asked, it was too fucking casual. Again, the man was always too eager. Tripping and falling through love was a bad habit of his. You’d laughed in his face.

“John, baby, please be serious.” You threw your braids up in a ponytail, tip toeing around the room to get your clothes. John did that on purpose, the old man always wanted a little more time with you, to see the sunrise kissing your skin perfectly as that after glow of sex looked gorgeous on you.

He’d pout under that thick beard, fuckin precious bear, “ ‘M bein serious. Want us t’get married, be happy.”

“Don’t you leave next week John?”

“So?”

You deadpanned, “John.”

Okay, he was too eager that time. He should’ve thought it though. Right, you deserved proper proposal planning. Not some random after sex question. You made your way over to that big guy, he was still naked, sitting on the bed with his feet on the floor. You bent over, that same gleam in your brown eyes that shown every time you looked at him. He could’ve fuckin melted right then and there as you placed your hands on his knees, leaving a long a gentle kiss on the corner of his lips.

“You call me if ya need anything John. I mean it, even if it’s those fuckin cookies-“

“—Biscuits—“

“—Whateverrr~” you giggled, lightly touching his beard as John took your waist in his hands. Shit, he’d miss you. Miss your kindness, your willingness to drop everything for him, those long lashes that fluttered when you woke up. “I’ll send ‘em yer way, letter ‘f course too. Whatever ya need, John, you let me know.”

With the softest kiss on the lips, you were on your merry way just as you usually were.

The second time John proposed, he did it right.

He had a proper ring. Simple, because you loved simple. The box was in his pants pocket the entire night, itching to get out. You went to a nice fancy dinner to a place you swore you’d only told him once about, took you for a nice stroll, your curls in a half up, half down, dress hugging you just right and John was in a dressy casual. Ultra simple, classic. He was sure he’d get a yes this time.

He hadn’t even gotten the chance to get on he knee before you’d grab his hands. Your bottom lip trembling.

“Sweetheart…”

“Need you tuh listen t’me baby, please.” You pleaded, tears already threatening to burst out like a dam.

“Now I care ‘boutcha so much John. So much that I hate myself fer puttin you in a situation like this.” You sniffled, squeezing his hand to reassure him.

“But ya can’t marry me.” John lamented.

“John—“

“—what is it then? Is it the age gap? I thought you’d gotten over it.”

“John-“ “-clothes? I’ll give it to you. Want me to shave? Done. Love? I’ve got multitudes. If it’s money- it’s yours.” He was racking his brain for something, anything that could’ve draw you to keep him near. 

“I don’t want your money John.” You cursed.

“Then what do you want?! Why can’t I give it to you?!”

“I want your happiness above all else John! But I can’t-“ your voice croaked. You let go of his hands, “I can’t give that back to ya. I know I can’t.”

“Tha’s a fuckin lie—“

“—I’m sorry John. Truly.”

Without another word, you’d ran off. Your heals clicking against the pavement, cries heard through the silent park.

You’d known John for a year but technically only about 5 months since he was away for the other seven. But you knew so much about him, he’d send letters whenever he could, call, text and be right with you when he was back because it ‘felt like the place he needed to be’. It wasn’t a shock that John had grown to love you, it was a shock that you’d grown to love him too.

It scared the living shit out of you.

So you did what you always did.

Move.

It never took you long, you always had a storage unit ready, a few cardboard boxes in the back of your closet, a new job to hire you in another country because you always knew a little bit of the language. But this time you didn’t move far enough, you didn’t have to heart to. If John were to call you right now, you would’ve dropped what you were doing and ran to him.

Which is why you blocked him on everything (even though he didn’t use social media that often).

You moved yourself to the countryside, in a much smaller apartment but in a much quieter town by the sea. You were working the front of a fish market, did you know about fish? No. Did they hire you because you were pretty and your endless list of credentials at other random places on your resume? Yes. You didn’t have a problem with blending right in, building peoples trust with ease.

It was a good and bad habit.

John on the other hand was loosing his mind because he didn’t know where the hell you were. He couldn’t call you, couldn’t text you, and you weren’t replying to his letters. Fuck, the man called his parents and they managed to get an answer but only vague answers.

He’d come to you flat after being away, rushing through (but properly taken care of) a mission because he needed to make sure you were alright. As he rung thr buzzer, he got no answer. He was lucky one of your neighbors came out and told him what had happened.

How could you have moved without telling him, of all people?

It hurt him more than anything to have a mishap like that happen and then not be able to contact you. But to move? With no explanation?

He could play cat and mouse.

He’d play it constantly in the 141, taking down terrorists and the like in less than a couple weeks— you’d be an easy find. He was sure of it.

He’d found you soon enough, a couple days, in that god damn fish market, a wide smile on your face as you talked to the multiple people who crowded the stall where you worked. Why were you working here of all places?

