୧ synopsis it's not easy, falling in love with someone who is still getting over someone else. sukuna learned to be patient for you, but as his affection for you grows, so does his hatred for the man who made you so scared of love in the first place.
୧ wc 3.9k
୧ content mdni, angst, smut, some fluff too, hurt/comfort, sukuna pov, falling in love, very anxious reader, jealousy, post reader and gojo breakup, sex on the first night, protected piv sex, overstimulation, making out, biting, a little bit of a breeding kink, crying after sex, and a lot of crying in general, aftercare, moving on, posesssive sukuna
୧ a/n this is sukuna's pov of the story, you can find the other parts in this collection! this can be read as part 3 or as a oneshot too. art by @/riyalise & divider by @/diviniyae
"Who is that?"
Sukuna himself was surprised to hear the words leave his lips, but he couldn't help the curiosity.
He found himself sitting on an uncomfortable stool in someone's house party he somehow got convinced to attend, surrounded by the same boring faces as always – until he noticed a new one.
A new girl, sitting on a sofa far ahead, involved in the party but… not really. You had a tight hold on your phone, and you glanced at the screen every few seconds like you were waiting for a message that never came.
It made Sukuna anxious just watching it.
And right now watching was exactly what he was doing.
It wasn't just the fact your face had made his heart skip an awkward beat inside his chest when you walked past, not even noticing him. Nor was it the fact you seemed to prefer sitting alone rather than engaging with the rest of the party, something he could relate to well enough.
No, there was something else about you too. You just seemed so… sad.
Smiling a pleasant smile whenever anyone approached, nodding your head and making conversation as you were expected to, sure – but that odd veil never seemed to lift from behind your eyes.
Sukuna wondered how none of the other idiots here had noticed.
"My friend" Yuki answered his question with a raised eyebrow, in a tone that said she was shocked Sukuna had even noticed anyone else's presence in the room apart from his own.
He was well aware of other people's assumptions of him, so he didn't bother replying to her taunt. "Is she alright?" Sukuna asked instead, after he watched you check your phone for what had to be the tenth time in a single minute.
Yuki sighed, turning to take a look at you with a solemn expression herself. "She's going through a tough time" was all she said.
Sukuna didn't like the sound of that at all.
So he decided he wanted to change that.
He lifted himself up and walked right past Yuki, picking up a fresh bottle of beer on the table while he was at it. The blonde seemed curious but let him be, turning to rejoin the party as Sukuna strode far away from everyone, and towards you.
"This seat taken?"
His voice took your eyes away from your phone, tilting your head up to blink at him in surprise. Your eyebrows scrunched together, and he watched you quickly scan your surroundings, trying to figure out if there was anyone else he could be speaking to.
"No" you replied, almost like a question, but you moved to the side so he could take the seat next to you on the small sofa.
Sukuna sat down awkwardly, his broad frame taking up most of the seat, but you didn't seem to mind. "Here" he grunted, passing you the fresh bottle while bringing his own to his lips.
You were surprised at the gesture, but had no choice in accepting. Not with the way Sukuna was practically shoving the cold glass into your hands and forcing you to drop your phone onto your lap.
"Is that for me?" you asked, as if it wasn't obvious.
"Who else would it be for?" he asked, instantly regretting how sharp he sounded.
But you didn't scoff, or roll your eyes, or call him an asshole like most people seemed to do. Instead, you laughed – only a small chuckle, but some tension finally seemed to ease from your shoulders.
Naturally, his own shoulders dropped as well.
"Thank you" you muttered, hands closing around the bottle, phone now forgotten to your side.
Sukuna didn't know why you were so attached to that thing, but he seemed to understand it was a good thing you had finally let go of it. "Let me" he said, searching for his keys inside his pocket to remove the bottle cap for you.
It was only a favour, something that had no business feeling this intimate. But Sukuna was far too aware of how his thigh brushed against yours when he leaned in, of how close you allowed him to move into your space even if just for a second.
The sound of air escaping the freshly opened bottle matched how his own finally leaving his lungs, he realised.
"Thank you again" you smiled kindly. And then, to his surprise, it was your turn to lean into him – you extended your hand, clinking your bottles together. "Cheers" you said, completely unaware of how you had surprised him.
Sukuna nodded, reciprocating the gesture. He watched you tilt your head back as you drank, followed the curve of your neck and noted the beautiful angle it made with your shoulders. He hid his crimson gaze behind his own drink, but anyone else around would have noticed – Sukuna was fucking hypnotised.
You finally lowered your hand with a satisfied hum, opening the first real smile he had seen the whole evening. "I needed that" you sighed.
Both your hands closed around the cold glass, phone still forgotten.
"Not having fun?" Sukuna asked, tilting his head to meet your gaze. You were close, very close, but you didn't seem intimidated by him like everyone else.
How intriguing, he thought.
"I am" you replied, looking away – maybe because you were nervous, Sukuna hoped, or maybe because you were lying.
"Are you?" he questioned, keeping his eyes locked on your face. You struggled to hold his gaze, blinking towards him and then away, until you finally sighed and understood you couldn't lie to him that easily.
"It's been a long week" you confessed, looking down at your hands.
Sukuna let that hang in the air for a moment, letting the weight of what you said sit with both of you instead of you alone.
"Yeah?" was all he managed to say. He wasn't good with things like that, but fuck if this pretty girl at the party didn't make him want to try.
You only nodded, looking down at your hands. He saw your eyes blink down, then to your phone by your side, then down again, and finally… to him.
You opened a little smirk, more self pitying than anything – and it was right then that Sukuna decided he wasn't giving up until he saw that real smile again.
"Let's change that" he said.
Three hours later, Sukuna had you crying for a completely different reason than whoever the fuck had gotten you that upset in the first place.
"Kuna, fuck– I can't–" you moaned as your legs only pulled him closer, your hands clawing at his shoulders in desperate need, face all scrunched in a mess of delicious tears that he was enjoying kissing away.
"You can" he groaned against your skin, slamming his hips into yours again, earning a loud whimper that sounded like music to his ears. "Taking it so fucking well for me"
You brought your hands to his face again, chasing his lips desperately. He had one hand rubbing small circles against your clit, determined to get a second orgasm out of you before he had even had one himself.
When he had suggested leaving the party together, Sukuna hadn't necessarily expected this was where the two of you would end up. But hell, he wasn't mad about it.
As it turned out, you looked even more beautiful crying from pleasure.
"I'm gonna–" you whined as your back arched, body trembling slightly as Sukuna kept slamming into you through your high, enjoying the way your eyes rolled back and you completely let go, suspended in bliss and relief.
"There you go" he smiled, biting the side of your neck. "Knew you had it in you" he teased, and you let out an elated laugh, bringing him closer.
"You feel so good" you hummed, and Sukuna decided he wanted to push himself up just to see your euphoric face. He brought his two hands to close around yours, pushing both above your head as he interlaced your fingers together, hovering just above you as he admired you like a painting.
"Good" he replied with a sly smile, a particularly harsh thrust punctuating the sentiment. "You're fucking gorgeous"
Too gorgeous, he thought.
"You think so?" you asked, and he hated how surprising that was to you.
He kissed you again, as if to prove a point. Your mouth parted and your tongues danced, with all the excitement of an unexpected night, but far too intimate for a one night stand. "Gorgeous" he repeated, biting your lower lip.
"Th-thank you" you tried to say, and Sukuna laughed against your lips. Who the fuck thanks someone during sex for just stating a fact?
Why would he be sleeping with you if he didn't think you were the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, after all?
"Kuna" you moaned, that stupid nickname you had given him after your first orgasm, but he was beginning to like it. He enjoyed thinking he made you feel so good that his full name was just too much effort.
"Go on, say it again" he rasped to your ear, hips rolling deliciously into you.
"Kuna–" you whimpered, legs closing around him, and your voice was the thing that finally tipped him over the edge.
Your nails dug into the back of his hands but Sukuna didn't let up, pining you with all his weight as you happily took everything he was giving you. Spilling everything inside the protection he was wearing, but he caught himself wishing there was no barrier between you.
Maybe next time, he thought, letting hope slip out in his blissful state.
Sukuna's hips stilled finally, face coming to the crook of your neck. He left a kiss there, followed with one to your jaw, tasting the sweaty mess he had made of you, and then one to your cheek – your salty tears prickled his lips, but when he noticed your chest move up and down far too quickly, he started to worry they weren't from pleasure this time.
Sukuna pulled away from you fast, scrunching his forehead as he watched tears pour out of your eyes; slowly, not dramatic, like you simply couldn't stop them from escaping.
His breathing completely stopped, everything about him going very still.
"Did I hurt you?"
"N-no" you said as fast as you could, shaking your head sideways and attempting a smile. But Sukuna was not happy with your response still.
"Are you sure?" he prodded, not meaning to sound so stern, but everything in him was in high alert. His crimson eyes didn't leave yours, but his hands started roaming the curves of your body, caressing in slow circles to soothe whatever it was that had you crying like that under him.
Was he too rough? Was it too much?
Were you scared of him like everyone else?
To his surprise though, you let out a little wet laugh. "You're sweet" you said, opening a beautiful smile that completely undid him, despite the wetness all over your face.
Fuck, he thought.
Sukuna hoped you couldn't see it, but he was almost certain he was blushing.
"Tch" he grunted, rolling around to settle next to you and pull you into him. "No one else would say that"
"You are" you replied while Sukuna turned you to him without any struggle, resting your head right on his broad chest. He was so warm, you thought, letting yourself sink into him.
"Then why are you crying?" he asked again, unwilling to let it go. Sukuna tangled a large palm on your hair, softly caressing the back of your head, trying to figure out what the hell he could do to help.
"I didn't expect to, I–" you tried to explain, but those crimson eyes were back on you, and his other hand around your waist had you somehow trusting you could just be honest with him.
"I'm scared you'll leave" you admitted finally, voice too small.
Sukuna pulled away from you just slightly, just so he could see your face. "Why would I leave?" he asked, like the notion alone was ridiculous.
You swallowed thickly, struggling to meet his eyes. "You won't?" you asked pitifully, looking anywhere but him.
He wanted to kiss you to prove it. Wanted to hold you all night and fuck you again and again so you'd finally get in your head how much he wanted you.
But he could tell this went far deeper than just insecurities.
"Who made you think like that?"
Sukuna hadn't expected his question would bring more tears to your eyes, and it was almost like he could see you shut him away in real time. Your eyes fell downwards, and your hands played with your own nails instead of gripping him like he wanted – clearly something still too painful hiding just under the surface.
So he didn't let you. "Hey" he called, bringing his hand to your chin now, to force your eyes up. "I'm not going anywhere" he reassured.
It sounded like the right thing to say, and he knew he fucking meant it, but why the hell did he feel like it only made you pull away even more?
"You don't have to do that" you shook your head, hiding into his side and attempting to sound more composed. "Sorry, I'm sure the last thing you want is a one night stand cryi–"
"Stop" he interrupted then, stern. In one swift move, Sukuna was on top of you, taking on the role of cleaning your face with his gruff finger tips, trying very hard to be gentle.
He could see it in your face how surprised you were. How you expected to mean nothing to him. Sukuna was used to people assuming he slept around, but truth was, he didn't – Sukuna didn't really do one night stands. Today had been as an anomaly for you, as it was for him.
So the fact you were crying, thinking he would just dispose of you like that? That pissed him off more than anything.
"I'll get you some water" he announced, leaving a gruff kiss to your forehead. "Then we can have a bath, and then you can tell me. If you want" he completed, far too aware of how serious he was sounding.
The last thing he wanted was to scare you.
But you smiled, surprising him again with a shy nod. "That sounds nice" you murmured.
He could have sworn your hand tried to cling to him as he stood up, but he wasn't even sure you were aware of it.
Sukuna did as he promised, taking care of you for the rest of the night. He cleaned you up, dressed you in his old oversized shirt that looked much better on you than it ever had on him, and held you tight for the whole night.
You didn't want to tell him why you were crying then, but you had time. This wasn't the only night you spend together, after all.
Sukuna hated to admit it, but ever since then, you barely left his mind. What started on that unexpected night turned into something more meaningful, day after day, kiss after kiss – but still, you struggled to tell him what made you so scared.
He tried to figure it out himself, piercing together little bits of information you had given him, mind always conjuring up the worse case scenario.
He just had to understand why it never mattered how often you spoke or how nice your day was – when it was time to say goodbye, he could see the silent fear creep up all over your beautiful face.
You tried your best to hide it, but he didn't want you to.
Sukuna didn't mind reassuring you, not really. Sometimes just an extra hug when you needed. A kiss to your forehead. A promise that he'd call later. He understood you just needed confirmation he wouldn't leave. Needed confirmation that you meant something.
Why the hell did you think you didn't?
That was the part that drove him mad.
And the day you finally decided to tell him, he understood.
It was a grim story about some asshole called Satoru Gojo.
Satoru Gojo. The name alone made him sick.
He didn't even know the guy, but every time you opened up more, his hatred only grew.
It wasn't nice to be falling for someone who was still getting over someone else, but Sukuna learned to be patient for you.
Sometimes you pulled away, talked down on yourself, expected nothing but pain from the unavoidable feelings that were starting to grow; but Sukuna was always there to pull you back. He didn't blame you for it, after all, it wasn't your fault – it was his.
The man who had taken your heart only to step on it with no care for how it left you to take up the pieces.
Satoru Gojo.
Sukuna looked up the asshole everywhere online, like a predator stalking his prey. He had to know. Everything in him was consumed by how much he despised the man that made you believe you were cursed.
He found his profiles easily enough, clearly the idiot enjoyed showing off. He had to admit he was good looking – white hair and blue eyes and a confident smile. Rich too, it seemed. The type of guy who felt entitled to use people, Sukuna rolled his eyes with a scoff.
It wasn't nice to imagine there were probably pictures of him out there that you were in too. With that easy smile of yours – the one Sukuna only saw rarely, only at times you let yourself truly relax.
You probably smiled like that more often before him, didn't you?
He hated imagining the two of you together, but Sukuna wasn't jealous – he couldn't be, when he was the one you turned to. The one you were slowly letting into your heart; and Sukuna was in no rush.
Not jealousy, he reassured himself, heart hammering into his chest as he held you tight in the night, your nails digging into his bicep like you were trying to cling on even in sleep.
Definitely not jealous, he thought again, when your gorgeous smile returned one day and Sukuna caught himself wondering how anyone could have it in them to hurt you.
Not jealous – angry, Sukuna settled on, fantasizing about punching that smug grin right out of Satoru Gojo's face, on a night you had cried when telling him about how you felt disposable.
Who knew opportunity would actually present itself.
That one fateful day, Sukuna had been waiting too long where you were supposed to meet before he decided to walk back and look for you.
What was probably only five minutes had felt like a life time. You were never late. Sukuna was fucking worried.
So he walked back, fast, turning a street corner and then another, until he finally saw you from across the street.
Oh. Maybe he was jealous, he realised.
Because standing on the other side was you, clearly upset, clearly holding back tears – and across from you, the man he had only ever seen in pictures.
With his hand holding yours.
Sukuna's owns instinctively curled into fists as he rushed to your side, vision turning red.
"Hey" he yelled, crossing the street. "The fuck is going on here?"
Your eyes immediately snapped to him, managing to relax him the tiniest bit. You rushed to him, pressing two palms to his chest, pleading with him with your teary eyes. "Kuna, it's ok" you said, and he went over every little detail of your face to reassure himself that you really were ok.
And then, his crimson eyes shifted up.
Now that he was this close, Sukuna could see it clearly. That truth he could only have assumed before.
This Satoru Gojo was pathetic.
With his stupid mouth slightly agape, brows furrowing together like he was confused at what was happening.
Yeah, asshole, Sukuna thought. She's with me.
"Who the fuck do you think you are" he snarled, pulling you into his chest. "Putting your hands on my girl?"
The way the other man's face fell gave him all the satisfaction he needed, that smug face contorting like the words had physically pained him.
Good, Sukuna thought, not a sliver of sympathy.
You had completely hidden your face into his chest now, knowing exactly where safe was. Sukuna could feel how your breathing had changed, could feel the wetness in his shirt. "Please don't yell" you sobbed, and his heart hurt hearing you like that.
"He made you cry?" Sukuna asked, all focus back on you. His beautiful girl. His.
Crying because of this idiot.
His hatred towards Satoru was only outweighed by his love for you; Sukuna was fully focused on wiping each tear away, tenderly brushing his finger tips over your cheeks.
"I'm sorry I was late" you murmured to him, leaning into his touch. It was unfair how you could undo him like this – this was meant to be the big stand off he had been dreaming about. His chance to beat up the guy who had made you so scared of love.
But now, he found himself wanting nothing more than to make you smile again.
"Don't" he replied with a kiss to the top of your head. "Got me worried sick, and then I find you upset and this asshole with his hands on you–"
"We just ran into each other" you shook your head, hands balling into his shirt. The nice one he had bought for your date specifically. "It's ok"
Hell. You sounded so apologetic. As if you had done something wrong by happening to run into the guy.
You looked at Sukuna with those pleading eyes that begged him to forgive you for whatever crime you thought you had committed. Even in this moment, so scared he'd just leave.
Sukuna hated this.
And right there – the man who made you think like that.
So close. So fucking close.
And he had the audacity to try and hold your hand.
Everything in Sukuna wanted to confront Satoru, but all his focus was on you.
Making sure you were ok.
Making sure you were safe.
Making sure you were away from him.
"He the one you told me about?" Sukuna asked you, even though he already knew the answer. He held you right where you were, your back to the white haired man, refusing to let him have another fucking look at you. "Let me get you out of here" he said kindly, helping you walk away.
You followed, standing by Sukuna's side, leaning into him for comfort as you continued forwards with your eyes glued to the floor.
And as you both walked away from him, Sukuna couldn't help another look back.
At his challenger. His rival. The man whose ghost still clung on to you in your darkest moments.
Satoru Gojo.
A man he hated so much, but right now looked nothing but pitiful.
Sukuna wasn't moved by his desperate tears. He was convinced Satoru Gojo didn't care for anyone but himself, anyway.
Part of him did regret not throwing that punch he so desperately wanted.
And as much as he hoped with everything in him that you'd never run into Gojo again – Sukuna hoped he would.
summary: you have no idea how your best friend harry puts up with his roommate, peter parker. hes loud. brash. annoying. a whore. you tried to avoid him. to leave the room when he arrives. but the universe has decided on the secret third option- forcing you to spend more time alone with him than youd ever have to when you just wanted your damn necklace. fuck. requested by anon
warnings/tags: mean! peter, college au peter, forced proximity, enemies to blowjobs, smut (oral- m receiving, dirty talk, praise), the juicy sweats make their grand appearance
masterlist // join the taglist
You were sprawled across the shitty dorm couch like you owned it, one leg hooked over the armrest, half-listening to your best friend complain about his organic chem midterm while the other half of your brain was already planning the fastest escape route if Peter Parker walked through the door.
The apartment smelled like cheap laundry detergent and the lingering ghost of last night’s takeout. Harry's textbooks were stacked in a precarious tower on the coffee table, and the TV was muted on some reality show neither of you were actually watching. You’d been here for almost two hours, which was roughly an hour and fifty-nine minutes longer than you preferred to risk running into his roommate.
“I’m just saying,” Harry continued, flipping a highlighter between his fingers, “he’s not that bad once you—”
The door clicked open.
You didn’t even look up at first. You just felt the shift in the air, the way the room suddenly got smaller.
Peter Parker stepped inside like the place had been waiting for him. Backpack slung over one shoulder, hair a little damp like he’d just come from the gym or a shower or someone else’s bed—hard to tell with him. He kicked the door shut with his heel and tossed his keys onto the counter without looking. His eyes landed on you almost immediately, and that familiar, lazy half-smile curved his mouth.
“Well, well,” he said, voice low and deliberately amused. “Look who finally crawled out of their hole. Didn’t think you still knew where this place was.”
You kept your gaze on the TV, even though nothing interesting was happening on it. “Didn’t think you’d be back so early. Figured you’d still be making your rounds through the second floor.”
Harry made a quiet, warning sound under his breath. Peter just laughed, soft and unbothered, and dropped his backpack by the wall.
“Second floor’s overrated,” he said, walking past the couch close enough that his shin brushed your ankle. He didn’t apologize. “Third floor’s where the real talent is this semester. You’d know if you ever left your room for anything other than this one and judging me.”
You finally turned your head to look at him. He was leaning against the kitchen counter now, arms crossed, looking entirely too comfortable for someone who’d just been called a campus-wide whore.
“Judgment’s free,” you said. “Unlike whatever STD panel you’re probably due for.”
Peter’s grin widened, all teeth and zero shame. “Ouch. That almost hurt. You practicing those lines in the mirror, or do they just come naturally when you’re this sexually frustrated?”
Harry closed his textbook with a soft thud. “Can we not—”
“No, it’s fine,” you cut in, still locked on Peter. “I’m just trying to figure out how someone who treats the entire dorm like a revolving door still has a roommate who defends him like he’s actually a person.”
Peter pushed off the counter and took a few slow steps closer, stopping just short of the couch. He looked down at you, head tilted, that cocky little spark in his eyes that made it very clear he was enjoying this.
“Maybe because I’m fun,” he said, voice dropping a fraction. “And you’re… what, exactly? The dorm’s resident wet blanket who keeps score of who I fuck like it’s a personal insult?”
You sat up straighter, refusing to give him the satisfaction of looking away. “It’s not an insult. It’s a public service announcement. People should know the risks before they make the same mistake half the building already has.”
He laughed again—quiet, almost fond, which somehow made it worse. “You keep talking like you’ve got me all figured out. It’s cute. Really. But if you’re so disgusted, why do you keep showing up here?”
“Because some of us actually care about our friends,” you shot back. “Not just who we can get horizontal with before the weekend’s over.”
Peter’s gaze flicked, just for a second, to Harry—who looked like he wanted the floor to open up and swallow him —then back to you. Something sharper settled behind his easy expression.
“Careful,” he said, softer now. “You’re starting to sound jealous.”
You scoffed, but the sound came out thinner than you wanted. “Of you? Please. I’d rather chew glass.”
“Mm.” He rocked back on his heels, studying you like he was deciding whether the argument was still entertaining. “Keep telling yourself that. Maybe one day you’ll even believe it.”
Harry finally stood up, hands raised in surrender. “Okay. Both of you. Enough. Peter, go shower or something. You smell like ass. And you—” he pointed at you—“stop poking the bear. He’s already insufferable when he’s in a good mood.”
Peter raised both hands in mock innocence, already backing toward the hallway that led to the bedrooms. “Hey, I was just saying hi. Not my fault your friend can’t handle a little honesty.”
He disappeared around the corner, but not before throwing one last look over his shoulder — like he already knew this wasn’t over.
The bathroom door clicked shut a second later. The water started running.
Harry dropped back onto the couch with a long, exhausted sigh and muttered, “I genuinely don’t know why I let you two exist in the same space.”
You stared at the empty hallway, jaw tight, pulse a little too loud in your ears.
Neither did you.
The dorm hallway was quieter than you’d ever heard it. No bass thudding through walls, no laughter spilling out of open doors, no one arguing about whose turn it was to buy more Red Bull. Thanksgiving break had hollowed the whole building out. Most people had scattered home the second classes ended. You were supposed to be one of them. The ticket price had laughed in your face, so you’d stayed, claiming the silence like it was a prize.
You were already dressed when you remembered the necklace. Black dress that hit mid-thigh, the kind that made you feel like you had somewhere better to be than an empty campus. Heels that clicked too loud in the stairwell. Hair done. Makeup sharp. You’d left the necklace at Harry’s place weeks ago after the clasp snapped during a night that ended with too much cheap wine and you insisting it was fine, you’d just leave it. He'd fixed it the next morning and texted you to come grab it whenever. You never had.
Tonight felt like the perfect window. Peter would be gone. Everyone would be gone. In and out, necklace in hand, then you’d hit the one bar still open near campus and pretend the holiday didn’t sting.
You used the spare key Harry had given you months ago and pushed the door open without knocking.
The living room lights were on.
Peter Parker was in the kitchen, barefoot, leaning against the counter with a half-eaten protein bar in one hand and his phone in the other. He was wearing a tight black crop top that stopped just above the sharp cut of his hips and a pair of black Juicy Couture velour sweatpants that sat low on his waist. The fabric clung in places it had no business clinging. His stomach was flat, a faint trail of hair disappearing under the waistband, and the crop top left zero room for interpretation about how much time he spent in the gym when he wasn’t busy being a walking cautionary tale.
He looked up the second the door shut behind you.
For half a second he just stared. Then that slow, filthy little smile pulled at his mouth.
“Holy shit,” he said, voice low and delighted. “Did hell freeze over or did you actually get dressed up for once?”
You froze in the doorway, keys still in your hand. “What the fuck are you doing here?”
Peter took another bite of the protein bar, chewed, and shrugged one shoulder. The crop top rode up a fraction higher. “Could ask you the same thing, princess. Thought you’d be halfway across the country by now, crying into your mom’s stuffing.”
“Ticket was too expensive.” You hated how defensive it sounded. “I came for my necklace. HarryHarry fixed it.”
“Ah.” He set the protein bar down and pushed off the counter, walking toward you with that lazy, cocky gait that always made it feel like he owned the floor. “The little silver one. Yeah, it’s in my room. I moved it so it wouldn’t get lost in the chaos of his packing.”
You stayed by the door. “Of course it’s in your room. Because nothing can just be simple with you.”
Peter stopped a few feet away, eyes dragging down your dress in a way that felt deliberate and completely unapologetic. “You’re the one who showed up looking like that. Don’t act shocked that I’m looking. Most of the dorm’s gone. Campus is a ghost town. And here you are, all done up, standing in my doorway like you expected the place to be empty.”
“I did expect it to be empty,” you shot back. “I expected the campus whore to be off somewhere, ruining someone else’s holiday.”
He laughed, soft and mean. “There she is. Miss High Horse. Miss I-Would-Rather-Chew-Glass. You keep talking about me like that and people might start thinking you care.”
“I don’t.”
“Sure.” He tilted his head, studying the way the dress sat on your body. “Where were you even going dressed like that? Don’t tell me you had plans. On Thanksgiving. Alone.”
You clenched your jaw. “None of your business.”
“Everything in this dorm is my business when you’re standing in it looking like that.” He took another step closer. The sweatpants shifted with the movement, the soft fabric doing absolutely nothing to hide the outline of him. “You came here thinking I’d be gone. You wanted the place to yourself. Necklace, quiet, maybe a little victory dance that you didn’t have to deal with me. And instead you get this.” He gestured vaguely at his own torso, at the crop top, at the ridiculous Juicy pants. “Disappointed?”
“Disgusted, mostly.”
Peter’s smile widened, all sharp edges and zero shame. “Liar. You’re staring.”
You forced your eyes back up to his face. “I’m staring because I can’t believe you own Juicy Couture sweatpants.”
“Laundry day” he said easily. “Found them in the clean basket. Thought they were yours honestly.” He reached out and plucked the keys from your hand before you could react, tossing them onto the counter behind him. “Necklace’s on my desk. You can come get it, or you can stand there in that dress pretending you don’t want to know why I’m still here either.”
You crossed your arms. “Why are you still here?”
Peter’s expression flickered—just for a second—before the cocky mask slid back into place. “Same reason as you, probably. Money. Or lack of it. Or maybe I just didn’t feel like explaining to my aunt why I wasn’t coming home this year.” He shrugged again, but it was tighter this time. “Doesn’t matter. Point is, you’re here. I’m here. The building’s empty.”
You opened your mouth to tell him to go fuck himself.
He beat you to it.
“Necklace’s this way,” he said, already turning toward the hallway that led to the bedrooms. The crop top rode up again when he lifted one arm to push his hair back. “Try not to trip over your own judgment on the way.”
You hesitated for exactly three seconds.
Then you followed him.
Peter’s room was… normal.
You stopped just inside the doorway, the words dying in your throat. You’d expected a mess—empty condom wrappers, a rotating door of half-forgotten names written on a whiteboard, the smell of sex and cheap cologne baked into the walls. Instead the bed was made. The desk was organized. A few textbooks were stacked neatly beside a closed laptop. There was a framed photo of an older woman who had to be his aunt, a poster of some indie band you’d never heard of, and a single hoodie draped over the back of the desk chair. It looked like he was actually put together. Not the lair of the dorm’s most prolific problem.
He noticed you staring.
“What?” he asked, already moving toward the desk. “Expecting a red room and a list of conquests on the wall?”
“Honestly? Yeah.”
Peter huffed a quiet laugh and opened the top drawer. “Sorry to disappoint. I keep the list on my phone.” He pulled out the silver necklace, the clasp fixed and gleaming, and held it up between two fingers. “Here. All yours.”
You stepped closer to take it. That was your first mistake.
The crop top left his arms completely exposed, and under the soft overhead light they looked unfairly good—hard muscle, the kind that came from actual work instead of just showing up at the gym for the mirror. Veins faintly visible when he flexed to reach something. Your eyes dragged over them before your brain could stop it, and something low and traitorous in your stomach twisted.
Peter went still.
You looked up and found him watching you, that slow, knowing smile already spreading across his face.
“There it is,” he said softly. “Knew it was only a matter of time.”
You snatched the necklace out of his hand a little too fast. “I was looking at the room.”
“No you weren’t.” He leaned back against the desk, arms crossing over his chest in a way that only made the muscles in his biceps stand out more. The crop top rode higher. “You were looking at me. Specifically at these.” He flexed once, deliberately, just enough to be an asshole about it. “Don’t worry. Happens a lot. Usually people are better at hiding it, though.”
Heat crawled up the back of your neck. “You’re delusional.”
“Am I?” Peter’s voice dropped into something smoother, warmer, the cocky edge still there but now wrapped in deliberate charm. “Because you’ve been throwing insults at me for months, but the second you see a little skin you’re staring like you’ve never seen arms before. It’s cute. Really. All that judgment and you’re still human underneath it.”
You turned the necklace over in your fingers, refusing to meet his eyes. “I came for this. That’s it.”
“Then why are you still standing there?” He pushed off the desk and took one slow step closer. Then another. The Juicy sweatpants sat low enough that the cut of his hips was impossible to ignore. “You could’ve grabbed the necklace and left. Instead you’re lingering in my room looking at me like that. So either you’re about to call me a whore again for sport, or you’re starting to realize the problem isn’t that I’ve slept with half the dorm.”
Your pulse was too loud. “What’s the problem, then?”
Peter’s smile turned sharper, almost fond. “The problem is you want to know what all the fuss is about.”
“I don’t—”
“You do.” He reached out and gently took the necklace from your hand again, fingers brushing yours longer than necessary. “You’ve spent so much time deciding I’m disgusting that you never let yourself admit you like what you see.” He stepped into your space, close enough that you could smell whatever clean, expensive soap he’d used. “Say it.”
You swallowed. “No.”
“Coward.” The word was soft, almost teasing. He lifted the necklace and, without asking, reached around your neck to clasp it himself. His knuckles brushed the side of your throat. Warm. Steady. “You’ve got that hungry look on your face. And still you won’t just say you think I look good.”
His hands lingered at the back of your neck after the clasp clicked shut. You could feel the heat of his palms, the quiet strength in his fingers.
“I don’t think you look good,” you managed.
Peter leaned in just enough that his mouth was near your ear. “Liar. Your eyes already told on you the second you walked in here. So either keep lying and leave, or stay right here and admit it.” His voice dropped lower, velvet and filthy at the edges. “Tell me you like what you see, and maybe I’ll stop being such an asshole about it.”
You should have shoved him back. Should have taken the necklace and walked out while you still could.
Instead you stayed exactly where you were, pulse hammering, the quiet of the empty dorm pressing in around both of you.
Peter waited, patient and infuriatingly sure of himself, thumbs brushing once along the sides of your neck like he already knew the answer.
“You look good,” he said, quiet enough that it felt private. “Really fucking good. That dress is doing things it has no right to do on a night like this. And the heels? Dangerous. You walked in here looking like you were ready to ruin someone’s entire holiday, and I’m starting to think that someone was supposed to be me.”
You stayed silent. Admitting anything felt like handing him the win on a silver platter, and you refused to give him that satisfaction.
He noticed. Of course he did.
“Still nothing?” His mouth curved, soft and wicked. “Alright. Let’s try again.” He shifted closer, the heat of his body seeping through the thin fabric of the crop top. “You’re beautiful when you’re trying this hard not to want me. All that fire, all that attitude… and still you can’t stop staring at my mouth.”
Your breath hitched. Traitorous.
Peter’s hands slid from your neck to your jaw, tilting your face up with careful, deliberate pressure. “There it is. That little crack. You hate that you like how I look in this shirt. You hate that the sweatpants are doing it for you. You hate that I’m standing this close— your pulse is going crazy under my fingers.” His voice dropped lower, coaxing, almost gentle. “Just say it. One sentence. ‘You look good, Peter.’ That’s all. I’ll even pretend I didn’t already know.”
You clenched your teeth. “I’m not giving you that.”
“Then I’ll keep talking until you do.” He leaned in another inch. His breath brushed your lips. “You smell expensive tonight. Like you actually tried. For who? Some stranger at a half-empty bar? Or did some part of you hope I’d still be here to see it?”
Your hands had somehow found the soft fabric of his sweatpants at his hips, fingers curling without permission. He felt it. His smile turned sharper.
“That’s it,” he murmured. “Hold on to me if you need to. I don’t mind.” Another step closer and your chests nearly touched. The crop top left almost nothing between you. “You’re shaking a little. Did you notice? Because I did. Your body’s already answering for you. It’s just waiting for your mouth to catch up.”
He was so close now that every word brushed against your lips. His hands tightened just enough to keep you exactly where he wanted you—tilted up, open, trapped in the quiet gravity of him.
“Say it,” he whispered, the words a soft command against your mouth. “Tell me you like what you see. Tell me the judgment was bullshit. Tell me you’ve been thinking about this longer than you’ll ever admit.”
You tried to form a denial. Something sharp. Something safe.
What came out instead was a broken little sound—half protest, half surrender—as your body finally betrayed you completely. A quiet, helpless whine slipped past your lips and straight into his.
Peter’s control snapped.
He closed the last fraction of space and kissed you like he’d been waiting months for the exact sound you just made. His mouth was hot, sure, and filthy with intent—lips parting yours immediately, tongue sliding against yours in a slow, claiming stroke that made your knees weak. One hand stayed locked on your jaw, the other sliding down to the small of your back to haul you flush against him. The hard line of his body pressed into yours and he kissed you deeper, hungrier, like he was determined to swallow every last scrap of resistance you still had.
When he finally pulled back just enough to speak, his voice was rough and satisfied.
“There she is,” he breathed against your mouth. “Knew you’d taste as mean as you talk.”
Peter didn’t pull away after the words left his mouth. He stayed right there, lips brushing yours, breathing you in like he’d already won something. The hard line of his cock pressed against your lower stomach through the thin fabric of the velour sweatpants, thick and unmistakable, and the second you felt it your brain short-circuited.
He kissed that good. Filthy and controlled and just a little mean, like he knew exactly how to make you melt and was doing it on purpose. Your hands tightened on his hips without thinking. Your body moved before your pride could catch up. You rolled your hips once, slow and deliberate, grinding against the heavy length of him, and the quiet, punched-out sound he made against your mouth went straight between your legs.
Peter’s grin was pure sin when he pulled back just enough to speak.
“There it is,” he murmured, voice low and rough. “Knew you’d start rubbing on it the second you felt how hard I got for you. Look at you. All that talk and now you’re grinding on my cock like you’ve been waiting for permission.”
Heat flooded your face. “Shut up.”
“Make me.” He rolled his hips back into yours, dragging the thick ridge of his cock against you, letting you feel every inch. “Go on. Tell me you don’t want it. Tell me that little grind was an accident. I dare you.”
You hated how easily he got under your skin. Hated that your stupid brain had flipped from get out of here to please him in the span of one kiss. You shoved at his chest—hard enough to make him take a step back—and he went willingly, still smiling that cocky, knowing smile like this was exactly the reaction he’d been angling for.
The back of his knees hit the edge of the bed. You pushed again and he dropped down onto the mattress, catching himself on his elbows, crop top riding up to show the sharp cut of his abs and the dark trail of hair disappearing under the waistband of those ridiculous sweatpants. His cock strained against the soft fabric, thick and obvious, the head of it already leaving an impression near the waistband.
You dropped to your knees between his spread legs before you could talk yourself out of it.
Peter’s eyes went dark and hungry. He looked down at you like you were the best Thanksgiving present he could’ve asked for.
“Oh, fuck,” he breathed, voice thick with satisfaction. “Look at that. On your knees already. Didn’t even have to ask.” He reached down and brushed his thumb across your bottom lip, slow and lazy. “You gonna keep glaring at me while you do it, or are you finally gonna admit you want my cock in your mouth?”
You glared up at him, hands already sliding up his thighs. “I want you to shut the fuck up.”
Peter laughed, low and filthy, and leaned back on one hand so he could watch you better. The other hand stayed on your face, thumb pressing gently against your mouth.
“Not a chance, baby. You’re about to put that pretty mouth to work and I’m gonna talk the entire time. You’re gonna hear every single filthy thing I think while you suck me. That’s the deal.” His fingers slid into your hair, not pulling yet—just resting there, possessive. “Now take it out. Show me how bad you’ve actually wanted this.”
The air in the room felt thicker. Your heart was slamming against your ribs. And still, kneeling between Peter Parker’s legs with his cock hard and waiting inches from your face, all your brain wanted was to make him sound as wrecked as he was making you feel.
You tugged the soft waistband of the Juicy sweatpants down just enough to free him. His cock sprang out with a soft thud against his stomach. Heavy and flushed, the thick head already shiny at the tip. The scent of clean skin and arousal hit you immediately. You wrapped your fingers around the base and felt him throb against your palm, hot and solid.
Peter’s breath left him in a low, satisfied sound.
“Look at that,” he murmured, eyes locked on your face. “Finally got your hands on it. You gonna keep staring or are you actually gonna do something?”
You ignored the dig and leaned in, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to the underside of the head. Slow. Deliberate. You dragged your tongue in a lazy circle around the ridge, tasting the faint salt of precome that had already gathered there. His thighs tensed under your free hand.
“Fuck—” His voice had gone rougher. “Cute. Real cute. You think taking your time is gonna make me lose it?”
You hummed against the sensitive skin just beneath the head and felt the vibration travel through him. Another slow lick, this time from the base all the way up, flattening your tongue so you could feel every ridge and vein. His cock twitched hard against your mouth.
Peter’s hand shot into your hair.
He didn’t ask. He just gripped a fistful and guided the swollen tip past your lips in one smooth push. The head of him filled the front of your mouth—hot, smooth, already leaking. You tasted more of that salt-sweet precome the second it hit your tongue.
“That’s better,” he said, voice low and smug. “Just the tip for now. Look at you. Mouth stretched around me and still trying to pretend you’re in control.” His fingers flexed in your hair, holding you exactly where he wanted. “Suck. Nice and slow. I want to feel that tongue working.”
You hollowed your cheeks around the head, sucking gently, swirling your tongue under the sensitive ridge the way you knew would make him react. He exhaled hard through his nose, the muscle in his jaw jumping.
“Fuck, that’s good. Messy little thing already.” He rocked his hips the smallest amount, pushing the tip a fraction deeper before easing back. “You look filthy like this. On your knees in that dress with my cock in your mouth. All that attitude and here you are, letting me use your face.”
You glared up at him, the expression ruined by the stretch of your lips and the wet shine already coating the head of his cock every time he pulled back. He just smirked down at you, completely unbothered.
“Don’t give me that look. You started grinding on me first. You dropped to your knees. Now you’re sucking the tip like you've dreamed about this before.” His thumb brushed the corner of your mouth where it was stretched around him. “Tell me how it tastes.”
The constant stream of cocky, filthy commentary was starting to get under your skin in the worst way. Every smug word made the heat between your legs worse. You wanted him quiet. You wanted him wrecked.
So you stopped teasing.
You braced both hands on his thighs, took a breath through your nose, and sank down.
The thick head pushed past your tongue, over the soft palate, and kept going. Inch after hot, heavy inch filled your mouth until your lips met the base and your nose brushed the soft skin of his lower stomach. Your throat fluttered hard around him. Tears pricked the corners of your eyes from the stretch. Spit welled up and spilled past your lips, dripping down his shaft and onto the waistband of the sweatpants still shoved low on his hips.
Peter’s entire body went rigid.
“Jesus—fuck—” The cocky drawl cracked for the first time. His hand tightened almost painfully in your hair, but he didn’t pull you off. He held you there, buried to the hilt, while your throat worked around the thick intrusion. “Oh my god. You just—took all of it. Look at you. F-fucking look at you.”
You stayed down, swallowing around him on purpose, letting your throat ripple and squeeze. The wet, filthy sound of it filled the quiet room. When you finally needed air you pulled back only far enough to breathe, spit connecting your lips to his cock in a shiny string, then immediately sank down again—slower this time, dragging every inch along your tongue until he was lodged deep once more.
Peter’s head dropped back for half a second before he forced himself to look down again. His voice had gone wrecked and mean at the same time.
“Best fucking mouth I’ve ever had. You hear me? Best. A-and you’re still trying to shut me up by deepthroating me like a professional.” He rolled his hips up in a short, controlled thrust, fucking into the tight heat of your throat. “Not gonna work, baby. Gonna tell you exactly how perfect your throat feels while you choke on me.”
You moaned around the thick length of him, the sound vibrating straight up his cock, and watched his abs flex hard under the crop top. Spit was everywhere now—your chin, his shaft, the soft black velour of the sweatpants. Your eyes watered freely. Your jaw ached in the best way. And still you kept taking him to the base, determined to turn every smug word into a broken sound.
Peter’s grip in your hair stayed firm, guiding the pace just enough to remind you who was actually in charge even while you tried to ruin him.
“That’s it,” he groaned, voice thick and filthy. “Take it. Show me how bad you wanted this cock. Swallow around it again—yeah, just like that. Fuck, you’re gonna make me come down your throat if you keep being such a good girl.”
You pulled off him with a wet, filthy gasp, a thick string of spit still connecting your bottom lip to the flushed head of his cock. Your voice came out ruined already—hoarse and low from how deep you’d taken him.
“Look at you,” you rasped, stroking the slick length with one hand while you caught your breath. “Sitting there being such a good boy for me.”
Peter’s eyes flashed. His fingers flexed hard in your hair, but the next cocky remark never made it out of his mouth.
You didn’t give him time to recover. You sank back down in one smooth motion, taking him straight to the base again until your throat closed tight around the head and your nose pressed into his skin. The wet sounds of it was obscenely loud in the quiet room. Spit flooded past your lips and ran down his shaft in warm rivulets. Your eyes watered instantly from the stretch. You held there, swallowing hard around him on purpose, letting your throat flutter and squeeze.
When you pulled up again it was only far enough to speak, lips still brushing the shiny head.
“That’s it,” you breathed, voice thick with spit. “Just like that. Letting me choke on this thick cock like a good boy. You’re being so fucking patient for me.”
You dove back down before he could answer. Deeper this time. Your throat convulsed around the intrusion and a broken gag tore out of you, wet and raw. Tears slipped free and tracked down your cheeks. You didn’t stop. You stayed buried, swallowing repeatedly, the muscles of your throat working him in tight, rhythmic pulses while more spit dripped onto the soft black fabric of his sweatpants.
Peter’s free hand had fisted in the sheets. His abs were clenched hard under the crop top. The only sound he managed was a low, punched-out groan.
You pulled off again, panting, chin shiny and dripping. Your hand kept stroking him in long, tight twists, spreading the mess you’d made.
“Fuck, you’re taking it so well,” you praised, voice wrecked and filthy. “Letting me use your cock like this. Sitting there all pretty while I gag on it. Such a good boy for me, Peter. Look how hard you are. Look how much you’re leaking just from my mouth.”
You licked a slow stripe up the underside, gathering the fresh precome that had beaded at the tip, then took him deep once more. The stretch burned in the best way. Your throat bulged visibly for a second before you forced yourself farther, until your lips were sealed tight around the base again. Another wet gag spilled out of you, the sound filthy and helpless. Spit poured down his balls. Your mascara was definitely ruined.
Peter’s hips jerked once—short, controlled, like he was fighting not to fuck up into your throat. His breathing had gone ragged. The constant stream of smug commentary had dried up into broken little sounds he couldn’t quite swallow.
You pulled back just enough to speak against the head of him, lips dragging over the sensitive ridge with every word.
“That’s my good boy,” you murmured, the praise low and dirty. “Staying so still while I choke myself on this cock. Letting me take every inch. You’re doing so well for me. So fucking well.”
You sank down again, slower this time, letting him feel every inch of tight, wet heat as your throat opened and accepted him. The wet sounds were constant now—obscene, rhythmic, mixed with the soft wet gasps you made every time he bottomed out. Your jaw ached. Your eyes kept watering. Spit soaked the front of his sweatpants. The insides of your thighs were damp where you’d started shifting restlessly against nothing.
Peter’s hand in your hair had gone almost tender despite the firm grip, guiding you in short, shallow rocks while you kept him buried. He wasn’t talking anymore. Just breathing hard and watching you with dark, blown-out eyes like he couldn’t quite believe what you were doing to him.
You moaned around the thick length of him on purpose, the vibration making his thighs tense under your palms, and kept going—choking, gagging, praising him in wrecked little scraps of voice every time you came up for air.
You felt it the second his control started to slip.
Peter’s thighs were shaking under your hands. His cock throbbed harder against your tongue, the thick vein along the underside pulsing in time with his heartbeat. Precome was leaking steadily now, salty and constant, mixing with the spit that already coated everything. His breathing had gone short and rough. The hand in your hair tightened until it bordered on painful.
He was close.
You doubled down.
Instead of pulling up to breathe you stayed buried, nose pressed to his skin, and forced your throat to relax around him. The stretch burned. Tears kept slipping down your cheeks. Spit poured freely past your lips. You swallowed hard around the head of him—once, twice—then moaned low and long so the vibration traveled straight through his cock.
Peter’s hips jerked.
“Fuck—fuck, baby—” His voice cracked back into existence, rough and mean and desperate all at once. “You’re gonna make me come. Look at you. Throat stuffed full and still trying to milk it out of me. Such a greedy little mouth.”
You didn’t pull off. You let him take over.
Peter’s grip in your hair shifted from guiding to outright using. He held you down and started fucking up into your throat in short, filthy thrusts—shallow at first, then deeper, using your mouth like it belonged to him. The wet, choked sounds you made every time he bottomed out were obscene. Your eyes watered freely. Your mascara was a complete disaster. Spit and precome ran down your chin in shiny strings and dripped onto the floor between your knees.
“That’s it,” he growled, voice wrecked and cocky even as his rhythm got more frantic. “Take it. Take every fucking inch. You’re gonna swallow all of it, aren’t you? Gonna let me pump this throat full.” His hips snapped up harder. “Fuck, you feel perfect. Best throat I’ve ever fucked. Knew you’d be this good the second you dropped to your knees.”
You didn’t care anymore. The constant stream of filthy praise and arrogance only made you wetter. You kept your hands braced on his thighs and let him use you, throat fluttering and convulsing around every thrust. When he pushed especially deep a broken gag tore out of you, wet and helpless, and Peter groaned like the sound alone was going to finish him.
“Gonna come,” he warned, voice low and strained. “Gonna come right down this pretty throat. Stay open for me—fuck—just like that. Don’t you dare pull off.”
His rhythm stuttered. His cock swelled even thicker against your tongue. The hand in your hair locked you in place as his hips snapped up one last time and stayed there, buried to the hilt.
Peter came hard.
Hot, thick pulses flooded your throat in heavy spurts. You swallowed instinctively around him, the muscles working to take every drop while he kept you pinned. More came—another strong pulse, then another—until your throat felt coated and warm and full. Some of it still managed to spill past the tight seal of your lips, mixing with the spit already dripping down his shaft. His thighs shook violently under your hands. A low, punched-out groan tore out of him as the last weaker pulses spilled across your tongue.
He held you there through every second of it, hips pressed tight to your face, cock still twitching in the back of your throat while he rode it out.
When he finally loosened his grip you pulled off slowly, gasping, a thick string of come and spit connecting your swollen lips to the head of his cock. Your voice was completely destroyed. Your chin and chest were a mess. Tears and mascara streaked your cheeks.
Peter looked down at you like he’d just found religion and lost it in the same breath—eyes dark, chest heaving, cock softening against his stomach.
“Jesus Christ,” he rasped, thumb dragging through the mess on your bottom lip. “You really just let me do that.”
You stayed on your knees for a few more seconds, just long enough to watch Peter’s chest rise and fall like he’d run a marathon. His eyes were hazy. His mouth hung open just a little. For once, the constant stream of cocky commentary had been fucked right out of him.
You wiped the back of your hand across your mouth, smearing the mess of spit and come, and stood up on slightly unsteady legs.
Peter’s gaze tracked you slowly, like his brain was still buffering.
“Where do you think you’re going?” he rasped.
You didn’t answer. You smoothed the bottom of your dress once, then turned and walked out of his room without another word.
The bathroom was right across the hall. You flicked the light on, locked the door, and finally looked at yourself in the mirror.
Mascara streaked down your cheeks. Your lips were swollen and shiny. You looked thoroughly used and completely unbothered about it. You turned on the faucet, wet a clean washcloth, and methodically wiped your face clean—chin, cheeks, the corner of your mouth. You fixed your smudged liner as best you could, smoothed your dress back into place, and stepped back out into the quiet apartment.
Peter was still on the bed when you passed his open doorway. He’d managed to shove himself up onto his elbows, sweatpants still tugged low. He looked wrecked and confused and a little pissed that you were no longer on your knees.
“Hey.” His voice was still rough. “What the fuck? You’re just leaving?”
You paused in the living room long enough to slip your heels back on and grab your keys from the counter.
“Yep.”
Peter pushed himself fully upright, running a hand through his messy hair. “You can’t be serious. You just—come back here.”
You glanced over your shoulder, one hand already on the front door. The necklace sat cool and perfect against your collarbone. Your voice came out light, almost sweet.
“Bye, Peter.”
You opened the door, stepped into the empty hallway, and let it click shut behind you before he could get another word out.
The silence of the dorm building swallowed the sound of your heels as you walked toward the stairwell, the faint taste of him still lingering on your tongue and a small, private smile tugging at the corner of your mouth.
spiderman will return in "my spidey senses are tingling pt 2"
Who knew the Ouija board was not as useless as it seemed? And who knew a demon you managed to summon would not only be among the most dangerous, but also eager to grant your weird wish? Fuck-a-demon-on-a-camera kind of wish! The one and only ticket that would surely guarantee a boom in your career. That is, if the footage is found, of course.
a part of slutty (slasher) summer
.⋆♱ pairing: ꒰ Pornstar!Reader x Demon!Trueform Ryomen Sukuna ꒱
.⋆♱ content & warnings: ꒰ MDNI 18+ :: horror :: set in 80s :: demon summoning :: strong female reader :: she's such a minx and slut ugh :: and also a monsterfucker :: blood :: violence :: cameraman!naoya :: side character's death :: cabin in the woods :: sex tape recording hehe :: double penetration :: anal sex :: Sukuna is his own warning :: oral sex :: belly bulge :: cum overflowing :: period sex :: blood consuming (just a bit...) :: so obsessed with the reader :: squirting ꒱
.⋆♱ words: ꒰ 9.6k ꒱
.⋆♱ notes: Overthrowing all laws of human body capabilities in this one, sorry. I'm not a med student, but I am a monsterfucking obsessed girl, and yes, this one is by far the most self-insert fic about my delusions...
The warmth of the setting sun licked the back of your neck with soft tongues as you put your hair up and sighed deeply. A red Cadillac rolled slowly along the sandy forest road, the trees brushing its gleaming paint, birds looking down at your furrowed, sweating forehead.
Looking at the map with a big X, you hummed and raised your gaze to take in the view that hadn't changed for a while.
"We're lost," Naoya sighed, tapping his fingers on the wheel. "We're lost, those fucking branches will scratch my car, and it's almost dark."
You gave him no mind, still following the map with your finger and occasionally glancing around. But everything looked the same – the trees, the bushes, the path, which curled and bent like a serpent, leading you only further into the forest.
Thick branches covered the dawn, painting the sky pink and orange, with just a few strands sinking through the fan of lush leaves, as if to gently remind you that the evening was perilously close.
And there was truly nothing worse than getting lost deep in the unknown forest, with a map drenched in the coffee you spilt on it during the break at the gas station and the nerves that were slowly eating you both alive.
The drive that was supposed to take two hours suddenly stretched to four. Four long hours with your cameraman, Naoya, whose forehead stayed wrinkled for at least an hour.
"But we saw the sign by the main route. It should be here," you said, pushing your sunglasses up. "Look, that's the road we're taking, and the cabin should be–oh!"
Not even a minute later, after the next deep turn, the cosy wooden house finally appeared on your horizon.
With a little garden, the swing shone gold beneath the spilling sun, and short steps led to the porch. Big logs of wood lay beneath the stairs, the gentle, warm light from the lamp welcoming you in.
"Oh, it's amazing!" you gasped, opening the door before the car had fully stopped. "Just look at it! I wonder if someone died here."
Naoya scoffed, parking on the gravel road. "Hopefully not. It would be awkward."
A soft hiss slipped past your lips as you peeled your thighs off the leather seat. Tiny shorts curled just beneath your ass, the backs of your thighs wet and sensitive after hours of being stuck to the sun-burning heat.
"Awkward to see a ghost?" You asked, slowly climbing up the stairs.
In the meantime, Naoya took your suitcases and the equipment bag before closing the trunk. "Uh, awkward to make porn in a place where someone died."
A single, soft "Oh" fell past your lips as you took the key from beneath the old mat.
It was the first time you'd been to this place since Yuki recommended it to you last year. It's very serene, she assured you. Quiet, lonely, and fun, with a lake nearby and no other soul in the forest. A perfect house if you want to rest a bit from university during the summer break.
Yet you thought that a cabin described by your friend sounded like the perfect place to start a little project of yours that's been burning your wicked mind for a while.
"You want to be a pornstar?" Satoru raised his brows and let the pen fall onto your dorm's carpet as you studied for the finals. "Like, a real pornstar? A person who makes porn?"
It's not as if he didn't know you were a campus sweetheart. A slut, more like it, yet your idea nevertheless left his mind in a daze.
You nodded, putting your pen down. A question for radiative physics class scribbled messily, as your eyes shone almost evilly.
"Are you really surprised?" A scoff slipped past your lips, eyes narrowing. "Besides, you're no better whore than me."
Satoru leaned against your roommate's bed as you both sat on the floor. A tiny table between you, two cups of coffee, dirty black, and mock exams not even half finished.
"Well, yeah. But I want to work in astrophysics, and if I remember correctly – you do too." He tapped his pen against his pouted lips, a deep thought clearly bubbling behind his ocean eyes. "I mean, if you'll keep your face away from the camera, it should work."
"Of course I will," your eyes curled into a cheeky smile, something malicious already bubbling in a pretty mind of yours. "Actually, I already have an idea," you crawled closer to Satoru, sitting right in front of him with a raised hand. "You know the recent boom in slashers, right? Okay, imagine me, the poor sweet virgin, being chased by two killers in the woods, before they tie me up and fuck me senselessly. With all the artificial blood and stuff, after they killed all of my friends, I went on a summer camping trip with."
Satoru listened with arched brows, clearly amused by the gory, slightly concerning plan. He knew you were a hardcore freak. A nerd too, always shining brightly in your shared classes. But the freak first.
A weirdo, almost a lunatic, finding heat and bliss in the weirdest things, yet always meeting his needs during sex. Because sex with you, dearest heavens, was mind-blowing. A heavenly ecstasy, pleasure wrapped at his fingertips, bursting together with the sweetness of your sly tongue. Skin, fingers, the wetness, that always dripped all over him in such an–
"Why are you hard?" you hummed, eyes squinting gently. He didn't react quickly enough as your foot found its way to press against his bulging sports shorts. "You thought about me moaning like a bitch on a tape, huh?"
He chuckled, long fingers wrapped around your ankle, then pressed your foot closer. "I did, sweets. In fact, I wouldn't mind being on it with you."
Tilting your lovely head, the sole of your foot brushed the full, fat shaft of his cock. "That's good to know because I've been meaning to ask you to play one killer."
"And the other?"
You giggled. "Your friend, Suguru, from the arts seems quite lovely. I'm sure I could do a lot with his tongue piercing."
Satoru's head tilted gently, and a soft scowl formed between his brows as the pressure became almost painful. His teeth gritted, fingers clutched tighter around your ankle, yet he did not push you away.
"So you'll play a virgin, huh?"
A wide grin twisted your lips. "Your sweetest one."
And thus, a few weeks later, after all the exams had been passed with a pure blessing, you found yourself inside the cabin.
Naoya, your dickhead friend from the film department, agreed to take part in your little project and arrived a day early with you to prepare everything. Suguru and Satoru were due to arrive tomorrow afternoon, so you had time to wander restlessly around the house while Naoya set up all the filming equipment.
The inside of the cabin seemed even lovelier, warmer, with the last threads of sun slipping through the small windows, basking the creaking floor in flame. The smell of wood, dry and clean, drenched in the sap of forest leaves, danced in the slowly setting darkness right over the high porch.
The fireplace was there, cosy and filled with logs, yet the sweat still clung to your spine, as if the heat of the journey hadn't yet rinsed away with the slowly falling evening.
Naoya put your suitcases in the hallway, then took a deep, tired breath. "I need a shower. And something to eat."
The owners supposedly left you some food, so you opened the small kitchen's fridge, the flickering light casting your face in cold light.
"Hmm, bread with peanut butter and jam?" You asked, looking over your shoulder at his scowl.
Always so mean, so spoilt, yet unfortunately, he was the only one who agreed to take part in your wicked project. The only one who hated the idea to the point of feeling no sexual attraction to you.
"What jam?"
"Strawberry, of course," you furrowed, taking the jar from the fridge.
"Fine," he said, looking around and spotting the small stairs leading to the upper floor. "We should have two bathrooms, so let's hop in first."
You giggled, taking out the rice cooker. "We can shower together, if you wish."
But he didn't say anything, leaving you with a snicker and a low, "Slut," that met your grinning cheeks.
The shower was cold, sweet, wetting your body pleasurably as you pinned your hair up. The sweat clinging to your skin, dust, and heavy air dirtying it, swirled together in the drain of the small shower. It wasn't the cleanest you've ever seen, but compared to your dorms, everything seemed better.
Leaving the bathroom in nothing but tight shorts and a skimpy top, without your bra – everything just to give Naoya another reason to measure you with his nasty gaze – you saw the sandwiches ready on the table.
"Ah, thank you, my dearest househusband," you giggled, sitting down by the wooden table.
The warm light of the old lamp bathed his dirty-blond hair in yellow. Snake eyes, always so priggish, narrowed to two almonds. Yet he didn't comment, joining you at the table with his own sandwiches.
"We need to choose the bedroom for filming. I'll set up the camera today. We can also go around the house in the morning to check the whole plan for the script," he started, and you nodded, your mouth glued with peanut butter. "Let's change the sheets for ours, because there's a chance the artificial blood won't come off. Ah, and I can't film their faces, right?"
You hummed, wrapping your hair with a clip. "Well, they'll have the masks, so it doesn't matter. Try to avoid mine."
"No cock sucking then?"
Your head tilted, brows furrowed, as you thought for a moment. "I guess, unless you can do a super close-up of my lips. My pussy's much prettier anyway."
He trembled, as if shivers smooched down his spine. "I can't believe you got accepted for astrophysics."
You giggled, licking your fingers clean and tapping two on your temple. "That's because I have an amazing mind."
He looked at you for a moment. At your lovely, sly grin. Cheek with a hint of reddish jam. Eyes mingling devilishly. Hair pinned up in a clip, a few strands falling gently along your warm cheeks. You were almost irritatingly ethereal, smart, beautiful, and such a pervert that Naoya truly couldn't comprehend how someone like you could have the mind to study astrophysics at the most elite university in the whole country.
"Sure you have," he muttered, taking another bite of his sandwich.
When the evening had finally fallen deep and the darkness had fully slipped into the warmly lit cabin, you decided it was time to go down and check the basement. Although finding the key proved more difficult than you'd thought it would be, as if the owners wished to keep whatever wickedness was locked there.
And this only made you crave going down there even more. Naoya waved his hand and went upstairs to work on the cameras. Leaving you with a, "Just scream if something happens, but don't expect me to go down there," as the single look into the unfathomable darkness of the basement made him shake his head.
"Coward," you giggled, turning a small lamp on.
It flickered once, twice, before finally burning out and leaving you with a sigh. So, with the flashlight in your hand, you went down. Step by step, careful and slow, as the old stairs creaked beneath your feet. The darkness wrapped you, a faint light bathing the long descent that seemed never-ending.
Until you finally touched solid ground and found yourself in a small basement. Spider webs hung from the ceiling, a few shelves filled with old books sat serenely in the dusty corner, and a small table nestled against the wall. It looked plain, rather uninviting, yet you had nothing else to do until tomorrow, so you walked around, checking each book. Some old tales, long-forgotten romances, dusty history books, a few classics…
"Oh?" fell curiously, as your fingers bumped the skin–clad book.
You pulled it from between other volumes, feeling its weight in your palms. It was thick, old, almost ancient, and wrapped in a thick leather belt, as if whatever it held were utterly unkind. It felt soft beneath your fingers, almost human–like, yet its cover was sewn with nasty, crooked stitches. Long, dirty, yet real, you traced them with your fingers, each bumping against your skin.
So you did the only proper thing and laid it on the table. With a small flashlight between your teeth, you pulled the old belt, trying to fight its strong grip. It must've sat here for a long, long time, as the dust swirled right in front of your lashes, sticking nastily to your freshly washed face. The belt was long and thick, almost like tree branches, yet softer to the touch.
It finally gave in, letting you unwrap the book from its snug clutches.
Demonology, was written inside, without any other information. No author, no publisher, no date, only crooked, ink-spilt letters bending on the front, yellow page.
Your eyes glimmered in the faint lightning, heart suddenly skipped a beat as you clutched the book tighter. Oh, it felt as if you'd just discovered a long-lost treasure, a rare gem, almost a groundbreaking archaeological find. It was amazing, wicked, and scary, and as you flipped a few pages, a small gasp slipped past your wrapped-around-the-flashlight lips as you saw the old, yellow pages, carefully filled with various demons and their descriptions.
Oh dearest, Naoya would faint just from seeing it.
So you quickly closed the book and went back upstairs. You ran through the hall and living room before storming into the largest bedroom to scare the man hunched over the camera.
"Fuck! Can you please at least knock?" His palm fell on your quickly falling chest, snake eyes much larger than usual.
The little camera was set on the tall tripod, facing the king-sized bed. The room was rather big and cosy, with wooden walls and a large window directly above the bed frame, overlooking the deep, dark forest.
Naoya sat on the bed, yet his head shot your way the moment you stormed like a nightmare.
"Look!" Walking his way, you held the heavy book right in front of your chest, presenting it full to his bulging eyes. "Do you have any idea what it is?"
His straight brows furrowed. "Do I wanna know?"
Flipping the heavy cover, you showed him the first page. And the second, and the third, each one scribbled messily, with handwritten notes and crooked pictures of demons.
"Where did you get it?" he asked softly, taking the book from your hands. He read the pages with a frown, his finger brushing the old, crumpled paper. "It's at least a thousand years old."
"Oh, I found it in the basement. Locked with some old leather belt. I barely managed to open it, but here we are."
Naoya looked up, eyes almost stormy, a deep sigh and a wish to wig you from head to toe already bubbling in his chest. "You saw a fucking human-skin-bound book, bent shut, and decided to just open it? Without even thinking why it was secured like an artefact from the deepest corners of hell?"
You walked around the bedroom and looked at other shelves. With many more books than you expected, yet they seemed to have been read by the travellers and owners themselves. Nothing truly interesting that piqued your interest.
"Why not? I was curious. It's not as if anything will happen. And why do you think it's bound in human skin?" You shrugged and popped a squat to check the lower shelves filled with board games. "Oh, they have a monopoly. How about doing oral sex instead of paying rent for stepping on the property?"
Naoya closed his eyes and took a deep breath. One breath after another, through the nose and past the mouth, as he tried to calm himself.
"Have you seen it? It's clearly human skin. Don't you think it's fucking terrifying?"
Your head shook as your fingers traced an old, dusty box, deeply hidden beneath other games. "Hm, I think it's fascinating. You know, maybe it was made by some wicked witch or, oh, a cult. Do you think it was made from someone who was sacrificed to the devil?"
Naoya began to regret agreeing to your pleadings. The image of your pouted lips and plush breasts beneath the skimpy top still swirled in his mind, yet every part of him, every sense, was screaming in alarm to get himself away from his peculiar friend.
Although a friend could've been far too strong, as you loved teasing him and he somehow easily gave in to your haunting whispers.
"That's it, I'm taking it ba-"
"Oh my god!"
His heart nearly stopped in dread as you discovered something he was desperately trying to hide from your sight. He hid it deep beneath the heavy board games, covering it with a flimsy tablecloth he found on the shelf, just to prevent you from seeing this devilish thing.
"I can't believe they have a Ouija board!" you gasped in awe, quickly joining him on the bed. The board was already unpacked, clutched in your fingers, as you looked all around it and finally set it down.
And then…
And then something flickered behind your eyes. A sinister, ominous plan, blended with the lovely – or rather, malevolent – smile that made your cheeks swell. Naoya could read your mind with an almost horrifying precision. Knowing you for the past year, he could pinpoint each of your perverted thoughts.
So he quickly shut the book and smashed it against the board. "Absolutely not."
Your lips pouted as one hand swiftly grabbed his wrist to stop him from rising. "Oh, come on! You have no idea what I wanted to do!"
Naoya gritted his teeth, trying to free himself from your grasping fingers. "Truly? Because I think you considered summoning a demon from this book using this devilish thing."
You bit the inside of your cheek, trying to suppress the laughter that was barely held back in your throat.
Naoya was seething. Oh, he was so, so furious, and you could see faint grey smoke swirling above his scowling head as he tried to pull your fingers apart, one by one. But you held him in an almost unbelievably tight grip, eyes fixed on his face.
"Actually, I thought about summoning a demon and fucking him on camera."
You laughed when Naoya let out a low, tired groan, and instead of lifting the book, he simply leaned over and banged his forehead against it. Until your crackling filled the dim bedroom, lit only by the warm bedside lamp and moonlight spilling past the thick trees.
There was something warm in the way excitement clung to your spine when Naoya finally gave in. You could see it in the way his shoulders hunched, and a sigh of surrender finally escaped his lips.
"Why do you need to be like that?" he asked, voice muffled because of the book.
"Like what?" you hummed, brushing his dirty-blonde hair. "Just imagine how famous I'd become. That's, like, oh god, the perfect way to boost my career. And don't you want to be known as the first director to film a fucking demon?"
There were many things Naoya wanted. But summoning an ancient monster wasn't one of them.
And yet, he muttered a quiet, "Fine," and took his hands off the book and the board. "But you know there's a chance this thing isn't even working?"
"I know it is," you giggled, opening the book again. "I just feel it."
"And you know that there's a low chance that demons actually exist?"
"No, they do."
Naoya grimaced, yet still flipped the book over to you. "How can you be a physicist and believe in such things?"
You hummed, reading the description of each demon carefully. "It's fun."
And that was truly the simplest way to describe it.
Fun.
Being slightly obsessed with creatures and demons was fun. Spending nights preparing for exams, then watching horror films on your old, self–bought TV, neatly hidden in your tiny closet. Reading erotica about monsters, spectres, and vampires just to feel a thrill that tingled your spine in the most pleasurable way.
During the day, you've learned about the mysteries of the universe; at night, you've bent all your beliefs just to get yourself off to the dream of fucking with a monster.
Your dirty little secret, neatly concealed behind a mask of a simple campus slut and a nerd. Because you enjoyed being a weird girl, with perverted fantasies and wickedness always lurking around your lovely face. You loved sex, yet finding people who could truly satisfy your craving was difficult.
And so, among all the men you've slept with, Satoru was the only one who always agreed to your devilish scenarios. The obsessive ex, stalking murderer, a clown chasing you through the haunted house with a knife. His teeth on your skin, yours on his, until, sometimes, you've drawn a bit of blood from his lips, cherishing the metallic sweetness on your tongue.
Him, eating you out during the period, waiting for your shuddering climax, kissing you deep and filthy, with your own blood smeared all over your fucked face.
But Satoru also wasn't a thing. A creature, a monster, who would satisfy your most wicked, carnal pleasures.
And Naoya only needed to know that it was fun.
"Oh," your voice dropped as you turned to a blank page. "Ryomen Sukuna," you read aloud, yet found no description or sketch of the only demon, only his name and DO NOT SUMMON written in crooked, wicked letters.
Naoya looked up, seeing the same sinister flicker behind your eyes. "No, absolutely not," he said, his finger immediately falling on the warning. "Let me help you translate it. It means that, under no circumstances, no matter what happens, we mustn't summon this specific demon."
But he knew, he saw, that you were dead set. Your lower lip caught between your teeth, eyes shining sweetly, as you looked up and nodded.
"This one. I have a good feeling," you giggled, already placing the book and the Ouija board on the bed in front of you.
"Don't you think there's a reason he's the only one marked like that? Without any description, not even a sketch?"
You hummed, scanning for any information about the demon. Only its name, the warning, and something dark and smeared on the paper, ending just at its edges. Blood, perhaps, yet you quickly hid it with your hand to prevent Naoya from seeing.
"I think no one has ever seen him, and it's our duty to step into uncharted territory," you giggled, seeing as Naoya nevertheless stood behind a small camera.
Straight eyebrows still slightly furrowed, dark eyes rolling. "You're an astrophysics student, not an archaeologist."
"Demonologist."
He scoffed. "Anyway, the camera is ready. Do you want to change or…?"
You looked over the skimpy, whorish enough outfit and shook your head. Tight shorts curled just beneath your cheeks, perked nipples visible through the top, lingerie long gone. Cute, perfect for an innocent, porn-style look.
"No, it's good," you plucked at the scuff of your top, lowering it gently. Letting the camera capture the fuller view of your breasts. "How is the angle?"
"Below the neck," Naoya murmured, adjusting the camera slightly. "In case of something, we can cut the recording. You know, that video of your face would probably bring you more fame, right?"
You corrected the pin-up and smiled cheekily. "I believe my body is hot enough to guarantee success."
Naoya didn't say anything, but simply hummed and raised his eyebrow.
It was time.
The warm light from the lamp cast a gentle halo over your body. Basking in its warmth, you let the rays spill around your naked arms, breasts, and thighs, pressed together as you sat on your heels.
With a nod of your head, Naoya raised his thumb and a little red dot of recording lit up.
"Hi everyone," your low, seductive voice wrapped around the camera's deep lens. "It's so late already, isn't it? Well, how about I keep you company and maybe have some fun, hmm?"
The camera dropped slightly onto your hands, then zoomed in on the Ouija board. Fingers clenched around the heart-shaped planchette, with a glossy eye in the middle.
"By having some fun, I mean, what do you think about playing with a few demons? Sounds cool, doesn't it?" Your giggle mingled with the sharp, flickering sound of a lighter as you lit a candle. Putting it on the bed, where the mattress felt most stable. "Mhm, let's hope we summon a sexy demon. I'm sure he could take such good care of me."
Your thighs basked in the candle's warm glow as you pressed two fingers to the planchette and took a deep breath. Excitement and stress mingled, bubbling in your chest, the familiar, thrilling throb deep in your lower belly already pooling in your shorts. If you parted your legs right now, Naoya could clearly see a small, wet patch just beneath your moist pussy.
With a wooden heart in the middle, you started, "Is there anyone with us tonight?"
There was a brief moment of silence, the dim room lit only by a flickering candle and a warm bedside light. Naoya stood behind the camera, visibly troubled. His lips were pressed together, and eyes looked slightly uneasy as he nervously glanced around the room before finally looking back at you and shaking his head.
The plachette didn't move either.
"It seems our demons are a bit shy tonight," you laughed, biting your lower lip. "Hm, how about we call for the specific one? Maybe it will answer to my sweet pleadings."
You took another deep breath, pressing the index and middle fingers tighter against the heart-shaped wood. "Ryomen Sukuna, are you with us?"
Naoya gripped the metal frame of the bed, crystals of sweat already beading on his smooth temple. The owl's muffled hoot echoed deep within the forest, and a gentle wind stirred the curling branches that tapped at your bedroom window. The silence remained thick and still, and even though it was midsummer, a cold sweat kissed the back of your neck.
"Hm, Ryomen Sukuna, would you like to visit the sweetheart tonight?"
The shivers of excitement ran down your spine, as if something unfathomable and bloodcurdling were about to happen. Yet the room remained dusky and chilly, with only Naoya's shuddering breaths mingling with the candle's flickering flame and the hum of crickets beneath your porch.
"I don't think he's–"
But then the flame flickered. Gently, curling and twisting in the still air before finally dying out. Grey smoke from a vanilla-scented candle curled over the glass, and you both watched it with wide eyes.
You, biting on the inside of your cheek to muffle the giggle.
Naoya letting a low, "Fuck" slip past his lips as he started looking around the room.
"Don't worry," you said, clearly trying to lift his spirits. "I moved on the bed and–"
"No."
His voice… you've never heard it like that before. Low, yet edged with a high note. Trembling and groggy, he stepped back and fixed his gaze somewhere over your shoulder.
"Behind you," he whispered, not daring to point his finger. "The corner. There's…"
You quickly turned your head, eyes searching for the thing that frightened him so.
And… oh.
He was monstrous, enormous, and tall, nearly touching the ceiling with his head. Four crimson eyes gleamed brightly from the dark corner, reflecting the warm flames. Four arms stretched long and high, while his body crackled and bent as if awakening after years of sleep, fully straightening from its cocoon.
The breath caught somewhere between your lungs and throat. Lips parted as you saw a monster up close. If you reached out, your fingers would almost touch the hem of the white robe around his hips. It was like petting a tiger, meant to be watched only from a tightly closed cage.
He was revolting. Monstrous, terrifying, yet strangely beautiful. With muscles rippling along his back, a broad torso, and a grinning mouth in his stomach that made you swallow hard.
Sharp jaw, now scratched by one of his hands as he looked around the room. Crimson eyes glinting between you and Naoya with a squint.
"Call him away," Naoya whispered, slowly stepping further into the room. Away from him, from you. "Fuck, do something."
Coward.
"No," you smiled, biting the inside of your cheek. "I can take him."
Naoya cursed under his breath, eyes fixed on the monster without ever looking away. His narrowed, almond-shaped eyes watched you both carefully, as if gauging the room's atmosphere.
Two upper arms crossed over his chest, lower ones hanging loose.
"What year is it?" His low, scruffy voice sent shivers down your and Naoya's spines.
"Nineteen eighty-five," you said.
The monster, Sukuna, chuckled, ruffling his pinkish hair. "Thousand years, huh. Who set me free?"
Naoya didn't even try to take the blame; his hand immediately pointed at you. And you, pointing at yourself with your index finger.
"Hm, aren't you a dove?" Sukuna stepped closer, and you could almost feel the floor trembling beneath his heavy body. "Do you have any idea what creature you have summoned?"
Naoya backed away, taking careful steps towards the door, before he suddenly stiffened as if remembering that you were still in the room.
Closer to the demon than he was, with eyes shining brightly as if bewitched by a monster in front of you.
Your head shook, a few strands of hair slipping from the clip to brush the flame-kissed cheek.
The monster lifted his fingers, tucking a lock of hair behind your ear. You could see just how enormous he truly was. Naoya looked next to him like a twig. Yet his figure, towering over your seated form and casting long shadows across the bedding, somehow made you squirm. As the shorts suddenly felt wetter and tighter, you wondered whether Naoya could see a damp patch pooling beneath your pussy from behind.
"What the fuck are you doing?" He gritted, trying take a few steps closer.
You were mesmerised, mind lost in awe at seeing a demon in real life, after years of masturbating to the mere idea of fucking with it.
Naoya drew closer, step by step, carefully, his fingers trying to grab your arm. "Fuck, we need to leave. Now, or else it–"
But then, Sukuna waved his hand, and something wet landed on your arm. It soaked your skin in a sticky, muggy substance, giving off a distinct smell reminiscent of rusted metal.
The one you knew all too well, and as your eyes drifted down to your right arm, your breath caught once again in your throat.
A long streak of blood trickled down your skin, together with something thick. It was quite similar to a tissue, thick yet soft, reminding you of a swollen cheek. The more you looked at it, the more certain you became that it must have been someone's cheek.
Sukuna brushed something from your chin, his thumb damp in something crimson.
Naoya didn't say anything. He simply couldn't, because he wasn't there any more. When you turned back, your eyes fell on the large, dark puddle of flesh and blood pooling around his shoes.
The walls of the bedroom seeping with his burst body, long strings of blood rolling down the wooden planks onto the old, soft carpet. Half of the room, the one behind your back, fully basked in metallic, crimson darkness.
"Oh," was the only thing that could slip past your lips, before Sukuna pinched your chin and brought you back. "He–"
"Was talking too much," he whispered, now squeezing your cheeks with two fingers. "Answer my question, dove. Do you have any idea what you have done?"
And to his surprise, you nodded.
Sweetly, almost shyly, yet he noticed this flame – a flicker – that burned behind your blown-out iris. He noticed your plush lips fallen open, the body wriggling on the bed, thighs clenched tight, until the droplets of sweat beaded between the brushing skin.
And he could smell you too – the sweetness of your arousal that soaked the flimsy, slutty material of the thing you dared to call a cloth.
From where he came, your attire wouldn't even suit a nightgown. Back then, women dressed modestly and humbly, always lowering their gazes before the King of Curses, trembling at the mere sight of his grinning belly-mouth.
Their eyes always slightly swollen, a little too worried, as mercy did not visit his household and the walls seeped blood far more often than they should. His fingers broke necks effortlessly, feet stomping on piles of bodies of those who dared to bother the King of Curses, whether he was trying to soothe his mind or to haunt.
But then a shaman of sorts, a sorcerer, trapped his body within a cursed book. For the next thousand years, it remained buried deep beneath the shifting layers of a changing world. In the darkness underground, it moved and travelled through countless other fingers of curious, heedless humans who seemed to take pleasure in calling forth demons.
But not him. No, as no one dared to call the most wicked, as if utterly rational it was to avoid the creature of his rank.
And yet, after thousands of years of being trapped, he suddenly appeared in a dimly lit room, with the warm smell of the human body wafting through the air and a little, pretty dove sitting on the bed.
Now, looking at him with flushed cheeks and a lovely glimmer behind her wicked eyes, as he brushed the soft lower lip.
"I should kill you," he murmured, pressing a thick thumb against your lips. You parted them gently, inviting it in with eyes curling into a smirk. "Such a foolish girl. But I owe you for setting me free."
With a nod, you gently sucked on his finger. It nearly filled your mouth, pressing heavily against your tongue as you coated it with sticky saliva. Your lips hollowed, eyes fixed on the demon's face as if trying to memorise all his devilish features. The small bump on his nose, tattoos carved into his skin with almost uncanny precision, pinkish hair falling over his forehead as he leaned forward, the second hand releasing your hair from a clip.
He pulled his finger, once again clutching your cheeks with his now wet digits. "So tell me, what do you wish for?"
He held you in a tight grip, pressing right against your jaw until you felt a sharp pain. "I want you to use me."
Sukuna tilted his head, eyes narrowing into two almonds. "Use you?"
You nodded briefly and raised your fingers to press against his thighs. The muscles bulged, bent, and shifted beneath the long, creamy tunic he wore as your hand slid upwards. Higher and higher until your finger tugged at the cloth wrapped around his hips. Your own wriggled messily on the bedding, just to feel the slick pull of your shorts brushing against your already swollen clit.
With a single pull, the cloth fell, revealing…
"Oh," you gasped, as the musky, heavy smell of his two fat cocks suddenly hit your face.
Red, long, with veins curling around their swollen shafts and all the blood already dripping down to feverish tips.
His hand slipped to the back of your head, clenching a fistful of hair and pulling you back. "Do you know what you're asking me for?"
You nodded, long fingers digging into his beefy thighs. "Do whatever you want with me," fell playfully, as you bit your lower lip. "Fuck me for the camera. Please?"
Sukuna's eyes slipped to a little something turned at you two, the red light watching him closely.
"This thing?" He asked, taking it with one of his lower hands.
The small, black camera, with its lens now pointing at you. The need to cover your face was quick, and, unfortunately, as it would turn out, you pushed Sukuna away, trying to cover yourself with a hand.
"Wait, no, my face–"
But you didn't finish, as he suddenly pressed you against his heavy, leaking cocks. Muffling your pleadings, nose buried in his black hair as you took a deep, moany breath and let it leap off his skin.
He hummed lowly, the camera in his hand looking comically tiny. The lens pointed right at your face, to get a clear view of the glossy, sly eyes.
"Push me again, and I'll break those pretty fingers of yours," fell in a rumble that tickled the deepest, warmest flesh of your lower belly. "How about putting your mouth to use, hm? I'm sure you can do more than just look like a whore."
There was simply no way to take both of his cocks into your mouth. Your fingers curled around one, feeling the leaking, creamy precum stick to the pads, lips smooching kisses down another. Too heavy to even stand and cling to his abdomen, yet hard enough to become too big to wrap your lips around it.
You kissed the first shaft. Licking, sucking, biting into the bulging veins, till finally catching wetly on the plump head. Where the smell was the heaviest, oh so manly, forcing your mind to spiral into a thoughtless state, with a heavy pall of lust clouding your vision, as your lips finally wrapped themselves around one cock.
Fingers pumping another, yet your hand was simply too small to wrap it whole.
And your mouth, oh dearest, you took it in, cheeks bulging and tongue pressed beneath his shaft, allowing it to slide in with a sickly, filling pressure. But he was simply too big.
"I can't," you whimpered, pulling gently away. His fingers still gripped your hair tightly, crimson eyes narrowing at the sight of your flushed, sweating face. Utterly lovely.
"You begged," he snapped, a finger from his third hand catching the corner of your lips and stretching them harshly. "I'm sure this filthy mouth of yours sucked on thousands of cocks."
You chuckled, giving a firm squeeze to his second cock. "It did. Yet never on monster's one," instead of taking it back in, you wrapped another hand around it. "But my pussy's stretched enough to take you in."
Gaze fixed on Sukuna's face, a slight heat already creeping up his cheeks. Jumping between Sukuna's face and a small camera held tight in his hand. Well, if NASA will not accept your application, at least you'll have a Plan B.
Your lips traced kisses along his abdomen, with tongue licking the happy trails and teeth biting into veiny skin, before finally reaching his lower mouth. Wet, salivating, grinning just as he did, as you placed a soft kiss against it.
His low chuckle echoed off the wooden walls, the smell of Naoya's blood still heavy in the air, swirling your mind senseless.
Sukuna's lower mouth parted, a fat, wet tongue licking your small lips before forcing its way down your throat. His free hand quickly grabbed your top and tore it off your chest. Your shorts were next, but he didn't let them fall to the floor.
No, instead, with eyes following the way your small mouth sucked on his tongue and both hands took care of heavy, leaking cocks, he pressed the drenched part of your shorts to his face.
Taking a deep, filthy breath, tongue sticking out to lick your creamy cum that stuck to the cloth. Sucking it dry, tasting the sweetness of your cunt and groaning almost pathetically around the flavour that seeped through his body.
You moaned around his tongue, softly sucking the muscle as you felt your taste slip down your throat.
"Delicious, hm?" Sukuna chuckled, brushing the hair from your lovely, flushed face. "Can't believe your pussy is the first thing I taste after a thousand years of starvation. But hell, you taste so fucking good."
Your eyes rolled back as the teeth of his lower belly bit on your lips. Pulling a line of blood that filled both your mouths.
His cocks weighed in your palms with drenched squelches, as you pumped them all this time. Thumbs smearing the precum around the two swollen tips, palms trying to squeeze that fatness that emitted heat against your naked breasts. His lower belly devoured you sweetly, long tongue pressing against yours whole, and you wondered how it would feel deep inside you pussy.
You felt that was close. His both cocks leaking heavily, balls constricting and shafts pumping blood right into the mushroom tips, as your nails grazed their bulging surface.
He suddenly pushed you away from his mouth. With a single, sharp move, he squeezed both of his cocks, pressing the tips against your lips.
You knew what he wanted, so you parted them with a smile, sticking out your tongue. Letting it smash against the underside of his shafts, eyes fixed on his face.
Narrowed, cheeky, curling in the most slutty way Sukuna hadn't even seen among the courtesans.
In fact, he had never met a woman like you, driven by a true passion and lacking any fear towards a monster like him.
You must've been slightly off your head, he tried to reassure himself, before pressing his lips into a tight line and finally letting the long, bubbling pleasure spill all over your tongue.
Splashing it with long, filthy ropes of heavy cum, that stuck in the swollen balls for far too long. Cumming all over your face, lips, breasts, as you moaned and licked both reddened tips. Your tongue pressing to his swollen head, curling around the small slit as if trying to pull more cum out of his warmth. Lips wrapping around them, licking clean, and thighs rubbing against each other until your skin ran a fever.
His eyes narrowed, one of the hand pushing you slightly back, till you fell on your elbows. With a grin and tilted head, as if knowing what he wanted.
"Hmm?" You cooed, parting your legs slowly. Painfully, straining slowly, as he watched your drenched, sticky folds open up with strings of cum sticking to your sweet, swollen hole. "Is that what you wished to see?"
Your fingers scooped his hefty cum coating your face, chin, breast, before pressing it against your pussy, mixing it together with your own juices.
Finger played with your clit, before slipping down to push inside the gaping hole that only waited for Sukuna to fill it with his cocks. Your thighs spread wider, head fell back as you moaned, pulling drenched squelches of his cum mixing with yours.
"Fuck, why don't you join me?" Your tone fell soft and silky as you looked at him with a doe-like furrow. "I think she's missing you. I feel so-ngh-empty here." You pressed your hand to your lower belly.
Something almost predatory bubbled behind his eyes. Almond-shaped eyes that stayed fixed on your face, frozen, as if he didn't dare let his gaze slip down. Through your breasts, soft belly, to the parted, fully drenched thighs that you spread for his massive body, wide open.
"Even whores aren't as wicked as you," he muttered, eyes finally falling down. "Such a fucking slut."
He followed the roll of your fingers. Clit, swollen and drenched, pinched by your pads as you pushed two digits in. Too short to feel any pleasure, yet enough to show him how tight your cunt was.
"I am," you giggled, the sweetness of your voice kissing his warm ears. "And I always wanted to fuck with a demon, so you can use me as you wish."
His knees finally met with the mattress. Camera left on the bedside table, angled to look right at the side of your lovely face.
Two upper hands spread your thighs wider, lower wrapping around your hips to lift you up and press against his lower mouth.
Fat, drenched tongue slipped past the grinning lips, to give your pussy a long, filthy lick. Forcing your fingers out and instead stuffing your hole full, till the creaminess of your cum wrapped around its heavy muscle.
A soft, moaning breath slipped past your lips, eyes rolling back as you gripped the hem of the bedding.
"Fuck, that's, oh my fucking-" His teeth caught on your clit, the painful pleasure washing over your spine as you let him press you to his belly closer.
"And you, foolish woman, think that you can take me whole with this weeping cunt?" He chuckled, trying to force his fat index finger into your whole. The skin stretched almost painfully as he thrusted it alongside his tongue. "I would rip you in half."