He ignored the growing concerns, joining the line of customers at the stall. Most of the customers having something to say to you and you encouraging more conversation as they made their orders and paid. Then it was his turn. He took a step forward and you looked up at him like you’d seen a ghost. Your heart dropped out of your ass. He looked to the fish that sat on display on ice, then to you and titled his head.

“When do you get off?”

“John-“

“-When.” The older man spoke tightly. It came out more like a statement than a question.

The lady who worked with you, Malissa, chimed in with a knowing smile, “Give ‘er an hour.”

Your eyes widened at the older woman whilst John gave her a pleased look, “I’ll be around.” John left the building and you felt your stomach turn over. You glared at Malissa and she laughed at you, “But it’s love, isn’t it [+]?”

Was it that obvious?

Couldn’t have been. As if the blush showed on your brown cheeks. You gave him the same smile you did everyone else, didn’t you? The same kindness, same glances you snuck, soft touches, and the same brushing of fingers. The way you held onto that man’s arm as you presented him to your friends like a trophy, you did the same to anyone else you admired, right? Right?

No fucking way you did. John was the one, well, situation you fully committed to head first. And you didn’t even know when that happened, you liked the thought of someone romantically caring for you, the kindness and joy that was always a package deal when being in that guys presence. Someone that took you and your hopes and dreams serious for once in your life.

Oh God, you were in deep love with John Price.

You could’ve been thrown across the field by your own heart pounding so loud when you walked out of the market. John sitting on the bench, cigar between his fingers, watching the passersbyers and then at you. He stood, nodding for you to follow him in some direction.

“Let’s take a walk.”

The tension was too damn high. You could feel it through the air as you too walked, the only sound being made was the sound of you feet on pavement, the jingle of keys, the sea in the distance. Your curls were probably a mess now, the cold air blowing every which way.

“How’ve you been?” You tried cutting through the ice, eyes finding anything else to look at.

John paused for a moment, a sigh coming out, “I didn’t think you hated me enough to block me [+].”

You winced, as if it pained you to hear those words alone. “I could never hate you John.”

“Then why-“ another frustrated sigh, “You switched jobs to avoid me!”

You squinted your eyes, “Why would you wanna see me after that John!? There was nothing more to say. I was trying to make your life easier!”

“And why would life be easier without you?” His eyebrows furrowed, hand on his hip. He kept rubbing his face.

You opened your mouth to say something, try to get out of the mess you made but nothing would come out. John wanted to laugh at this but it’s not like it would be genuine. Scoffing, he flicked the end of the cigar to the ground. You were like a Hurricane, create a mess to keep people away but right at the center, there was a serene calm. Only soft winds. You didn’t know what you were doing with yourself. John, saw that.

“I’ll take you home.”

“I can walk from here though.”

John gently took your hand in his, looking down at you with sincerity in his blue eyes. “You know how I feel about you bein alone like this. Let me take you home.”

It didn’t take much convincing, it was just a short 5 minute drive from the hills you stood now to your flat. John opened the door to the car for you, making sure you were safely tucked in before slamming it shut and getting in the drivers side. He drove off, down to the main road but then passed the street you had pointed out.

“Where we going?”

“Home.”

“But my place is-“

“—[+], please.” His jaw was clenched, gripping the wheel and your thigh. “You hate it so much, you yell to the rooftops that ya hate me. Despise every breath I breathe. I’ll stop right now.”

Like you would. You huffed, crossing your arms and looking out the window.

John didn’t get irritated easy. Patience was a vertue, that’s what his parents told him all the time. After two marriages you’d think the man would’ve learned by now.

But the man was starving for you, aching to have you say you were his and he was yours after all this and you still not knowing what you wanted— he’d make the decision for you.

You would be his wife and you two were getting married.

The thought of John being mean hadn’t crossed your mind once.

John Price who was usually so gentle, tapping your thigh so you could move yourself in whatever position he wanted you in, grabbing pillows so it would be easier on you, always checking if you were alright every take you reached you high.

That was not the John you were dealing with right now. He was manhandling however he wanted, both hands on your ass cheeks, legs over his arms, slamming you up and down on his cock and letting you cum over and over. Till he had enough of you in that position and fucked you right on the floor, your back getting carpet burn in front of the bedroom door that you didn’t get the chance to close.

And fuck, you thought it was heavenly before, him raw was otherworldly. You felt every ridge, every vein, every twist of his throbbing manhood, every once of precum that made your walls even wetter than they already were.

“Gonna fill you up-“

“—John- mmm- you can’t-“

He grunted, swatting your hands that tried to push him away.

“Gonna fill ya up like a good husband should,” the man’s nodding at his own words, already pussy drunk. But he was speaking words that he’s held back for months. “gotta getcha ready for when we have a baby.”