Your hips lifted from the mattress, back flush against it, as you wept beneath his filthy body. Your tight walls clenched around his tongue, slick and curved, with the tip already pressing against your sensitive spot, making your toes curl.
"I-I, fuck, I can take you. Mhm, there are two holes for a r-reason."
Sukuna chuckled and scooped a bit of your creamy cum, just to poke with his finger your puckered, tight hole.
"Truly? Because it seems to me that…" He pressed the pad against your ass. But surprisingly, the tight ring of muscles gave way, allowing him to slip a finger inside. "Oh? So you stretched yourself even there?"
Your eyes glimmered with sweat, tears, the pleasure your body was overwhelmed by, and this wicked cheekiness that made the demon's grin widen in an almost ominous sense.
"I know how to take a monster cock," you giggled, wriggling your hips on his finger, tongue, just to feel him deeper. "So why don't you stop treating me like a dolly, hm?"
Your hands slipped down your body. One, wrapping around the perked nipple, squeezing it tight to draw a lovely moan from your pouted lips. Another meeting his tongue pushed deep inside your cunt. Small fingers catching on the tight hole wrapped around it, just to slip in with the nasty squelch.
"Unless you want me to be one?" A cheeky grin flattered as his tongue bumped your plump spot, bursting stars right in front of your eyes. "Nghh, unless you want me to be your sweet virgin girl, hm? I can act innocent, if-"
But one of his hands left your hip to squeeze your cheeks. Lips pulled together, jaw tight, as he lowered himself and locked a filthy strap around your pouty lips.
"Don't fucking do it. Don't act all cute and innocent on me while stretching your ass just to fit my cocks," His crimson eyes met yours – slightly glossy, fucked. "Acting innocent? Are you a child? I fucking hate it."
You grinned wider, biting down on your lower lip, as if trying to muffle, to ignore, the threatening bubbling in your lower belly. The splashes that filled your pouch, heat creeping up your neck as another fat finger slipped inside your ass. Now, two of his fingers pumping you fully, spreading you open as the walls eagerly yielded to the wetness of your cum and allowed them to slide past the muscle rim.
His tongue deep, pressing your small fingers inside against your walls, before you pulled them out and crushed against your trembling clit. Rolling it in slow circles, gently pinching as you sensed the sizzling beneath your skin. Biting your muscles feverishly, as you felt the sudden tightness spreading through your stomach.
"I–I, fuck, I'm going to cum soon," slipped in a moan, as you rolled your hips harder against his tongue. "Sukuna, I–"
But you didn't have time to finish.
Not when he suddenly pushed you away, taking tongues and fingers from your weeping holes. A gasp escaped your throat a second later, when something big and swollen pressed against them.
And as you heard a low "Deep breath, dove," the sharp, drowning pain pinched every nerve in your trembling, tender body.
Your back fully pressed to the mattress, hip slightly elevated, thighs sticking wet to your heaving breasts, as he sunk both of his cocks in your puckered, swollen holes.
Without warning, only a sinister, wicked grin and crimson eyes, cherishing the pain that mingled with pleasure on your lovely face. Teeth biting your lower lip, harsh, drawing blood. Eyes going white, head pounding, as you felt the stretch you'd never even imagined in your wildest dreams.
You pictured yourself getting split on a monster's cock. Fucked senseless, till your spine would arch painfully and its heavy, massive body lay on yours, taking away your breath.
You thought about how bulging your belly would be, but when you looked down, the sheer sight of the plumpness seething through the pouch made your head spin.
"Fucking hell," Sukuna groaned, feeling the sudden tension in your holes. "You'd better fucking relax, dove, because I'm not waiting for you to get used to it." A finger gripped your face, forcing your foggy gaze to meet his. "You were running that pretty mouth of yours all this time, so take it without a complaint."
His cocks snugged against the tight muscles warmly, yet he could barely thrust them fully. His upper hands on the back of your thighs, lower ones spreading your cream–coated folds, just to see the way your poor, weeping pussy tried to swallow him in.
As, oh, she tried, and so he pressed your puffy clit to help her take it full. Inch by inch, as both his cocks sank deeper, sliding through the wetness of your walls till the skin beneath your belly button bulged.
Sukuna giggled, pressing his massive hand against it, pushing both shafts deeper into your squishy insides.
"What's wrong, dove?" he asked, watching the dark, mascara-stained tears slide down your cheeks. His palm cupped them in an almost loving manner, his fat thumb resting on your lips. "Is that not what your silly head dreamed about? Huh? You thought fucking with a monster would be easier?"
His shaft slid painfully slowly, and you knew that, despite all his words, he was trying to stop himself from splitting you in half.
Because he could – of course he did – but there was something about you – wicked, restless, biting deep into his marrow – that somehow made him want you to last a bit longer. The insolence of your working on his nerves, the cockiness and the blush that kissed your cheeks in a wicked manner.
He hated women of your sort.
And yet, right now he couldn't forget the taste of your honeyed pussy on his tongue. The flavour still coated his throat with muggy drops as he savoured it while sliding his cocks deeper through the wetness pooling beneath your hips.
"It's not," you whimpered, taking a deep breath as he finally sank himself fully. He thought you would beg him to stop, push him away, and cry and weep in pain. Yet your hand wrapped around his neck, tugging softly at the pinkish hair. "It's better than I have ever imagined."
It must've snapped something within him.
Because the moment his balls met your ass with a wet smack, he pulled both cocks till nothing but red tips stayed snuggled inside your gaping holes, and thrust back in. And again, again, again, forcing your breath to stay locked deep within your lungs, as he didn't give you a chance to take anything but a shallow weep.
His massive body pressed you deep into the mattress, pussy coating his fat cock with creamy strings of cum, linking your soppy folds with his pubic hair.
No sex you've ever had could be compared to this. No fantasy of yours that slipped wickedly into your mind at night, while you fucked yourself senseless on some jock's cock could meet the reality of taking a true monster's dick.
The musky heaviness that filled your belly was overwhelming, as was the heat he filled you with.
And when he pulled again, you've noticed something dark coating his veins, bulging skin. Crimson, fresh liquid that glimmered beneath the warm glow of the bedside lamp.
"Fuck," you groaned. That's why you felt a cock smack against your cervix that achily. "I'm on my period."
But Sukuna grinned. His cock pulled from your pussy, another one staying still in your ass, as his fingers slipped down and thrusted inside your hole, to swap on the blood-drenched walls.
"Hm, and here I thought you lied to me about being a virgin. I'm afraid I would need to kill you, dove," he groaned, dragging the fingers out. Hefty liquid covered them, the droplets of blood thick and clotted, as he pushed them into his mouth, eyes never leaving yours. "Fuck, still just as sweet. But I might like this taste even more."
You moaned, feeling the head of his cock again at the entrance of your pussy. This time, shoved deep till the mushroom tip kissed your bloody cervix, pushing painfully past the swollen muscle to stab the creamy womb.
Your scream was immediately muffled by his lips. Carnal, sweet, his bloody saliva mixed with yours in a raw, sensual kiss. Although difficult, it was to call it a kiss, as he devoured you fully. Lips pressed against each other's tongues, falling past the rim of your mouths as he licked, kissed, bit your face hole, smooching wet, heavy kisses over your sweat-drenched skin.
Like a dog, yet you cried out in pleasure as he folded you in half, his massive body completely pressed against yours.
The splashing in your pouch filled the room, leaving nothing but your heavy breaths. Your sweet moans as he pierced you with his cocks, till your womb was full of everything but his cum.
"Inside me," you cried, wrapping yourself around him. "I need to feel your cum, fuck. I need it inside."
Sukuna chuckled into the crook, one of his hands reaching for the long-forgotten camera. The lens was pointed directly at your crying, pleasure–twisted face as his pace quickened.
The tongue of his lower belly slipping past the monstrous lips, to flicker your puffy clit. To suck on it cruelly, bite softly, as he felt your walls squeezing tight around his cocks. Swallowing them in, letting both drenched shafts, one smeared fully blood, snug into the warmest plushness of your body.
Your eyes rolled back and your lips fell open as the orgasm crept up your neck. Kissing down the spine, splashing low in your belly as his belly mouth pressed its tongue against your clit.
"Smile for the camera, dove," Sukuna chuckled, savouring the pleasure of the view unfolding before his eyes. "Such a beauty, aren't you? Letting yourself get spilt on the monster's cock, huh. A fucking slut," His hand reached for your cheeks, forcing you to look straight into the lens. "Come on, you wanted to do it. Don't leave without showing the climax."
The gushing in your belly was perilously close to spilling. His lower tongue pressed against your clit, cocks swelling even bigger deep in your pussy, as you saw your belly inflating with the fatness of his shafts.
And when his bloodstained lips smashed against yours, as he angled the camera to look directly at your faces, you finally came. "Sukuna, f-fuck, I-I–nghhh–"
Squirting all over his abdomen, wetting the bed and his lower belly, which lapped up your splashing juices and swallowed them all with a groany moan. Your walls clamped around him in maddening tightness, and soon you felt the heavy warmth spill deep into your womb. And ass, with ropes and ropes of milky creaminess, growing your already stuffed belly, till the splashing of your squirt was changed for his cum.
The sleepiness suddenly settled over your mind. Your tired body melted beneath his heavy touch. Yet before your eyes could relax for a moment, he suddenly lifted your balm and bit your thumb, drawing a few droplets of blood and pressing the finger against the old, yellow paper of the book.
Right next to his name.
"Now, dove," he chuckled, pressing his own bloodstained finger beside it. "We're making a pact. You can summon me whenever you wish, agreeing to use you however I wish." He looked at your fucked, swollen face for a while, then cupped your cheek softly. "But after your death, you'll be joining my side in hell."
You nuzzled into his warm skin, licking his thumb sweetly. Eyes mingling, bewitching wickedness that sent shivers down his spine.
"You promise?"
He chuckled. "Of course. Who else could ever handle you?"
Your eyes fell on Naoya's body, or whatever was left of him. But Sukuna quickly turned your chin back to his face and kissed you slowly, raw, with the still metallic sweetness of your blood.
"I'll take care of him," he muttered, finally letting his cocks slip from your cunt. The mix of blood and cum pooled beneath your hips before his lower mouth drunk it fully, pushing the rest back inside your whole. "And now. Let's see how much blood I can draw from this sweet pussy, shall we?"
You giggled, nodded with a grin, and turned the camera off.
In which Dennis Whitaker offers to help you fix something at your house, and oh, you must pay him back somehow.
Dennis Whitaker x femreader!
Readers a rad tech. City girl reader. NSW. Oral (m&f) unprotected P in V. A bit of rough Whitaker (i headcanon he doesn’t know he’s strength sometimes lol) bit of inexperience Whitaker. Feral reader. Bit of breeding if you squint. Dennis likes to bite.
word count: 6k
First time writing smut so please be nice
Morning filtered in through the blinds in thin, honeyed lines, striping the small apartment in soft gold.
The place had that that lived-in feel, trinity’s hoodie draped over a chair, Dennis’s boots abandoned by the door, maybe a sock somewhere in the living room. It was the quiet hum of a space that had seen a plenty of ordinary mornings just like this one.
Dennis was by the door, shrugging into his jacket, keys already looped around his fingers, halfway out before he’d even technically left.
From the kitchen, Trinity didn’t even pretend to be subtle as she watched him, leaning against the counter, in her robs, mug in hand.
“Oh, wow,” she drew out slowly, head tilting as her gaze dragged over him, amused and a little too pleased with herself. “Look at you.”
Dennis didn’t look up. “What.”
She took a slow sip of her coffee,“Nothing, nothing… just you actually made an effort today.”
That made him, slightly confused and smartly wary, glance at her and for her her grin to widened.
“God, you even put cologne on,” she added, like she’d just uncovered something incriminating. “Can smell it from here.”
Dennis frowned faintly, like he hadn’t even realized. “I always use it”
Trinity gave him a look so disbelieving it was almost theatrical.
“No, you wear whatever deodorant survived the week and call it a day. This…” she waved vaguely in his direction. “is effort.”
He looked down at himself like maybe his clothes had betrayed him somehow. “It’s not effort.”
“Right,” she said dryly. “And I’m the patron saint of minding my own business.”
Dennis let out a quiet breathy laugh through his nose and reached for the coffee mug he’d left on the counter, taking a swallow mostly so he wouldn’t say anything stupid.
Unfortunately for him, Trinity Santos loved silence for the reason being, that it gave her room.
She pushed off the counter and went to pour herself more coffee,“So what exactly is broken over there?”
He shrugged and set the mug down. “Her sink, I think, she said the water’s not coming out right.”
“And of course,” she said, voice laced with mock admiration, “you became Katniss Everdeen.”
Dennis rolled his eyes, catching the reference. “Don’t start.”
“‘Don’t start,’” she mocked, “You mean the super hot rad tech who just happened to need help and you just happened to volunteer?”
“It’s just a broken thing.” he waved a hand, already wishing he hadn’t said anything at all.
“A thing,” Trinity echoed, nodding like that explained everything. “Got it.”
“Yeah, her sink.” He turned away from her, moving to rinse out his mug with a little more focus than necessary.
Her expression softened into something far too sweet, dangerously sweet. “And tell me, Huckleberry, you heading over there to fix her plumbing… or are you planning to service her pipes?”
He grimaced, a faint flush creeping up his neck despite himself, at the thought. “Seriously?”
“What?” Trinity let out a quiet laugh,“You practically set that one up yourself, and don’t act like the thought hasn’t crossed your mind. Because it definitely would’ve crossed mine.”
Dennis didn’t reply, mostly because he couldn’t, there wasn’t much he could say without giving himself away. The truth was, it had crossed his mind, more than once, different scenarios, different angles… more than he’d ever admit out loud, but he shut it down just as quickly every time.
For one, he’d been raised better than that and for another… it wasn’t something that would ever, in this god green earth, actually happen.
You were friends, that was what mattered.
Sure, maybe he had an itty bitty crush on you, small enough that he could almost lie to himself about it, but then again, who didn’t? Half the people in the Pitt would’ve lined up for a chance, and with the amount of options you had, with the way you could pretty much take your pick of anyone there, there was no world where it’d be him.
He just turned away, opening the cupboard to put his mug back while behind him, Santos kept going, because of course she did.
“You know, I’ve gotta say… I’m a little surprised.”
He nudged the cupboard shut, the wood clicking softly. “Yeah? About what?”
“I just figured if you weren’t on shift, you’d be back at that widow’s farm.” She gave a small shrug as she reached for the loaf of bread.
That made him slightly pause.
“I go out there to help Amy,” he said, turning toward her, the explanation coming out smooth, rehearsed from overuse. “You know that.”
“Mm,” Trinity hummed, like she wasn’t entirely convinced. “And now you’re helping Y/N. At her place, on your day off. Bright and early.”
Dennis exhaled quietly through his nose, like he could already see where this was going.
“It’s just a favor.”
“Just nice to see you branching out beyond farmerettes, Huckleberry.” Trinity said easily, not even looking up as she dragged a knifefull of butter across her toast
He shot her a look. “What does that even mean?”
She kept spreading the butter, a small, knowing smirk tugging at her mouth. “Means you’re diversifying your… charitable efforts.”
Dennis huffed, shaking his head as he reached for his jacket, tugging it on like he could physically remove himself from the conversation faster.
“I’ll be there, like, twenty minutes.”
“Right, right…” Trinity nodded, finally glancing up at him. “So should I expect you back before lunch, or are you planning to vanish into some kind of rendezvous bliss?”
“…you’re disgusting. Goodbye.” He grabbed his keys, already backing toward the door.
“Drive safe!” she called after him, completely ignoring that. “And take your time, no need to rush quality work.”
The door shut a second later.
Trinity chuckled and took another bite of her toast, pleased as anything.
“Oh, that boy is so not coming back soon.”
And for once, it wasn’t just her running her mouth for the sake of it.
She knew you well enough to remember the way you’d sit next to her as she wrote up some charts, a few weeks back, arms crossed, trying to sound casual while bringing him up.
“He’s just… nice,” you’d gone on, almost against your own will now at where Whitaker was with a patient, eyes narrowing slightly in thought. “Bit quiet, doesn’t get in your business, and he’s got that whole… farm boy thing going on and, I mean have you seen his hands? Gawd almighty, Santos, they’re rough, but not in a bad way, like he could fix anything, or...” you cut yourself off, but not before your mouth curved just slightly, “yknow, hold you down without even trying.”
All Trinity could do was stare at you as if you’ve grown a third head and started speaking in tongues “Ew”
“Doesn’t talk too much, but he listens, like he’s actually paying attention to you, doesn’t need to be loud about anything.” You’d tilted your head slightly then, like you were studying something only you could see. “…and there’s something about that whole rural thing.”
You were circling an idea, turning it over, testing it, considering it, a predator deciding if something was worth the chase.
“Right,” Trinity said slowly. “So what I’m hearing is you want to climb him like a tree.”
Boy, did you.
And now he was in your house, which somehow made all of it worse or better, mostly worse but definitely better.
Dennis had shown up not with your coffee order already in hand, your coffee order, exactly right, because months back you’d mentioned it once in passing and apparently he was the sort of man who just… remembered things like that.
He’d stood there at your door looking unfairly good in a plain shirt and jeans, holding the cup tray, all casual like this was no big deal.
As though he hadn’t just arrived armed with caffeine, competence, and that quietly helpful thing he did that made you want to see him shirtless and pantless.
You had insisted, no, flat-out refused to let him touch anything, until he ate something first.
“Sit,” you’d told him, already pushing a plate toward him.
“I’m here to fix your—”
“And you will,” you cut in, already halfway to the counter, “after you eat. I didn’t wake up early and bake for it to just sit there looking pretty.”
He’d tried to protest again, of course, a quiet, half-hearted “I’m fine, really—” that didn’t stand a chance against the look you gave him.
So he sat, and when he took that first bite of the jam spread croissant, and the sound he made, something almost like a groan slipping out before he could stop it, hit you straight to your core.
“Jesus,” he’d muttered, more to himself than to you, glancing down at it like he didn’t quite trust it. “That’s—”
“Good?” you’d offered.
He looked up at you then, with those big, sad, oh so tempting blue eyes.
“Yeah, really good.”
You had to physically turn away under the excuse of grabbing a napkin because otherwise you might’ve jump him right there.
Now, he was on his back under your sink, which in hindsight, that had been the easy part, because now, he was on his back under your sink.
You leaned against the counter, arms loosely crossed, trying to look like you weren’t actively losing your mind.
He shifted slightly beneath the cabinet, one arm braced, the other working at something you couldn’t see.
“You’ve definitely got a clog in here,” he said, voice a little muffled. “Probably buildup.”
“Makes sense,” you replied automatically but had no idea what he was talking about because your attention was… elsewhere.
His shirt had ridden up to show a strip of skin at his stomach, the light dusting of hair, the way his jeans sat low on his hips as he shifted to reach further in, by the time you noticed the veins, you were shamelessly wet.
Your gaze traced details you absolutely had no business cataloguing, like the flex in his arm, the quiet strength in the way he worked.
Sooner rather than later, much to your disappointment, he was done.
There was a final twist of something under the sink, and then he shifted, sliding out from beneath the cabinet and pushing himself up in one smooth motion.
You had exactly half a second to compose yourself.
He turned the faucet on, letting the water run and watching it drain properly, then he glanced at you, a small, satisfied smile tugging at his mouth as he stepped back and gestured toward it.
“All good. You’re set, my lady.”
You couldn’t help it, you smiled back, a soft little laugh slipping out of you. What a geek.
“Thank you, Dennis…”
He shrugged it off like it was nothing, wiping his hands on a rag. “Yeah, no problem.” after a beat, he added, a little more earnest, “I mean it—if you need anything else, just let me know.”
That was the opening you needed.
You hesitated for half a second, just enough to make it seem natural and said, glancing toward the living room like the idea had just occurred to you. “Well… since you’re already here…”
He followed your gaze, brows lifting slightly. “Yeah?”
“Do you think you could help me set up my TV stand? I’ve been trying, but—” you let out a small breath, gesturing vaguely, “—it’s just not happening.”
Dennis huffed out a quiet laugh, shaking his head a little like he’d expected something like this.
“Yeah, I can take a look.”
“Thank you,” you said, already stepping back to give him space, gesturing for him to follow. “It’s in here.”
You led him into the living room, where the box and scattered parts sat waiting.
“Okay, I got… this far.”you said, pointing at the half-assembled stand.
Dennis took one look at it and huffed a quiet laugh under his breath.
“Yeah,” he said, setting his toolbox down, already crouching beside it. “I can see the problem.”
You crossed your arms, mock-offended, though there was a hint of embarrassment tucked into it. “Hey, I followed the instructions.”
“I’m sure you did,” he said, glancing up at you, a flicker of amusement in his eyes. “They just didn’t do you any favors, huh?”
You huffed a small laugh despite yourself. “Not even a little.”
He shook his head, reaching for a piece, turning it over in his hands with that same easy focus he’d had in the kitchen.
“Alright, let’s fix it.” he said easy, looking over at you with a grin.
And God, you had to physically stop yourself from biting your lip.
It should not have been this attractive, the whole capable-man-putting-things-together thing, and yet here you were, standing in your own living room trying not to stare at his hands again.
He worked with this quiet, steady focus, the same one he has at the hospital, like everything else fell away when he was doing something with purpose.
You were faintly aware he was talking, something about which piece went where, or why you thought the instructions were “backwards” but it all blurred into background noise.
“Yeah,” you murmured at one point.
“Mhm,” at another.
Not a single coherent thought behind it because all you could really register was;
I'm going to fuck his brains out.
You gazed as he leaned forward slightly, muscles in his forearms tightening as he adjusted something into place, voice dropping as he muttered under his breath, focused.
There was a faint sheen of sweat starting to gather at his temples, just enough to darken the edges of his hair where it curled slightly at the nape of his nec—
“Alright,” he said, giving the stand a small test push to make sure it was steady. “That should do it.”
You blinked, having been snapped out of your sightseeing.
“Oh—already?” you said, a little too quick.
He glanced at you, faintly amused. “Yeah. Wasn’t too bad.”
Course he made it look easy.
Then he stepped over toward the TV without hesitation, hands settling at either side like he’d done this a hundred times before and with one smooth motion, he lifted it and turned, placing it carefully onto the stand.
Your attention shifted to his back.
The stretch of his shirt across his shoulders, the way the fabric pulled just slightly with the movement, the subtle shift of muscle underneath as he adjusted the TV into place, making sure it sat just right.
You exhaled slowly, trying very hard to act like you were not noticing any of that.
“Good?” he asked, stepping back slightly, eyes flicking toward you.
You blinked again, dragging your gaze up to his face like you hadn’t just been staring.
“Yeah, yeah, that’s perfect,” you said, a small grin slipping through despite yourself as you gestured beside you. “Come take a look yourself.”
Dennis stepped closer, brushing past you just enough that you caught the faint scent of his cologne again. He leaned in slightly, eyes scanning the TV, checking the alignment, one hand coming up to adjust it just a fraction.
He nodded after a second, satisfied. “That should hold just fine.”
“Yeah… looks so good,” you nodded, though your attention wasn’t really on the TV anymore.
Neither of you moved right away, until he stepped back first, putting just enough space between you to make it noticeable. He cleared his throat lightly, like he was shaking something off.
You frowned a little, tilting your head as you looked up at him, something softer slipping into your expression. “Thank you, Dennis. Really, I don’t know what I would’ve done.”
He chuckled under his breath, one hand coming up to rub at the back of his neck, the other resting on his hip, just a little awkward now in a way he hadn’t been before.
“You would’ve figured it out,” he said easily, though there was a hint of something warmer in his tone. “Or called someone who charges way too much for it.”
You huffed a small laugh, but kept your eyes on him . “Yeah, well… I’m glad I didn’t.”
“Anytime." He nodded once, almost to himself.
You shifted your weight, turning to face him properly, a small smile playing on your lips. “I’ll have to repay you somehow.”
His brows lifted slightly, the corner of his mouth tugging just enough to make you wetter than ever. He still looked a little unaware of the full effect he was having on you, which, honestly, only made him more delicious.
“You already fed me,” he said with a grin, like that should settle it.
You shook your head slowly and took a small step toward him.“That doesn’t count.”
Dennis blinked, grin slowly fading, a little thrown now, like he hadn’t expected you to push back. “No?”
“No,” you repeated, holding his gaze now, a bit more seductively than before. “That was just me being a good host.”
For a second, he didn’t say anything and just looked at you.
It was subtle, but you saw the moment he processed what you were trying to do, the shift in his expression, the way his attention sharpened and he straightened, like he was finally catching up to something that had been there for a while now.
“Oh,” he said after a beat, quiet.
You smirked lightly at that and took another step, now in his personal space.
“How about dinner?” you said, voice easy but edged with something a little more deliberate now. “We can start with dessert, if you want.”
Dennis flushed and let out a soft breath through his nose, one hand settling at his hip while the other flexed once at his side, like he wasn’t entirely sure what to do with it.
“You— er you don’t gotta repay me,” he said, though his voice had gone lower now, less certain than before. “Wasn’t a big deal.”
You stepped in closer, up onto your tiptoes, just enough to close the space between you, your voice dropping to something lustful and meant only for him.
“Maybe not to you.”
He stilled and you shifted just slightly, your hand lifting, a single finger brushing under his chin, guiding his gaze back to yours, lips hovered just a breath away from his.
“So? Do you want dessert?” you murmured, barely above a whisper.
Dennis’s blue eyes dropped to your lips for a second, then back to your eyes. He swallowed, visibly, and when he answered it came out low and a little rougher than before.
“Yeah.”
A small, satisfied grin tugged at your mouth.
“Good,” you whispered, letting your lips barely brush his, enough to feel the warmth of him, enough to make him tremble. “I’d have felt terrible if I couldn’t show you just how appreciative I am.”
Your lips where on his.
A shudder ran through Dennis's entire body, a full-body tremor of pure shock and want. He was holding his breath, you realized, his whole body coiled with a tension that was equal parts nerves and raw arousal.
You took control instantly, your mouth moving against his with practiced ease, tongue tracing the seam of his lips, coaxing him to open up, to relax. He followed your lead blindly, a soft, choked sound escaping his throat as you deepened the kiss, teaching him with your tongue, showing him how to move, how to breathe and boy was he a fast learner, perhaps a bit too fast and eager.
It was like a desperate, clumsy energy took over, making him kiss you back with a force that was more enthusiasm than skill, his mouth moving against yours with an almost frantic need.
It was all tongue and teeth and pressure, a messy, hungry kiss that sent a thrill straight through you.
One hand flew up to cup the back of your head, pressing you to him, and the other hand, after a moment of awkward hovering, landed flat and awkward against your ribs.
You grinned against his lips, a silent, wicked acknowledgment of his fumbling earnestness.
Your own hand, which had been resting at the nape of his neck, slid down to find his, were they were still stiff against your ribs, radiating a nervous heat. You wrapped your fingers around his wrist, feeling the frantic pulse beating just beneath his skin.
He let out a sharp, shaky breath against your mouth as you began to move his hand slowly and deliberately, guiding his palm down the curve of your side, over the dip of your waist.
His touch was light, hesitant, but he didn't resist, and you pressed his hand lower, over the swell of your hip, until his fingers were splayed across the flesh of your ass.
A choked sound, half-gasp, half-groan, rumbled in his chest.
His fingers, which had been so uncertain moments before, suddenly dug in, gripping you with a desperate, possessive force that sent a jolt of electricity straight through you.
He pulled you even harder against him, and you could feel the thick, hard ridge of his cock straining against his jeans. The awkwardness was gone, replaced by a pure, instinctual need to claim.
You broke the kiss, pulling back just enough to see his face.
His eyes were blown wide, dark and glassy with lust, his mouth slightly pink and parted as he stared down at you. He looked utterly wrecked, and you'd barely even started.
"Breathe, Dennis," you murmured, a small, satisfied smirk playing on your mouth.
"Right," he breathed, the word barely audible. "Sorry."
"Don't be," you purred, nipping at his lower lip.
Your hand moved with a slow, deliberate confidence, sliding down the firm plane of his stomach and your fingers pressing directly against the hard ridge straining against the denim of his jeans.
Dennis's entire body went rigid, and a sharp, choked gasp was torn from his throat, his eyes squeezing shut, his mouth falling open in a silent 'o' of pure shock.
You smirked, your thumb pressing down, rubbing a slow, firm circle right over the head of his cock through the fabric, but this is not what you want to do now.
You gave him a chaste kiss before gently pushing against his chest making him stumbled back a step, eyes widening slightly in surprise before he caught himself, his legs hitting the edge of the couch.
He sat down heavily, his gaze locked on you, looking up with an expression that was a mixture of awe and pure, unadulterated hunger.
You stood looking at him like a predator admiring its prey, a slow, deliberate smirk spread across your hands moved as you slipped the dress off your shoulders.
The same dress you had absolutely not chosen with this exact outcome in mind. Not at all.
It fell away easily, pooling at your feet, and for a second you just stood there, letting him look.
His mouth fell slightly agape as he took you in, standing before him in nothing but your pretty lace panties. The flush on his neck and cheeks deepened to a dark red, his gaze roaming over your body like he was trying to memorize every single inch.
He shifted on the couch, his hands gripping his own thighs, knuckles white.
You took a step forward until you were standing directly between his spread knees and looked down at him.
"Comfortable?" you asked, your voice a low purr.
He could only manage a shaky nod, his tongue darting out to wet his lips.
"Good," you murmured, placing your hands on his shoulders and leaning down, bringing your face close to his, your breath ghosting over his lips. "Because the real dessert is about to be served."
In one fluid, graceful motion, you sank to your knees on the floor between his legs, which made his breath catch in his throat. He stared down at you, his eyes wide with a mixture of disbelief and raw, unfiltered lust.
With your eyes on him, your hands moved to his belt, the buckle clinking softly in the charged silence, you made quick work of it, then popped the button of his jeans.
His hips lifted instinctively, a desperate, needy motion, and you hooked your fingers into the waistband of his jeans and his boxers, pulling them both down in one smooth tug.
His cock sprang free, thick and hard and already leaking at the tip.
It was a beautiful thing, and the low, guttural groan that escaped Dennis's lips as the cool air hit him was music to your ears.
You looked up at him again, holding his gaze as you wrapped your hand around his hard, leaking cock. His eyes widened, his breath hitching in his throat as you began to stroke him slowly, your thumb smearing the bead of pre-come over the sensitive head. His hips jerked, a helpless, needy motion, and a low groan rumbled in his chest.
"This okay?" you asked, your voice a low, husky murmur.
He stared down at you with his mouth slightly parted and for a moment he seemed incapable of forming words, his mind completely consumed by the slow, deliberate movements of your hand.
He swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing in his throat.
"Y-yeah," he finally managed to choke out, the word a strangled, breathless sound. "Fuck, yes, more than okay."
A small, satisfied smirk tugged at your lips, your hand never ceasing its slow, torturous movements as you purred, "I'm just getting started."
You then leaned in, your breath ghosting over the head of his cock, and his entire body tensed, one of his hands gripping the edge of the couch so tightly his knuckles turned white, and the other was in your hair. You held his gaze, your eyes dark and full of promise, as you slowly, deliberately, swirled your tongue around the tip.
A choked sob of pleasure escaped his lips, his head falling back against the couch, his eyes squeezing shut. He was completely at your mercy.
"Fuck!" The word was torn from Dennis's throat, his entire body arching off the couch.
You set a punishing rhythm, your head bobbing, your tongue swirling around the sensitive underside of his shaft. You took him deep, the head of his cock hitting the back of your throat, and you swallowed around him.
The sound he made was pure, unadulterated ecstasy, a choked sob of pleasure that vibrated through his entire body.
He was completely at your mercy, his experience no match for your expertise. You were in control, and you were going to make sure he never forgot this.
You gave him a few pumps with your hand while you suck on the tip, could feel him getting closer, the frantic twitching of his hips, the way his fingers tightened in your hair, his breaths were coming in short, sharp pants, and then he started begging, his voice a ragged, desperate mess.
"Wait— fuck... I need... I need—" he gasped, his hips bucking wildly. "Please..."
You pulled back, just enough to let him breathe, but your hand never stopped its firm, rhythmic stroking. You looked up at him, a wicked smirk on your face, a thin string of saliva connecting your swollen lips to the head of his cock.
"Yeah, baby? What do you need?" you purred, your voice husky.
He groaned, his head thrown back against the couch as he fought for coherence. His eyes, dark and wild, found yours, and he gritted out the one word he could manage. "You."
Your smirk widened because that was the answer you wanted.
You leaned in and gave him one last, hard suck, a final, teasing taste that made his whole body jolt, before you rose gracefully to your feet.
You stood over him like a goddess of sex and satisfaction, and looked down at the disheveled, beautiful man you had just unraveled.
"Pull them down for me," you commanded softly, your gaze dropping to the scrap of lace covering your pussy.
He nodded, his movements clumsy with renewed urgency. He leaned forward, his hands shaking slightly as they hooked into the waistband of your panties, but instead of just pulling them down, he surprised you as he pressed his lips to your stomach, then lower, trailing open-mouthed kisses down your hipbone, down your thigh, as he slowly, reverently, peeled the lace from your body.
Once they were down around your ankles, you expected to take control again, to push him back and show him what came next, but you didn't get the chance because to your utter shock, Dennis took charge.
A raw, primal instinct seemed to take over.
He grabbed one of your legs, his grip firm and swung it over his shoulder, and before you could even process the sudden shift in power, he dipped his head and buried his face between your thighs.
The first swipe of his tongue was clumsy, but it was electric. A sharp gasp escaped your lips, your hands flying to his shoulders to steady yourself.
Dennis was a man possessed, licking and sucking with a desperate, hungry enthusiasm that was both messy and utterly divine. He was plainly inexperienced, yes, but he was an eager participant, his movements becoming more confident, more targeted, as he listened to the sounds you made, as he felt the way your body responded.
Your fingers tangled in the messy strands of his hair to hold him closer, nails scraping lightly against his scalp as a soft, breathless whimper slipped past your lips when he found a spot that made your knees shake.
His grip on your hips tightened, knuckles white with the effort of keeping you steady as he lost himself in the taste of you, his low moans vibrating against your skin in a way that sent shivers down your spine made your head fall back.
Dennis pulled back for a split second, lips glistening, eyes dark with hunger and a flicker of uncertainty.
"Am doing this right… right?" He panted, voice rough with need as he turned his face to kiss your leg.
You nodded quickly, thumb brushing over his flushed cheek.
"Yes, just keep going, baby," you whispered, voice thick with desire.
That was all he needed to hear. Dennis dove back in, his movements got bolder, he licked a slow stripe up your slit, then pushed his tongue inside you, making you cry out and for your free leg to wobble beneath you.
You could feel the heat coiling in your lower stomach, building faster now.
Your free leg started to shake again as his fingers dug into the meat of your thigh draped over his shoulder and his other hand splayed across your lower back to yank you closer, holding you firmly in place as he worked you toward the edge.
When you finally tipped over the edge, right after another deep, rumbling moan of his vibrated up through your core, spurred on by your desperate whimpers and the way you fisted his hair to yank him closer, your body seized tight.
A ragged, broken cry tore from your throat, but he didn’t let up, no, Dennis kept licking and sucking, relentless, until you were weakly pushing at his shoulders, overstimulated to the point of trembling but still aching for more of him.
Only when you finally pleaded his name did he pull back. His lips were slick, his breath hot, and when he looked up at you his eyes were dark, and still hungry.
“You taste so good,” Dennis murmured, voice rough. He pressed a kiss to the inside of your thigh, then nipped gently, making you shiver. “Can I do that again?”
You let out a weak, breathless laugh and shifted forward to straddle him, his hard dick was grazing your slick folds as you leaned down to kiss him, tasting yourself on his mouth while your fingers threaded into his hair.
After a beat, his hands found your ass again, gripping like he couldn’t help himself.
You pulled back just enough to meet his gaze and whispered, “Maybe on round two. Right now, I need you inside me.”
You rose a few inches, guided him to your entrance, and then dropped down on him in one smooth motion. Dennis hands tightening on your hips as the stretch made you both brake at once, his guttural groan mixing with your breathless moan as pleasure lit up your whole body.
"Fuck, Dennis," you breathed, rolling your hips experimentally, feeling him throb inside you. "You feel so good, so… fucking… big."
His eyes fluttered shut for a second, his grip on your ass tightening almost painfully.
"God, you're perfect," he groaned, his voice wrecked.
You leaned forward, lips brushing his ear as you started to move, slow, deliberate grinds that had him panting beneath you.
"You like that, baby?" you whispered, nipping at his earlobe. "You like feeling how wet I am for you? How perfectly you fill me up?”
He nodded frantically, his hips bucking up to meet yours. "Yes—fuck, yes,"
You picked up the pace, riding him harder now,
"I've been thinking about this all day," you moaned, head falling back as pleasure coiled tight in your belly. "Thinking about how good your cock would feel inside me, how you'd stretch me open and make me scream your name."
"Please," he whimpered, and the sound of him begging made you clench around him. "Please don't stop."
"I'm not stopping until you fill me up, Dennis," you purred, grinding down hard. "Not until I feel you come inside me."
Dennis moaned loudly, his head falling back against the couch, and the sight of him, completely undone beneath you, drove you absolutely crazy.
"Look at you," you gasped, rolling your hips harder, chasing that delicious friction. "Bet you’ve never… you’ve never been with a girl like me, huh?”
His fingers dug into your hips, his breathing ragged, and you could feel him twitching inside you, close, but not quite there yet.
Then, to your surprise, he suddenly shifted.
His hands gripped your waist and he hoisted you up as if you weighed nothing, making you yelp as he maneuvered you both. In one smooth motion he had you on your back on the couch, your legs falling open as he settled between them.
He pulled back just long enough to yank his shirt over his head and toss it aside, and the sight of him, chest heaving, muscles taut, eyes dark with need, made your mouth go dry.
"My turn," he growled, and then he was pushing back inside you, deeper this time, the new angle making you cry out.
"Oh fuck—Dennis!" you moaned, your hands flying to his shoulders, nails digging in as he started to move. "Yes, just like that! don't stop, please don't stop."
He set a relentless pace, each thrust hitting that perfect spot inside you as he panted against your neck. "You feel so fuck-ing good, honey… S-so perfect."
You moaned, your legs wrapping tight around his waist, pulling him deeper.
"God, yes, fuck me harder, Dennis, I want to feel you for days." Your back was arching off the couch.
He groaned at your words, and you felt his rhythm falter for just a second before he found it again, harder this time, more desperate. His grip on your hips tightened like he was holding on for dear life, and the intensity in his eyes was almost overwhelming.
"You're so—fuck," he panted, the words breaking apart as he thrust into you.
He wasn't smooth about it, but god, the raw need in every movement made it even hotter.
"You feel so good inside me," you whimpered, nails dragging down his back. "So fucking good, Dennis, please don't stop, baby.”
His breath hitched and he buried his face in your neck, his hips snapping forward again and again. You could feel him trembling slightly, like he was barely holding himself together.
Your hand slipped between your bodies to touch yourself, and the moment your fingers found your clit, you clenched hard around him.
"Oh—oh fuck," he gasped against your skin, his whole body shuddering. "You're—I can feel—"
"I'm so close, keep going, just like that—" you moaned which only intensified when he bit you.
It took three more thrusts for you to come, and when you did, it hit you like a tidal wave.
You went silent but your whole body was seizing up as pleasure crashed through you, your walls clenching tight around him.
The second you did, you felt his teeth sink into your shoulder, not hard enough to really hurt, but enough to make you gasp, as he came with a muffled, desperate groan against your skin. His hips stuttered, grinding deep as he spilled inside you, his whole body shaking with the force of it.
"Oh shii—oh fuck," he panted against your neck, his grip on you bruising as he rode out the last waves of his orgasm.
You were both trembling, breathless, tangled together on the couch. Your legs were still wrapped around him, holding him close as the aftershocks rolled through you both.
"Holy shit," you breathed, your fingers threading through his hair, still trying to catch your breath.
He lifted his head just enough to look at you, his face flushed and his eyes still glazed with pleasure.
"Yeah, that was... fucking incredible," he breathed.
He leaned down to kiss you, soft at first, then deeper, and you returned it eagerly, a breathless laugh escaping against his lips as you pulled him closer, letting his weight settle onto you.
"Damn right," you murmured, fingers tracing lazy patterns down his spine. "How am I supposed to go to work tomorrow and face everyone when I know exactly how you feel inside me?"
His eyes widened slightly, a flush creeping up his neck that had nothing to do with the exertion.
Dennis groaned, half-laughing as he buried his face in the crook of your neck. "Oh, don't—I'm never going to be able to focus during rounds now."
"Wonderful," you teased, nipping at his earlobe. "Every time you see me at work, I want you to think about this. About how good you felt buried inside me."
He shuddered against you, his arms tightening around your waist. "You're going to kill me, I'll be trying to read X-rays, and all I'll be able to think about is—"
"Me riding you on my couch?" you finished with a wicked grin.
"Exactly that," he admitted, lifting his head to meet your eyes. The flush on his cheeks deepened. "I'm so screwed."
You laughed, reaching up to kiss the tip of his nose. "Yeah well, at least you'll be able to walk normally tomorrow. I'm pretty sure I'm going to be feeling this for the next week."
Dennis's eyes widened slightly, a mix of pride and concern flickering across his face. "Is that—I mean, are you okay? I didn't—"
"I'm okay," you assured him, brushing your thumb along his jaw.
"I.. uh, I might've... left a mark," he mumbled, glancing at your shoulder.
You turned your head to look, catching a glimpse of the reddened impression of his teeth on your skin and a slow smile spread across your face.
"I don’t mind," you said, meeting his gaze again. "Now I'll really have something to remember this by."
His breath caught, and you watched his Adam's apple bob as he swallowed hard. "You're not mad?"
"Mad?" You laughed softly, tracing your fingers down his back. "Dennis, that was hot as hell. Who would've thought you're a biter?"
He huffed a laugh and buried his face against your neck again, carefully avoiding the bite mark this time. "I can't believe we just did that."
You shrugged, a satisfied smirk playing on your lips. "I didn't see today ending any other way. I knew I was going to fuck you since you gave me your last Reese’s pieces."
Dennis lifted his head to stare at you, his eyes wide with disbelief. "Seriously? But that was months ago!"
"Yep," you grinned, running your hands through his hair. "You gave me your last piece of candy without even hesitating. I knew right then I was going to end up in bed with you eventually.
He laughed, shaking his head in amazement. "All this time... over chocolate?"
"Believe it," you said, stretching slightly beneath him and wincing at the pleasant ache. "Now, I don't know about you, but I could really use a shower. Want to join me? Maybe after, I can actually make us some lunch.”
"That sounds perfect actually," he murmured, pressing a kiss to your palm.
"Good," you smiled at him before reluctantly starting to shift. "But fair warning, I might need help standing up."
Extra:
By the time Dennis walked into the apartment, it was pushing 9pm.
He tried to be quiet about it, keys set down gently, door eased shut instead of slammed, but he really should’ve known better.
Trinity was in the living room, curled up on the couch with takeout spread out in front of her, TV flickering lazily in the background. Her eyes slid over to him the second he stepped in.
She didn’t say anything at first, just looked at him, taking in the slightly rumpled clothes, the faint flush still clinging to his neck, the general vibe of a man who had not, in fact, spent “twenty minutes fixing a sink.”
She hummed, deeply smug. “Must’ve been one hell of a sink.”
“Oh, shut up.”
A/N:
Hello, hello, hope you enjoyed my attempt to create smut <3<3<3
Arranged Marriage with Levi - series preview / taglist <3
You are set to marry Levi Ackerman, an arrangement since before you were even born - yet you've never even met him. With all your fortunes riding on this marriage, you must please your future husband, but how can you even get to know him when he's ever so aloof and distant?
lord! levi ackerman x f! reader
this will be an angsty slow burn, title incoming - set in the 1800's, you fall first but he falls harder, eventual smut. I'm so excited to write Levi! Comment below to get tagged <3
The carriage wheels crunched loudly along the gravel drive of Ackerman Manor, each roll of those wheels hitting rocks jostling you just a bit, as you get ever closer to the place that would now be your home.
Your home.
Your hands are trembling as you smooth down the silky blue fabric of your gown – it was the finest you owned, but you fear it would seem quite simple to the man you were to be married to soon.
You didn’t exactly come from money, in fact your family name and an old agreement between Levi’s parents and yours before you were born was the only reason you were here like this. That and pretty looks were what your entire family’s fortune banked on, truly, so much pressure at times it made you sick.
You’d never even met him – Levi Ackerman, you’ve only heard stories of \your soon to be betrothed by tales of friends and members of your family.
By all accounts, he was apparently short tempered, angry and aloof – though no one said he was ‘unkind’ at all. Rather a bit cold, and arguably treated everyone with respect, which was more than most women could hope for these days.
Yet you don’t know how to feel.
A business transaction, this was, not a fairy tale wedding, your parents so eagerly shipped you off it was laughable, in all other aspects a girl had a dowry, where you had almost a non- existent one. This was truly only Levi respecting his father’s late wishes and being ever the gentleman.
Ladies everywhere were ever furious that there was no chance with him, with the richest man in the very city, the one they all seemed to love to go after, but no.
It was you to be his bride.
The carriage door opens now after you’ve come to a halt, and a well groomed servant helps you out and down the steps, guiding you as you take in the sight before you – the pretty manor that’s utterly pristine. You lift your skirts and step up the glimmering stone steps, as the butlers stand aside and open the doors for you.
The very entrance hall was immaculate, sparkling clean unlike anything you’ve ever seen, there was not a speck of dust anywhere,and the faint hint of some sort of lemon polish hits your nose as you take it all in. Even the chandelier overhead was fucking gorgeous and sparkling, you almost feel terrible stepping foot in such a pretty place with your shoe that had fallen into mud earlier.
"Mr. Ackerman will see you in the drawing room," the butler says now, eyeing you carefully.
Usually, people waited to move in until marriage, but your parents had sent you off early, about a week early – with the idea of meeting him and staying in one of the guest rooms, but now it all hits.
You’re getting married to a stranger.
The door opens once you sit down in the pretty chair, and you immediately stand right back up – seeing him standing there.
Shorter than you'd expected, surely, but the man commands a fucking room, truly – this presence that almost intimidates you, his dark hair shining just a bit under the chandeliers as if he’d freshly washed it. His eyes were taking you in, assessing you so intensely all you can do is stand there, dressed in a perfectly pressed dark suit that probably cost more than your entire wardrobe.
"You're late," were his first words to you – his bride-to-be. His voice is so fucking bored, too, like he’s annoyed as shit at you. You clear your throat now, curtseying just a bit.
"The roads were muddy from the rains," you manage to excuse. “I’m sorry that I am a bit late.”
“Yes, well,” he passes by the small inn table as he walks toward you, pausing now, running a finger along the surface, sighing as he holds it up to the light.
"There's dust," he shouts it, and two servants immediately run into the room. "Did I not explicitly state this room was to be cleaned twice daily?"
"Sir, it was-"
"Then this is unacceptable,” he kneels then, tugging out a handkerchief from his coat pocket. “I'll just do it myself."
Your fiancé – the Lord Levi Ackerman, starts fucking frantically wiping down every surface in the room as you watch, just blinking, the servants are scrambling to help polish silver that does not need it, while the tea sits on the table, cooling. He faintly looks at you as you stare at him, his dark gray eyes taking you in.
“Sit and have tea,” he manages, realizing you’re staring, all pretty in a simple gown that at least is decently clean, if not crumpled by your hands. “I’ll be done momentarily.”
“Oh! Yes…”
You sit there, crossing your legs at the ankles, watching the man you were to spend your life with finding a spot on the floor to clean now.
summary: you finally meet your dad's new best friend and he happens to be the doctor that treated you the night before. he looks a lot hotter when you meet him out of scrubs and in the dining room of your dad’s house.
pairings: dbf!jack abbot x younger!fem!reader
contains: smut 18+ minors dni!! age gap (reader is 24 and jack is 50), medical inaccuracies, drunk reader, dubcon (bcuz reader is drunk), unprotected sex, penetration (p in v), dirty talk, praise, dry humping, pet names (sweetheart, pretty girl, angel, baby), hints of dacryphilia, creampie, no aftercare, lowkey corny ending cuz i didnt know how to end it, also i fully believe jack talks you through it
word count: 3.2k
note: first part of the new series im writing inspired by mans best friend!! :D this is genuinely my first time writing explicit smut lol!! i’ve kinda avoided it because im not super confident in writing it but fuck it!!!! i’m doing it for this series!!!!
The bright lights of PTMC are a stark contrast to the dark sky outside. The paramedics roll you in feeling more embarrassment than pain,
“… Twenty four years old, bystanders saw her trip and fall. She’s got a deep laceration on her left forearm. Possible concussion as well.” the paramedic recites as a few doctors and nurses approach,
“I told them I was fine but they wouldn’t let me go unless I went to the hospital.” There's a tinge of irritation in your voice as the paramedics hand you off,
“Yeah, that’s what they all say until someone ends up seizing.” The paramedic settles you in a room. You hear your name recited by one of the doctors entering,
“I’m Doctor Abbot, mind if I take a look at that cut on your arm?” you hold your arm out as he starts unwrapping the bandages. The sight of your skin cut open makes you feel uneasy— maybe the paramedics were right and you did need to be taken to the ER. You quickly turn your head away the sight of your open forearm,
“You okay?” Jack asks as he tries to look at the wound,
“Yeah, just bad with blood and stuff.” you mumble. Jack understands when patients feel uneasy with the blood and gore of the ER, but in this case he was having trouble examining your shaking arm with the way you’ve turned.
Jack calls Mateo over as he walks to the opposite side of the bed that you’re now facing. He pulls a chair up so the two of you are face to face,
“We’re going to administer some pain meds so we can clean the wound and stitch you back up, okay?” You nod at his statement,
“You’re not gonna pass out on me, are you?” he says with a small smirk forming on his face,
“No, I don’t think so.”
“Good, now keep your eyes on me.” you look up at him, maintaining eye contact while he nods at Mateo to proceed. You watch as his eyes flit between Mateo’s work and your eyes. There’s a sharp pain that shoots through your arm as the pain meds are administered. You wince and shut your eyes in pain,
“You’re doing so good. Hard part is done, just need to clean it up and put some stitches in. Just keep your eyes on me.” he says with a low voice.
You keep your eyes on him, studying his face to distract yourself. His silver hair pairs so well with the deep wrinkles around his eyes and forehead that you can’t help but focus on. There’s something about him that looks incredibly familiar to you. He’s a complete stranger, yet it’s like you’ve met or seen him before somewhere. Jack catches you staring a bit too intently and smiles,
“How’d you fall anyways?” You sigh in embarrassment as you get taken out of your daydream,
“I wore these stupid new shoes. They’re a size too big and I think I cut my arm when I fell. Can't even return them anymore.” you frown as you ramble on. Jack chuckles lightly,
“Did you hit your head? Any nausea, dizziness or pain?” He asks as he pulls out a small flashlight, shining them at your pupils,
“I hit my head on the pavement but I only feel a little bit of pain. Nothing else.” You lightly tap where the pain is and Jack hums in acknowledgment. In the corner of his eye, Mateo nods and indicates that he’s finished up,
“I’m gonna order you a CT scan so we can double check nothing else is going on. Come back in two weeks to get the stitches removed.” Jack says as he stands up. Mateo has already left the room while Jack sticks around and adds the order to your chart,
“Thank you, Doctor Abbot.”
“Jack.” He corrects you quickly.
“Jack.” You repeat. He likes the way you say his name, except he’s not sure when he’ll hear it again.
⋆˚౨ৎ ⋆.˚
You were supposed to spend the next day resting. The stitches were still fresh and the last thing you wanted to do was end up in the ER again— except your best friend heard you came home for the Summer and all she wanted was to drag you out, catch up and get borderline blackout drunk. Part of you wanted to stay in and spend all night thinking of fake scenarios starring the night shift doctor you met the night before.
You’ve never really had a thing for older men before. Friends of yours have had boyfriends twice their age and you never really understood why up until you saw Jack. By the time you were discharged, he was already busy in another room so you never had a chance to say thank you or maybe ask for his number. Would he have given it to you? Was that something he did with other patients? Every ‘what if’ ran through your mind at the thought of him. The possibility of a nearly fifty year old night shift doctor showing up at a bar with mostly twenty year olds was slim to none but you can’t help but imagine what it would’ve been like running into him.
A knock on the door takes you out of your fantasy. Your dad’s head pops into your room as you get ready,
“Hey honey, I’ve got a friend over for dinner tonight. You don’t mind, do you?” you give your dad a smile,
“Not at all. I’m probably gonna head out soon.” your dad nods and the door shuts again.
It’s nice to hear your dad has a friend. When you left for college, part of you felt guilty for leaving your dad on his own. It had been just the two of you for so long until he called one day to tell you all about his new friend. They played golf together on their off days, ate at sports bars and you’re convinced your dad’s new interest in joining a SWAT team was inspired by his new friend. You had seen a few pictures here and there but he never specified any name or told you much details about the actual person. He usually just referred to him as “my buddy with the prosthetic leg”
Pittsburgh’s summers are hot and humid but you throw on a jacket anyways to cover the evidence of last night from your dad. As you head down the stairs, two voices are heard laughing in the dining room. As you round the corner, you’re face to face with the night shift attending who stitched you back together the night before. It finally clicked and you realized the reason he was so familiar yesterday night was because of all the pictures your dad has shown you. He’s got a clad black shirt on and camo pants.
Fuck me, was he this hot last night?
Jack stares back at you in just as much shock. You were wearing a tiny lavender coloured satin top that barely covered your chest and a skirt so short he swears he can see your ass poking out. In Jack's younger days it could be considered lingerie– he's not complaining though.
“I don’t think you’ve had a chance to meet my daughter yet.” your dad says excitedly. Jack thinks about mentioning the run in at PTMC yesterday before you jump in,
“No, I don’t think so! But I’ve heard lots of good things.” you say with your hand reaching out. Jack shakes it gently but firmly, keeping his eyes on you the whole time,
“Jack.”
“Jack.” you repeat, similar to how he introduced himself yesterday,
“Isn’t it a bit warm outside for a jacket?” he asks with that same smirk he gave you the night before. Jack takes a quick sip of his beer before you jump back in,
“Saw it might rain.” You knew Jack was trying to discuss the obvious stitches on your arms but you were already prepared with an excuse. Between the two of you, there was obvious undeniable tension in the room— your dad has never been so oblivious,
“You sure? Didn’t look like it to me.” Jack retorts,
“Maybe you should check again,” You want to wipe the stupid, hot smirk off his face the longer this conversation goes on,
“Well, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve gotta meet a friend.” you say waving to the two men and heading towards the door. Your dad smiles lovingly while Jack watches your hips sway as you walk back towards the front door. He was gonna be in a lot of trouble.
⋆˚౨ৎ ⋆.˚
Another drink goes down as you swing the glass back quickly. There’s a familiar burn in the back of your throat that has only gotten easier as the night has gone by. You sway your hips back and forth as the loud music fills the bar but your mind is constantly leading back to Jack. He was supposed to be someone you fantasized about for fun, knowing you’d never see him again.
Jack was seated at your dad’s house with similar thoughts. He remembers staring at you and studying every part of your face, knowing that you were going to be discharged and never seen again. You were pretty and a distraction from the chaos of the night shift, someone that would live only in his head.
You stumble out of the bar with the Uber app open. The tall buildings surrounding Pittsburgh are spinning as you try to steady yourself against a wall. You squint your eyes to focus on the app. Immediately, your eyes widen at the prices,
“A hundred dollars?!”
Some passersby look at you as you continue to stare at your phone in shock. Your dad has always been kind enough to pick you up if you needed and you were heavily debating on that now. It doesn’t hurt to ask though?
You call your dad to see if he’s still awake. The phone rings a few times before he finally answers,
“Hello?”
“Hey, sweetheart.” Jack says. You double check you’ve called the right person before responding,
“Jack? Where’s my dad?”
“Uh, he’s asleep on the couch. I was about to head out but saw you called. Figured it was an emergency and maybe you fell again.” you feel your eyes roll intuitively,
“Very funny. I was just calling to see if my dad could pick me up. Uber prices are insane right now.”
“You can afford to go out but you can’t afford to get home?” Again, your eyes roll back intuitively as he continues teasing,
“I didn’t expect it to be a hundred dollars for a twenty minute drive! You know what, I’ll figure it out—”
“No, I’ll come pick you up. Stay where you are.” Jack cuts you off,
“I don’t need your help, Jack!” He hangs up the phone without giving you a chance to say another word.
You debated on walking home or actually paying the Uber upcharge while waiting. If you were to walk home, it’s likely you’d end up back in the ER for falling over again. Paying for the uber on the other hand, didn’t seem like the worst option the more you thought about it. The regret of calling your dad was starting to settle in. Jack wasn’t supposed to answer but you couldn’t call him to stop what he was doing. By the time you decide to call an Uber, Jack pulls up to the bar in a silver truck. He waves you over and you jump in,
“Thanks for picking me up.” You say as you click your seatbelt on,
“Yeah, glad I saw your call. Not sure if your dad would’ve been able to help with how many drinks he had tonight.”
The car ride is short and quiet on the way back to your house. Jack makes small talk and asks about how your night went,
“I got to catch up with my best friend, dance a little bit, it was great.” You don’t mention how you also spent all night thinking about him.
The car pulls into the driveway and Jack pulls the keys out of the ignition. Neither of you move and it doesn’t look like anyone is planning to soon,
“Why didn’t you tell your dad about yesterday night?” Jack says as he breaks the silence,
“Didn’t need the lecture from him. Plus he probably would’ve made it a big deal for no reason,” You pout as you slouch back in your seat. Jack chuckles at the sight,
“Does my dad talk about me?” you ask.
“He does— A lot more than you realize,” You look at Jack in disbelief,
“I know you're going to NYU and you major in film. He talks about how you’re paying way too much to stay in a shoebox apartment there.” you huff at your dad’s choice of topics,
“Your dad sometimes talks about some of the guys you’re seeing there. Something about how they’re not good enough— y’know the usual dad talk.” Jack says,
“Good to know my secrets aren't safe with my own dad.” you mumble as you shake your head. There's a pause in conversation.
“You said earlier that you had heard a lot of good things about me.”Jack asks. You nod your head,
“Yeah my dad sent some pictures of you two watching the game and stuff while I was away at college. Seems like you two get along well. He didn’t mention how hot you were though.” Jack’s eyebrows raise at the last part— liquor has made you bold and stubborn. The car goes quiet again and neither of you have moved still,
“Lemme take a look at how your wound is healing,” You watch his eyes rake over your chest and down to your legs as you take your jacket off. Jack carefully grabs your wrist and pulls you close to examine. Your hands shake lightly as he analyzes your forearm,
“Looks good, It's healing perfectly.” He says lowly. You swallow nervously as Jack moves to flip your wrist back over, still holding your hand. His thumb draws small circles over the top of your hand, as if he’s thinking of his next move. He hesitantly brings your hand up to his lips, kissing it softly.
Jack has no idea what’s gotten a hold of him. It was impulsive of him to kiss your hand but he wanted more so badly. You were his best friend’s daughter, someone half his age, someone who should be seeing other twenty something year olds. All the alarm bells in his head were going off and yet he wanted nothing more than to just kiss you there.
He looks up at your eyes anticipating some sort of hesitant look or fear. Instead, he was met with a similar lustful look that was telling him not to stop.
Jack brings your hand back up to his lips again and kisses your knuckles softly. He kisses the top of your hand before slowly moving his kisses up your arm. He can hear your shallow breath as he goes higher up your arm before stopping when he gets close to your shoulder. His face is inches apart from yours, he could kiss you right then and there,
“Tell me to stop. Tell me you don’t want this.” His voice is extra gravelly as he holds back,
“If you stop, I’m gonna be so fucking mad at you.” you say shaking your head,
“You’re stubborn, you know that?” Jack says with a smirk,
“I think you like that.” you smile as you lean in first.
Your lips meet and Jack still hesitates. You grab the collar of his shirt and pull him closer, feeling him melt into your kiss finally. His hand reaches up to cup your cheek and pull you close towards him. The kiss becomes deeper and deeper before Jack pulls away and begins kissing down your neck with a similar ferocity. Jack notices your breathing getting heavier as he trails down your neck, stopping to bite lightly once he hears you whimper. He can’t help but let out a groan, feeling his pants tighten at the sounds you make,
“Backseat, now.” Jack orders. You quickly shuffle towards the backseat and he follows you behind.
As he settles in the seat, you throw your leg over and straddle his lap. Jack pulls you back in for a kiss while you work to undo your top. His hands roam across your back, looking to help you pull it off. You grab at his shirt in an attempt to help him take it off in return.
Jack feels dizzy as he feels your hips grind against him. You moan into his mouth as you grind harder, wanting more and more. Jack moves his hand towards your core, pulling your panties to the side to find you drenched,
“Fuck, baby— you’re soaked,” He runs his finger up and down your slit, spreading your arousal around,
“You get like this for all your dad’s friends? Hm?” you shake your head as your hips grind on his fingers,
“No? Just me? Say it.” Jack says with a mocking tone. He watches you get more flustered before you bury your head into his neck whimpering,
“Just you— only you,” Your breathing gets heavier as he draws small, slow circles on your clit,
“Needed someone older to take care of you, huh? Is that right?” You nod your head against his letting out a needy moan,
“More, Jack, wanna feel you…”
“I know, pretty girl, I’ll give it to you. Be patient for me.” Jack fidgets with the zipper on his pants before pulling them down his thighs. His grip on your waist tightens as you sink down on his cock,
“Ah, fuck,” Jack groans, intoxicated with your warmth. Your breath gets heavier as your eyes roll back,
“Keep your eyes on me, angel.” he growls as he feels you tighten around him. You struggle to keep your eyes on him as you move up and down. Jack can’t get enough of how drunk you look on him,
“Jack— fuck— feels so good,” you moan,
“Lift your hips up a bit more for me,” Jack places his hands on the bottom of your ass to help support you. You drop back down, feeling him hit that spot perfectly,
“Fuck me.” you whine,
“Just like that baby, don’t stop,” Jack helps lift your ass up and down creating the perfect momentum,
“Tell me how good it feels.” he growls,
“So good, fuck, it feels s’good,” you babble,
“Please don’t stop, Jack, I’m gonna cum like this— fuck!” you feel your stomach tighten as you ride out your release,
“That’s my good girl, keep riding me just like that.” Jack says as you ride out your high. The way you look at him with glossy, tear filled eyes pushes him past the edge. He grips your ass tightly helping you bounce up and down, groaning loudly at how tight you feel around him,
“Baby, I’m gonna–” Jack lets out a rough grunt as he releases into you and fills you up. He moans deeply as he lays his forehead on your shoulder, pressing a small kiss on it. He looks up to find you smiling already as you pull out,
“I would’ve rather been in a bed for this.” Jack jokes as he tries to catch his breath,
“We can do that next time.”
“So there's a next time?” his eyebrows raise. You giggle as you jokingly hit his chest,
Summary: After breaking your heart, Jack Abbot is now trying to win you back, but he'll find that it's a little bit harder than just pretty words and longing glances. (6.3k)
Pairing: Jack Abbot x ex!reader
TW: 18+ MDNI, NSFW. Sex scene (usage of handcuffs [on Jack], p-in-v, masturbation, oral [m receiving], usage of good girl, sweet girl, pretty girl, teasing, kind of brat taming); Reader makes Jack work for it; mentions of almost dating Park; jealous Jack; insecurities still from the Reader (can't fix everything right away); I've exaggerated the cold of a Pittsburgh winter because where I live winter is COLD like COLD so it's all I know (my winter's are like 45 below in Celsius so like -49 in F)
Credit: GIF by @bluetimeombre; Requested as continuation to my story Never Enough. Hope it's enough grovelling everyone! I read your comments (and loved all of them, don't worry. Y'all made me laugh). And @charming2777 I agree with you about "Cigarette Smoke"
“Always for you,” he whispers, “because you are ever enough, more than enough, perfectly enough and better than enough. Now, can we try again?”
“Yeah,” you whisper, looking into those eyes that you love, eyes that look at you like they see you. “I think so.”
A part of you is already hurting knowing that when you step out of your vehicle, you will see Jack after so long without him, after so long cursing him and what he did and how he forgot you. How he never saw you at all.
But another part wants to try again, wants to see those eyes that look like sunlight slipping through autumn bare branches looking at you. Looking at you as if they see you. As if he sees you. You want that comfort that you found in his arms, you want to know that the four years of your life that you gave him weren’t for nothing.
You want to know that the life you gave him is still there. That the years you gave him weren’t a waste. That you’re not mistaking a mistake trying again.
You draw in a deep breath, your hands tight, clenching the faux-leather of your steering wheel so hard that a stiffness has invaded the joints, knuckles pulled so tight against your skin that you think they might just split it, skin tearing and fraying and your cartilage shining through, glimmering with your blood.
“You got this,” you whisper to yourself, reaching over and pressing the ignition button of your car, the vehicle shutting off, shutting down, engine cutting out and silence setting in, but a silence still so loud that it feels like white noise, like ringing in your ear. It takes a bit for you to get ready, both of your hands removed from the steering wheel, fingers curling and uncurling, over and over to try and get blood pumping again, get everything moving, feeling before you reach over, sliding your fingers against the smooth metal of the doorhandle, pulling it to you and pushing it open.
It’s cold, that’s the first thing you notice, the coolness of the air, the way it’s crisp, wrapping around your skin, slipping against you like ice cold fingers against bare, fevered skin. Winter is setting in, hence the boots on your feet and the coat on your upper body, legs just slightly exposed by the skirt you wear, the one with the slit up the thigh.
You place one boot covered foot down on the wet pavement, the one glimmering in the light of the city lamps, bright and white and unrelenting in their brightness. You step out fully, slamming your door behind you, pressing the lock on your keys before slipping them into the purse on your shoulder, the one you shift, thumb hooking underneath the strap, the rest of your hand resting on top of it, light, nails just pressing against the soft skin of your palms.
This is neighbourhood you don’t frequent, one known for the fancy places, like Michelin star restaurants—like the one you see Jack standing in front of, looking smart in a new, navy suit.
“What is this?” you call out to him, walking from your car up onto the sidewalk, towards him, irritation and rage simmering in your stomach, rising and burning in a way that is suspiciously like bile. “Why are we here?”
“This…is the date,” he says, his tone arrogant in the way men have when they think something should be obvious even though the only thing obvious about it is the way it shows they’ve never listened.
“You really don’t know me at all, do you?” you ask him, the sting of tears behind your eyes telling you that that part of you was right, that Parker was right: this was a mistake. Giving the man who has never seen you another chance is wrong.
“But…but it’s a nice restaurant, it’s fancy. Regina loved it,” he says and right there is the problem. The way her name and her preferences slip out automatically as if he’s geared to think that everything is just like her and that you can’t be your own person is the problem.
Because it shows he’s never listened to anything you said.
Because it shows that those four years were wasted on someone who didn’t deserve your time.
“Fuck off, Jack,” you say, spinning on your heel, feeling the grind of the kitten heel against the gritty, breaking concrete, the sound of wetness and dryness together as you turn from him, from the man who you keep giving the power to break your heart.
“Wait!” he calls out and you hear his footsteps behind you, heavy-footed and sure in only the way that a mancould. “What about our date?”
“It’s off, Jack!” you call out, glancing back at him. “It was a mistake to give you another chance. I was wrong. We can’t…” you pause, swallowing hard, not slowing down, not stopping because you know if you stop, you’ll convince yourself that being invisible is okay when it’s not. “We can’t work.”
“One more chance!” he yells out, his voice still hushed as if he’s embarrassed about making a scene, as if he doesn’t want to. “Please! One more chance!”
“Do better, Jack!” you reply, pausing for a moment. “Do better for someone else.” You begin walking away again, hands drifting to your ears to block out the sound of his voice because his voice has the kind of magic that makes you want to give in even when you really don’t.
You unlock your car with fumbling hands, the keys seeming to slip and slide against your damp palms, pulling open the door and slipping inside quickly, as quick as you can, pulling it closed with so much force that the car shakes around you, the locks clicking as you start it, buckling up as the engine rumbles to life, purring all around you, the radio blaring to life, a fitting song echoing over your speakers.
One you’ve listened to a fair bit in this year without him.
One it seems still fits you because you just can’t let go even when you should.
You drive away, refrains of pain reverberating through the cab, your cries sounding, tears burning tracks into your skin. You just can’t seem to let him go.
I regret you/And how long I stayed/I resent you/For not being brave, oh.
“Ellis!” Jack calls out, waving them over towards the stairwell, his back holding the heavy metal door open as he waits, a pit in his gut, the kind that comes with losing someone. Losing you. It’s a pit he knows well, one he felt that morning he woke up alone, your scent pressed into the folds of his sheets, but your body absent. Gone.
Like a memory in fabric.
“What is it?” they ask, arms crossed as they step past him into the stairwell, biceps flexing and eyes narrowed in a glare. They’ve been civil in the year without you, in the year of you healing and him breaking, but civility is not warmth, it is not agreeableness. It is simply working. It is listening and following what must be followed, no more, no less.
“Why did she leave the date?” he asks, the words not so much words, but one long unintelligible rush of exhalations and vague pronouncements. But Ellis understands. He knows by the way their nostrils flare, body tightens and leans forwards, threat hanging in those dark eyes.
“Why the hell would I ever help the man who broke my best friend’s heart?” they whisper, their tone steady and even, the scariest thing of all. Ellis is never calm like this, rather dry and sardonic and always moving. Never still or calm or steady or even. Never like this. No, this is the look of a predator and for once in his life, Jack Abbot feels like the prey.
“I took her to that Michelin star restaurant and she walked away, telling me I didn’t know her! What did I do wrong?!” He may feel like the prey, but he needs answers. He needs to understand. He needs to know.
“You’re a fucking idiot,” Ellis says, their tone dry, eyes rolling as they lean back, a long suffering sigh slipping from between their lips. “She hates those restaurants. She’s gone on long rants about them. And you apparently forgot or…what I favour and will tell her about…never listened at all. She thinks their portions are too tiny and promoting those plates as high end leads to complexes surrounding food. She also likes to eat. She’s a diner kind of girl, a diner with pie. Dessert for dinner. Fuck, man,” they grit their teeth, jaw hardened, set and a muscle ticking, “you should know this. Four years. Fuck.”
They push past him, slipping back into the ED, to Shen, something passed between the two of them, iPad in their hand, trauma room slipped into, their dry voice saying something to a patient.
Jack stands there, the doorhandle digging into the small of his back, metal cold, leaching through his scrubs, sending shivers down his spine as he stands there, unmoving, the absolutely devastated look on your face coming into view, swimming before him, a phantom of his continued fuck-ups.
He wonders if he’ll ever stop fucking up. Or if he’ll destroy you forever.
It’s a diner.
That’s the address he gave you, one sweet and homey, an awning covering the slightly smudged windows, so homey looking from the outside that you know the second you step inside it will smell like butter and sugar and frying foods. You know that the booths will be made of cracking vinyl, the kind that sticks to skin, to clothes, the kind that squeaks when you move on it. You know that the menus will have that plastic covering, the faux-leather binding, the plastic smudged and greasy against your fingers from years of people, of children.
It’s exactly the kind of place you love.
It’s exactly the kind of place that Parker told Jack about. You run your tongue along your teeth as you reach for the handle of the diner, pulling it open and stepping inside, the smell of butter and sugar and caramelized fruit hitting you like a wall as you hit your boots together, the small layer of snow that’s gathered on the sidewalks, knocked off onto the cheap rubber mat.
“Hi,” you hear Jack say and you glance up, taking in the sight of him rising, his grey curls shimmering in the low light of the diner and you press your lips together, nodding once and stepping forwards, coat still tight around you.
“I’m not staying,” you tell him when you reach him, left foot the centre of your weight, your right thrown forwards.
“Why not? You’re a diner kind of girl,” he says. “We could order pie for dinner. I hear the pie here is really good.” You can’t believe this fucker. You can’t believe that he really thought your best friend wouldn’t talk to you, tell you. Complain.
“You do realize that trying again means that you try again, right?” you whisper, your tone a hiss and voice cracking, tears stinging your eyes again.
“I did,” he says and he actually looks surprised. He looks surprised that you’re angry, that you’re telling him that he tried when he didn’t fucking try.
“Did you really think that Parker didn’t tell me you talked to them? They’re my best friend and you did exactlywhat they said. That’s not you trying, Jack. That’s called plagiarism and I don’t go out with plagiarizers. Sorry, not sorry,” you tell him, turning and walking away, walking tall and strong and proud, capable until you’re back out on the sidewalk.
It’s then, when you’re far enough from the lights and the windows of the diner that you let it out, that you let the tears fall, the liquid freezing on your face in the biting cold of the Pittsburgh winter.
Your coat is zipped up and you pull the hood of the puffer jacket up, blocking out the world. You don’t care if it’s not safe to do so.
You just need to hide your tears from prying eyes.
And you need to close the door on the man who makes you feel this way.
“I need the file on Geoff Fletcher,” you say, leaning onto the nurse’s station, the counter digging into the skin of your forearms. Gia looks up at you, eyebrows knitting together, her attention captured by something over your shoulder.
“Today, after our shifts,” you hear Jack say and you glance over your shoulder, your throat tightening, choking you for a moment, a thickness that is not quite tears, not quite not rising in you as your veins seem to simmer. “I’m taking you out.”
“You had your chances, Jack,” you say, turning back to Gia, lifting your eyebrows and she nods, pushing up from her chair to reach for the file folders to the side.
“I don’t think my chances were very fair,” he says and you spin around, your stethoscope following the movement, the bell slamming into your chest in a way that makes you cough, one you try to cover up as a scoff.
“I should just listen to Parker,” you tell him, leaning your back against the station, the digging in of the metal counter into your lower back reminding you of here and now, keeping you grounded because this is your floor and he and his hazel eyes like sun dappled branches have no place here.
She has no place here. The ghost of his wife, the woman you can never be, never see, has no place on the floor where you have built yourself. Where you have created a life.
“Listened to what?” he says and you can hear a thickness in his throat too. Because if you know Jack Abbot, and you do, those four years having given you a knowledge of him that is nearly comprehensive, you know that the one thing he hates the most is losing.
“That I should just go out with Brendon Park,” you say and his face changes, eyes shadowing, jaw hardening, set in a way that you can see, a shadow cast across his neck, his shadow on the carpeted floor rigid, unmoving. Unyielding.
“One more chance, sweet girl,” he whispers, eyes locked on you, tracking the path of your neck when you swallow, hard, your mouth growing dry, eyes looking anywhere but him. You can feel his irritation, his jealousy in the air and you wish it was for you and not just the fact, the idea that he could lose.
“Don’t fuck it up, Jack,” you tell him, lips pressing thin and he steps closer, his hand coming to rest on your cheek, calloused thumb against your cheekbone.
“I won’t fuck this one up,” he whispers, “but I will fuck up. It’s inevitable when you’re learning someone again. When you let yourself forget them.” He leans down, pressing his forehead to you and if you were stronger, you would pull away, would wrench away and slam your office door closed—or attempt to, since the doors on this floor don’t slam, but still.
“I don’t have the patience to watch you fuck up anymore, Jack,” you whisper, pulling away from like you should have before. “You should already know this shit. Brendon doesn’t even know me and he knows me better than you and you had four years. What were you doing? Who were seeing when you looked at me because it sure as hell wasn’t me.”
You walk away, walk into your office, pushing the door closed, the closing mechanism clicking and you flick the lock into place, locking him out of the office, of your life.
One last chance. No more, no less.
Thin ice.
“How did you know?” you ask, stepping out of your car, cowboy boot sinking into the snow-covered gravel, your hands in leather gloves. Jack stands just a few yards from the best taco truck in Pittsburgh, the one you frequent as often as you can, often with Ellis. Buying the tacos that are as big as your head, a beer often too.
“Because of this!” Jack calls out, holding up a thin piece of paper in his hands. You walk to him, careful of where you step on the icing over ground, slipping when you near him, his arms catching you, steadying you.
“What is it?” you ask, your tone light in only the way that tacos and the outdoors can make you. And only together do they work.
“The receipt from our first date,” he says, pressing it into your gloved hands. You lift it, pinching it between both hands, reading the fading printed letters, the inscriptions of the tacos and the drinks ordered, the date right. “You had insisted on planning the date, remember?” he continues. “I asked you out, five years ago now, and you said only if you got to pick the place…and this was it.”
You look past him, out at the expanse of frosted, snow-covered grass, the sun setting, turning the sky pink and purple and blue, your favourite time of day, street lamps coming on, casting soft ambient glows onto the street, pockets of bright light accompanied by shadow.
You can feel something inside of you shifting and switching, something returned and yet taken. You feel seen, but you can’t trust that feeling. You can’t…you can’t trust Jack.
But maybe…it wouldn’t hurt for one night.
“Where you’d find the receipt?” you ask him, pressing it back into his hand and stepping past him, boots crunching against the frozen grass, the pebbles.
“In a box,” he says and you pause, closing your eyes for a moment, remembering packing your things up into boxes when you moved in with him, remembering how fast you condensed your life down to four suitcases, things left behind that you never went back for. “One I kept with things over the years of us. It was in there.”
“And you remembered one date,” you say, looking back at him over your shoulder, eyes narrowed and nostrils flaring, eyelids feeling frozen in the cool winter air. “Do you expect a medal for that?”
“Just a chance,” he says and you roll your eyes and turn back to the truck.
“You’re paying,” you tell him and you hear him snort, feel his hand ghost along the small of your back, touch light, barely there, but present too.
“I expect nothing less, sweet girl,” he says, his breath coasting over the shell of your ear, goosebumps springing up along your arms even within your coat, the rub of the heightened skin against the plasticky material of your jacket strange and disjointed. A feeling in echo.
A feeling in echo because you feel seen and that takes centre-fold. Because…you may act caustic, but him remembering that date…it’s something.
And something is better than the nothing of before.
“Knock-knock,” Jack calls out, his knuckles rapping against the solid pressed wood door to your office. It’s slightly ajar, enough that he can hear the faint opening notes of music, songs that you like, lyrics that he’s cataloguing away because you were right on the redone first date—he didn’t deserve anything for remembering something he never should have forgotten.
How many times did the two of you go to diners and food trucks? Bakery trips in the early mornings feeling drunk on sex and hungry? How many times did he hear you rant and yet it never stuck until you were gone.
He had hoped that his speech and the gesture of the necklace, the fact that he was waiting, would have been enough to have you back in his life, completely, but it’s not. He’s realising now that he does not deserve easy. If he is to have you back completely, he has to prove that he’s worthy.
Hence, the bouquet of flowers in his hands, red roses and baby’s breath, the florist having explained that it was most romantic one on offer.
“Come in,” he hears you call out and he pushes the door open, stepping in and closing it softly behind him, gentle to a fault, not wanting to disturb you with a closure.
“Hey,” he says, stepping deeper into the room, one he’s never actually been in before and it takes him aback for a moment, the way it smells like sugar, vanilla, faint citrus notes in the air. It smells like you and it has your certificates and degrees on the wall, your combined MD/Ph. D and publications. The pictures on the shelf behind you of you and Ellis doing various things from teenhood to adulthood.
“Oh, hey, Jack,” you say, looking up from your computer where you’ve been typing fast, frantic really. You stand now, pulling your lab coat from your chair. “I can’t stay; I have to check on a patient.”
“Before you go,” he blurts out, removing the bouquet from behind his back and holding it out to you, “I brought you this.” He watches as your lip curls and he knows he messed up, he just doesn’t know how.
“You think flowers make up for what you did?” you ask, your hand pushing his back, the flowers pressing against his chest, petals crumpling against his scrubs.
“No! It’s just—well…the florist said—” he tries, but his words aren’t really flowing and he’s taken aback, but it doesn’t matter because you’re slipping your lab coat on and rolling your eyes.
“All that time dedicating yourself to saving lives, yet you bring me corpses. So romantic,” you remark, lips pursing as you walk away, pulling the door closed behind you, leaving him standing there holding the far too expensive bouquet crushed against his chest, realizing that you were right.
He never knew you at all.
But he wants nothing more than to know you. All of you.
You feel the smile growing on your face as you step into your office, a small pink pot sitting on it, dead-centre, holding a barrel cactus.
Not a corpse this time, sweet girl—Jack
“Clever, Abbot,” you whisper, pulling the sticky note off the pot, tucking it into your date planner, fingertips ghosting over the spines, the prick of the needles telling you it’s real.
He’s learning.
“I got you a gift,” Jack whispers, grabbing your wrist and pulling you through the ED into the open on-call room.
“Jack!” you hiss, pulling your arm from his grip as he closes the door, a box held in the hand which does so. “I have patients and a consult. What. Do you. Want?”
“Happy birthday,” he says, turning to you, his lips tugging up in that light-hearted, crooked grin he has that looks innocent even though it’s anything but. He holds the box out to you and you accept it, the box small and decorative, blue covered with golden swirls. You pull the lid off the box, feeling that tension that comes from removing an object from another when designed to fit together, air slowing down the motion.
Inside lies a key ring, one with a single brass key resting on it, the chain pink with gold lettering, spelling out my house is on pretty girl avenue.
“Jack,” you whisper, hooking your finger into the brass ring and pulling it forth, the offering dangling off the pad of your index finger. “What is this?” You already know, you don’t even need him to say it. You know it’s a key to his house and you know he’s going to ask you to move in and is this what this is? That he just can’t stand living alone?
That he needs you to be some warm body beside him? Is that what you are? His space heater?
“Move in with me,” he says, just like you knew he would. “Come home, sweet girl.”
“No, Jack,” you say, dropping the key unceremoniously into the box, shoving it at him, shaking your head as your chest constricts. “Why would I give you a gift on my birthday? You broke my fucking heart over four years! I’m not just…moving in with you again and pretending that didn’t fucking happen!”
“But—”
“—No, Jack! You still don’t see me and I’m done playing pretend!” You move to push past him, but he catches your wrist, his fingers hot on your skin. “Let go of me!”
“Come over tonight,” he whispers, his voice dropping to a husky whisper. “Please.”
“Fine,” you whisper, cursing yourself for being weak for this man, for the way he touches you like you’re something precious. “One last chance, Jack.”
You like this sight, Jack Abbot completely at your mercy, handcuffed to his bedframe and completely naked, looking at you like you are both his reckoning and his saviour. You remember how you came over and he started like he always does, calling you good girl and pretty girl and his and when you opened his bedside drawer for a condom, you found the handcuffs.
You said you wanted to use them and he asked how you wanted to be handcuffed and you told him that no, you wanted him handcuffed. And he obliged.
“God—” he cries now as you pull your shirt off, now completely naked yourself, climbing onto the bed, your lips curving in a way that promises mischief. You can see a bead of precum on the tip of his cock and you know he wants you, know he wants to touch you from the way his wrists jerk at their confines.
“You okay, Jackie?” you ask, your tone playful, too playful in a way as you sit back on your heels on the bed, your pussy exposed to him for a moment and you want to laugh at the way he licks his lips, irises almost entirely swallowed by his pupils. “Is this what you want?” you ask, your own hand slipping between your legs, slipping between your folds, stroking over them and circling your own clit.
He bucks his hips, his wrists, the skin of them chaffing against the metal of the cuffs, the key resting on the nightstand.
“Jackie!” you moan, your thumb pressing on your clit as you sink your own finger inside of you, feeling yourself, knowing exactly which areas of yourself to stimulate, dragging your knuckle down your walls.
“Pretty girl,” he groans, swallowing hard, his voice a rasp, voice no doubt dry, but you don’t change what you’re doing, simply shifting, your own fingers pumping in and out of yourself, thumb pressing on your clit as you bring yourself to the brink of an orgasm, one hand finding your breasts, tweaking your own nipple in the way he loves to do it. “Jesus!” he whispers as you cry out, your walls clenching around your fingers, fluttering slowly and then stopping, your orgasm over.
You shift, reaching your hand out to his lips, the fingers that were inside of you, slipping into his mouth. He sucks them clean, moaning as he does so, your heart rate picking up as he flicks his tongue against the pads of your fingers.
“What do you want now, Jack?” you ask, pulling your fingers from his mouth, him releasing them with a pop. “Do you want to be inside me?” You can see him gritting his teeth, hating this loss of control, hating this loss of dominance.
“Dealer’s choice, sweet girl,” he says and you’re going to make sure he regrets that as you slide back down the bed until your mouth hovers just inches above his dick. You watch as he swallows hard, his gaze locked on you, Adam’s apple bobbing. “Sweet girl?” he calls out and you smile at him, a kind of wicked smile before licking the drop of precum from the tip of his dick, his body jerking at the touch.
He tastes sour, salty, good in a way that you’d forgotten about. You swirl your tongue around the tip before placing your mouth on it, hollowing out your cheeks before flattening your tongue, drawing it from base to tip, once, twice, thrice, making sure to swirl it around the tip each time.
“Sweet girl!” he calls out as you place your mouth around his dick again, looking at him with wide doe eyes, eyes wide in a faux-innocence act. “I don’t want to cum in your mouth.”
“Oh?” you ask, pulling off his dick with a pop. “Then where do you want to cum?” He bites his lip, looking at you with a look that would promise trouble before, but not right now. Not when he’s handcuffed.
“You know where,” he says and you smile at him, sitting up, your hand coming to rest on his stomach, tracing down his happy trail, the muscles jerking beneath your fingers.
“You have to use your words, Jackie,” you tell him and he growls, actually growls at you, the sound making you want to giggle, except that it’s turning you, the slickness between your thighs growing.
“Inside. You,” he grits out and you rise, shifting to hover over his dick, swivelling your hips once before you sink down on him.
“All you had to do was ask,” you whisper and then you begin to ride him, your breasts bouncing with every up, down, swivel repeat. You can see in his eyes that he wants to touch you, wants to be in control with every jerk of his hips up, but he can’t do anything about it.
Rather you are in control, your hands resting on his chest, nails digging into his skin, leaving half-moon crescents as the coil in your stomach grows tighter and tighter and tighter every time you sink down on his cock, letting it drag against your walls as you rise up again.
“Jack!” you cry out as you fall forwards just slightly, your pussy clenching around him, your orgasm brought forth, but his not.
“Uncuff me, sweet girl,” he whispers, voice hoarse and you obey, rising off of him and shifting over, stepping off the bed, legs shaky as you do so, grabbing the key and unlocking them, pulling them off and setting them back on the night stand as he shakes out his wrists and looks at you with lifted brows. “Get on the bed, sweet girl,” he says, tone low, threatening in all the best ways.
You listen, climbing onto the other side and he shifts, his arms on either side of you, holding him up, his knee on the whole leg supporting his lower half for the most part and you don’t get to say anything before he’s back inside you, thrusting in completely, all of him inside of you on one thrust.
You can feel him inside of you, can feel him as he pulls out, no fanfare as he thrusts back in, the rhythm brutal and fast and unforgiving. But he makes up for it with his kisses, open-mouthed, tongues tangling and his mouth leaving hot trails up your neck.
“Are you,” he grunts, slamming up and into you, your breath leaving you in a cry, “going to be good?” he finishes his question as he pulls out, waiting, tip of his cock resting against your entrance.
“Yes,” you whisper and then he’s slamming back up and into you, over and over and over in that same brutal rhythm.
“Good,” he whispers, “because only good girls get to come.” It’s only a few more thrusts before you’re coming around him and he’s coming with you, inside of you, thick hot ropes that seem to fill you up (the condom having been forgotten when you found the cuffs).
He rolls over, shifting, pulling you against him, his chest heaving, glistening with a sheen of sweat, your body no doubt the same.