You hiccuped, John was talking crazy. A baby? A marriage? With John? And he’s whispering it all in your ear. This was tooooo much— too full—

“John i-it’s too deep! I- shit- gimmie a second—“

He pouted, fucking pouted, as if he didn’t know he was pushing his fat, veiny, cock to the fucking hilt of you. Your ankles somehow at the back of your head, “Can’t ya see it baby? You, waddlin around with our baby inside you-“ John hissed, you just kept clenching around him perfectly everytime he thrusted into his “-In a new house- haaah— after we broken it in ‘f course. Gotta break it in for good- fuckin- measure. Little ones running around, an office for daddy ‘nd a office for mummy— It’ll be perfect.”

You didn’t even realize you were cumming, your ears were just ringing, cunt contracting around Johns dick like you were aching for it.

You’d never in your life had a man cum inside you, but my God. John, this old barbarian, was gonna get you addicted to each and every single shot of cum that came from his leaking tip that reached inside your deepest place.

“Fuck, gotta give you another baby.”

John was determined to fuck you into delerium, you’d pass out after cumming so much and wake up to John sucking his cum out of you. Water breaks? The older man is sipping it and putting it in your mouth. Felt stuffy in the bedroom? No problem, John’s moving you to the bathroom to fuck you there with your leg propped up on the bath tub, the wall in the hallway looked like it was missing your face being pressed into it as John drilled you from behind.

Hungry? John’s feeding you whatever he cooked up the thirty minutes he’d left your bruised pussy alone, and then having you cock warm him in the fucking kitchen. All while kissing all over you, how you were such a pretty wife on his dick.

“We gonna get married John?” You slurred out, sticking your thumb in his mouth then sticking it in yours and moaning at the taste. Sweet.

You were fucked out, if the man said he was gonna max out your cards right now he could’ve. But you were, in fact, his finance. Right then and there, no one could convince you otherwise.

“S-Say that again sweetheart?”

You gripped the back of his neck your your hand, getting him to look at you head on, pecking his lips once. Twice. Three times, “You said you’d make me your wife, you’d really do that John? Make me a wife? Won’t get tired of me?”

“Oh birdie, h-how could I ever get tired of you? I-I’m in love you you.”

“Really? I love- I love yooouu John.” Your hips practically rolled on their own, the captain throwing his head back against the headboard for dear life.

“Fuck mee lovie— whatever you want, whateverrr you fucking want.” His hands found your hips, guiding you just the way you needed to get off. Slow, mean— loving.

“G-god, so amazin, amazin John! Wan’ a chapel wedding -ngghh- You, me, some rings and that fuckin preist,”

“ ‘F course baby, course.” John was stammering out words, he could barley keep up now. Fuck, rings. Those fucking rings— “wait baby, gimmie a second.”

“But John,” you keened, hating the idea of being apart for even a millisecond. Oh you’d be the death of that old man. And he wouldn’t’ve minded dying in your sopping cunt knowing you wanted to marry him.

He’d marry you from hell if he had to.

He reached out to the nightstand, an arm hooked around your waist to keep you close as you sloppily rode him, fumbling to grab the black box he placed there yesterday.

Some how he managed to get that box open, two golden rings sat inside. He grabbed yours, tossing the box to the side and slipping the ring on the proper finger.

“Oh! It’s sooo pretty John!” You moaned, eyes stuck to the ring, heart eyes practically forming in your pupils as you looked at the man who was balls deep inside you.

“Come on wife, you know how to cum for your future husband don’t you?”

“You keep looking at it.”

“ ‘S just so nice John.”

It was a single gold ring that fit your finger perfectly, the matching one that you asked to put on John once woke you up. You two were completely knocked out after two days of going at it like animals. You couldn’t feel your legs and your voice was an inch off from being shot. But you couldn’t keep your mouth shut. You loved being engaged, you loved John, and you loved the thought of a future with him.

“You wanna have a small wedding, don’t you?” John entangled your fingers together, his other hand caressing your thighs. The sunshine was shining through the window of the dim room.

“I’d prefer if it was just you ‘nd me. We can do somethin with your family later. I-I think it’ll be real intimate ‘f it’s just us. Like the movies-“

The older man’s eyes crinkled, “Oh, so you’ve thought about it?”

You scuffed, “I’d be silly not to think about marryin you at least once, John.”

Price opened his mouth, feeling more than shy at his grown age. He stuttered, “No take backs, alright? You gotta marry me now.”

You hooked your ring finger with his John’s matching one, giving it a quick kiss.

“No take backs.”

a/n: it’ll be a miracle if anyone even reads all this. if you did, leave me a message or comment if you liked it or if you hated it pls I wanna hear your thoughts.

[lesbiansaaviik]

Can I be beautifully honest with you guys? I hate 91 Whiskey and So Says the Sword