“Am I forgiven?” he asks and you tilt your head to look at him.
“For your birthday gift, yes. For the four years…no chance in hell.”
“Hey, pretty girl,” Jack says as the elevator opens, a cardboard drink container in his hand, holding two iced coffees, the Dunkin logo staring at you on the sweating plastic cups. “You got a sec?”
“No, Jack,” you tell him, shaking your head, lips pursing. “And I don’t drink coffee in the afternoons. You should know that.”
You didn’t like flowers, but you liked the cactus. You didn’t want to move in with him again, but you appreciated when he left you a drawer in his dresser. You didn’t like fancy restaurants, but you did like food trucks and diners. You weren’t a fan of wine, but you didn’t mind a beer once in a while.
You didn’t like old movies for the most part, but you loved them if they had Audrey Hepburn. You liked rock music, but not country. You didn’t like war movies, but you said that Saving Private Ryan was a classic that could not be missed.
You preferred horror movies, but also loved rom-coms, your favourite being The Princess Bride and When You Were Sleeping.
Jack Abbot had spent a year relearning you, all the quirks he’d missed, he’d kept trying even when you told him that he should probably stop because he’d never get it.
And you know why? Because you are his favourite puzzle and no one has ever made him feel like this, alive and challenged and so completely happy.
Learning you has been the greatest, most frustrating year of his life and he’d never change it for anything.
And he thinks, looking at the box in his hands, that he’s finally found the perfect gift for you.
“Hey,” Jack says, stepping into your office and you look up, taking note of the box in his hands, the fancy box wrapped with a giant purple ribbon. You glance back at your computer screen, looking at the date, at the fact that it’s just a random Tuesday afternoon.
“What’s with the gift?” you ask. “What did you do wrong?” He sets it down on your desk, movements gentle and confident at the same time.
“Nothing,” he says, sitting down in the chair in front of your desk, adjusting his prosthetic as you pull the box towards you, lifting the lid and peering in. Inside, on a bed of tissue paper, rests a leather book bound with leather string. You lift it out, flipping it open to see Jack’s chicken scratch writing spelling out My life’s greatest achievement has been learning you, sweet girl.
“Jack?” you whisper, flipping past the first page to see…a scrapbook. Receipts and pictures from a polaroid, the one you remember him always bringing with him, little quotes underneath each picture, telling you what he learned each time, the little things he’d picked up on. The things he’d never forget.
“Do you like it?” he asks and he sounds hesitant and you don’t know why he would because here before you is proof that he sees you. That he has spent a year doing nothing but seeing you.
“Jack,” you whisper, tears in your eyes, your sinuses, your throat thick as you look up, vision just the tiniest bit blurry from the tears lining your eyes. “It’s perfect. You…” you pause, swallowing hard around the growing lump in your throat, setting the book down and placing both hands on the cover as if it’s the most precious thing in the world. Because it is. “You see me.”
“You’re impossible to miss, pretty girl,” he whispers, reaching out and taking one of your hands in both of his, pressing a kiss against it. “I don’t know how I did for so long, but I never will again.”
“Feels right,” Jack says as he collapses the last of the boxes, your clothes and belongings once again back in his house. Your house now too.
“What? Me living here?” you ask.
“No,” he says, reaching for your hand and pulling you against him, “you being in my life.”
“Yes. Yes, Jack, I will marry you,” you whisper as he slips the ring back on your finger, another year of him learning, of his life rearranging, his left finger bare for the first year, waiting for the ring to you.
“Thank god, pretty girl,” he whispers, two tears slipping down his cheeks as he cups your face, pulling you to him, pressing a soft and yet heated kiss to your lips. “Because I want nothing more than to be your husband.”
“I vow to always keep trying. To never stop trying. I vow,” he says, “to always remind you that you are everenough, more than enough, perfectly enough and better than enough every day. I vow to never make you feel unseen. I vow to listen when you speak because you’re everything. Because you understand me. I vow to you the rest of my life.” You can’t fight the tears that slip down your cheeks as you smile, laughing just slightly, a watery laugh that makes him smile at you, tear tracks on his own face from when he watched you walk down the aisle in your dress.
“Then,” Robby says, his voice thick and happy, “if there are no objections, I now pronounce you woman and husband.” You can’t help but laugh at Robby’s word choice, stolen from Enola Holmes 3, the movie you made him and Jack watch when it came out. “You may now kiss the husband.”
And you do, stepping forwards and placing your hands on his stubble covered cheeks, drawing him down into a kiss.
And this kiss doesn’t taste like fire or ash or burning. It tastes like love and light and second chances. The kind that works.
“God, I love you, sweet girl,” he whispers when you pull back and you smile at him, a happy one.
“Ditto, Jack.” And in this moment, with the way he’s looking at you, you know that he’s been speaking true.
synopsis: robby suggests that you come with him to a fourth of july barbecue hosted by one of his work friends. fresh out of college and recently single, you really don't have any other choice but to comply. it's there that you meet jack abbot, a man who seems to be as smitten with you as you are with him. weeks later, the two of you end up sharing a night full of passion. and neither of you are seemingly ready to let the other go 8.4 wc
warnings: dad's bsf so obvi age gap (jack is late 40s, reader is mid 20s), reader is mentioned to be robby's goddaughter but she calls him dad, robby calls reader bug, a couple uses of y/n sorry :/, cursing, smoking/vaping, jack is flirty asf and whipped, but it's ok bc reader wants that old man dih BAD, mention of mother and wife passing away from cancer, shotgunning smoke into each others mouths, smut (mdni), oral (f receiving), jack is a dirty talker but also a soft dom, unprotected piv but reader is on the pill
a/n: my smut is mediocre at best, so if it sucks pls don't tell me bc i'll cry
find part two here !!
a month has gone by since you've moved to pittsburgh. it's nothing like the small town in oregon you grew up in, but you're grateful that robby was kind enough to offer you a room free of charge. he took a whole week off during your first week back so that he could show you around town. even taking you to his place of work so he could introduce you to everyone on his crew.
most of them were shocked to discover that robby had a daughter, all except dana, who already knew of you and your existence. and you had to explain that long story about robby technically being your godfather, but it's easier to just say he's your dad. besides, it wasn't like your actual dad was always the most stable figure in your life.
speaking of him, he calls you one night as you begin plating the table for you and robby. he starts spouting the same bullshit about you being such a terrible daughter for leaving him and oregon behind to pursue a career that'll never take off. you just let him talk, not really caring anymore to defend yourself. already knowing that it'll go nowhere and only escalate the argument. just as you finish setting up is when robby comes home, discarding his shoes and jacket, dropping his backpack beside the front door.
the volume of your dad's voice is so loud over the phone that you have to hold it away from your ear, making robby tilt a brow in confusion. 'your dad?' he mouths, which you nod. "listen, i gotta go and make dinner. goodnight," you say, ignoring the flew of curse words he spills as you hang up.
"what lovely things did he have to say to you tonight?" robby questions, wasting no time to dig into the spaghetti you made. "oh, you know, how much he hates me for leaving. how he thinks my acting career will go nowhere. and how disappointed mom would be in me if she was still here. so the usual," you reply, harshly stabbing at the salad you made as a side. he lets out a soft huff, shaking his head. "that's not true, you know. your mother would be very proud to see the woman you've become," he assures softly. "yeah, i know that. you would think he'd know that."
"how's the job hunting going?" robby questions, changing the topic. "there were a few listings for some roles that seem interesting. but in the meantime i got an interview tomorrow for a local record store down the street."
"that's good, bug. you've been so stuck in the house this past month. i'm glad you're getting out. speaking of getting out, though, one of my friends from work is throwing a fourth of july barbecue this weekend with some of his old army buddies."
"and you're thinking of going?" you ask with a chuckle. "wow, i never thought i'd see the day when michael robinavitch would willingly take a day off."
"haha, very funny," robby replies sarcastically. "with al-hashimi around, i don't feel as conflicted taking days off. but just for that, you're coming along with me."
"are you serious? what am i supposed to do around a bunch of old guys drinking and sharing their war stories?"
robby shrugs. "gets you out of the house. besides, one of them is bound to have a son around your age. maybe you can get yourself a boyfriend."
"i think i'm okay with no boyfriend for a while." he stares at you with a look combined of pity and understanding. he knows why you've come to the decision of steering clear of men. mainly due to the fact that your now ex-boyfriend had been cheating on you with your now ex-best friend for more than half the time you two had been together. so, you know, not the best relationship ever.
"alright, well, just think about coming with me, okay? jack is a good friend of mine. nice, too. i think the two of you would get along."
"i'll think about it," you promise. "that's all i ask, bug. now you go ahead and get ready for bed. i'll clean up." you nod, handing over your empty plate to him. "night, dad."
"night, bug. love you," he says, pulling you into a side hug and kissing the crown of your head. "love you too."
saturday comes by a lot sooner than expected. robby parks the car on the edge of the curb, just near the driveway. he looks over at you before exiting the car. "just try and have a good time, yeah? if it gets too boring, there's a balcony on the second floor that you can hang out on. i'm sure jack won't mind." you give him a small smile. "don't worry me about me, dad. just focus on enjoying your night off. he mirrors your smile, rubbing his palm over the top of your head. you groan, trying to slap his hand away, making him laugh. "c'mon, bug, let's head inside."
jack's house is huge compared to the apartment that robby lives in. it's two floors with a spacious kitchen and dining room. hell, there's even a living room and a tv room. no way he was able to afford all this while having the same pay as robby. "they must be outside," robby infers, guiding you towards the large french doors that lead to the backyard. you didn't expect the outside to be just as huge as the interior, but you were quickly proven wrong.
just like he told you, there's nothing but guys at this party. most are just sitting around and drinking. and a few of them are hanging in the pool. a couple of them greet robby, eyeing you as you walk past them and to the long table near the grill that holds all the food. he drops a couple beers in the cooler while you set down the brownies he requested you to make. one guy comes up to robby, grabbing a beer from him and making friendly conversation.
"hey, man. it's good to see you. we weren't sure if you'd take the day off to come see us," the man says, slapping robby on the back. "yeah, i'm just as surprised as you. but i decided that a day off could be good for me," robby replies.
"tell me about it. work has been kicking my ass recently. obviously nothing compared to yours and jack's, of course." the man's barely glances at you before doing a double take. "who's this?" he asks, a smirk making its way on his face. "don't even try it, adam," robby warns. "this is my daughter, y/n."
"it's nice to meet you," you greet with a tight lipped smile. the man, adam apparently, puts out his hand for you to shake. you don't. not because you're trying to be rude. you just don't do well with physical touch. especially from strangers. "don't sweat it, sweetheart. it's a pleasure to see a pretty face at one of these things instead of a bunch of old guys." his words make you grimace. they also have an affect on robby, who stands a bit taller and shifts his body in front of yours. but before he can say anything, an unknown voice cuts in.
"adam, back off it. don't harass the girl." even though it's masked as a joke, you can hear the underlying warning. it's enough that adam backs off with his hands held in surrender, before walking away to another part of the backyard. robby turns around to the new man. "thanks, brother," robby says, dabbing him up before pulling him into a quick hug. "don't worry about it. adam can be a piece of work at times." you turn around as well, coming face to face with probably the hottest guy you've ever seen.
he stands a couple inches shorter than robby, but he's larger in size. his biceps strain against the black tee that he wears. and the slightly baggy jeans he has on does nothing to hide that his thighs are fucking huge. his hair is gorgeous, the salt and pepper curls sitting perfectly atop his head.
okay. you need to stop staring before you start drooling. get a grip. like seriously.
thankfully, mystery man doesn't notice you ogling him. if he does, he's kind enough not to mention it. "you must be y/n, i'm jack. robby talks highly of you." he doesn't put his hand out for you to shake. he must've noticed that you didn't shake adam's. "uh, you have like, a crazy nice house," you say awkwardly. but it makes him laugh. "i appreciate that. you let me know if there's anything you need, okay?" he's just being a good host, you tell yourself. "yeah, thanks." he nods once at you, a gentle smile on his face, before slapping robby on the back and heading towards the grill. "told you he'd be nice," robby mutters, bumping your shoulder once with his.
the barbecue ends up not being bad as you thought it would be. most of your time is spent sitting beside robby and eating. some of the guys ask you questions, but other than that, you're mainly silent. not like you mind it, though. you hate pointless small talk with others. by now, the sun has set, and people are starting to shoot off some fireworks. the guys have also gotten a little more drunk as the night goes on, making the environment louder than before. so it's no surprise to robby when you politely excuse yourself to a quieter area.
when entering back into the house, you remember what robby had told you earlier about there being a balcony you could escape to. you walk up the stairs and down the hallway. you're cautious when looking for said balcony. the last thing you want is for jack to assume you're some weirdo trying to snoop in his house. as if fate is on your side, there's a bedroom door cracked open at the end of the hall. and when you peek inside, you can see the balcony door open across the room.
there's two chairs placed on the small surface, both of which are facing towards the skyline. minutes go by of silence and the occasional firework. jack's neighborhood is relatively quiet. you take a hit of your vape when you hear a familiar voice. "those things aren't good for you, you know," jack scolds playfully, leaning against the doorway with his arms crossed. you can't help it when your eyes drop down to forearms. "even on your day off, you're still giving doctor's advice?" you tease. he shrugs, moving to the chair beside you. a soft groan escapes him as he sits down. "what can i say, i'm just a caring individual."
you chuckle softly. "it's just a bad habit i picked up in college. i hope you don't mind me being up here. dad said that it was a good place for me if it got too loud."
"don't worry about it. robby had mentioned that loud and crowded spaces get you nervous at times, so i set up the chairs out here just in case you needed to get away."
jack's words take you by surprise. he did that for you? before tonight, he'd just heard stories about you from robby. yet he's singlehandedly done the most thoughtful act anyone has ever done for you. "that's really nice of you. thank you." you start to feel how warm your cheeks are, so you look away before he notices the soft blush on them. "it's beautiful tonight," you murmur, admiring the night sky. "yeah, it is," he agrees. but you're too focused on the fireworks to notice he's looking at you. "how are you liking pittsburgh so far?"
"slowly but surely i'm getting used to it. it's definitely different than roseburg, but overall, i like it here. it's more lively and has more opportunities."
"robby told me you were a drama major, is that right?"
"i am, yeah. i know it's not the most useful degree, but..." you just shrug, unsure of what to say. "hey, a degree is a degree. from what i've heard, you're pretty talented. you been in anything?"
"nothing major, no. a few local commercials and i was a background character in a horror movie a couple years ago."
"well, i'm sure any agency would be glad to have you." god, could jack be anymore perfect? you've only known him for what, a couple hours? and somehow he's raised the bar for you by miles.
a gust of wind blows by, making you shiver. maybe wearing shorts and a tank top with no jacket wasn't the best idea. "you cold?" jack asks. "a little, but i'm okay. you don't have to-" halfway through your sentence he stands up and goes into the room connected to the balcony. now that you're looking at it, you realize that it's his bedroom. oh my god. he comes back out with a navy blue blanket in hand, draping it over your legs that you pulled up to your chets. "there you go." the blanket itself is soft and warm, like it recently came out of the dryer.
"you know, you don't have to feel inclined to stay. i'm sure being down there is a lot more fun than up here with me," you suggest. "nah, i like it up here. besides, you are a lot more fun than those guys, believe me, sweetheart. a lot less drunk too." you like the way he calls you sweetheart. it feels less icky than when adam called you it. you barely notice how much times passes by.
unlike most people, jack doesn't attempt to fill the silence with forced conversation. the questions he asks are sincere, like he actually wants to know about you. and your responses come out so naturally that it doesn't feel like jack was a complete stranger until tonight. you only know that it's gotten late when robby comes searching for you. "bug? there you are," he says, walking out on the balcony. "hey, brother, what are you doing up here?"
"just getting to know the little movie star. you planning on heading out?" jack asks. "yeah, it's getting late and i promised dana that i would come in tomorrow to make up for missing today. you ready to head out, bug?" you nod, stretching as you stand up. "thanks for the blanket, jack," you say, folding it and setting it down on the chair. "you're welcome. c'mon, let me walk the two you of out."
robby leaves the balcony first, then you, and then jack. as you walk downstairs, you nearly miss the last step. but just before you take a tumble, jack catches you with a hand on the small of your back. "careful there. that step is rickety," he mutters. you can feel how warm his breath is on the back of your neck, leaving goosebumps in its wake.
once outside, jack pulls robby into a quick hug. "thanks for coming tonight, it was good seeing you outside of work."
"i appreciated the invite. you coming in tomorrow?"
jack shrugs. "we'll see how my leg is feeling. it's been killing me all day." robby claps him on the shoulder, the closest thing to comfort that he'll give. "well, just let me know. i'll see you around, brother."
"see ya, brother." robby waves, before hopping inside the car. "and you," jack points at you, "don't be a stranger, yeah? it's nice having a new and pretty face around."
"you got it..." you're unsure of what to call him. you know that his last name is abbot from the small background robby gave you on the drive here. calling him dr. abbot would be too formal. but would jack be too casual? you just met him, so you don't know. "jack. you can call me jack, sweetheart," he assures.
there it is again. sweetheart. and that smile... god, you're gonna need a cold shower when you get home. "alright, you got it, jack. might have to take you up on the offer and try out that pool of yours," you say jokingly. "it's open to you anytime you want it," he retorts. but he means it. "have a good night."
"you too," you reply, waving goodbye. now in the car, robby looks over at you. "you feeling okay? you're looking a little warm."
"huh? oh, yeah, i'm fine. i must've got heat exhaustion or something." sure, heat exhaustion. it looks like he almost doesn't believe you, but chooses not to argue. "alright, well, drink some water and electrolytes when we get home. and put a cold towel around your neck."
"you got it, dad." robby then pulls off of the curb, making a u-turn and driving away. the whole drive home, your thoughts are stuck on jack. you're not sure what will cure whatever it is that jack is making you feel.
you end up not seeing jack for almost two weeks since that night. in those two weeks, you've done everything in your power to get him off your mind. you ended up getting the job at the record store, taking shifts pretty much whenever possible so you could rake in money for yourself. you did a few auditions here and there, but had no luck in getting callbacks. hell, you've even rearranged your room more times than you could count whenever thoughts of him flooded your mind at night.
by this point, you believed that luck was not on your side. until robby called you on your way home from work. "hey, bug, i hope i'm not bothering you while you're at work, but i'm gonna have to pull a double tonight."
"everything okay?"
"as okay as it can be, i guess. there was a pretty big pileup and the closest hospital is ours so we're gonna need all hands on deck basically," robby explains.
"okay, well, i can bring you dinner if you want."
"you don't have to if you can't, bug."
"dad, really it's fine. besides, i just left work so i don't mind it," you insist.
robby sighs over the phone, knowing how stubborn you are. "alright. you can come in through the ambulance bay, it'll be faster. i'll let ahmad know you're stopping by."
"sounds good. love you."
"love you too, stay safe."
due to the aftermath of the pileup, it takes you longer than expected to pickup the food and get to the hospital. thankfully, though you don't run into any complications when arriving through the ambulance bay. a man in a security uniform waves you in and politely nods. that must be ahmad. you head towards the nurses station, looking for dana. but you instead find an unfamiliar, older woman.
"hello," you greet with a soft smile. "can you please tell me where dr. robby is?" she's not nearly as friendly with you as you were with her. "are you a patient?"
"no, ma'am, i'm not."
"are you the family member of a patient?"
"no-"
"then why are you here? matter of fact, how did you get in here? so leave, before i call security on you."
you're grateful for the familar voice that cuts in. "monica! this is robby's daughter, y/n, that's why she's here. how about you go take a smoke break, huh?" dana suggets. monica eyes you up and down with clear disdain, especially at your outfit. she mumbles something about 'this generation nowadays' before walking outside to the ambulance bay. "sorry about her, honey, monica can be a real piece of work sometimes," dana apologizes once she's gone.
"it's alright, i'm fine," you reply. "can you tell me where dad is?"
"he's in trauma room one right now. why? something wrong?" dana puts on her glasses, ready to examine whatever injury you might have. "no, nothing's wrong. i just brought him some dinner since he's pulling a double. do you think he'll be out anytime soon?"
"i don't think so, hun. the patient he got was in a pretty rough state when they came in." you nod, understanding. "okay, well, can you give it to him when he's done? i know that if anyone else does it he won't listen and actually eat the food." she laughs, tapping you on the arm. "you got it. come back and visit more often, yeah?"
"yes, ma'am, see ya!" she waves goodbye, you do the same. as you walk out, you glance down at your phone for maybe a second, before running into a brick wall. no, it's definitely not a brick wall. because a brick wall doean't smell like sandalwood. also because two large hands grab you by your biceps to steady you. "jack," you breathe out.
"gotta be more careful, sweetheart. i can't always stop you from falling," he teases. "what brings you around here?"
"i brought dad some dinner for tonight."
he hums softly. "it's good to see you again. you doing alright?"
"i am, yeah. how about you?"
"better now that you're here." jesus christ, if you weren't surrounded by ambulances and complete strangers, you probably would've jumped his bones right here and now. "hey, are you free this weekend?" he suddenly asks.
"uh, i should be. why?" please be a date, you think over and over. "i was thinking about inviting you and robby over for dinner. it would be nice to get to know you more," he instead says. hopefully, you mask your disappointment well. "that would be great, yeah. i'll let him know."
"alright, well, i need to give you my number so we can smooth out the details." you put your phone in his outstretched hand, watching as he punches in his number. "well, i should probably head in there soon. but hopefully i'll see you this weekend?"
"yeah, this weekend," you echo.
"cute shirt, by the way," jack says, fingers lightly brushing the thin strap of your flowery top as he passes. it doesn't occur to you until you get home that robby already has jack's number.
jack never needed to give you his.
friday night, you receive a text from jack's contact who saved himself in your phone as 'jack 😎'. the single emoji makes you laugh softly.
the next day, you spend all morning trying to figure out what to wear. you know that it technically isn't a date, but you still want to look nice. but nothing too forward. god, this is hard. you land on something basic, but reason that it'll be good enough. jack offers to pick you up, but you insist that you can drive yourself. so he texts you his address.
jack greets you at the door with a gentle smile. "i'm glad you could make it, sweetheart. dinner's already made. i set it out on the patio if that's okay."
"that's perfect," you assure.
"alright, follow me then."
you're surprised by how all out jack has gone for this dinner. a fresh bouquet of flowers sit in a glass vase right in the middle of the table, with small candles lit around it. "you did all of this?"
"yeah, i did," he responds. like it's no big deal. "why? you don't like it?"
"huh? no, i do. it looks amazing. i just wish i would've known you were going all out. i would've worn something a little more nicer than this," you say, gesturing towards your outfit. he looks at it up and down. "i think you look beautiful the way you're dressed now," he replies without a second thought. "now let's eat before it gets cold." he moves over to the atble, pulling out your chair for you. even pushing you in once you're sitting down.
jack takes his place across from you, plating your food first before his. "i wasn't sure what you liked to eat, but i figured that you can't really go wrong with pasta. and i also assumed that you don't drink alcohol because i didn't see you drink during the party. but i noticed you drinking diet coke. is that fine?" it makes you smile to see how attentive he is. he cares so much to impress you at the moment that you're almost taken aback. "everything is perfect. like, seriously. the food is amazing too," you praise.
jack's shoulders drop just a bit, like the praise you've just given him was exactly what he needed to hear. he hasn't done something like this in years. not since the passing of his wife. so it feels good to hear that he's doing this right. "robby told me you got a new job?"
"yeah, i did. i work at the record store down 5th."
"how are you liking it?"
"it's good so far. it's close to the house, and the owner and all the staff is really nice. but i don't see it as like, a forever career, obviously. i'm mainly just working there so i can save away money to move out of dad's place. i just feel bad for free loading or whatever," you ramble, a little embarrassed when you realize that you added on a lot more details than needed. but jack doesn't seem to care. he doesn't even seem to notice. he's just sitting there and listening. "you know, your dad doesn't see it that way. he loves you a lot," he reassures.
"yeah, i know. but dad has already done so much for me, you know? he's always been there for me since i can remember."
"was he friends with your birth dad?"
you shake your head. "no, he was friends with my mom. they grew up together, actually. same neighborhood, same school. they were really close. apparently, everyone used to say that they wouldn't be surprised if the two of them ended up marrying each other. it obviously never happened because he went away to new orleans to do his residency. when he came back, my mom was already married with a little girl. i remember being so young and telling people i couldn't wait to become a doctor like my uncle robby." you recall the memory with a small laugh. for your seventh birthday, he even bought you one of those play doctor kits.
"why didn't you?" jack asks softly.
"my mom got diagnosed with stage four breast cancer when i was sixteen. it was just really hard, you know? to see her so weak and sick when i so used to seeing her lively. she passed a few months after the diagnosis. after that, i just couldn't see myself being surrounded by sickness and death."
you had never told anyone that before. besides robby, no one knew about your old dreams of being a doctor. you're not sure why you tell jack all of that. but there's just something about him that seems so trustworthy. but you appreciate that he doesn't look at you with pity like everyone else does. instead he almost looks... understanding of you and your pain.
"i, uh, i lost my wife to breast cancer. about ten years ago now," he admits quietly. "it's good to talk about them, the people you've lost. just because they're gone doesn't mean the relationship is done."
"amen to that," you say, tipping your soda towards him. the small gesture makes him laugh. and the previously solemn air feels lighter. like maybe two people have just felt a little less lonely than before.
dinner unsurprisingly continues to go well after that. jack asks you all kinds of questions, and you answer them all with enthusiasm. you notice that he doesn't really talk much himself. not for a lack of trying, though. whenever you would attempt to let him chime in or change the conversation topic, he would turn it back around on you. "i feel bad. i'm doing all the talking," you say. "good thing for you, sweetheart, i like listening," he retorts.
once dinner is over, you try to help him out by washing the dishes. but he comes up from behind, grabbing your hips as he moves to the side. "jack, c'mon, i'm trying to help out," you argue, but he clicks his tongue, shaking his head while rinsing the utensils. "you're my guest, meaning you don't do the cleaning up."
"are you sure? i don't mind helping."
"positive. go ahead and hop in the pool if you want. there's a bathroom down the hall for you to change in."
you nod, knowing that no amount of convincing will change his mind. grabbing your purse off of one of the chairs in the dining room, you head down the hall and towards one of the doors. "uh uh, to your left, sweetheart. there you go," he says, leading you to the correct door. thank god your back is turned so he can't see how warm your face gets. you shouldn't feel so aroused at what he said. they're normal, everyday words! but it's just how he said it... you throw some cold water on your face to snap out of it.
jack is robby's best friend. and whether blood related or not, you still see robby as your dad. it would probably give him a heart attack to see his surrogate daughter all over his best friend. besides, jack doesn't see you that way. he's just being nice. he had mentioned he was born in south carolina. it's just that southern hospitality or whatever. he definitely has southern charm, that's for sure.
quickly, you realize that the bikini you packed is probably not the most appropriate. it's not scandalous, and even if it was who gives a fuck, but it's also not the best to wear around a man that you barely know. not that jack would do anything, at least you hope not. but it was the only one you had unpacked. you peek your head out of the bathroom to look towards the kitchen and see if jack is still there. oddly, he's not. fully stepping out, you realize that he's nowhere to be seen. he's probably outside. but when you go out there, his presence can't be found. must be upstairs, then.
slowly, you sink into the shallow end of the pool. inch by inch since it's so cold, causing goosebumps to rise in your skin. to be honest, pools were never really your thing. being an only child and only having older cousins meant never getting to experience playing mermaids with someone your age. but you enjoy the calming effect that water has on you. so most of the time, you just end up awkwardly floating around until your fingers prune.
the sound of a chair being scraped across the concrete breaks you out of your thoughts.
looking behind you, you see jack sitting down, rubbing at his right knee. "you're not coming in?" you ask and he shakes his head. "can't," he replies. just as you're about to question why, he tugs up his right pant leg, displaying the metal prosethtic. "sometimes the chlorine really messes with it."
"oh, i'm sorry," you apologize, a bit sheepish now after not knowing about his disability. "no need to say sorry, sweetheart. you didn't know," he says, shrugging it off. "people have said and reacted a lot worse when seeing it."
you let a few seconds pass before asking, "does it hurt?"
"sometimes it can, yeah. if i keep the prosthetic on for long periods of time, it'll put pressure and dig into my skin. and once in a while, i'll get phantom pain where my leg once was," he explains. he doesn't allow himself to dwell on it too long before changing the topic. "you liking the pool?"
"it's really nice. wish i had my own on days when it gets unbearably hot."
"then come over whenever you want. not like anyone else is using it," he simply says, pulling out a cigarette and lighter. you smirk softly. "those things aren't good for you, you know," you say, mocking his words from the other night. he mirrors your smirk. "you gonna stop me from smoking it, sweetheart?" jack asks, smoke spilling out the side of his mouth as he talks.
you hold up your hands in fake surrender. "let me have a hit?" and he nods, holding it out to you. "i don't wanna accidentally drop it or something." playfully he rolls his eyes. "forgot how clumsy you are," he teases. "c'mere then." you push yourself up, forearms resting on the edge of the pool. it takes all the restraint in him to not look down at the way your cleavage is pushed up in this position.
jack takes one long drag of the cigarette, holding the smoke in his mouth. he beckons with his pointer and middle finger to come closer, which you do. his nose brushes yours as he leans in to let the smoke travel from his mouth to yours. your lips touch, just barely, but it's enough for him to groan at the feeling. once the smoke is gone, you move away. but only slightly.
jack glances down at your bikini. just this once, he reasons. red, white, and blue. cute. "did you buy it for the fourth?" you shake your head. "not for this one. i bought it a couple years ago for a pool party with my boyfriend."
"you still got one?"
"got what? a boyfriend?"
"yeah, a boyfriend," he confirms. "a pretty girl like you must have one."
"no, i don't. not since i found out that he was cheating on me for three out of the five years we were dating."
jack tsks, flicking some of the ash off the cigarette. "it's his loss then. should've known that he had the best he's ever gonna get." you snort softly. "you're just saying that," you say, but he shakes his head. "no, i mean it. he wouldn't know how to handle you, anyways."
you raise an eyebrow. this is definitely getting interesting now. "oh, really? what, and you do?" you wonder if jack knows what you're doing. which, of course he does. he's not blind. and much to your luck, he taks the bait. "yeah, sweetheart, i do."
seconds, minutes, maybe even hours pass as the two of you just stare. you're not sure who, but someone leans in first, closing the distance between you. the second your lips touch his, jack doesn't hold back. he lets the cigarette fall from between his fingers, stomping it out beneath his shoe. his hands come up to hold the sides of your face, pulling you as close as possible. one of your hands reach out towards the edge of the pool to stabilize yourself.
you tilt your head to the side, deepening the kiss. jack's tongue swipes across your bottom lip, silently requesting access. and you give it to him, obviously. you moan softly, which makes him smirk against your lips. the kiss continues for a few seconds more, with quiet sounds escaping the both of you. he pulls away first. a soft whine slips from your mouth. his thumb bumps your bottom lip, wiping away the single strand of spit connecting your lips to his.
"don't be like that, baby. i'll take care of you. want me to do that?" he asks and you nod, but that's not enough for him. "use your words, c'mon."
"i want you to take care of me, jack. please," you breathe out. ever the gentleman, jack helps you out of the pool, careful not to let you slip. he's now given a better view of you in your bikini. the wet cloth sticks to your skin, water droplets dripping down your smooth thighs. but that's not what intrigues him. well, correction, everything about you intrigues him. but there's a belly button piercing that catches his eye. it has a silver bar and jewel, with the little playboy bunny logo dangling.
"when did you get this?" jack asks, brushing at the piercing. "when i was seventeen. after my mom's passing, i kinda went through this rebellious phase. getting this piercing was one of the first things i did," you explain. "why? you like it?"
he nods. "yeah, i do," he rasps, "let's take this upstairs, okay, baby?" you let out a small 'okay', letting him gently drag you into the house.
you can't believe it. you really can't believe it. no way did you ever think that coming to jack's house tonight was gonna result in you two hooking up. not that you're really complaining, though.
you smile to yourself. he likes my piercing, you think as you walk up the stairs. your ex hated your piercing. always claimed that it was a poor excuse to slut yourself out. yeah, well, he was a fucking dick so who cares now.
once in the room, jack shuts the door behind you two before pulling you into another breath stealing kiss. it's shorter than the first, but not any less passionate. he grabs at your hips, moving you backwards until the backs of your knees hit the bedframe and you fall onto the bed. his body cages yours, forearms resting on either side of your head. pulling away from your lips, he begins to trail kisses down your jaw and neck. he bites you on your pulse point before sticking out his tongue to soothe the aching spot. you moan, bucking up your hips to meet his, feeling his growing bulge.
you hope that he leaves a mark. selfishly, jack does too. one of his hands sneaks into your bikini bottoms, swiping at your entrance. a soft groan escapes him when he feels how wet you are. "fuck, baby. all this f'me?" you nod rapidly. "yes, jack, it's all for you. just, please," you beg, pushing up against his hand for anything. any kind of friction to soothe this aching feeling. "please what, huh? use your big girl words again."
you let out a soft huff. it's almost humiliating to admit how needy you are right now. but you know won't get what you want, what you need, if you don't speak up. "i want you to fuck me, jack. please, jackie, please," you admit, breathing heavily.
jack smiles against your neck. licking a long stripe from the base of your neck to behind your ear. he then presses a small kiss there. "that's it, sweetheart. that's what i wanna hear." he pulls away to look at you. "but not yet, okay? i gotta ease you into it." he slides down to the floor in a prayer position, ignoring the way his leg starts aching. instead, grabbing at your thighs to pull you closer. "hand me that pillow beside you," he softly commands, gesturing to the light gray one to your left. you do as he says, tossing it to him so he can place it beneath his prosthetic.
slowly, jack starts to tug down your bikini bottoms, inch by inch, before your hand reaches out to grab his wrist. "what are you doing?" you ask hesitantly. "i told you. let me ease you into it. but if you don't wanna do this, that's okay too, baby," he replies, already moving to stand up, but you pull him back in. "no, i want this, please. i just didn't expect you to, you know, eat me out," you admit. truth be told, your ex never did that. always said it was gross, despite the multiple times he would make you go down on him. his form of 'foreplay' was roughly fingering you for like five seconds before putting it in.
jack is able to pick up on what you don't say. this is your first time getting this kind of treatment. "i'll go slow with you, okay? if it gets too much for you, tap on my shoulder twice."
"okay, i trust you," you whisper, nodding once as a sign for him to continue. jack finishes tugging your bikini bottoms down, letting them fall onto the ground beneath him. he begins to kiss up the insides of your thighs. the light stubble on his jaw rubs against your skin, making you shiver. he starts with short kitten licks on your cunt. the sensation is nothing like you've ever felt before. he goes slow, but in the best way possible. it keeps you right on the edge.
jack keeps his left hand on your thigh, pinning it down to the bed. but his right ends up between your legs. he starts with his pointer, slowly sliding it in. his fingers are longer, thicker. reaching places that you never could when by yourself. a soft moan slips from your lips. "you like that?" he asks, voice muffled.
"yes! yes, jack. more please." and how can he deny you when you ask so nicely? he pumps his finger in and out faster, simultaneously speeding up his tongue. he slips a second finger in. this one hits you just right. another moan from you. this one louder than before. there it is, he thinks to himself. he starts to lick at your clit. the two sensations combined feel like heaven on earth. he keeps the same pace. only slowing down when he feels you getting close. he hopes that you know he's not trying to be mean. he wants this to last for you.
it all feels so good that your legs start to shake. he forces one of your legs open with his free hand. a coil in your belly starts to tighten when he keeps hitting your g-spot over and over and over. "jack, 'm so close. please, right there. just- ugh, fuck, keep going," you whine, fingers digging into his sheets. you're fisting the sheets so tightly that you might rip them. jack lets go of your thigh to grab that hand. he squeezes it once. a silent 'i got you'. he brushes against your g-spot one last time, sucking on your clit, before you come. it rushes out of you so hard that you almost see stars. without meaning to, your thighs clamp around his head as a multitude of moans escape you. not like he minds it, though. he's happy right where he is.
finally, jack pulls away, moving to hover over you again. "you doing okay, sweet girl?" he notices your eyes are shut. when you don't respond, he lightly slaps your thigh. your eyes open. "i'm sorry. it's just... i haven't come like that in a really long time. kinda took me out for a sec," you reply. "do you think you can keep going?" he questions. he's not gonna push you if you don't want to. you nod. "i can. besides, i can't just leave you hanging." your eyes flick down to the bulge straining against his jeans.
fuck, even in his pants he looks huge.
"c'mere," you mutter, pulling him in by his chin to makeout with him. your sudden burst of dominance makes jack groan into your mouth. your hands tug at the hem of his shirt with a soft whimper. a silent plea that you need this stupid fabric off of him. he obliges. breaking away from the kiss for just a second. the sight of him shirtless distracts you. with the farmers tan on his thick arms, the freckles across the expanse of his chest, and his soft belly. "like what you see, sweetheart?" he asks. "fuck, yeah, i do," you reply, before pulling him back in for a kiss.
his large fingers tangle into the wet strands of your hair. you blindly fumble with his belt, unable to get a firm grasp on it. he reaches down with his right hand, though, undoing the button and zipper easily.
pulling down his boxers and jeans in one go, jack's cock springs free, slapping against the ridge of his soft abs. your ex was average, only around five inches. but jack? he's huge, just like you expected. seven, maybe even pushing seven and a half inches. but not only that, he's girthy as shit. now you understand why he couldn't just fuck you right away. you swallow nervously, eyes darting between his face and cock. "will it even fit?" you ask soflty. he presses a quick kiss on your forehead. "i'll be gentle. i won't rush you, promise."
jack leans over to search through his nightstand for a condom. when he doesn't see the familiar gold foil, he mutters a quiet expletive. "shit, baby, i'm sorry. i don't have any condoms-" he begins to say, but you cut him off, blurting, "that's fine! i mean, i'm on the pill," you correct yourself. "so i'm okay with it if you are." he nods once. "only since you're said it's okay, yeah? but if it gets too much, you let me know," he reminds. he grips the base of his cock, lining it up with your entrance. then, slowly, he begins to push himself in.
the initial push takes your breath away. he then adds another inch, then another. by this point, he's barely halfway in and still has you letting out soft mewls. the burn of his thick cock splitting you open is new, but not unpleasant. inch by inch, he enters in you before he's fully nestled inside of you. both of you let out similar moans of pleasure. he doesn't move for a few seconds, allowing you to get used to his size. you feel so full you almost can't breathe. it's like the tip sits right under your sternum, leaving you to feel nothing but him. gradually, he begins to move back and forth, cock dragging against the walls of your cunt.
it doesn't take long for him to find your g-spot once again. you let out a quiet whimper when he does. but this time, he doesn't move fast, like with his fingers. his movements are slow and calculated. right now isn't about him. it's about you and giving you the pleasure that you deserve. he won't allow himself to come until you do. he hits that gummy spot over and over.
you drag your nails down his back, before digging them into the skin between his shoulder blades. a quiet groan escapes him when you do. he likes it, you realize. as his cock pulses inside you. "you feel that, huh? got me all hard and pent up. that's what you've done to me. haven't been able to get you out of my mind since we first met. you and those little shorts. you're just so gorgeous, baby," he praises, which makes you moan and clench around him.
"fuck, jackie, 'm close. please, let me come, please," you beg.
"yeah? you wanna come, baby?" jack teases and you nod rapidly. "i bet your ex never fucked you like this, huh?" you shake your head. he lightly slaps you on your cheek, just enough to make you look at him. "come on, sweetheart, words. i bet your ex never fucked you like this," he repeats.
"no! no, he never did. not like you, jackie. mhm, shit, you feel so good."
"yeah, that's what i like to hear. come on, sweetheart, come on my cock. you got it, i know you do." he moves one of his hands back down to start thumbing at your clit, just enough to push you right over the edge. barely three seconds later, you come around him with a scream. thanking god that he doesn't live in an apartment complex. your cunt clenches around him as you come, giving him enough stimulation to follow suit. but he pulls out at the last second, coming on your stomach with a groan.
nobody moves for minutes. both of you needing that time to catch your breath. jack start gets up first, tucking himself back into his jeans. "i'll be back, just lie down," he says, kissing you on your temple. he leaves into the bathroom, before coming back out, a wet rag in hand. he cleans off his release from your stomach, moving down to wipe at your cunt. the cold rag makes you shiver and whine, attempting to close your legs. "shh, it's okay, baby. let me clean you up first," he coos, wiping you down as gentle as he can. once done, he tosses the rag in the same corner of the room as his shirt. "can you stand up?"
you grumble, attempting to roll over. "i'm too tired."
"i know, but you gotta go pee first. then we can go to bed." jack pulls you into his arms bridal style, quietly hissing at the ache in his back and leg. he carries you all the way into the bathroom, sitting you down on the toilet. leaving you to do your business as he finds you something to sleep in. a pair of boxers and old army shirt will do. just as you're finishing up washing your hands is when he returns. "you can sleep in these for tonight." you mutter a quiet 'thanks.'
jack turns around, giving you some privacy to change. it makes you giggle softly. the man just rearranged your guts and fucked you so well less than ten minutes ago, yet he's still not watching you as you change. "i'm done," you say, and he turns back around. the dark green shirt falls just above your knees, slipping off one of shoulder. the ends of your hair slightly curl from getting wet earlier, and you have that after sex glow. you look beautiful right now. he must realize that he's staring, because he clears his throat and steps to the side. "uh, you can lie down. i'll finish cleaning myself up," he says, to which you nod.
the second your head hits the pillow you're knocked out. from swimming to fucking, you're body is completely drained. about thirty minutes later, jack comes back out. grey hair wet with water dripping down his chest. he's careful to not make any noise on his crutches as he moves towards the bed. sitting down on his side, he leans the crutches on the wall, before rubbing some moisturizer on his stump. he slides under the covers, instinctively wrapping his arms around your waist. even in your sleep you lean into him. head on his chest, right above his heart. "sweet dreams, baby," he murmurs into your hair, kissing the top of your head.
it hits jack in this exact moment that he just slept with the goddaughter of his best friend. he should probably stop it before it happens again. before feelings arise and emotions get in the way. but it's too late. now that he's had you, he doesn't think he can let go.
a/n: this was originally supposed to be wayy longer but i wanted to get it out for the 4th of july, so if u would like a part two pls lmk if u wanna be tagged in that >⩊<
Summary: Your last group of the day happen to be doctors from a local hospital. When one gets too handsy, another stands up for you, wooing you in the process.
Contains: 18+ SMUT MDNI, unprotected p in v sex, semi-public (secluded) sex, reader faces sexual harrassment (ass slapping, crude comments, etc), lmk if i missed any!
A/N: divider from @thecutestgrotto ! im not even gonna lie i loved this idea but i kind of hate the way i executed it so if this sucks im sorry
The sun is hot, beating down on Jack's scalp, even through his golf cap. Sweat brews underneath, tickling his curls in a way that tells him he's going to have a rough day.
Dread bubbles in his stomach as he reluctantly shuts the door to his truck, taking in the greens before him. They're large, many acres over a large country club, one he's unsure he could pronounce the name of, let alone fit in at.
He spots the pro shop, so large and intimidating he feels like a cartoon character, cowering under an evil giant. An evil giant in white linens and golf gloves.
So to speak, this is not his crowd. All the same, he grabs his golf clubs, and begins his journey into this hellacious day.
As he approaches, he spots the reason he's here— some hospital higher up he's been sent to impress in order to garner some more PTO for his staff.
They're lucky he loves them.
"Dr. Abbot!" The big-wig croons, a plain man aptly named Dr. Alex Smith. Jack's face stretches in a tight smile as he extends his hand for a shake. "How are you? So happy you could join us."
"I'm alright," he replies, a nonchalant air in his tone. "It's a gorgeous day."
He's not typically one for niceties and small talk, but today? It's a bit of a different story.
As Dana so lovingly puts it, he's shit at hiding his feelings, and he needs to fix his fuckin' face. He's going to need all the luck he can get.
"Absolutely beautiful!" He booms, clapping him on the back.
The man's hand is large and aggressive, and Jack assumes the two adjectives will describe today quite well.
Soon, a golf cart rolls down the gravel. a blessing that spares him from more small talk. His relief is momentary, though, because what he sees behind the wheel nearly gives him a heart attack.
You're sitting there, the prettiest thing he's seen in years. Pink manicured nails perch atop the black leather as you slow down, shifting the gear.
His eyes drift from your sweet face, down to the white tennis dress clinging to your curves. It's enough to make him dizzy, and he wills himself to look at something, anything else.
He regrets this, because of course he does, as he takes in the rest of your cart. It's bigger than your average golf cart, and, in his defense, what you've done with it makes it seem a lot bigger.
Jack takes it in, a bright pink explosion assaulting his vision. A pink disco ball swings from the rearview mirror, reflecting off your pretty face in shiny glass shards.
A baby pink tarp protects you from the sun, and the protective urge in him yearns to put a cap on your head. He's seen enough scalp damage in the ED to last him a lifetime.
Jutting out of the side is a little cabinet, filled to the brim with snacks. The counter below has little handles on the side, and he can only imagine the different types of alcohol in there.
In the haze of you, he thinks he hears a low whistle coming from his left, coincidentally where Dr. Smith posts up beside him. Anger burns through him, and he extends his neck, twisting his head from side to side, desperate to shake it off.
You pop up, breaking his bubble with a sweet, 'hi!', and a wiggle of your fingers. Your manicure flashes in the sun at your greeting, and he wills himself to think of dead puppies, his grandma, anything to rid his brain of your beauty.
Smith is first to approach, holding out a hand for you to shake. Ever so polite, you accept, greeting each member of their group with the same level of enthusiasm.
"Last, but not least!" You chirp, holding your hand out to Jack.
He freezes, forgetting he's actually there, and not an invisible passerby. Eyes darting to your hand, it feels robotic, the way he extends his own, letting you lead the shake.
God, what kind of man is he?
Looking past you, Smith has already planted himself in the front seat of the cart, and nothing about that sits right with Jack. The rest of the group is relegated to another, normal golf cart, trailing behind yours to the first hole.
His eyes can't help but burn into the back of you, keeping an eye on Smith, as well. Jack doesn't know much, but he knows damn well that if he touched you, he'd simply see red.
This passion, this fire, scares him. He just learned your name all of five minutes ago, didn't even know you existed when he opened his eyes this morning.
Yet, you've captivated him. Your kind smile, your bubbly personality, it's enough to make a man go weak in the knees.
Though, he supposes that's why you were hired. He can't be the only man who's felt this way in your presence, in fact, he's probably far from it.
The thought makes his stomach twist, and he pushes it down as the cart comes to a stop. He averts his gaze as you swing out of your own vehicle, though you make it difficult, you're so pretty.
With a snap of your sweet fingers, you gather the attention of the men in record time. It's impressive, the way the group flocks to you, and Jack's no exception.
Guilt roils through him as you meet his gaze, a smile spreading your lips in a way that makes his heart pound. You deserve better than his leering, though the way your eyes linger for a moment gives him a sliver of hope.
Squeezing his eyes shut, he snaps his head away from you. Your voice floods his ears, soft enough to lull him to sleep if he really tried hard enough.
"Okay," you start, clapping your hands together. "So, here is how my cart works- any time you're hungry, or thirsty, let me know, and I'll get you taken care of."
I'll get you taken care of. Fuck, Jack, you pervert.
"All of your orders will be put on the tab of an…" rummaging for a small receipt tucked in one of the cabinets. "Alex Smith?"
Jack's heart lurches, stomach turning at his name.
"Doctor, sweetheart," he clarifies, and Jack can't help his eye roll. "Dr. Alex Smith."
Fix your fuckin' face, Abbot, Dana's voice plays in his head.
He sees you tense at the nickname, and his fingers clench in a fist. Desperate to ease your discomfort, he butts in.
"Thank you," he huffs, and your gaze snaps to his. "For- y'know-" he clears his throat, regretting opening his mouth. "Being there for us today."
His breath hitches at the eye contact, the first time he's been brave enough to give your face a proper look. You're so stunning, his heart hurts. You give him a small smile, and somehow his chest puffs on its own.
"Of course! Are you a doctor too?" Your smile widens with your question, and Jack nearly trips just standing there.
"Uh-yeah, yeah, I am," he coughs into a closed fist, holding out his free one for you to shake. "Dr. Abbot."
The regret is instant, once your hand touches his. It's electric, sending shockwaves through his veins. Smooth fingers wrapping around his calloused ones, your firm shake a pleasant surprise.
He can feel his hand clamming up, a small voice in the back of his head chanting, wrong, wrong, this is wrong. Clearing his throat, he brings his hand back like he's been shocked. In a way, he has.
Your smile falters, and he's unsure if he's seeing properly as you return your attention back to the rest of the group.
"Our drink options range from water, to soda, to some beers and hard seltzers. We don't sell hard liquor, just to be clear," you hold up a stern finger, a coy smile on your pretty face.
Your instructions were met with nods and grumbles of approval, and Jack is entranced by how easily you've captivated this group of grown men.
"Okay!" You chirp, clapping your hands together. "Let me know if you guys need anything, have so much fun!"
His heart patters at your squeal, and he tampers it down as best he can. He'll never see you again after today, and it has to stay that way.
The doctors within his group saddle up to the first hole, Jack hanging towards the back. Jack has golfed before, but it's definitely not his preferred activity, especially after losing his leg.
Peeking out of his peripheral, you make it all the more enticing, much to his everlasting dismay. Perched on the bench of your cart, you give a peppy clap, maybe a 'woo-hoo!', if they swing really well.
It makes Jack's stomach hurt, knowing he won't get that from you. Walking up to the hole, his first hit is instantly out of bounds.
"Woah! Bad morning, Abbot?" Smith asks, dripping with condescension.
His heart rate spikes, flitting his gaze over to the man, but he's not looking at him. He's got a thumb pointed toward Jack, wagging it as if to say, 'get a load of this guy.'
This would irritate Jack on any normal day, but with Smith's gaze on you, the way it lingers, like it's a joke he's not in on, it's enough to make him disintegrate.
The rest of the morning, his swing is just as terrible. Silly distractions flit through his mind, the wind rustling through your skirt, the tap of your pretty nails on the beer bottles you keep popping for Smith.
Smith. Jack has half a mind to report him to the board after today. The way he leers at you, flirts with you the drunker he gets, it's enough to make him vomit all over the pristine greens.
You take it all with a smile, friendly enough to keep him at bay, but not too overindulgent, as if to suggest reciprocated interest. The amount of times you've probably had to deal with this is something Jack would rather not think about.
"Woah! You see that, pretty girl?" Smith croons, pointing toward the birdie he just hit. "Not the only stroke I'm good at."
Jack's head snaps up, white hot rage simmering deep in his belly. His mouth moves before his brain can catch up.
"I'm sorry, what did you just say to her?" He asks, and the entire group snaps their heads in is direction.
His ears turn pink, but he refuses to back down.
Smith rears his head back, as if he's never been called out for his predatory behavior. He probably hasn't.
"Uhm-" he chuckles, scrambling for words. "Why do you care so much, Abbot? You wanna find out?"
Jack rolls his eyes, teeing up to his own ball.
"Just want to make sure you're keepin' it professional, Smith," he says, hitting the ball without making eye contact. "This is a work function, you know."
"Yeah, well if you care that much about being a professional, maybe you'd swing better," he condescends, clapping a hand on Jack's shoulder.
He flinches at the contact, squeezing his eyes shut.
"Boys, boys!" Your sweet voice flutters. "Please keep it kosher, or I'm going to have to end our game early."
You approach Jack as you speak, and his heart thumps louder in his chest.
"Thank you, Dr. Abbot," you coo, and his cheeks burn. "But I can take care of myself, I'm a big girl."
He rolls his eyes, desperate to tamper down his desire at the name you've bestowed upon yourself.
"Sorry, 'f course you are," he shakes his head, looking down. "'s just not right. He shouldn't speak to you that way."
Then, you do the unexpected. A delicate hand perches on his forearm, forcing his gaze back to you.
"You're sweet," you whisper, so quiet he can barely even hear it. "I'm okay, promise," you squeeze his muscle, and he expects you to walk away, for that to be the end of it.
But you don't. You stay, saddling up next to him to watch the rest of the group take their turn. The lingering smell of your sweet perfume fills his nose, and he nearly passes out.
He nods, not really wanting to believe you. The instinct to protect you looms large over his head, a solar eclipse of possession that threatens to choke him.
He shifts on his leg, a dull ache starting to settle in where the bone meets prosthetic. He leans on his golf club like it's a cane— the juxtaposition of you next to him, hands on your hips, left one jutting out, clutches his heart.
He's desperate to be as subtle as possible, not wanting to put any more attention on himself, but you notice. Of course you do, your pretty head flitting towards his stance.
"Oh! Do you need to sit? I'm so sorry, where are my manners!" You chastise, and he attempts a self-deprecating wave.
"No, no, gosh, I'm okay, you've been perfectly pleasant," he replies, training his eyes on the ground beneath him.
"Well, let me continue to do so and offer you a seat," you hold an arm out, and he accepts, grateful through the fog of his embarrassment.
Escorting him to your cart, he takes a seat, a long groan escaping his lips at the relief. Maneuvering his bad knee, his pant leg rides up, exposing the carbon fiber of his prosthetic.
A small gasp escapes your lips at the sight, and his heart sinks. The last thing he needed was your pity.
"I'm fine, please, don't," he waves a hand around, avoiding eye contact as embarrassment creeps up his spine.
"Oh! I'm sorry, I wasn't-" you shake your head, and he instantly feels guilty for opening his mouth in the first place. "I just= I should've mentioned this at first, but we have chairs for accessibility! Here-"
He watches as you reach towards the top of the cart, a pull out drawer nestled above the snack cabinet. Your waist stretches as you reach, and he nearly has to palm himself to keep his cool. In it, you reach and pull out a folding lawn chair, wiggling it in the air in offering.
He can't help but smile, despite the guilt relentless in his veins. He nods, the apples of his cheeks pink and pert.
"This will be much more comfortable, Dr. Abbot," you coo, placing your hands on his shoulders as he settles in.
A long sigh leaves him as he sits, his breath hitching at the contact. He's near a blissful state, the bubble of your attention closing in around him.
That is, until, he remembers who he's with.
"Hey!" Smith yells from across the greens. "If I knew losing my leg would get me special treatment, I would've gone with ya to Afghanistan, buddy!"
He cackles, high fiving the men surrounding him. Jack's stomach burns with shame, embarrassment, rage.
"I'm sorry, Dr. Smith," you call, and his heart stops. "That's incredibly inappropriate. It's not special treatment, I'm just making sure he's as comfortable as you guys are, please refrain from making comments like that again."
His heart sings, a symphony conducted by your sweet words. He looks down, tears pricking the back of his eyes. He can't remember the last time someone spoke up for him like that, and God, did he ache.
"Ohhh, c'mon, baby," Smith croons, his unsteady gait bringing him closer to you. "I'm just bein' funny. What? You don't like funny guys?"
Your face pinches as he comes closer, standing proud and strong nonetheless. God, he admires you so much.
"I like it when guys make jokes that don't poke fun at someone's trauma," the pep in your voice is gone, and a chill runs down Jack's spine.
"Pssh, please," Smith rolls his eyes, saddling up beside you. "You can't pretend you haven't been giving me eyes all morning."
Jack watches the scene unfold, tensing up as he wraps his arm around your waist.
"Smith-" Jack warns, but it's too late.
His hand goes lower, until it's reached your backside, a pinch followed by a swat. You jump, your hands instinctively reaching back to protect you. Jack sees red.
He's up, the ache in his leg now next to nothing, nothing compared to the rage he feels on your behalf. Rearing his fist back, he socks Smith in the face before he can think otherwise.
"Oh my God!" You squeal, and he darts his gaze over to you.
Your eyes are wide, scared and glossy. His heart hurts.
"What the fuck Abbot!" Smith seethes, gritting through his teeth and writhing on the ground.
"Smith I-" Jack starts, but he bites his apology back. He's not fucking sorry, so why should he try to save face now?
"You can kiss your position fucking goodbye," he spits up at him
"Uhm- I have to=let me call my manager," you croak, shaky fingers fumbling for your cell phone.
You lift the device to your ear as you run behind the cart. Jack's heart clutches, he swears he can see you wipe away a tear before you fully disappeared.
Jack's heart pounds in his chest the longer he can't see you, adrenaline pumping through his veins as his hands start to shake.
He itches to chase you, to follow you and wipe your tears and ask if you're okay. His heart drops, though, knowing that it's not possible, that he's absolutely fucked it.
You're soon replaced by a man, approaching the group with his own golf cart. You don't take off until he's there, but when you do, you nearly kick up dust with your speed.
Guilt is acid in his stomach, bubbling and popping like witch's stew. His adrenaline is relentless, moving his feet for him as he runs to the spare golf cart.
He thanks whatever powers that be that the keys rest in the ignition. Wasting no time, he turns it, moving the gear into drive and pressing his foot on the pedal.
He finds you in the main hall, nursing a fruity drink at the bar. His heart sinks looking at you, slumped over, head down, quiet shakes rocking your shoulders.
It's only now that the adrenaline eventually subsides, deep breaths heaving his chest. Regret swoops over him, that live long guilt he's wrestled with all day rearing its ugly head.
He doesn't back down, though. He's just slower, wiping his sweaty palms on his pants as he nears your bar stool.
"Hey," he says.
It's slow, careful. His heart hurts when you look up, your glossy eyes meeting his. He watches you snap back into your professionalism, wiping your tears and offering him a watery smile.
"Hi, Dr. Abbot," you croak. "I'm so sorry I took off on you guys, I just- that's never happened to me before."
"No," he waves a gentle hand. "No apologies, if anything, it's me who should be apologizing. I feel like I made it worse. You told me you could handle yourself, and I should have listened."
He hovers by the neighboring stool, not wanting to push your boundaries unless offered.
"No, no, it's okay," you say, sitting up a bit straighter. "You can sit, I won't break."
Your smile lights him up from the inside out, and he slides onto the brown leather. His heart picks up in speed as he settles into the new proximity, his thigh brushing against yours.
"Hey! Josh!" You call to the bartender, a young man who immediately responds. "Can I get a…" you trail off, eyeing Jack up and down before deciding, "a jack and coke. Thanks!"
"My name's actually Jack. How'd you know?" He asks, and your mouth drops in sweet surprise.
"What! No way!" You swat his bicep, and the brief contact gives him enough energy to run to the moon. "Dr. Jack Abbot. I like it!"
He flushes a deep red, one that spreads from his cheeks all the way down his neck. Bringing a hand to his nape, he scruffs once, twice, three times to quell his rapid heart rate.
It's then that Josh brings his drink, and he gratefully accepts. Taking a big swig, he feels your eyes burning into him.
"Hey, Jack?" You ask, your voice tender and sweet. "Wanna go for a drive?"
Your question intrigues him, and he winds up in your passenger's seat, down the back roads of a country club you intimately know.
"This is where my dad would take me when I was little," you tell him, pulling into a cove of willow trees along the path.
"Yeah? You've been coming here for a while?" He asks as you park, the wind rustling the beautiful view in front of you two.
"My dad is now president of the board," you admit with an eye roll. "This job was just to keep me out of his hair."
"Wow," he blinks. "So that's why you didn't care about running off in the middle of your group?"
It's a risky tease, he knows that, but it's so worth it when he sees you smile. He flushes, can't help himself when he says,
"You're so pretty."
Your breath hitches at the compliment, and he'd regret it if your eyes hadn't sparkled. It's so easy for him to get lost in your eyes, to almost forget how you got to this point, but then he does, and his face falls.
"Listen, I'm sorry, I don't want to put myself on you, especially if you don't want it. Not after today," he shakes his head, eyes trained in his lap. "But I think you're incredibly beautiful, and way out of my league. I'm thankful you even looked at me today, let alone-"
He's cut off by your lips on his, a gentle, soft hand scraping his cheek. It pushes a light 'oomph!' from his lips, though he doesn't hesitate to kiss you back.
There's a string of spit connecting you when you pull away, and Jack breathes out a long, heavy sigh.
"I actually couldn't stop looking at you, Jack," you confess, and his heart swells. "Even when you missed every single hole."
He throws his head back in a sweet laugh, grasping your arm as you lean into your own giggles.
"I only missed because I couldn't stop thinking about the prettiest girl in the world only feet away," he confesses, rubbing the fabric of your dress between his fingertips.
"You're too nice to me," you mutter, resting your hands on his shoulders. "I want you, Jack. Is that okay?"
He shoots his gaze up, his mouth slightly parted.
"You do?" He asks, not quite believing his own ears.
His belly burns as you nod your head, leaning your face closer to his.
"And I don't want this to be just sex, how do you feel about that?" You whisper, your lips against his, taunting him.
He nods, his hand finding your waist.
"Yeah, I feel good about that," he chokes out, a Cheshire smile spreading your lips.
"Good," you quip, swinging your legs over his hips. "But we're gonna start with sex. That okay?"
He nods, eager like a school boy, but he doesn't have time to be embarrassed when your mouth meets his.
It's intense this time, deep and passionate, your tongue running over his bottom lip. His hands settle on your waist, a light squeeze encouraging you to put your full weight on him.
It's electrifying, the way you connect. your weight coating him with desire. He feels himself twitch in his pants, a muffled groan escaping him as you roll your hips.
"Feel good, Doctor?" You ask, eliciting a gasp from the deepest parts of his chest.
"So good, you're a dream," he mumbles, grazing his nose against yours.
You kiss him again, rolling your tongue over his at your newfound access. Rolling your hips once more, he plants his feet on the ground, thrusting up into your clothed center.
"Ah!" You whine, throwing your head back. He peppers kisses along your neck, surprised when you press down on his hips with yours, wiggling a little. "You're not doing any of the work, handsome," a coy smile spreads your lips. "Let me, your poor leg's been through enough."
He swears he could cum right then and there. Fully hard now, you continue your motions, now slipping your arms through your sleeves.
The top of your dress falls, exposing your pretty tits to the late afternoon sun. His head darts around, looking for any stragglers. There's no one, and a wave of relief floods through him.
"You're sweet," you coo, fingertips returning his gaze to you. "But nobody comes back here, trust me."
"Oh, so you take all your golf guys here, huh?" He asks. It's playful, but the possibility of your answer makes him seethe.
"Only the important ones, the ones I really need," you mutter, nipping his lobe before sitting up on your knees.
You wiggle the rest of your dress off, sliding it down your knees and flinging it off your ankles. His eyes widen as you mount him again, now in nothing but your panties.
His finger traces the waistband, and your breath hitches in his ear.
"You're so fucking beautiful, Jesus Christ," he whispers, smashing his lips against yours once more.
You fiddle with his belt buckle, moving to his zipper, pulling him out with an eagerness that strokes his ego. He's heavy, his cock flopping against his polo shirt.
Your eyes go wide, and his heart pounds against his ribcage. He can't believe you, sweet, beautiful, stunning you, is interested in him. He feels like a million bucks.
"God, how's this gonna fit in me, Jackie?" You ask, giving him a few strokes.
A shiver unzips his spine, and he throws his head back against the seat. Chest heaving, his stomach burns with desire for you. The curve of your waist under his fingers, the delicate touch on his cock, it's enough to make him insane. You make him insane.
Swinging your legs off of him, you kneel along the bench, ass up in the air. He pouts at the loss of your warmth, and you smile. You pinch his cheek, placing a chaste kiss there after.
"You're cute," you dote, and he blushes. "I'm gonna put your cock in my mouth now, 'kay?"
He nods, still in disbelief this is even happening. Your lips wrap around him, and his vision goes white. Jaw going slack, he lets a strangled groan pass through him.
"Wow, wow, oh God, sweetheart, that's so good," he whispers, hand in your hair as you take more and more of him. "Holy shit."
You wiggle your ass at the compliment, hollowing your cheeks as you reach his base. Your nose tickles the curls that pepper his skin, and he has to hold himself back from bucking up into you.
"Fuck!" He shouts, squeezing his eyes shut as he free hand finds your ass.
It slips into your panties, palming your bare ass in his big hand. You shake into him again, and he nearly blows his load then.
He feels the front of your panties move, then, and he looks to find your hand slipping in them.
"Ah, ah!" He swats your hand away, taking over. "Let me, gorgeous."
Your folds are so slick, his stomach burns. They're silky, smooth with your desire, and if all he does for the rest of his life is make you cum. he'd be happy with that.
He finds your clit, reveling in your little jump, little squeal around his dick. The vibrations rattle through him, and his stomach burns with hot desire.
Pulling off of him with a gasp, you rest your head on his thigh, stroking his cock as he continues to touch you.
"I'm gonna cum, Jackie, feels too good," you squeeze your eyes shut, pressing a sweet kiss to the thick skin.
"Yeah, go ahead, baby, that's such a good idea, hm?" He asks, picking up his pace a little. "Gonna get you nice and relaxed so you can take this cock, 'kay sweetie?"
You nod, squeezing your eyes shut, a few loose moans escaping your lips. It's like a dream, the pleasure etching itself across your face. Fire blooms in his veins, his desire for you almost palpable.
"Oh, Jackie!" You squeal, body tensing as you soak his fingers.
"Thaaat's it," he coos, rubbing you through your release. "That's my girl, good job, good job."
You gasp, clinging to his forearm as you come down.
"Oh my gosh, that was incredible, thank you Jackie," you smile up at him, slowly sitting up.
His hands stabilize you, settling your shaking body back over his. Your tits dangle in his face, and he can't help but pepper kisses along the plush skin.
"You ready, angel?" He looks up at you, and your eager nod is his final cue before he pushes your hips down.
You swallow his tip, your walls tight and slick, his eyes rolling back into his head. It's dizzying, how tight you are around him.
"Oh! Jackie it's already so big, how am I gonna take all of you?" You ask, and his heart pounds.
"God, you can't say that to me, gonna blow my load before you can even do that," he breathes out a laugh, finding your eyes.
Your eyes glaze over as you sink further down onto him, his stomach burning. He grips your hips, pushing you further down onto him.
Once you're seated, he nearly blacks out. He gives you a swift slap to your ass, encouraging you to find your rhythm.
You listen, the good girl you are, bouncing up and down, up and down. It's slow at first, intoxicating and tantalizing as you drag his length through your walls.
"Fuck," he breaths, squeezing his eyes shut.
"Good?" You ask, lips pressed to his temple.
The warm air of your words absorb in his skin, if he could eat them, he would.
"So good, fuckin' perfect," he whispers, hands gripping your ass as you speed up.
Blood roars in his ears, his eyes blazing as they follow your breasts, bouncing with each thrust.
It's overwhelming, almost, the jiggle of your plush skin against his.
"Oh Jackie, 'm gonna cum again," you whimper, planting your hands on his shoulders and speeding up.
"Fuck, fuck, fuck," he breathes. "Me too, gonna cum. Cum with me?"
You nod, pressing a sweet kiss to his lips. Embarrassingly enough, this is what does it for him. The intimacy pushes him over the edge, fire pooling low in his abdomen with his release.
He dissolves into the pleasure, helping you rock against him. Your sweet cries echo through the empty space, mixing with his grunts and groans.
"Jackie, fuck, that's so good, fuck, fuck," you whine, and he presses a quick slap to your ass as he twitches, coming down from his high.
You settle on him with a shiver, relaxing into his chest and wrapping your arms around his shoulders.
Breathing together, he rubs his hand up and down your back, adding a light scratch and invoking goosebumps.
You press kisses all along his shoulder, on each freckle, his tummy burning with something sweeter, brighter than before.
"Hey," you whisper, biting the shell of his ear. "I know this is totally backwards, but hear me out."
Before you get any further, he lifts up your head, boring his eyes into yours.
"What, sweet girl?" He asks, pressing a quick kiss to your smile.
"I say," you start, "we get cleaned up, and you come join me in the Great Hall for dinner. I memorized Smith's tab, we can put it on there," you finish with a wink.
He throws his head back with a laugh, bringing you in for another kiss.
"That sounds amazing," he coos, cradling the nape of your neck in his hand.
"And theennnn," you drawl, slipping off him and reaching for your dress. "We can go back to mine, and I can show you something that no other customer has seen," you wiggle your eyebrows, and his heart skips.
A beloved part 2 to Barbie Doll, but can be read as a standalone.
Pairing: Jack Abbott × nurse!reader
Wc: 9.3k (i was litr aiming for 3k…)
Description: You and boyfriend haven't done much besides making out. Cut to a drunk you trying to get him to fuck you last night (and him fending you off with remarkable constraint). The morning comes with heartfelt conversations and pancakes nobody ends up eating because, well…Jack was craving something else.
Or, your respectable attending ends up between your legs, for the first of many times.
Tags/warnings: Massive age gap (r in 20s, abbot is 50), size diff, Idk what the insides of a man's bedroom must look like, r has enough hair to be tied back, r is referred to as a girl, r has limited experiences with sex, r is insecure, self-esteem issues, r mentioned to have a soft curvy belly, r has breasts, long makeout sesh, r is kinda bratty, v little blood mention, finger sucking, slightly voyeuristic in the sense that jack talks abt putting a picture of her tits in his house, r has a vagina, pussy pronouns, r has a bush (tongue sticking out emoji), this man is pussy drunk, oral (f recieving), mentions of male masturbation, dom!jack, (1) thigh slap, a lil hair tugging, very mild degradation (needy, messy), a lot of praise, a lot of pet names: baby, honey, princess, sweetheart, kid, etc
Note: Im ngl i almost put a daddy kink, but idk my audience that much yet. Also, this is my first time writing smut. Also I'm a virgin who can't drive (but im learning to!!!), so be kind bcos this was purely based on imagination and my studying of smutty fics. Happy gooning, if you do. Also tell me if you do.
You swing your arm over the top half of your face, instinctively smacking your lips together to find them chapped and dry, just like your throat.
What –
Where are you?
A groan escapes your lips when you retract your arm, moving your head to take in your surroundings. The white ceiling greets you, wooden fan spinning at a medium speed, and you avert your gaze before you throw up in —
Jack's bed, you realise. You're in his bed. His room. To your right, deep blue blinds cover the floor-to-ceiling windows you know are there. To your left wall, his laptop sitting closed on his neat oakwood study desk, next to his reading glasses, and…
A clear container, about the size of your hand, filled with 2-3 hair ties, a couple of tic tac hair clips, and a small lip balm.
You didn't put that here. You may spend a lot of your time at this house in the past 6 weeks, but you were always hesitant of taking up his space in ways that matter. A toothbrush next to his in his bathroom, and two of your t-shirts in his closet, that's it, you were content with that.
Seeing that small box, though…you felt a warmth bloom in your chest, making you smile while you lay alone in his bed.
Wait.
Alone.
Where is your boyfriend?
You rise up on your elbows, sucking in a sharp breath at the piercing pain in your back. You look around; The bathroom door is shut with no noises coming from the inside. You rub the empty space next to you on the bed, patting the soft bedsheets, only to find them cold.
You frown. Until you notice the bedside table. His rolex sprawled next to a tall glass of water, mouth covered with a strip pack of medicine. Your phone is plugged into the charger, flashing a “fully charged.”
You sit up sluggishly, popping an Advil out of the pack, and depositing it on your tongue. You wash it back with a sip of water, and then hungrily empty the whole glass.
Your bare feet touch the carpeted floors, determined to find your missing boyfriend. You walk towards the bedroom door — slightly cracked open — and pull it wide open, the well-oiled hinges making no disturbance.
Small memories from last night start flooding in, once your mind gets the memo to wake up. You internally wince. Jeez. You broke your heels you spent your savings on?
But you forget all about that when you see Jack in the open kitchen, spreading a batter evenly on a pan, a bottle of your favorite maple syrup sitting not too far away. A stack of golden, fluffy, pancakes sits pretty on a plate, making your heart swell in affection, and stomach stirring in excitement.
He's still shirtless, only sporting his soft, grey sweatpants. And he's making breakfast. The two best things a man can do: cooking, and giving you a show.
Okay, maybe that's a little objectifiable coming from such a progressive person as you. He's a man, so what, that doesn't mean he wants to be leered at.
That, obviously, doesn't make you feel any shame. Before he notices you, you make the best of it. You drag your eyes down to his hard stomach, and up his chest, moving rhythmically with soft breaths. His muscular arms are methodically working the pancakes, just as you like them.
Your gaze travels to his hips where the sweats hang loosely. You can see where his V-line begins, and goes on to disappear in his pants. Could you trace it with your finger? Would he shiver and throw his head back, or clutch your wrist again to stop you?
Oh, you could take his house tour.
Just when you start getting a little breathless, a voice rings in your brain. Your voice.
“Why haven't we fucked?”
You immediately cringe. Oh, god. You are never drinking again. One of the most serious conversations you've been meaning to have, and you dumbly blurt it all out inebriated.
“Thought I was the one with the staring problem,” you flinch out of your embarrassing spiral, your boyfriend's slow drawl dragging you back to present. You clear your throat, willing some semblance of grace back in you.
You don't speak till you've reached him, standing behind his back, not daring to look him in the eye right now. You wrap your arms around his torso, palms grazing the sculpted plane of his stomach, now tensing under your touch. You bury your nose in his warm skin, inhaling deeply. Your own muscles relax when his scent fills you, something clean and musky, and a hint of his cedarwood soap. The ache in your head dulls, and his heavy presence wraps throughout your mind in a pleasant mist.
You press a soft kiss exactly where your lips rest against his back — a few inches below his neck. A muscle there jumps and you suppress a smile, even though he can't see you.
“Morning. You like leaving your girlfriend alone in your bigass bed?” you ask, pressing another kiss to the same spot.
“Don't think you really mind the way you're all over me.” His large arms keep moving, though your view is obstructed with his back.
You scoff, “well, thanks for the Advil, doctor.”
His hand reaches around his back to pat your hip twice before withdrawing it. “How's the headache? Shouldn't be too bad, I only let you nurse on rookie stuff.”
“Didn't feel very rookie, or maybe I'm just a lightweight,” you mumble, hot breath falling over his freckled skin.
Jack chuckles, and you absorb it as much as you can, saving it for later replays. “You did good, honey. You were a fun drunk, really.”
You huff, “you'd say that, of course, I tried to seduce you.”
You hear the flop sound of a pancake hitting the pan after being flipped. “Didn't think you'd remember.”
“Thought or hoped?”
“Desperately wished you would.”
The morning has made him slower and softer, his usual charm and humor taking a backseat in face of domesticity. Look at you, taming a rugged silver fox. Before you know, you hear the swift flick of a dial, gas being turned off, and he spins in your arms.
You look up at him. The tip of his nose is a little rosy, and his eyes have lost the sharpness in them — the one you've seen in ED, or when you particularly provoke him for attention. His curls are tipping over to his forehead, creating jagged shadows against his face. You don't think he's shaved today, so you send a silent ‘thank you’ to angels who govern DILFs.
He drags his hands up your arms, until they're cupping your face with great care, pads of his thumbs stroking across your cheekbones, before digging into the apple of your cheeks, effectively squishing them. Your lips pucker out without your permission, and you watch a boyish smile take over his face.
“You look adorable when you're not runnin’ your mouth.”
“Would you like me to become quiet and reserved? Because, I assure you, you will miss this mouth,” your speech comes out slightly muffled, and then returning to normal when he softens the pressure of his thumbs.
The corner of his lip quirks, and you watch the playful glint take its familiar place in his eyes. “It's a great mouth, I'll admit. Solid 8 out of 10.”
Your said mouth falls open, eyes widening in disbelief. “Excuse you, sir, don't undersell me. Where am I losing the 2 points?”
Jack pretends to think, letting out an unnecessarily long hum. “The fact that you've been up and about for —” he checks the wall clock behind you, “— 6 minutes and haven't kissed me yet.” He tuts in disappointment, shaking his head disapprovingly at you.
“That's what you get for leaving me alone in bed.”
“Tough crowd. I'm sorry then, I should've been holding you, sending a body double to make breakfast for you. I'll do better next time.”
“It's okay, we all have our learning curves, you'll learn, Dr. Abbot,” you coo, patting his back a little too roughly.
“Now, where were we…8 out of 10…2 left…” he trails off, bumping his nose against yours, and lifting your chin. He tilts his head down, sliding one hand to the back of your neck to keep you steady. He always does this, the smooth motherfucker, being tender while still being in charge.
As soon as his lips caress yours, you dodge, and he ends up kissing your ear instead.
“I have morning breath,” you pull back to look up in his eyes again, fixing him with your best bambi eyes.
“When has that ever stopped us? We once made-out for 30 minutes straight right after waking up. I felt like a teenager.”
“Yeah, because I'd gotten up, like 30 minutes ago, to brush my teeth and apply lip gloss.”
His mouth hangs open in shock, “what?” he asks, eyebrows furrowing together.
“...yeah. Do you really think I look like a pretty princess in the morning, Jack?” You huff a laugh, stating the obvious. Men.
Instead of a joke about your hair, or another wave of mock surprise, his lips downturn in a frown. The palm on your check moves up a couple inches, fingers toying the hair on your temple.
“Baby…did I ever make you feel like you had to do that?” His question comes not defensively, but low, distressed, and so, so delicate. It's like he's genuinely seeking your answer, treading with caution, allowing you to be vulnerable should you choose to.
“What? Jack. No. I've been doing this since, like, when I first slept over at someone's place.” Your fingers tighten on his back, holding him to you.
“Did they make you feel like you had to?” Your chest tightens at his concern, his protectiveness, and over what? Something you just off-handedly joked about? Something you didn't even give a conscious thought to?
Maybe that's the issue, that it's so internalised, you haven't seen anything wrong with it until now. You don’t know whether you should relish in his sweetness, or be embarrassed that a man out-feministed you.
Your eyes soften, the warmth blooming inside your chest has reached the tips of your fingers, your legs, down to your toes.
Oh, he's taken over you.
“Jack…you're so sweet, but I swear it's not that big of a deal. It's never made me upset or anything.” You unwrap your arms from his midriff, skimming your hands up his forearms, to reassuringly squeeze his biceps.
“Kind of a big deal if you feel like getting up 30 minutes early to make yourself look ‘presentable’ or whatever other bullshit your mind is telling you.”
Well, if he puts it like that.
You pause, feeling such deep adoration for this man and not the momentary kind, no. The kind that settles beneath your ribs and slips between joints, places unreachable, even to you. It's such a loss of control, to have such…like for someone that they're rooted deeply enough inside you. So much so that you've lost all jurisdiction of your own heart.
You're in freefall.
He must've seen it in your eyes, because he gently tugs at your hair strand, before tucking it behind your ear. “Hey.”
“Hi.”
“What's going on in your brain? I thought it was mostly barren land up there.”
You smack his bicep. “Mister, I don't know who you are, but I'm a nurse at the PTMC. Treat me with respect, or else.”
“Just felt a shiver run down my spine,” he deadpans.
You smile thankfully and twist your head to kiss his palm.
“I'm serious, honey. I want you to share this stuff with me,” his voice turns sombre again, in a way that always strips you bare of your defenses.
“You don't have to fix something you didn't break.”
“If you have a tiring day because of a shift, am I not allowed to hold you to sleep?”
“Jack…” you softly whine.
“Isn't this exactly the kind of thing why we've been hesitant to take a step forward?”
Your mind recalls some bits of last night — the genuine need to touch him, to be touched, to lose control. Was it liquid courage, or was it because your mind was hazy enough to not conjure your insecurities?
“Can we have a proper talk about this? Right now?”
“Yes.”
“Can I go brush my teeth in case the conversation lasts 2 minutes, and then we straight up just start climbing each other?”
“No.”
“Pretty please?”
A long suffering sigh from him.
“Okay, princess.”
7 minutes and 1 aggressive teeth brushing session (wherein you literally made your gum bleed because of haste), you exit from the bathroom into his bedroom.
You accidentally shut the door too hard behind you, and nervously clap your hands together. “Okay! Let's talk about fucking.”
Jack, who was reading a news article on his phone, blinks at you. Slowly, he takes off his reading glasses — which, sad — and sets them on his bedside table. He has removed his prosthetic, always preferred it off while in bed, and the empty fabric of his pant leg is rolled up to above his knee.
You climb on his bed, crawling over to him.
“How about we first talk about not calling it ‘fucking'? I'm a 50 year-old man, not a 21 year-old boy who wants to get in your pants.”
“Spoilsport,” you mutter before finding your place. Not on the bed. On him. Your knees dig into the soft cushion behind him, thighs bracketing his hips. A soft, pleasing, hum escapes you.
You may not have tried many — or, any — positions with him, but this one is your favorite, and you suspect it always will be. This, straddling his lap, after bad days and good, having him close enough to sink in his presence, without losing your own.
It's like during your days, the scale tipped too much in either direction, and made your anxiety go broom. With him, the scale stabilised. The universe balanced itself as long as Jack was touching you.
His right hand rushed to your waist to anchor you, slipping past your t-shirt to find bare skin, thumb stroking against the side of your belly. His left finds your own hand, interlocking your fingers and resting them against his stomach.
“Okay, if you brought it up yesterday drunkenly, then you must've given it thought before,” he urges you softly.
You shift in his lap, and pretend not to notice the way he suddenly bites his lip. You take a deep breath, a familiar anxiety curdles in your stomach at the thought of talking about something that's so sensitive to you.
“I have, yes. Um…do you remember when we talked about this before as well? I, uh, don't have much experience with, well, fuc — sex. You know, shagging. Boinking. OH, horizontal tango.” Your mouth has a way of spitting out garbage nonsense whenever you’re experiencing nerves.
“Shut up,” your favourite doctor stops your verbal diarrhea, unimpressed.
“Rude. But…do you remember?”
“Of course, I remember.” Your heart leaps at his gentle tone, so good with giving space for your vulnerabilities.
“And you…” you laugh nervously, toying with the drawstring of his pajamas, eyes downcasted.
“Eyes on me, honey.”
You watch his dark irises, the lines of his forehead, stubble you know is prickly from having your fingers trace it many times. It’s him. You clear your throat before continuing and feel his hand squeezing yours.
“You're experienced. And I know that doesn't matter but…” you trail off before finding another thread, “do you know what it feels like to view yourself in third person?”
“Happens sometimes when I'm getting shot at, yeah. What about it?”
“It happens with me even outside the job. It's like I'm looking down at myself, observing the way my face looks, or my hands move, or my gait, or a bunch of other things. When I imagine having sex with you — and I have so much — all I can imagine is how I'd sound, what face I'll make, how my body would look…”
You shake your head, blinking away the tears that threaten to spill over. Your chest aches in the aftermath of your admission, never having admitted this loudly. “And none of it looks pretty in my head.”
You purse your lips, waiting for his response. What you feel first is the tightening of his fingers around yours. The hand under your shirt starts moving, up and down, in a slow rhythm, burning your skin with every stroke.
“Thank you for sharing that with me,” he murmurs, with this almost poignant look in his eyes. He brings your linked hands up to his mouth, pressing a soft kiss on the back of yours.
“Let's see it through. I'll start by telling you, I've imagined it multiple times as well, more than I should. Totally felt like a creep.”
Your cheeks burn.
“But it was never like the way you describe. In my imagination,” his hand tugging you closer, hot breath falling over your chin, “It's never about how you scream, it's about why. Is it because of my mouth, fingers, or what?”
You gulp.
Or, what?
You're pretty sure you feel the “or, what” stirring alive beneath you, hardening against your inner thigh. It's so hard not to move.
Jack tips his head forward, pressing his lips to the side of your jaw, “As for how your face would look; as long as your shiny eyes are on me, and your mouth is falling open, I think you're good.”
His next attack is to the corner of your lips, “and what about your body? How do you think it would look?”
He doesn't get a response, because all functions to your brain have been cut off. His right hand halts, settling an inch below your breasts, the side of your shirt hanging around his wrist.
“Tell me,” he softly commands.
“Awkward and lousy, not knowing what to do. And my skin would have folds and rolls. Also, do you know boobs are never really evenly sized? One is always bigger,” you blurt out.
Jack laughs, always more amused with your neurotic babble than repulsed. Your shoulders drop a fraction. “Yes, I know, that's the beauty of them. Otherwise, what's the difference between you, and say…a barbie doll?”
And so he makes you smile, the one you flash only to him, the one that lets him know you’re okay. Just like that. He looks proud about it too.
Speaking of sizes, his gaze flickers towards your chest, lingering there before dragging their way up your mouth, and then your eyes again.
“Same for the rest of it. Don't worry about giving me more skin to kiss, I'll take care of it. Of you,” he says with sincerity and calmness, a level of assurance that feels like he took a walk with your mind. And then pressing a peck — finally — against your lips.
You don't feel your self-doubts vanishing, or your walls crashing down. But the door cracks open, and the light searing out is enough to take a step forward.
“Okay. I believe you,” you whisper, stealing another quick kiss from him. “But what if I, you know, fail you?” It comes out awkward, reflecting every bit of uncertainty in you, even when you can feel the length of him growing insistent.
“This will be about you first, what'd we talk about worrying? I'm a big boy, I can take care of myself…as I have, many, many times.”
The distance between you feels less, despite no moment. Have the walls started narrowing in? Your throat runs dry.
“What?” you stagger, brain feeling like scrambled eggs.
“What ‘what’? Because I'm 50, I don't have a libido?” he muses, voice raspy. His hand leaves yours, trailing its way up your arm. When it tangles in the hair behind your neck, the hand holding feels childish in comparison. He should’ve been doing this all along.
“I didn't say that. I just didn't think you…”
“What? Touched myself thinking of you? Palmed myself right here, on this very bed?”
Your lips part, eyeballs practically protruding out of your face like a cartoon character. You finally shift your weight. When his bulge connects with your crotch, you feel you’ve gone third base already. Even with layers in between, you feel how hard he is, probably enough to be in pain right now. But his face barely reflects that.
“Don't worry, not the same bedsheets.”
“Not exactly what I'm thinking about, doctor,” you breathe.
“Really? Feels like you should be.”
You smack his stomach, and he doesn't even flinch. Instead, his eyes crinkle and a smile makes its way like the sun rising in the sky.
A pause.
“Enough talking. C'mere.” He pulls you by the back of your neck, capturing your lips in a kiss. He moves like he’s in no hurry. While you hustle your way through every moment, Jack acts like all clocks have personally stopped so he can pass through.
He claims your bottom lip, leisurely enjoying the softness, and gives it a playful nip. Swallowing the gasp right out of your mouth, his palm tightens in your hair, tugging in a pleasant pressure to angle your head exactly like he wants. He hums in satisfaction, the rumble vibrating all the way down your chest, pooling between your thighs. You try to chase the heat, instinctively rolling your hips, getting greeted with a delicious friction that coaxes a helpless whine out of you.
His thumb strokes the underside of your breast, and you shiver, losing control over your own mouth, getting sloppy in your technique.
When Jack pulls back, your entire body disapproves, your lips immediately desperate enough to chase his again, a string of spit connecting yours to his before breaking. He chuckles, and you don't even have enough mind to even feel self-consciousness. You might as well be on another planet right now.
“You look like you haven't been kissed since middle school.” He watches your swollen, ruined, lips with pride blossoming in his abilities, clearly well enough to make you act depraved.
“That's not true. I was just kissed by an old white guy,” you breathlessly retort.
“Why are you kissing guys so different from your boyfriend?”
“Trying new things.”
“Fuck that. Haven't you heard, kid, older is better?” he replies smugly, before diving right back in, on a mission to catch your top lip this time. Unlike his hands, yours keep wandering — grazing his abdomen, tracing lines up his chest, finding home low on his waist, thumb hooking in his sweatpants.
The desperation is making you feel reckless; you sink your hips into his again, seeking that perfect, agonizing friction. A deep groan rips from Jack’s throat. His palms slam flat against your hips, squeezing them and bringing your tortuous grinding to a dead halt. “Stop,” he rasps, “do you want this to last or not?”
“What are you saying?” you ask, a poster child for innocence, with batting eyelashes and glossy eyes. To really drive it home, you roll your hips forward again, enjoying the way his eyes darken. This is safe territory, making out with him like you're still teenagers, and hell, if you're not gonna tease him.
“God, you're such a brat,” he murmurs, the rough whisper lost against your mouth when he sinks his teeth into the soft flesh of your upper lip, a fraction too deep. You moan at the sting, but the sound is cut short. Jack is already pulling back with a jolt, feeling the metallic taste of copper on his tongue.
“Fuck, baby, sorry, I —” the heat in his eyes instantly dissolve to swimming guilt. His hand rushes up to cradle your jaw with a sudden, trembling gentleness. His thumb sweeps across the hurt, wiping the small bead of red before it can run.
“Jack, it's okay, I promi —”
But he's already peppering apologies all over your face; lips meeting the tip of your nose, then the bridge; corner of your eyes; hollow of your cheeks; and a “feel better?” at your temple. Soft oh's leave your mouth, over and over and over.
You never want to hit the ground ever again. May he never run out of kisses.
“Never felt bad to begin with. I like a little mean.”
“Not when it’s our first time, honey.” The sharp edge of panic vanishes, leaving behind a quiet self-doubt, pulling his brows in a tight line. Your chest tightens when you peer into his eyes, and find them unmasked off any walls. You look straight into the deepest, darkest corners of him, the ones that come with tight security and deflecting jokes.
“Not our first time making out, Jack,” you softly reassure.
Jack presses a final, promising kiss into your hair. He exhales the last of his hesitance when he sees you — open, welcoming, entirely warm beneath him. “First time making out as foreplay,” his voice drops an octave, completely grounded now. “I need you to know we can stop anytime. Throw me off for all I care, if you get uncomfortable. Got it?”
You nod.
“Words. Big girl words.”
“Yes, Jack. I will kick you in case that happens.”
“My little footballer,” Jack coos. “Do you wanna get off my lap now?”
“Uh, no,” you dictate.
“Kinda have to, sweetheart, for what I'm planning next.”
You suck in a deep breath, your bravado actively flatlining at the thought of actually doing something more.
Jack reads the subtle tension in your shoulders instantly. “Hey,” he murmurs, hand soothing over your knee. “We can pause. No pressure.”
Your response is entirely physical. You swing your thigh over his lap, sliding off the comforting warmth, to sit beside him. His eyes follow the slow curve of your body, never breaking contact, until you’re settled on the mattress. A quiet approval settles on his features, “that's my good girl.” He tilts his head, studying your face, “still green?”
You nod.
Jack arches a brow.
“Still green. Now what?”
“Let's get you comfortable,” his hand trails over your neck, settling firmly on the back of your head, “like the ‘pretty princess’ you really are.” His other palm gently cups the dip of your waist, guiding you down until you're laying flat on your back on his navy blue sheets. He pauses, lifting your head just enough to slide a pillow beneath your head. His scent on the linen wraps around you, making you feel like you belong in his bed.
“So gorgeous, all pretty in my bed.” His dark gaze slowly drags over your body, “aren't you, honey?” He leans down, dwarfing your body with his large frame, pressing a lingering kiss just atop your nose, “eyes on me, yeah? Don't close them, no matter how good you feel.”
“You're pretty confident,” you murmur, squirming restlessly underneath him.
“You're about to know why.”
He steals your breath with another kiss, steady, deliberate, and unhurried — easing you in for what’s about to come. The tip of his warm tongue outlines your upper lip, tracing the edge until you eagerly part for him, begging for him to deepen the kiss. Instead, he pulls back, eyes snapping to the pulse in your throat.
“Hey, our tongues didn't battle for dominance,” you say excitedly, feeling pride at your hilarious reference.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
He shoots you an amused look, shaking his head, before he's burying his nose into the slope of your neck. He breathes in deeply, drinking your scent in, like a man starved. He's teasingly slow in his moments, treating foreplay like it’s the real meal. You wonder how he's still patient — you, on the other hand, have started to helplessly writhe, fucking yourself on empty air, desperate for him to finally take over.
His hand slides up your side, burning your skin on its way to ruck up your shirt. The cool bedroom air hits your exposed midriff, coaxing a sharp, involuntary arch of your spine.
“Jack, please,” you beg, voice shaking, needy for him. Your fingers tangle in his curls, fisting in a painful grip.
His stubble scratches your sensitive skin as he drags the tip of his nose down the curve of your neck, but you couldn't care less even if it left marks. When the fabric of your shirt gets in his way, his thick finger snags the neckline, tugging roughly to uncover a path.
He freezes, staring at the bare slope of your left breast, his breath hitching at the sight.
His tongue darts out to taste you, dancing over the swell before his teeth close to nibble on it. “Mm, fuuuuuck, baby. So fuckin’ sweet for me,” he rasps against your chest, drawing a whimper from you. He soothes the sting with slow circles of his thumb, followed by a final sweet kiss to the ache.
His pupils are blown wide with hunger, swallowing the color of his eyes, looking down at you like you’re his last meal on earth. His fingers toy with the hem of your top, playfully tugging the frayed edges.
“Need to see your sweet tits, baby,” he commands, voice dropping low. “Do you trust me?” he asks, low and throaty, studying your face for any shadows of hesitation.
Excitement and nervousness collide in your chest, and words get caught in the throat. He must see it, because he's tipping down, pressing his forehead flat against yours. “Gonna play with my pretty girls, give them so much love. Have thought a lot about them — fucked my fist first time I saw you in your black tank, pulling taut across your chest. They looked so perfect, sitting there and waiting.”
You frantically tug at his hair, “Jack, fuck, I'm gonna pass out,” you whisper, voice strangling with want.
“I asked if you trust me, honey.”
The excitement wins.
“Yes, please, take it off.”
“My good fuckin’ girl. Get up for me.”
Not a second later as soon as you're sitting up, his fingers hooking deep into the hem, “arms up, pretty girl.” The shirt catches at your ear, but Jack gently guides it off, carelessly tossing it behind his shoulder.
Your breaths come in shallow and ragged, as you sit fully naked from the waist up, in front of the man who's watching you like a hawk, tongue darting out to wet his lips. You watch as he tears his gaze away — with considerable effort — to assess your comfort. He cups your cheek, heavier than necessary.
“Green?”
“Green.”
“Of course. Where's that sharp tongue? Mind goes dumb when I touch you? It's okay, sweet girl, I'll do the thinking. Hm?” You sink your teeth into your lower lip, nodding fervently at him. Your blinks are slow and heavy, eyes getting glassier with sheer need. Any remaining logic melts away, turning you into putty under his control.
Oh, this is what it feels like.
“Big girl words,” he pats your cheek affectionately, a soft pat-pat.
“Yes. Just a bit nervous,” you admit.
He hums, eyes darkening in hunger as an idea crosses his mind. The pad of his thumb sinks into your bottom lip, “open up, baby.”
Without thinking, you oblige.
“So obedient,” he remarks, a low purr of proud satisfaction in his chest. “Here, take 1. You'll feel better.” His thumb slides past your lips, into your hot, slick mouth. “Suck it nice and clean, okay?”
You swirl your wet tongue around the tip of his thumb, coating it wet, and he hums in approval, “let me know if my girl needs 1 more.” He fluffs the pillow with his free hand, “now lie back, just like before.”
With you flat on your back again, his rough hands slide down your legs to encircle your ankles. Your feet rustle the sheets as he guides them backward, bending your knees and opening them wide, clearing space for his larger body. He positions his heavy weight between your thighs, hot breath falling on your breasts.
He presses his face into the soft valley of your chest, nuzzling the tip of his nose back and forth against your skin. “Better than I imagined. Fuck, doll,” he murmurs, pressing a trail of hot, wet kisses down your belly. The moment his lips touch the curve of your stomach, the muscles there instinctively tighten.
“Sweetheart," he rasps. "Let go.”
You try. You really do. But every time you try to let your tummy loose, let it sit naturally, it's like your brain panics and sends out an emergency signal, forcing you to flatten the softness there. “I…I'm trying.”
Your boyfriend puts a firm hand on your belly, feeling the rigid tension from sucking in, letting it rise and fall underneath his palm. He slowly lowers his mouth and you shiver when you feel the feather-light kiss.
“This is what you're worried about?” He squeezes the side of your waist, fingers digging in a possessive hold, placing an open-mouthed kiss right below your navel.
He huffs a low, fond sound. “Silly girl.”
“Let go,” he commands again, and this time your body listens to him, loud and clear. His authority cuts right through your defences, and you let the anxiety go with a shuddering exhale. He feels his hand filling up, your stomach softening entirely, and the weight of your skin perfectly molds into the curve of his palm.
“You don't realise how sexy this is, right? How fuckin’ hard I am —” as if to emphasise, he rolls his hips, and you cry his name, feeling his hard length on your thigh, “— more skin to grab, more of you to hold. Fuck, my beautiful girl, drivin’ me crazy. Gonna take such good care of this perfect body.”
Your spine arches off the mattress the moment he closes his hot mouth around your nipple, drawing a slow, satisfied whine from you. Your fingers blindly rush to bury his head even deeper, your cheeks hollowing, suckling his thumb on with a mind of its own.
He swirls his tongue around the pebbled tip, relieving it from the cool air of the room. Your hips buck desperately for friction, but the flat plane of his torso doesn't do much more than leave you aching for more. He withdraws his mouth, and with an almost playful focus, smears his spit across your areola with his thumb. Before you can even catch your breath, his mouth migrates to the peak of your other breast, giving it the same heated, biting attention. He finally frees his hand from your mouth, kneading the soft flesh of your breast that he’s temporarily left lonely.
He pauses to take a deep breath, burying his face between your tits, licking the space with a single-minded feverish dedication. When he pulls back, he just stares, admiring his craft, “fuck, look at the girls, baby. Such a pretty mess, covered in my spit. Makes me wanna take a picture, frame it in the living room. Do you think it'd be a nice replacement to that matisse hanging right at the center?”
His words send an unexpected thrill through your thighs, and you cry out again, not above begging him, “whate– whatever yo– you want, Jack, fuck, please…” your sentence comes out broken enough for Jack to shoot you a look of entirely mocking sympathy.
“Use your words,” he taps your lip. “Form a proper sentence, and we can decide, okay?”
“Please touch me,” your voice cracks at the magic word.
“Where, baby? I don't understand."
“Between my legs, Jack.”
“I still don't think you're using proper vocabulary, honey. What do you want me to touch?”
The frustration leaves your mouth in a whimper, “You're such an asshole.”
Jack laughs in amusement, “c'mon, let me help you, tell the doctor where it hurts.”
“My pussy, Jack. Touch my pussy.”
The crude words leaving your sweet mouth, snaps the last thread of his restraint, ripping a low, gravelly groan from deep in his chest. His hand slides down to palm his raging, thick erection through his pants, giving it a hard, painful squeeze before tearing his hands away.
God, you want to do that for him.
“Yeah? Your sweet pussy, baby?” he rasps, hungry eyes drilling into yours. “Did you get it all wet and messy for me?”
You nod frantically, answering in a breathy, desperate tone you don’t even recognise as your own, “yes, fuck, oh god. Just get down there. Please.”
“Since you asked so pretty. Your hips. Up up up.” You comply, and the moment you shift, his long fingers lock into the waistband, hurriedly dragging your shorts down your legs in a single, inpatient motion. He hurls them recklessly to the floor without even looking — so opposite to his controlled and calculated behavior out at the Pitt.
He glides down your body, large hands greedily palming every inch of bare skin he passes, until he's face-to-face from your damp panties. He taps his shoulder in a silent order, and even with your pleasure-drunk mind, you quickly recognize his demand. You slowly lift your legs, hesitating for a second before you slide your ankles down his back, knees hooking securely over his broad shoulders.
He toys with the edge of the fabric — soft, light pink, and nothing lacy or fancy about it. “Oh, where'd you get this lovely pair, baby?” Jack asks in a light, conversational tone, entirely too humorous for a man with his face a lick away from your crotch. All while you're writhing like an animal in heat. It's an intoxicating feeling, suddenly having lost all your inhibitions, obsessed with only one goal in your mind.
“I don't fucking know!” you exclaim, hot tears of pure, unadulterated desperation pool in your eyes.
“Think, sweetheart. I'm trying to talk to you here, and you're being all uncooperative.”
“I don't know. At the mall, maybe! It was a pack of three.”
“Aw, see, good girl, thank you for letting me know,” he praises. “Let's see how it feels,” he nuzzles his nose into the cheap, stretchy, fabric, sharply inhaling the sweet, rich scent of your arousal. It is an action so completely depraved, so utterly filthy, you can't fathom it's your respected attending.
Well, you never expected to be naked in his bed either. Life, you guess, occasionally handing lemons you don’t deserve.
“You smell so good, my pretty girl,” he thumbs the damp spot, a growing, wet circle of sheer need. “Is it the panties or is it you?”
“You should find out.”
“Oh, the brat returns!” Jack exclaims delightedly, giving your thigh a playful pat.
You pause for a heartbeat to take it all in, to look at the man who stores your hair ties in his room, who carries your purse without a smidge of male-ego (bare minimum, but respect), always seconding his needs to yours. It’s this instant you realize how relaxed you are, how safe, how at ease he's put you — you who not too long ago, was drowning in a sea self-doubts.
“Jack…”
Catching the sudden change in your tone, his brows snap together in concern, heavy hands gentling at your thighs in case you call a red. But you only smile at him. Your sweet, thoughtful, wonderful man.
“I just wanted to say, I care about your comfort, too. In case you need to stop, you can pull yourself back, or tap my thigh.”
For a moment, he freezes in surprise, caught completely off-guard, as if not expecting to have such considerate words offered to him too. His heart swells, growing twice as big, and you see it in the fond way he looks at you, overwhelmed and soft.
You wonder if he's in freefall too.
“Thank you and yes ma'am,” he replies sincerely, voice thick with emotion, pressing a tender, lingering kiss to your thigh.
The command in his cadence slips back just as easily as it left. “Now, I want you to take the other pillow as well, and prop it below you. You know. For easy watching.”
“Watch what?”
“You fucking yourself on my face.”
Oh, he's good.
Without a word, you oblige, adjusting the cushion behind you until your back is elevated. From up here, the sight is fucking obscene — your legs splayed open, throned on your boyfriend's sculpted shoulders, his eyes darting between your underwear and you, like he can’t decide which one looks more appetizing.
You swallow a gasp when he kisses your clit, right through the flimsy material.
“Can I see you, baby? See her?” He looks up, heavy-lidded, eyes boring into yours with unhinged intensity, like the fate of his future lies in your hands — like, if you were to say no, he would be a man destroyed. You're not sure how it's possible for a person so lust-ridden to look at you with such stilling devotion.
For the first time, you don’t lock up.
“Yes, please.”
He carefully peels your panties aside, as if unmasking a priceless gift, wanting to savor the precious moment. His eyelids flutter shut when your sweet, warm scent fills his room and he draws a deep breath to drink it in. When he opens his eyes, a look of pure awe takes over his face, eyes glinting with a feral light. He looks like a kid at Disney World, dizzy and starry-eyed, not a man about to eat you out.
“I knew it. I knew she'd be exquisite like you.”
You feel color rush to your cheeks, never having felt so exposed to someone. Sure, you've been seen naked, but not like this. Not only your body, you feel everything bare — your heart, your soul, your mind.
“I didn't really think of shavin —”
“Shut up. It's exactly how I like my food. Besides, you're a big girl, aren't you, honey?”
It seems he doesn't care for your verbal responses anymore, seeming dull and dry in comparison to the meal in front of him. He is completely spellbounded by your pussy. He swipes a firm, deliberate, thumb across its puffy lip, and you very coherently whine something along the lines of “nnngghh.”
He kisses your swollen bud again, this time with no barrier of cotton. Entranced, he mutters, “so pretty,” under his breath, deaf to your breathless begging. He presses against your glistening slit, teasing your heated, tight, opening and painting your pussy lips with your own stickiness.
“Well, to me, you look perfectly healthy, madam. What brings you here for a checkup?” he asks, voice gravelly and mockingly professional, examining your cunt.
“Jaaaaack, please. Baby…”
“Shhh, honey, I'm not talking to you,” he scolds, resuming his clinical conversation with your pussy. “Did you only need a doctor to fuck yourself stupid?”
“Stop kidding around, oh my —”
Your head falls back helplessly when the flat of his tongue connects with your slit. He expertly licks a long, broad stripe from your opening, all the way up to your swollen peak, eager to taste every inch of the wet skin. Your thighs tightly squeeze around his face, the pressure doing nothing to deter him from the divine purpose he’s been given.
“— God…”
“No god. Just Dr. Abbot.”
His hand is quick to sting your thigh in a reprimanding slap for shaking violently enough to vibrate his shoulders. “Remember, eyes on me. And voice loud, I need to know what's feeling good.”
“Everything feels good. Just don't fucking stop.”
“Bossy,” he mutters, before using his meaty fingers to pry apart your folds, slowly revealing the pink flesh, shining like a diamond for him. Lost in his hunger, his mouth latches itself to your inner lips, sucking each gently, confident he has your time, attention, body for as long as he wants, with the way you’re greedily responding to him. He hums in contentment, doing it for his enjoyment just as much for yours.
Your hips buck, burying his face deep enough to cut off his air-supply. His name falls over your lips, again and again, like a prayer unanswered. Encouraged by your more than enthusiastic response, he doubles down on his efforts at the same slick spot. He is perfect at this dance, a quick study of every hitch of your breath, every gasp, every twitch of your hips — using these mental notes to his advantage.
Your speech has become a mess — “nnghhhhhfuuckkk” or “jackkkkfuckgod” or even “imgonnadie”
His tongue rushes to your entrance again, impatient but not sloppy, to taste you, to not let a single drop go to waste when he’s here, starving for more.
“Fuck, pretty. Such a messy girl, tsk.”
Your nails drag into his scalp in a hurtful scratch which neither one of you seems to care about. With every lap against your warm, inviting hole, the tip of his nose rubs against your clit in a strong friction, sending the bundle of nerves into instant overdrive.
“Fuuckkknngh…” you speak eloquently.
He intently focuses — more than you've ever noticed in the ED — switching masterly between the flat of his tongue to lick broad, wet, stripes and his lips for slow, torturing suctions. His mouth fucks you with precision, knowing where exactly where to ease off, and where to tease an “aaaahhghh” out of you.
Your entire world tilts, brain turning to liquid, when he finally closes in around your bud. You yank the soft strands of his hair, accompanying the mindless action with a guttural moan so unlike you, teared right out of your throat.
“God, yes, like that. Just like that,” you fervently gasp.
Unlike other people you've been with, he doesn't increase or alter the pressure at your enthusiasm. He keeps the same pace, devastating and rhythmic, listening and following your advice.
“That's it. That's my best girl, singing so pretty for me. Let me hear you, baby.”
Your back arches painfully off pillows when the tip of his tongue agonizingly circles your clit, outlining the hyper-sensitive point at a pace that feels like time has slowed down, minutes dragging into hours, world around you turning blurry and sluggish.
Your breath rips out in sharp, short, gasps. Your eyes squeeze tightly shut, toes curling at his back. The floodgates are barely holding themselves close, but you don't want this to end. You want to be stuck in this ride, in this high, for as long as you can, suspended mid-air.
You know that's impossible when you force your eyes open, and watch the light catch the wet sheen on his nose, all slick from your juices.
“Jack, I'm so —”
“Happy?”
“Close,” you sob at the increasing sensitivity.
“Do you wanna come on my face?”
You can only cry out in response.
“Count to 10 in your head and then you can.”
10…9…8…7…6…5…4…3…2…1
The tension coiled tight in your belly snaps. The floodgates spill open, and your eyes roll back into your head. Words catch in the back of your throat, coming out as unintelligible noises. Everything fades to black for a moment, before your boyfriend's voice anchors you to earth again.
“So good for me, used my mouth like the needy girl you are.” He's lapping away slowly at your slit again, hell if he lets any release you've gifted him not put to good use.
You weakly push at his shoulders, willing him to a halt, overwhelmed and oversensitive. He immediately obeys, long fingers pulling back the ruined panties over you — instead delicately sliding his palms over your thighs, peppering them with tender, grounding kisses. When he stops to study you for any hints of discomfort, he looks at you like his eyes have blurred out every subject but you.
His mouth moves. Stops. Moves again.
Wait, is he saying something?
You furrow your brows, not being able to hear anything through the thick layers of fog up there — glittery and rosy, finding every crevice, every hidden part, and dulling the chaos of your brain.
You snap out of it when he tilts your chin towards him. He's sitting next to you now, body tilted closely towards yours, “Jesus, did I break you?” His free hand is kneading your quads, chasing away any pain they feel from having spent a good amount of time being spread open.
You nod, “but in a good way.”
He smiles like somebody just offered to do his charting until retirement. You lean heavily into his parm, cherishing the soft stroke of his finger, even when his skin is always dry from the excessive use of sanitizer.
“Can I kiss you? Or are you overwhelmed?”
You nod too quickly. When he leans in and brushes his lips against yours, it's like this is the first time you're ever doing this. You quiver when you taste yourself on him.
He smells like you.
He presses a chaste kiss on your temple, murmuring, “I'll be right back. Okay, honey?” before moving to the edge of the bed, securing on his prosthetic limb.
He returns with a damp towel and water. He sets the plastic bottle on his nightstand with a soft click. He climbs the bed, slowly crawling towards you, approaching like you're fragile and breakable.
“I'm gonna clean you up, baby.” He settles between your legs again, clinically wiping the dry and sticky patches — a shameless mix of his own spit and your own wetness. “We've made quite a mess on you.”
He tosses the cloth haphazardly to the floor once he’s done — joining the rest of your garments — and drags the thick duvet over your body until you’re trapped in solid comfort, tucking it under your armpits like you're a child. You can't help but track his every move, eyes following him, but can't get a word out of your mouth.
“Jack, get under the covers with me.”
“Do you want me to get a hair tie for you first?”
Your hand flies to your head, smoothing the frazzled strands down, “why, do they look bad?”
“No, you walnut. You don't like laying down with your hair open.”
“Oh. I don't care, right now. Get in or I'll cry.”
“Scarier threat than the cyber attack one,” he sincerely remarks, and shifts under the covers, gently guiding you down with him till you’re both lying on your side, facing each other. Your bare chests kiss, and you slide your thigh between his legs, tucking it securely there. Any thought of empty space between you is intolerable to your body.
Oh.
Shit.
This man dedicatedly made you cum after dismantling your insecurities, and made your head go vroom. And you're just now realizing that he's not made of stone.
Which is ironic since his cock feels like one, angrily touching your thigh, straining against his pants. You feel guilt washing over you, at your selfishness for not paying heed to his needs, lost only in your own.
He rubs the side of your ribs, soft, calming, up & down motions, “hey, where'd you go? I wasn't that good. Like an 8 out of 10, maybe,” he repeats your earlier talk, a smirk playing on his face.
“I'm okay,” you feebly say. And then more confidently, “I promise. I just need a minute to process, and then we're taking care of you.”
“Hold your horses, sunshine. You're the patient and your job is to rest. You may climb the doctor any other time.”
“The doctor deserves a thank you for his treatment.”
“Not when the patient looks like a wild animal.”
You sigh, “I just don't want you doing it alone now.”
“I'll make you watch if it makes you feel better. When was the last time you watched a good show?” He draws you in closer by the waist, warping you in his scent, pressing you even more firmly against him. Even liquid wouldn't be able to seep through the space between you right now. It coaxes an involuntary sigh of relief out of you.
However, your cheeks heat at his cocky words, and you pinch his bicep. He breaks out in a hearty laugh, watching you with enough adoration that you just might pass out. But you don't, because nothing bad can happen when he's here.
“Okay, go. What worked and what didn't? What can we do differently next time?” he asks, ready to search your eyes in case you lie. His pinky traces the curve of your spine, the comforting gesture making you drowsy in his arms.
“Everything was perfect.”
“This isn't a fanfiction, darling. Think about it. Anything.”
“How the hell do you know what that is?”
He decidedly ignores your insulting question, continuing with his line of interrogation “slower next time? Faster?”
“More next time.”
He hums, eyes lighting up, “needy girl.” His hand delivers a playful smack to your ass, squeezing affectionately before letting go. By that time, you’ve already dramatically gasped, slapping his chest right back.
“Names? The praise work for you?”
“Mhm,” your voice drops low and hesitant, “so did the insults.”
Jack's brows raise in pleasant surprise, “you like being my messy and needy girl? You like asking me to use your big girl words?”
“Maybe…”
“Another talk for us to have. God, aren't you the dream?” It surprises you the way he says it, not jokingly, but like he means it. Like you could actually be something someone he fantasises about. Your chest tightens.
“Hey.”
“Yes, sweetheart?”
“Your initials are J.A.”
“Yeah, not sure, but I kind of think it's because my name is Jack Ab —”
“Jackass,” you mumble, nodding your head thoughtfully at your new discovery. “J.A – Jackass,” you repeat, just in case he didn’t make the connection. Forget the fact that he bosses an entire floor of medical staff.
“Think I heard you the first time.”
“You're a Jackass.”
“What a thing to say to someone who just had his tongue in your —”
“My Jackass.”
Once again, you say something completely out of pocket, and frankly enough, stupid, but he still melts. Because despite the choice of your words — again — it's the affection behind them. It's the you behind them that catches him in the ribs, as if somebody knocked the air out of him, making him soft, pliable, and yours to mold.
“Okay, well, I definitely broke your brain. Go to sleep, princess,” he playfully shoves your face into the pillow. “Off to bed, kid.” And his favorite sound fills his room.
Your giggle.
Okay i hope yall had fun! I took a longass time to write, and as always, glaze all over me (kidding) (no im not) if you liked it. Not to mention, ALWAYS MENTION when one of my works either makes u blush or laugh. And also when.
in which jack abbot is the first to notice you, the wallflower resident of the ER.
contents; fem!reader, insecure reader, jack being a total sweetiepie, mentions of financials struggles, probs medical inaccuracies, i know nothing abt working in a hospital, english is my third language so maybe some grammatical errors!
a/n; another part is here !! also saw that we hit 1k follows overnight which is CRAZY!!! thank you all SO SO SO much, the 1k special fic will come out in the following days <3 much love!!!! ps. comment to be added to the taglist for any upcoming parts of this <3 if ur already in the taglist, no need to comment again :3
masterlist ♡ buy me a coffee! ♡
previous part here
You're stood in the ambulance bay, backpack slung over one shoulder, eyes wide in horror as you stare at the streets ahead. It's pelting down rain. The streets are flooding, and you forgot your umbrella.
The thin jacket you've pulled over your scrubs won't do much to shield you from the rain, and the old pair of sneakers on your feet would let the water in immediately. And they wouldn't have time to dry before your next shift.
Not to mention, the walk from the hospital to your house is long. Walking for thirty minutes in pouring rain, only means that you'll end up sick.
"Nasty weather today." Jack hummed, as he came to a stop next to you, his own backpack slung over one shoulder, mimicking yours. His lips pursed a little, as he zipped his jacket up halfway, before moving to dig an umbrella out of his bag, "You waitin' for a ride, or something?"
Your eyes focused on the raindrops slamming into a puddle down the streets, before you gave him an awkward nod. "Uh...just waiting to see if maybe the rain calms down a little."
Jack stills for a moment, his brows furrowing a little, as he turns to look at you a little better. His attentive eyes look over your form, internally scoffing at the thin jacket you were wearing. Silly girl, you'd get sick wearing that.
"You're walking?" He spoke quietly, words fading into a small whisper. He was far more attentive than you'd like. Where you try to cleverly lie through your teeth by using carefully selected words, he deconstructs the entire sentence immediately.
Knowing there's no use in lying, you offer him a meek nod, arms wrapping around your torso. "Yes, I'm walking. But my apartment isn't that far. It's fine, really. I like walking." Like clockwork, the desperate need to justify even the most mundane tasks came out.
Jack clicked his tongue, immediately shaking his head, "No, that won't do."
Your brows pressed into a tight furrow, head snapping up to look at him. "Er...excuse me, sir?" You tilted your head in confusion.
"I said...that won't do." He spoke clearly, turning his whole body to face you. "I can't have my favorite resident walking home in pouring rain, wearing this thin, tiny jacket, and getting sick."
His favorite resident. His. Favorite. You.
A small smirk quirked up the corner of his lips, as he saw the familiar redness bloom over the apples of your cheeks. It was so easy to get you flustered, he couldn't help but want to do it all the time.
"Doctor Abbot-"
"Jack."
"Hm?"
"Call me Jack."
Your cheeks turned a shade of red they had never been before. "Okay, Jack. I was just going to say it's really fine. I can walk. I don't mind."
He shook his head, already moving to shrug off his jacket, draping it over your shoulders, and pulling the hood up to protect your hair. "That's nonsense. I've got a perfectly working car and am in no hurry to get to my boring apartment. Just let me drive you. Just this once."
His jacket smelled exactly like him. A perfect mix of manly and...warm. It was big on you, which made sense. Jack was huge. You were surprised that his shirt sleeves weren't ripping from the size of his biceps. Not that you stared. You did.
"Fine." You gave in, your hands curling into the sleeves of the jacket. You could've argued back and forth, but it would've been no use. Jack might be even more stubborn than you, and somehow always manages to get his way.
With a smile, he opened his umbrella and held it over you both, beginning to guide you into the parking lot, where his car was waiting.
Like a gentleman, he opened the passenger door for you, holding the umbrella over you the entire time, until you were safely situated in the car. Only then did he close he door, shake off the umbrella and drop it in the backseat, before rounding the car and sitting in the passenger seat.
His car was clean. Smelled delicious, like fresh laundry. As soon as he started it, soft rock, maybe something from the 90's? started humming through the car. It was the exact kind of music that fits a guy like him. You wouldn't be surprised if some country-ish songs made their way in there, too.
"Thank you for this, Dr Ab- Jack." You quickly corrected yourself, giving him a timid smile. Your backpack was settled on your feet, careful not to get on the floor of his car. As if any proof of you being in his car was a crime. Like taking space was unimaginable.
He simply nodded, before handing his phone, quietly asking you to put your address into the GPS, which you did, cradling his phone with both hands. God forbid if your hand slipped and you dropped his phone. After you type out the address, you carefully hand him his phone back, and he sets it in the phone holder, before shifting into drive.
Most of the ride is quiet, comfortable. Jack knows you aren't the chattiest person, especially after a long shift. So, he made no moves to push you to talk. His eyes kept shifting over to you, though. Watching what you paid attention to. He saw the way you stared at a bakery all the way until it wasn't visible anymore.
He'd keep that in mind.
Sooner than he'd like, he was pulling up outside your apartment complex. You could feel a small cloud of shame hover over your head, knowing that he's seeing exactly what you're seeing.
With tons of student loan debt still hanging over your head, your apartment was...something. It was a worn-down building complex, paint chipping and peeling, leaky pipes, dodgy heating systems, non-existent AC, an elevator that doesn't work...all of it. But it was a roof over your head.
Jack could see you shrink in on yourself. Even through your limited interactions, where he did most of the talking, he took pride on the fact that he'd definitely gotten good at reading you. He could see dozens of emotions swirling in your sad eyes, and he ached to soothe them away.
"Can I walk you in?" He blurted, watching you start to open the car door. You hesitated, hand stilling on the door handle.
Seeing the confusion in your eyes, he tried to offer you a comforting smile, "It's dark out. You're tired. And god knows who or what is hiding out here. There's weirdos everywhere. Plus, it'd make me feel a lot better if I knew you were safe and sound."
That all-too-familiar pink blush covered your cheeks, and you couldn't help yourself, as you gave him a small nod. "Y...yeah. That'd be okay. Thank you.."
You two got out of the car, and he walked calmly beside you, as you entered the apartment building. You could see his eyes crinkle a little as you climbed the staircase. And you could even see his hand dipping down to rub at his leg, before letting go.
"Well, this is me..." You hummed, standing in front of the door to your apartment. "Thank you again for the ride, Jack. I um- I can pay you for gas, er...just um...let me know how much?"
His brows furrowed. Oh, you sweet girl. You think that small ride would cost you? What kind of people have you been around?
"Nonsense." He shook his head, giving you a warm smile, "I wouldn't charge you for a ten minute ride. I wouldn't charge you for a ride, period. This is what friends do, yeah?"
He dipped his head a little lower to meet your gaze, an encouraging smile on his lips, "Yeah?"
You nodded, hand squeezing the strap of your backpack, the other hand clenched around your keys. "Yea...yeah. Okay." The apples of your cheeks glowed red, as you turned around to unlock the door. "Thank you for the ride. And um...yeah. See you tomorrow."
He smiled, giving you a quick nod, "See you tomorrow."
The door closed behind you, and Jack stood there for a few moments longer, feeling a warmth bloom in his chest. A warmth he hadn't felt for a long time.
oh, oh, you and sukuna's tape got leaked. The media didn't even know that you two dated, nevertheless broke up. how will you survive this attack on your image, not to mention how will whoever leaked the tape survive sukuna after they hurt you?
pairing: f1driver!sukuna x popstar!reader
content: angst, implied smut, leaked sex tape trope, language, tension, trauma reactions, reader has a stage name, yearning, mentions of homophobia?
TAGLIST IS CLOSED
The set was bustling with people despite the fact that it was supposed to be a private shoot..
Sukuna grimaced at all the lights, sitting in one of those fancy chairs that directors always used.
His ass barely fit into it and he’s pretty sure that if he leaned a tad bit more the chair would crumble apart.
“Okay, people. In ten minutes, we start shooting!” Someone called out.
He doesn’t even know what he’s doing here. You invited him to the set, sure, but he couldn’t help but feel like a squatting duck.
Everybody knew about the tape here. They all shot him side glances and murmured about the fact that he was probably the one who leaked it.
Which he wasn’t. He already had a list of people who were suspects, but he hadn’t told Shiu to look into anybody.
“Hey, Sukuna.” Gojo drawled, nudging his side. Ryomen groaned, rolling his eyes as he sat up.
“You back with your girl yet?” Satoru teased, following him as the pink haired man tried to walk away from the conversation.
“Shut the fuck up, Gojo.” Sukuna snarled, pausing beside a trailer.
The white haired man giggled, actually giggled, in front of his face. “What a shame. But don’t worry, we’ll be sleeping at her place.”
Sukuna hummed at the reminder. That blue eyed buffoon wasn’t wrong. You had invited him and his crew to sleep at your mansion, no matter how awkward it would be.
He screwed his eyes shut at the thought of the condom box in his bag, praying to anybody listening that his thoughts didn’t go to that.
“Yeah, I know. You’ve reminded me like ten times since we landed.” Sukuna grumbled.
He really regretted bringing Gojo with him.
“So, you’re driving for her?” Gojo asked, a smug grin on his lips.
Sukuna glared at him, giving a tired nod before snapping at him. “Don’t you have something else to do? Literally anything else?”
“I second that.” A rough yet delicate voice called out.
Both guys turned their heads, coming face to face with a black haired woman with a crew of like three people behind her.
Sukuna raised an eyebrow, turning back to Gojo with a curious look.
The white haired man was practically red, whether it be from awkwardness or embarrassment.
“Oh, great, you’re here.” Satoru grumbled.
“I’m Utahime.” She finally introduced herself, shaking Sukuna’s hand. “I’m your girl’s publicist. And before you say anything, I was on vacation with my partner when everything went down.”
Sukuna couldn’t help the amused smirk on his face, finally seeing Satoru Gojo be embarrassed.
“What’s this with you two?” Ryomen gestured between the two of them.
Satoru cleared his throat, tugging at the collar of his jacket. “We dated.”
“Dating is an overstatement.” Utahime cut in. “This asshat was just a NASCAR driver when we met.”
“She broke up with me.” Gojo finally admitted. “I’ll…You know what? I’ll let you two talk.” He murmured, pushing the camera away from him as he sped away.
“What’s with the camera?” Utahime looked up at Sukuna’s words.
“Our popstar loves to do a ‘making of’ vlog of every music video she’s done.”
At that, you finally appeared, a bathrobe draped over your body. The pink wig you were was finally styled, blown out to highlight your face.
You approached Sukuna with an awkward smile. “Hey.” You mumbled softly.
Sukuna paused, eyes falling on you. His breath stuttered, and he could feel his hands moisten as he glanced up at your hair. “Hi.” He stuttered out.
You blinked up at him, feeling your heart constrict.
After months of being apart, here he was, like nothing had happened.
This was what you needed. Everybody around you was freaking out about the tape, but Ryomen tethered you down, like a rock in water. You knew he was probably ten times more stressed than anybody else, but he didn’t let you see that.
That’s why you loved him. He was always there for you.
You cleared your throat, pushing that thought away. “Ready to ride?”
Sukuna raised his eyebrows, nodding abruptly. “Yeah, whenever you want, princess.”
You blushed at that, walking away with Utahime and the crew.
Sukuna kept staring as you walked away, lip between his teeth.
“Fuck.” He quietly cursed under his breath, rubbing his nose in frustration.
“You okay man?” Suguru called out, standing beside him and crossing his arms.
Ryomen nodded, sighing. “I’m screwed, man. I don’t know what to do.” He admitted gruffly. “She’s just…no matter what I do, we just end up gravitating back to each other.”
Suguru nodded, adjusting his glasses. “Then stop pulling away. Embrace it. She sure has.”
“It’s not that easy. I…I broke up with her because I didn’t want to hurt her. I let things get to my head. I doubted myself and I didn’t want her to doubt me too.” Sukuna scoffed at his own words, biting the inside of his cheek.
“That’s not a decision you make for her.” Geto noted. “Look, the lives we live are tough. We got eyes on us. At all times. We can’t be the wild spirits we so wish.” Geto took a sip of his drink, holding it out to Sukuna. “You don’t think it’s hard to be dating the most popular F1 driver? Even more that nobody knows we’re not dating?” Suguru frowned.
“Satoru’s entire popularity stands on his fan girls and his talent. If they know he’s dating me, he’ll lose like half his fan base.”
Sukuna stayed quiet at that, pondering. “I guess you’re right. Me and her, we didn’t have anything to lose when we were together. You do.”
Suguru shrugged. “It’s nothing man, I’ve had to talk plenty of singers out of self sabotage, it’s my signature.”
Ryomen smirked at that, patting the man’s shoulder. “Thanks, I’ll…I’ll try with her again, I guess. Hopefully she’ll take me back. This whole…situation is fucked up, but that doesn’t mean that no good can come out of it.”
Suguru chuckled, clapping his hands. “That’s the spirit, man. Now go out there, and be careful with the car, it’s a rental.”
Sukuna did a captain salute and walked back to you.
“So, we’re filming the music video right now. We have two race car drivers here, and I’ll be the passenger princess.” You announced to the camera, sighing in relief as Utahime excused the crew.
“You were so right, girl, I get you now.” Utahime whispered, glancing at the approaching Sukuna. You chuckled at her bluntness, carefully walking with the high heels. “He has a certain charm.”
“Ladies.” Sukuna called out.
Utahime snickered like a teenager, holding the pitch black helmet that he was supposed to wear.
You looked up at him, a polite smile on your lips before your eyes fell back on a retreating Geto.
“All good? You were talking with Suguru for a while.” You asked with a frown, grabbing the helmet from Utahime.
Sukuna pursed his lips, glancing at where you just were. “Oh, that. Yeah, everything’s peachy.”
Utahime hummed. “The director’s by the car, Sukuna, he’ll instruct you on the shots and everything else.”
Ryomen nodded, looking at the long street that was reserved for the shoot. Right, this was for a music video.
“Great, thank you.” He said, grabbing the helmet and putting it on.
You stayed beside him, the black lace dress you wore accentuating everything perfectly but the heels were horrifying.
You told Utahime that stilettos weren’t your style, but they were a necessity for the whole sexy look.
You were afraid to twist an ankle, but you had to admit that the shoes were divine.
Sukuna slid the visor up the helmet so he could see better. He peered down at your feet, raising an eyebrow.
“I thought you were more of a sneakers type of girl.” He taunted slightly.
You hummed, raising an eyebrow. “I changed my mind. Not that you would know that.” You deadpanned.
Sukuna frowned, huffing as he approached you and scooped you up.
You let out a soft yelp, holding onto his shoulder. “What are you doing!”
Sukuna smiled under the helmet, carrying you to the car. “What kind of guest star would I be if I let the popstar hurt herself cause of some dumb heels?”
You pouted softly, crossing your arms. “I can walk in heels, you know?”
Sukune let out a noise of disagreement. “Last time I saw you walk in heels, you stabbed me.”
“I didn’t stab you, I stepped on you.”
“It’s a stabbing, it penetrated skin.” Sukune retorted.
You couldn’t help the laughter that escaped your lips.
Sukuna’s eyes lit up at that, your laughter feeling like a shot of adrenaline to his body.
.
.
.
It was the last take before the end of the shoot.
The two of you sat in the black Lamborghini, quietly waiting for the queue to go.
The shoot had been thrilling. It reminded you of your first date with Sukuna. The wind in your hair, his hand on your lap, the speed he was going at. It all eased your nerves. It made you forget about the leak, the paparazzi, reality.
Just you and Sukuna, together again.
But you knew that you couldn’t be so close to him again, not after the break up.
His finger tapped against the car wheel, head tipped back. “…I’d…I'd like to apologize for everything, princess.” He finally spoke up.
You froze, glancing at him. “I don’t want to talk about this here.” You said dryly.
Ryomen nodded. “I figured. That’s…That’s why I’d like to ask you out? Maybe we can go eat at a restaurant in Manhattan or something. My treat.”
You pouted, mulling over the proposal. “…Fine, we can talk then.”
You did your best to hide your reaction, but your heart was doing backflips in your chest.
ѕυммαяу： ♡ after getting asked on a date, you're feeling insecure over your inexperience regarding kissing someone. telling your bestfriend geto about your concerns results in an offer from him you didn't expect
cw ⤷ 𖥻 . ˖ ꒰ mdni ꒱ . smut . pwp . swearing . making out . dry humping . dirty talk . hickeys . biting . (light) nipple play . praise kink . piv . unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it!) . c pie . orgasm denial . bsf!geto . virgin!reader . tease!geto . afab!reader . no pronouns ♯ 10k
The state of your mind is currently a mess, feeling overwhelmed and staring off into space as you think about how a guy asked you on a date earlier today. You'd turned him down but only because you have a particular hang up you can't get over, hence the feeling overwhelmed. You’ve never gone out on a date before and you feel like you’re missing out, so you definitely would’ve said yes if you weren’t so unsure of yourself.
Geto's hand waves in front of your face, breaking you from your trance, "Are you even listening to me?"
Has he been talking? Damn, you really spaced out, "Would you believe me if I said yes?"
"Not even a little bit." His gaze unamused.
You look away from him and to the poster behind his head on the wall, feeling sheepish. "Then no... sorry."
Frown deepening on his features, legs uncrossing and scooting closer to the edge of his bed. "What are you thinking about so hard?"
"Not telling," you answer, spinning around in his office chair so that you’re facing away from him.
His desk is neat, everything organised and probably put exactly where it should be. Beside his monitor sits a little black cat figurine, one you had bought him not too long ago because it reminded you of him. Seeing it displayed makes you smile; he must like it.
Geto’s voice cuts through your small reverie, "So, you're not only going to ignore me, you're also not going to tell me what's wrong?"
Not even glancing back, you hum at him, "That would be a correct assessment... yes."
"Have I told you that you're annoying yet today?" He exasperates.
Shrugging, "I don't think so?"
"Oh? In that case, you're annoying."
"You're so mean to me; this is why I don't want to tell you what's wrong." You’re being dramatic but so is he.
A sigh leaves him, "If I promise to be nice, will you tell me what's wrong?"
Your head flops back onto the headrest, jabbing at him jokingly, "I don't know if you're capable of kindness, Suguru."
"Now who's being mean? I'm nice all the time."
"Maybe to strangers..." You mumble out.
There’s no reply from him and for a second you think he’s going to leave the issue alone… that is until you’re suddenly spinning. His footsteps are always so light, you didn’t even hear him come up behind you. You’re facing him now, his hands holding himself up by the arm rests of his office chair. He’d spun you around just to lean down into your space and pointedly look at you.
Geto squints. “I’m nice to you all the time.”
“I don’t think this constitutes as ‘nice’.”
He groans your name, “Come on, you always talk to me when something’s wrong.”
“Maybe this is awkward for me to talk to you about,” you pout back at him.
His tongue clicks in realisation, “So, it’s about your love life?”
The immediate and correct guess stumps you, causing you to sputter out, “What!? You have no way of—”
“—You never talk to me about your dates, and you also got defensive so I’m guessing I’m right.” His gaze is even, unconcerned.
You huff at him and echo his earlier question, “Have I told you that you’re annoying yet today?”
“Yes, earlier when you almost fell over and I smiled,” he reminds.
Your response is a grimace and a matter-of-fact tone when saying, “I don’t tell you about my dates because I don’t go on them.”
“Ever?” Geto’s eyes widen slightly, clearly surprised by your confession.
Cementing back, “Ever.”
“People have definitely asked you out though.”
“Yeah, but not that often because they always think we’re together.” Glaring at him.
His hand reaches for your face and squishes your cheeks between his fingers. “Don’t look at me like that, that’s not my fault.”
Your voice comes out all mumbled and difficult to understand, “It so is.” He rolls his eyes at you, and you slap his hand away. “Stop squishing my face!”
Letting go, he sighs and takes a step back, sitting on the edge of the bed again. “Something about your love life is bothering you.”
Crossing your arms over your chest and looking to the side, you complain, “You’re so nosy.”
“Am not.”
What a liar, he’s always in your business. Though, now that you’re thinking about it, you don’t think he’s usually in other people’s business this bad. He does like hearing about the gossip you collect though, always ready to hear it while acting as though he doesn’t care.
There’s no reply you can think to give, so you give him the silent treatment. Still looking away from him and silently pouting, you can feel his eyes watching you, waiting for you to break. It’s a frequent game you start that he finishes, silently ignoring him while he watches and waits until you can’t take it anymore and tell him what’s on your mind.
A few more moments pass by and you already feel ready to give in, you hate how much more effective his silence is. Glancing at him from the corner of your eye, your gazes meet and you feel yourself folding all at once.
Large and exasperated groan leaving you as your shoulders slump back into the chair, “Fine!”
He perks up at your concession, a self-satisfied look on his face that irks you.
You’re looking at him properly to say, “I was asked on a date earlier today.”
The expression on his face changes to one of annoyance, like he’s not happy to hear that. “Who?”
“Some guy, you don’t know him,” you wave off, not really understanding why it matters to him.
Geto prods for more information, “…And what did you say?”
“…I said no.”
“Oh?” His reaction is indecipherable to you, “Why?”
This question is exactly why you didn’t want to talk about this. “I don’t know…” You’re lying, trying to avoid talking about this in more depth.
“Did you like him?”
“I didn’t not like him,” you shrug, “I would’ve liked to go out with him at least once but…”
“But…” He pushes.
“I don’t know, Suguru,” you scowl at your own reasoning, “I’ve never been on a proper date before, I don’t know what to expect or what’s expected of me. What if he wanted to kiss me or something?”
He’s quiet for a long moment, making you antsy while you wait for him to talk, “…Would you want to kiss him back?”
“Maybe?”
“I don’t think I’m understanding the issue.” His brows are pinched with his confusion.
You’re exhausted with him, like you aren’t the one being purposefully cryptic. “Am I gonna have to spell it out for you?”
“Yes.”
“Ugh!” You kick your legs in a mini tantrum, “I’ve never properly kissed someone… it’s always been like… a peck, I don’t know? But what if he expected more of me?”
You can see the way he’s actively fighting against the smile threatening to break out on his face. “Is that—” he bites down an amused sound, “Is that why you always say no to dates?”
“I don’t like you very much right now.” You were already feeling silly and embarrassed and his clear joy from this is not helping that.
He pouts at you mockingly, “Don’t be like that, I can help.”
“How could you possibly help me with this?”
A smile comfortable on his face when he states, “I could teach you.”
“You want to teach me how to kiss?” You scrutinise him, “Have you gone insane?”
“You’re the one all hung up on this and I’m offering to help you,” he puts his hands up, “But if you’d rather be a dateless loser for the rest of your life—”
“—Hey!” You point at him, “Uncalled for… and rude!”
A very signature and very annoying, polite smile sits on his pretty features. Unbothered by your outburst at his very clear bait. He simply raises his arm and grabs the hand you had pointed at him, tugging you from the chair and into him on the bed. You’re taken aback by his bold move, so close to him so quickly. Falling into his lap less than gracefully, his other arm wrapping around your waist to hold you steady as you sit sideways between his legs.
You stutter out at him, “Wha– what are you doing?”
Letting go of your hand; he reaches for your face. His thumb stroking softly against your cheekbone. “Do you want my help or not?”
“What you’re basically asking me is if I want to kiss you,” you correct… because that is what he’s asking right now.
Geto’s head drops back slightly as he fights the urge to roll his eyes at you dramatically, hand resting on your outer thigh now. “Don’t be so pedantic. You have a problem and I’m offering to help fix it.”
A sound of disapproval slips from you at his wording, “I know the theory behind kissing someone, Suguru. What you’re offering is making out with me.”
“So?”
Your expression is dumbfounded, you know he’s not this dense. “You want to stick your tongue in my mouth and then go back to the usual?”
He leans in again, dodging your question with his own, “Do you want me to stick my tongue in your mouth?”
“Geto—”
“—Ouch—”
“—Shut up.” You cut him off, “If! We did this and I do mean if. Would you be able to look at me the same?”
“The same as I always have? Sure.” There’s no hesitation from him.
He seems so sure, like he’s not worried about what this might mean for your friendship at all. The easy-going look on his face is both pissing you off and relaxing you, emotions he’s always been able to pull from you.
His hand is large on your thigh and the way it makes you feel is not how you should feel for him. Mumbling out a small, “You’re annoying.”
An amused breath leaves him, “You’ve already told me that today.”
“I don’t know what I’m doing.” You look up at him through your lashes.
“That’s kind of the point of this.”
“Right…” You can’t help but find yourself feeling nervous, embarrassed that you won’t be good enough. For some reason… you really want him to think you’re a good kisser.
He must take your silence as rejection because his tone is gentle when he says, “We don’t have to if you don’t want to.”
“I know, I just…” You frown while looking at him, trying to figure out exactly what steps to take next. “I don’t know what to do now…” Geto’s face relaxes and a smile replaces his concern causing you to chastise him, “Don’t smile, it’s not funny!”
“No,” he agrees, “But it is a little cute.”
“Whatever, can we just kiss now?”
“Desperate?” He asks teasingly.
You deny it, “I just want you to stop talking.”
“Sure.” It’s all dragged out and has a teasing lilt to it. Damn him and his need to have the last word. You don’t reply to that and instead try to shuffle off him, thinking sitting like this would be awkward. His hold becomes firmer on you, “What are you doing?”
You’re confused. “Isn’t this position weird?”
“Makes it easier,” is all he says in reply.
Being sat between his spread legs, your own draping over one of them while he holds you doesn’t seem ideal. To you, this couldn’t be a more awkward position to be in for this. Instead of telling him that though, you settle back. “Alright…”
When you look back up at him properly, he’s already looking at you. There’s a funny feeling that runs through you at the look in his eyes. The hand on your thigh moves to your face again, cradling you as he leans in. Murmuring a soft, “I’m gonna kiss you now, okay?”
Just as he’s about to move all the way in, your hand covers his mouth. “Wait.” You stop him, your nerves getting the better of you. “What if… what if you don’t like kissing me?” He looks a little frustrated, so you pull your hand away, giving him a chance to speak.
“Do you want me to like kissing you?”
You feel flustered by his question, “Why do you always answer my questions with a question?”
“Because your questions are interesting…” he pauses, “…And also, I like teasing you.”
“If you answer my question, I’ll answer yours.”
“Fine,” he indulges you, “I’m not gonna dislike kissing you so your question is dumb.”
“But you can’t know—”
He tuts you, interrupting what you were saying, “—You gotta answer my question now.”
You groan at him, “Well… yeah.”
“‘Yeah’ what?”
He’s such a smug bastard. “Yeah! Yeah, I want you to like kissing me, Suguru.”
You’re huffy but he seems so pleased by your response. A serene and happy look on his face despite the tone you used. You find yourself waiting for him to say something more, something to tease you further but he doesn’t. He simply leans in again, taking you by surprise when his lips are softly pressing to yours. It’s short and sweet, more akin to a peck than anything else. Continuing to plant gentle kisses to your lips until you return them and then he lets them linger.
The feelings that run through you have you all tingly and hot, kissing your best friend for practice probably shouldn’t feel this good… right? You still don’t know what you’re doing though, more just letting him kiss you than anything. When you part again, you murmur, “Suguru, I still don’t know what I’m meant to be doing.”
“Just follow my lead.” His eyes stay on your lips, now shiny from the shared kisses. “That’s all you gotta do.”
“But—”
His eyes roll when you go to argue more. “—Stop thinking so hard about it and let me kiss you.”
You can’t help but squirm slightly at that. “Okay.”
Satisfaction rolls off him in waves but thankfully for you he doesn’t comment any further, choosing to kiss you again. Instinctually, your hand reaches for his chest and grips onto his shirt, you need something to ground you.
Geto is taking this slow, he’s trying his best to be patient to savour this moment with you. He doesn’t want to push you too far too soon and have you stop whatever this is. If he were more sure of himself and where he stands with you, he’d have just asked you out like a sane person but he’s not sure and he didn’t want to pass on this opportunity.
He can feel this becoming something he covets, your soft lips on his, uncertain in your movements but so ready to be kissed by him. His heart pulls with a kind of possessiveness that’s not completely unfamiliar to him regarding you. The desire to not want anyone else to ever have this side of you overwhelming him.
It’s addictive, his kisses, his hold on you… him. You can feel yourself falling into him more, the longer you do this dance. You want more, you want him to kiss you more, but you have no idea how to ask for that. Following his lead is good, it’s helpful but it’s starting to feel like he’s depriving you.
Pulling back, you force yourself to voice, “I want more…”
“Do you know what you’re asking for?” He sounds strained.
“You said you would teach me,” you remind. “So, teach me.”
His thumb presses into your jaw, “Open your mouth more then.”
Doing as he asks; he angles you just slightly before pressing his mouth to yours. The kiss fuller, his tongue licking into your mouth. It has a shiver running down your spine, the sensation new and mind numbing. It’s messier than before and so much more dizzying, you can’t even really keep up with his movements. Just letting him kiss you to his hearts content, feeling yourself getting drunk on his lips in the process.
You can’t even be sure if you’re doing this right, but it doesn’t really feel like it matters, not when you’re this lost in it. Lips gliding against his, a small involuntary sound pulling from your chest at how he grips you tighter. Feeling like he gets impossibly closer, his kisses growing desperate the moment you whine into him.
Geto’s restraint is wearing thin, his desire for you growing tenfold at how you moan for him. He wants to touch you so much more, to put his hands on every part of you. The fear of ruining this moment keeps his hands planted firmly to your hip and cheek though and it’s killing him to not touch you more, more, more.
When you tentatively lick against his tongue he almost all but folds in that single moment, he feels so pathetically weak for you. So unsure of yourself and still trying to kiss him just as deeply as he is you. A guttural groan leaves him, a sound he’d be almost ashamed of if he didn’t notice the way you squirm at it.
You pull back from him, and he can’t help but chase your lips, he doesn’t want to stop. An amused breath leaves you. “Hold on.”
He doesn’t understand what you need a moment for until you’re pulling his hands from you and moving to straddle him. Your thighs resting beside him, he feels dizzy with need. The need to touch you, to undress you. To have you naked and straddling his lap just like this could make his whole year. His hands are on your hips, tugging you up his lap just slightly further, encouraging.
Going to sit on him, you notice his erection and gasp. Heat rising to your face, suddenly so conscious of how heated this exchange has gotten. “Maybe we should stop…”
It’s almost like it hurts him to hear those words. “Do you want to stop?”
You wish you weren’t so certain, so quick to immediately know that. “… No, I don’t.”
“That’s good…” he smiles, “Cause I’m not done teaching yet.”
And then you’re kissing again, wet and sloppy. He’s holding back less, depraved in how he sucks your tongue into his mouth, bolder now. Revelling in every twitch you make against him, every mumbled whine you let out.
Mindlessly, your hips lightly roll downwards, and his resulting grip holds you so still against him. A debauched moan leaving him at your unexpected movements, parting his mouth from yours with it. Geto’s head tucks into your chest, controlling his breathing, like he might snap at any moment.
You feel a little frantic, like you might’ve hurt him. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—”
“—Don’t– fuck– don’t apologise.” He can feel how warm you are through your pants and it’s making him feel feral.
Your fingers run through his hair, to comfort him. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
“Hurt me?” He huffs an unamused sound. “The only thing hurting me is how badly I wanna stuff you full.”
“Sugu—”
“—I know you can feel just how hard I am.” He pulls his head back to look at you, eyes blown wide and dark. “I’m practically aching for you.”
Your heart stutters in your chest. “Suguru… are you some kind of closeted perv?”
The question makes him laugh. “Wanna find out?”
“You were only supposed to teach me how to kiss…”
“Mhm, and you’re doing great.” His nose traces along your neck, inhaling you. “I still have so much more knowledge to give though.”
“Don’t be so– hah!” He licks at your skin before latching his mouth to the side of your throat, the pressure making you fidget in his lap. You feel so sensitive, so much more than what you thought you would.
When Geto pulls back from the mark he’s made, he blows softly on it, enjoying the way you shudder on top of him. “‘Don’t be so’ what?”
That’s right, you were going to say something. He looks really nice right now though… eyes lidded and cheeks just slightly pink, lips slick. What were you going to say to him? His grin only grows, taking satisfaction in your glazed eyes and struggle to think. Averting your gaze, you try to remember what you wanted to say. The break in eye contact is short lived since he grabs your chin and pulls you back.
“Come on, pretty, what were you gonna say?”
The effect he’s having on you is becoming too much. “I was gonna tell you to not be so depraved!”
“Hmm…” His head quirks at you. “You seem to like it though?”
How presumptuous of him, “You can’t know that!”
“You know… the human body is really interesting, for example…” He looks down to where you’re sitting over his prominent erection. “You’re so incredibly hot against me that I feel like I’m going insane.” Smiling back up at you evilly. “Just how wet are you?”
The possibility of fainting is very real all of a sudden, his question has you hot everywhere. “I jus– I just told you to not be so depraved.”
“Yeah, and I ignored you,” he deadpans, ignoring your indignant sounds. “Do you want me to stop?”
Again, you hate how badly you don’t want to stop. Right now, you think you’d let him do just about whatever he wanted to you. “Promise not to tease me later?”
“You know I can’t promise that.”
You pout back at him, “Then I’m not gonna say what I was thinking.”
His curiosity is sufficiently piqued. “Fine, I promise to try not to tease you later.”
“That’s not good enough.”
He tries again. “I promise.” You both stay looking at one another for a moment before he adds, “That’s as good as you’re getting.” And you know it to be true.
How to say this without embarrassing yourself. “You can… you can touch me… however you want, Suguru…”
He feels like he’s gone into shock. “What?”
“Did you not hear me?”
“No… I heard you.” He can’t help the way his cock jumps in excitement. “I’m just double checking I heard you right.” He leans in to taunt, “You’re gonna let me touch you however I want?”
“You said you had more knowledge to share.” It’s a dangerous game that you’re both playing.
He breathes out, “And if I wanna touch you in a depraved manner?”
So certain in yourself when you reply, “I want to be touched in a depraved manner… by you.”
Ah, so you’re trying to kill him, is the conclusion that Geto has come to. A breathless laugh leaves him, “For practice?”
“Sure,” you give him the answer you think he wants, in reality you just desperately want to be touched by him. You don’t think you’ve ever been this turned on in your life and it’s all his fault.
An entertained sound leaves him, “Hah– Don’t know if I believe your answer there…” His hands are on your hips, slowly dragging you over his dick. Biting his lip at the feeling, cock jumping when your breath stutters.
“Wait– wait,” your hands hold onto his and he stops moving you. Realising now that he might’ve gotten carried away, that he should’ve double checked again.
When you get off his lap and onto shaky legs Geto feels his heart drop, only for it to suddenly pick up speed when you’re shuffling your pants down and off. Crawling back onto him in your panties, he—shamefully—has to put so much focus into keeping calm, so worked up he could cum from this alone.
“Yeah…” you murmur back at him, placing yourself right over his erection again. Gasping at how hard he is, at how much more you can feel even through the layers left on, “I lied just now.”
He wants to ask more; he wants to know what you lied about but if he thought you were hot before then he’s melting now. You’re sitting on his dick in the cutest little panties, already so drenched from making out with him that the affection he feels for you fills up his chest. He’s way too distracted right now to ask what he wants.
“Be honest.” It feels like a chore to rip his gaze away from your pussy. “Are you trying to kill me?”
Geto’s eyes are all glassy and blown, cheeks flushed as he implores you, like he’s worried you’re legitimately trying to kill him. He’s making you feel shy. “It’s your fault I’m acting like this.”
That has him feeling a little prideful. “Is that so?”
“Mhm,” you confirm.
“In that case.” He’s slowly dragging your heated core over his erection again. “Should I fix it?”
You nod your head at him. “…Yeah”
The shivers that run through you make you gasp, the drag over Geto’s dick feeling so much better without your pants on. And yet you can’t help but feel so greedy, a kind of need in your bones that you’ve not experienced before.
He takes his hands away from your hips and you stop moving, whining pathetically at him, “Why—”
“—Keep doing it yourself,” he encourages.
“But—”
“Just do it how it feels good, use me for a bit,” he grins, “I wanna watch you pleasure yourself on me.”
“You really are a perv,” you mutter back at him.
His retort is quick, “Say that to me when your pussy’s not drooling all over my pants.”
Your cunt jumps at his words. “Are you gonna be this crude the whole time?”
“I can be worse if you want?”
“I can’t stand you.”
“We both know that’s not true.” He looks pointedly down to where your cunt is pulsing hot against him. “Now do us both a favour and move,” he hisses out through clenched teeth, apparently nearing his limit.
“You’re so bossy.” You frown. “I’ve never…” You’re at a loss for how to phrase it.
“Dry humped someone before?” He finishes for you. “Though, with how wet you are—”
“Shh!” You cover his mouth with your palm. “Stop… talking about how wet I am.”
He pulls your hand away. “You know, I’m not surprised you’ve never—”
“—You don’t have to say it again,” you cut him off.
He rolls his eyes. “You hadn’t even made out with someone; I’m just saying that I didn’t ask you to use me without knowing.” He holds the side of your face gently, “Stop worrying about it so much, I know already… that you’re a huge virgin.”
His gentle touch greatly contrasts his teasing words. He’s so evil to you. “This is why I say you’re not nice.”
“Do you want me to be nice? To tell you how pretty you are and how good of a job you’re doing?” The reaction you have is almost visceral, skin heating and looking away from him. Even more embarrassed when he chuckles at you. “Got a bit of a praise kink, hmm?”
“You’re making this difficult for me.”
“You should’ve just done what I asked then.” He shrugs easily.
If you thought holding out would punish him more than you, then maybe you’d just get off him and go home to get yourself off, but you want him to make you feel good. So instead, you’ll just give in and hope he shows you mercy. Though, by how this is going, he doesn’t seem to be the type.
Experimentally, you roll your hips down into Geto and he huffs out a breath like he wasn’t expecting it. Your hands move to his shoulders for purchase, using the leverage you have there to grind down into him harder.
He holds onto your waist. Not moving you, just resting his hands there. “Oh fuck– no– hah– no warning?”
You shake your head at him, brows pinched as you focus on seeking your own pleasure. “You– hnn– wanted me to– hah– to do as you asked.”
His head falls back slightly at the pleasure, a lazy smile on his face. “That’s true.”
The longer you do this, the slicker his pants get, you’re so unbelievably wet that it’s coating the material obscenely. Geto is in awe of it, eyes fixed on where you’re rutting down into him. Busy marvelling at the damp spot on his pants, at how drenched your panties are. So soaked that they’re practically a second skin, leaving nothing to the imagination with how it’s sticking to you.
He holds you still suddenly and the whine you let out is endearing. “Wait for a second,” he huffs.
Moving his hands to his belt to undo it, shuffling his pants down his legs. You lean up on your knees for a moment for him to drop them to his feet but before you can sit back down, his hand is holding you there. He runs the fingers of his other hand through your covered folds, a groan coming from the back of Geto’s throat.
“Seriously, you’re so fucking wet,” he reminds you.
“Sorry…”
He almost chokes, “‘Sorry?’” His fingers draw up to your clit, pressing into it. “Don’t be fucking sorry… I’m nearly salivating because of how drenched you are.”
That catches you off guard. “Sugu—”
He doesn’t let you speak. “—This wet because of me? It’s my fault you said?”
You bite your lip, his fingers circling your clit deliciously. “Mhm.”
His eyes brighten. “Perfect. Aren’t you just perfect for me?”
Your legs start shaking and he lets you drop back to his lap, one less layer between the two of you now. He’s so warm and hard and if you weren’t straddling him, you’d be clenching your thighs together for relief.
“You are doing such a good job for me,” he whispers low against your ear, “Having the most perfect reactions.”
You whine at his praise. “You’re doing this on purpose.”
“Yeah.” He licks against your ear. “But that doesn’t make it any less true.”
His size is honestly daunting, large and thick as you sit on it, throbbing underneath you. “Suguru?”
He noses at your cheekbone. “Mmm?”
“I’m worried…”
“About?”
“What if you don’t fit…” you look down to his lap, “I just mean, you feel…big.”
“I don’t have to put it in you,” he comforts but he can’t help the way he twitches at your genuine concern over taking him.
“But you want to?”
“What sort of a question is that?” He holds you down while he grinds up into you. “Does it feel like I want to?”
“I was jus– ah!– I was just checking,” you sulk back.
Your mind melts, getting away from you. He’s rutting up into you in a way that has you shaking and your breaths stuttering. On edge for so long while sat in his lap, you want to meet his grind. You want to move your hips into him, but his grip is firm and steady.
It’s honestly a little pitiful how quickly he’s building you up, your insides clenching with the pleasure. The drag back and forth on his clothed cock driving you slowly to insanity. His boxers almost as ruined as your panties, your slick coating his covered dick. The glide much smoother than what you’d expect. It’s like you can feel him throbbing for you and it makes you want to fully take him even more.
Your own thoughts riling you up, the idea of him sitting so heavily inside you makes you huff out a whine. A sound that Geto relishes in, in fact, he’s relishing in all of this. You’re so malleable to his will, he thinks in this state, you’d let him do whatever he pleases. The thought alone nearly has his eyes rolling.
He needs you to cum like this, he needs to see it. How you shake and writhe on top of him, the expression you make. He wants to make you cum in so many different ways, just to see how your expressions might differ each time.
It’s relentless, how he humps up into you, how he pulls you down into him. Your clit catching on the tip of his dick making you jump each time, shocks of pleasure running through you. You never thought something like this would feel so damn good.
Fingers grappling at the material of his shirt, pleasure wracking your body as he draws you closer and closer. “Stop– ah!– if you keep going I’ll– hnn—”
“—So soon?” he hums, “I don’t know if– hah– I believe you… you’re gonna have to prove it,” leering back at you.
His eyes on you feel so consuming, calm and watching but so hungry that it’s driving you to the edge. It feels like you’re melting, so warm and unbelievably close. Body twitching on top of him with your impending orgasm. You don’t even get to try and warn him again, sounds you’ve never heard yourself make falling from your mouth before you can think to stop them. Trembling with the force of your orgasm, feeling completely weak as you slump into him, eyes wet and bleary.
Geto feels like he’s vibrating, watching you come undone on top of him making him feel too much all at once. His arms wrap around you and hold you close, hands smoothing up and down your back. Lips close to your ear when he speaks, “You know… you make some really cute noises when you cum.”
Lazily, you look up at him through your lashes. Feeling a stupid kind of pleasure running through your body, still jolting slightly with the come down. “Stop trying to embarrass me.”
“I’m only being honest,” his hands slip under your shirt, groping your waist. “You getting embarrassed is just a bonus.”
“Have you always been this sadistic?”
He leans in and presses a kiss to the side of your mouth. “Who knows?” He smiles.
Turning, you catch his mouth with yours. Kissing him properly, hands tickling the back of his neck as you try to kiss him like he did you earlier. His hands on your waist grip you, lips imploring. So needy in how he returns your kiss, all but whining when you part. A string of saliva connects your mouths, and he wipes your lower lip with his thumb, pressing it to your lips like he might push it inside.
Eyes lost as he dances his digit over your plush lips. “You’re beautiful,” is all he says, gazing at you with so much affection.
Opening your mouth, you gently take his thumb between your teeth. Biting so very lightly before flicking your tongue over the tip of it. Geto looks like he blushes at the action, pulling his hand back.
“Seems as though I’m not the only tease,” he accuses.
You mutter at him, “Don’t know what you’re talking about.”
His compliment had made you feel so soft and tingly that you didn’t know what to say or how to react. It’s not like he’s never complimented you before, you just weren’t expecting him to call you beautiful so earnestly. Being given compliments by someone has never made your insides flutter as much as they did just now.
He hums at you, redirecting his attention. Pulling at the hem of your shirt to show what he wants; you lift your arms up so he can remove it from you properly. Feeling so bare on top of him but not really minding, still too blissed out on your orgasm to care.
Geto doesn’t waste any time, groping your tits in his large hands. Rolling your nipples experimentally and grinning wide at how you twitch and bite back moans at it. “My, you’re sensitive.”
Teeth digging into your lower lip to stop the pitiful noises he’s threatening to pull from you. “Try not to sound so pleased about that.” Your blood is still thumping through your ears, pleasure fresh in your bones.
“Would you rather I be upset?”
“I’d rather you not make– ah!—”
His wet mouth wrapping around your nipple has your words cutting off suddenly, back arching into him. Huffing out needy little breaths at how he flicks his tongue over your sensitive skin, dizzy from the heat he’s making you feel. Pulling back with an obscene pop, licking at you a final time while keeping eye contact before swapping to your neglected tit.
He’s playing with you, or he’s waiting for you to say you’re ready for more… no he’s definitely just playing with you. Taking his time leaving marks all over your tits, even biting some places. Neglecting himself in favour of teasing you to insanity, though it can’t be that painful for him considering how he’s enjoying this immensely.
Whining at him, “You– hah!– You’re gonna leave too many marks.” He ignores you in favour of making a new mark to the top of your breast. “Suguru!”
Threading your fingers through his hair, you pull him back with a tug. You’re frowning at him, but your eyes are so wet and dazed and you’re nearly completely naked on top of him. Covered in hickeys and his saliva, despite your pulled brows you look so euphoric.
Feigning ignorance, he simpers, “What’s wrong with that?” A finger trails over the marks he’s left, grazing a sensitive nipple in his journey. “You seemed to like it.”
Swallowing your pride, you tell him directly, “I want more.”
“You want to cum again?” He muses, “Greedy.”
Taking offence at his accurate guess, you add, “I want… you to as well.”
Geto ignores the thumping of his heart. “Take off your panties then.”
“But…”
A brow raises at you, “‘But’ what?”
You don’t really want to tell him about how shaky your legs are, somewhat concerned they’ll give out as soon as you try to stand. He really doesn’t need the ego boost right now. “Nothing.”
Moving off him so so carefully, you keep your hands on his shoulders as you stand between his spread legs. With the way your knees are wobbling and fingers gripping to him so harshly, it doesn’t take him long to figure out that you’ve not really got a great sense of balance right now. A smug smile gracing his lips when he sees you fight to figure out how you’re going to take off your panties with your hands on him.
“Something wrong?”
“No,” You quickly answer.
“Then take them off.” Using a finger to pull at the waistline of your underwear, only to let it snap back to you. At your continued struggle he adds, “Or do you want me to take them off for you?”
You look to him, eyes hopeful for mercy. “Please?”
“Sure,” his tone is polite but you’re not sure you’re that trusting of him.
Thankfully, his hands slide your panties delicately down your legs, brushing against your thighs. Though, he’s an opportunist and he uses this chance to grope lewdly at your thighs, pulling at your skin further and further up your legs. Humming low to himself at the slick coating your inner thighs, unable to help himself when he drags his fingers through your folds, touching your pussy directly.
“Fuck, alright—” He bites out, pulling you to his lap suddenly, “I’ve reached my limit.”
“Wait.” He stops his frantic movements and you pull at his shirt. “Take it off.”
He doesn’t even tease, just immediately does as you asked. Hastily tugging his shirt off, it’s dropped less than gracefully onto the floor. Your fingers dance along his shoulders, down his chest. You want to take it all in a bit more but he’s flopping onto his back and shucking his boxers down enough to pull his cock free.
The size of him almost has your eyes bulging, you wonder how he’s been so patient when he’s this hard and achy looking. Tip flushed deep pink and already smothered in his own leaky precum, your cunt throbs while looking at him. Caught between concern over his size and a desperate need to be full of him.
“You don’t have to take it but please just—” He grabs and moves you until you’re hovering over it, “Sit on it at least.”
Lowering yourself cautiously, you sit on him lightly. He can feel your heat so vividly now, and it makes him shiver, “I don’t need you to be gentle with me,” he snickers, “Split your pussy open on my dick.”
Geto doesn’t even give you the chance to do it yourself, hands tugging you down onto him with more force. A gasp ripping from you when he immediately starts dragging you back and forth on his whole length. Stifled groans leave him from under you, his chest vibrating under your palm.
“Sugu—”
“—Sorry.” His brows are knitted together. “I got– nnh– impatient.”
It’s so wet, slipping over him repeatedly, the head of his cock nudging your clit over every pass. Your teeth dig into your lower lip to fight the whines bubbling inside you but eventually you give up and just let yourself moan. He seems to like it anyways, cock jerking at the soft breaths and whimpers leaving you.
He’s on the brink of stupidity, you’re so soft and unbelievably warm and his tip keeps catching on your hole and it makes him shudder each time. Looking down, he watches the way you’re coating his cock in more of your slick, cock shiny with how wet you are. Lewd sounds of your pussy grinding over him fill the room and now he’s thinking about you creaming around him. He’s never wanted something so bad in his life.
“Sugu,” you call out to him, and he dopily pulls his eyes to yours, “Do you think I could just…” when his cockhead catches on your hole again, you press down. Not even taking him in any real way and yet still stretching slightly for it.
His grip hardens on you, holding you completely still. “There’s no ‘just’ anything.” He struggles to breathe out evenly. “Not with how tight you are.”
“I wanna feel full though.” You try wiggling down into him but he’s truly got you in a vice like hold.
His cock twitches as excitement rushes through him, “You asking me to take your virginity, pretty?”
Shy when you ask, “Would you?”
He’s not passing on the chance to pick on you a little bit. “How bad do you want it?”
He can feel the way your hole flutters when you think about his question, your answer seemingly downplaying how you feel, “Pretty bad.”
“Hmm…” He pretends to think about his answer.
You’re taking issue with his faux deep thought. “Sugu, stop acting like you’re not…”
“Go on,” he encourages, “‘Like I’m not’ what?”
“Like you’re not…” you look away from him, mumbling out, “Aching for it…”
“Oh? You aching for it?” The smile he’s wearing can be heard in his words.
He sounds way too gleeful over this and it’s ticking you off. “Nope,” you pop the ‘p’ as you lift yourself off him.
“Don’t be like that.” He sits up. “I’m not letting you go anywhere… not when I know you’re aching for my cock.”
“I did not say that.”
“That’s what I heard you say.” He shrugs.
Geto’s arms wrap around you only to throw you down onto the bed, gone from you for a second while he shoves his boxers off quickly. And then he’s crawling over you, hands tracing up your body, relishing in your reactions to him.
“You really are so sensitive,” he mutters, trailing a finger up your thigh and watching your skin break out in goosebumps.
He’s being so unbearable, the need you feel is so loud and he’s here taunting you. “You’re so frustrating.”
“You’re just a needy little thing,” he returns. “So desperate to be filled even though you’re not prepared in the slightest.”
“Then prepare me,” you whine back.
He finds this about you cute, your insatiable greed, your back and forth between shy and so horny that you’re getting pissy at him. “I should teach you some manners,” he grumbles.
You spread your legs for him obscenely, growing even more impatient. “Please, touch me,” you pull his hand towards your pussy, “please.”
If he ever gets the chance to touch you like this again, he’s going to torture you, because right now you’re playing so completely unfairly that he can’t even think to deny you. His brows pull up as he flushes, finding himself doing exactly what you wanted, fingers gliding through your folds.
The way you keen at his touch almost makes it worth it. “You don’t play fair,” he complains.
“Someone lead by– hah!– po– poor example, I guess,” you shudder when he slips a single finger inside you.
Geto groans at the snug heat of your cunt, closing his eyes to take a quick breath at just how you feel wrapped around his digit. The fear or cumming the minute he gets inside you is real; he’s going to have to develop an insane amount of self-restraint between then and now.
“You’re hilarious,” he leans down to whisper in your ear, “Now shhh…” He draws his finger back before fucking it back in, lewd wet sounds of your pussy filling the silence. “Hear that?” He keeps repeating his movements, taking immense joy in how you writhe under him. “I think… pretty things that are this wet and begging to get fucked… don’t get to mock me.”
Your fingers dig into his shoulders, eyes glassy when you look up at him. “Don’t– nnh– be sooo mean.”
“You haven’t seen me be mean.” He pulls his finger back just to stuff another inside you, grinning when you arch your back at it. “I’ve only been nice to you today.”
“Be nicer,” you sulk.
“Don’t wanna be,” he smiles graciously back at you.
The fingers he has in you scissor to spread you open, pleased hums leaving him at your responses. Your mouth drops open and legs shake, fighting to close but unable to with how he’s in-between them. He’s hitting all the perfect spots inside you, crooking his digits to rub against your inner walls in a way you’re never able to reach.
He’s getting you so close to cumming that you want to hide from him, somehow feeling so much more vulnerable like this than when you were sitting in his lap earlier. Slowly, he works you to the point of taking another of his fingers, fucked open on three of them now. Your toes curl and your thighs hoist themselves on either side of his waist. Hips grinding into his hand, meeting his movements.
Geto finds the frenzied and desperate grinds into his hand adorable, satisfied with just how much more greedy you get when you’re this turned on. He already knows you must be close, your sudden drive to fuck down onto his fingers a dead giveaway to him.
He adds his thumb, rubbing circles into your clit. You jerk at it, tits bouncing in a way that has him drooling. To be honest, if you weren’t practically begging to get dicked down earlier, he would’ve put his mouth on you. Maybe if he weren’t also desperate to put his cock in you, he’d do it anyways but for now, he’ll settle for fingerfucking you to insanity and then shoving you full of his dick.
Your voice comes out smaller than you want, “Sugu, I think—”
“—I know.” His eyes are excited, fully aware of how close you are.
He can feel the way you twitch and clench down on him, back arching off the bed. Speeding up his movements just to get you there that much quicker and when you’re about to cum all over his fingers… he pulls them from you. Leaving you without your orgasm but so high that he could blow on your clit and you might cum.
You whine at him, tears pricking the corners of your eyes. Expression dopey and angry, sexually frustrated from the cruel and unexpected edging he just put you through. “What the hell, Suguru?!”
His grin is wolfish, merciless expression painted over with faux pity. “I’m so sorry, pretty. Were you close?” A hand cradles your face, soothing you for something that is completely his fault.
“Why would you do that?” All he’s succeeded in is making you needier than before, squirming under him with no way to find relief.
His answer is simple, “Just to see how you’d react.”
“I shouldn’t have hung out with you today.”
“Don’t be like that.” He guides his dick to your cunt. “I’m ‘bout to treat you so good.”
“If you don’t let me cum, we’re not friends anymore,” you warn.
He snickers at how genuine you’re being. “Alright.”
“I mean it, Suguru.”
“I know you do.” He presses a kiss to your temple. “That’s why it’s a little tempting.”
You whine at him, “Can you stop being so cruel for a moment?”
He blinks at you, “What do I get if I do?”
“What do you want?”
“I want to be the first person you go on a date with.”
His request stumps you. “What? Why?”
He doesn’t answer you. “Those are my terms,” he says matter-of-factly.
“Okay! Fine, yes, whatever you want,” you nod at him.
He smiles and starts pushing into you, the stretch is a lot, and it aches more than his fingers. You’re trying to breathe through it, but it seems like he is too. His thumb is on your clit, trying to get you to relax for him. “St– stop– hah– fuck!– stop clenching so tight,” he hisses through his teeth.
“I can’t– nnh– help it.” Your nails dig into his skin.
His lashes flutter when he gets his tip inside you, groan leaving him. “Wh– when I s–say date I mean– hnnn– a real date. A ‘I take you out and then try kissing you at the end of it’ date.”
For some reason, that makes your insides twist and you squirm. “Wh– whatever you– nnh– want, Sugu.”
“Yeah? You’re gonna– hah– dress up and let me take you out for your first ever date?” His fingers grip at his blanket below.
Your eyes roll as he slips further inside you, babbling out, “If you– hnn– let me cum? I’ll date only you.”
Geto sputters at that, hips driving forwards on their own making you both moan. His upper body drops down to you, lips ghosting over your neck and cheek before taking yours in a sweet kiss. He knows you’re out of your mind horny and probably not even sure of what you just said but he’s going to live in this moment while he fucks you.
He’s kissing your breath away while he slowly fills you to the hilt, trying so hard to be careful with you. His lips successfully distract you from the ache you were feeling, melting into him as he licks at your tongue.
Parting from you only when he’s balls deep inside, head flopping to your shoulder as he moans. Struggling to keep it together, you’re wrapped so snug and hot around him, pulsing so tightly around his aching cock that he feels like he might cum at any second.
“Sugu?” When he hums, you continue, “Move please?”
You wiggle your hips into him but he’s quick to stop you with a firm hand. “If you don’t want this ending right now then you need to give me a moment.”
“Hmm, that’s awfully cute of you, Suguru,” you tease him.
“That’s bold.” He licks at the shell of your ear. “I’m going to ruin you.”
“More than you already have?”
He agrees, “So much more.”
It feels like an eternity before he’s finally dragging his hips back, that alone has your breath stuttering. He wants to set a punishing pace so bad; he wants to fuck you until you’re mad, but he starts slow. Thrusting back into you at a languid pace, still carefully opening you up on his fat dick. It’s your first time and as much as he loves torturing you, he also loves pleasing you.
You’re scrabbling for purchase at his leisurely pace anyways, not expecting the heavy drag of his cock to feel this mind numbing. He chuckles lowly at the way you’re already weak for him, though it’s completely his fault considering all he’s put you through up until now.
“I think you may be the awfully cute one,” he smirks at you.
Your insides tug at his tone, “You can– hnn– be quiet.”
Leaning up, he rests on his knees, pushing your leg back and up. He has a great view of you taking him like this, able to see all your reactions. “I can but your pussy really likes when I talk.”
He’s so smug and he gets to be too because he’s right, his lightly mocking tone and that polite smile he wears is a deadly combo that has your cunt seizing around him. “I like it– hah– better when you’re nice to me.”
“You’re taking me all so well, pretty,” he praises, “Pussy sucking me right back in, so greedily.”
Your eyes roll back at how he thrusts into you, new angle hitting deeper than before. “That’s not– hnn– being nice!”
“Really?” He watches the way your hole clenches and feels how much wetter you get around him. “‘Cause you seemed to like it a lot.”
You bite your lip as you look up at him, silently asking for him to fuck you.
He looks down his nose at you, “What are you asking for?”
Sulking, “I want you to– hah– move more.”
“You should’ve just said that then.” He crooks his head to the side at you.
The slow drag out is the same as always until he’s fucking himself back into you sharply, a gasped moan stumbling from you as your hands seek stability in the mattress below. Your whine is dragged out when he repeats it over and over, brows knitted together in your pleasure.
“That’s a nice reaction,” he comments smugly.
You only hum at him, too consumed by the feeling of him shoving his dick in and out over and over in such a relentless pace that you’re seeing stars. Either you’ve closed your eyes or they’ve rolled to the back of your head because you’re not seeing much of anything right now.
Your eyes are welling with tears, chest heaving with your breaths. The stretch in your leg increasing when Geto pushes down into you further, pushing back on your leg with it. He’s basically folded it over his shoulder; you had no idea you were capable of bending this much. You’re so dazed and fucked stupid when you look to him lazily, he looks so pretty like this. Hunched over you and driving his cock in and out of your tight heat, his hair hanging messily over his shoulders and face as his expression twists in bliss.
Reaching a hand up, you tuck a strand of his hair behind his ear. “You’re pretty.”
You say it so dopily that he wonders if you know what you’ve just said. “I’m fucking you to the point you’re cock drunk and you think I’m pretty?”
A shudder runs through you at his voice. “Mhm, and– ah!– you have– hnn– have a pretty voice.”
God help him, he’s about to cum from you calling him pretty. “St– hnn– stop talking.”
“Sugu, you feel so—”
He cuts you off with a hand over your mouth, he has a feeling that whatever you were about to say would have him cumming inside you. “You’re so cute but I need you to shut up before I cum.”
From behind his hand, you look ruined. Tears slipping from your eyes, he can feel the way you’re drooling against his skin. The only sounds in the room his grunts, your muffled moans and the slick squelching of you swallowing his cock.
You want to keep telling him how pretty he is and how good he’s making you feel but even without him hindering you, you feel as though you may be beyond words now. Brain not able to form very cohesive thoughts as of this moment let alone speak them. He has you feeling so full, his cock throbbing against your walls in a way that has your skin thrumming.
Geto’s eyes lock down on where he’s stuffing himself into your little cunt, he feels himself short circuiting at the sight. Pussy bulging around him, struggling to take him all, dick so shiny with your slick. White creamy ring at the base of himself, it’s messy and lewd and it has him feeling so unbelievably obsessed with your cunt.
Thinking distantly that he’s going to do his best to impress you on your date so he can have you again, next time he’s definitely licking your pussy. Debauched groans vibrate in his chest at the thought, he’s going to make this so unforgettable for you, he needs you to be as obsessed with him as he is you. He’s going to be so much worse after this, and he was already down pretty bad.
Your hand grabs at his wrist, trying to tug it away so you can speak. He pulls back out of curiosity. “I– hnn– I’m– ah!—” Giving up trying to warn him after a particular thrust has you crying out, there’s no real point in warning him anyways.
He grins at your inability to say anything meaningful. “I’ve gotcha, go ahead and cum for me.”
Of course he knew exactly what you were trying to say, how does he already know your body so perfectly. He leans down to you, impossibly close, just to kiss your cheek and say, “Come on, pretty, I wanna feel you squeeze me tight before I cum in you.”
Crude and obscene and effective because his words make you shudder as you suddenly cum around him. A little frantic in how you squirm under him, eyes rolling as your hips fight to fuck yourself onto his thrusts. Pitiful whimpers of his name leaving you repeatedly, the only really comprehensive thing you’re able to utter out.
Geto’s orgasm is immediately triggered by yours; he was hoping he’d get to play with you a little more but as soon as he felt the sinful way you gripped him while you came, he was done for. Your cunt pulsating around him milking him for all he’s worth, he’s cumming so much so deeply. His hips flush to yours as he only grinds into you to ride out both your highs.
He doesn’t think he’s ever cum that much in his life and he’s unsure if it’s because it’s you or because he held back for so long. His weight drops to you as he catches his breath, feeling spent and so drunk on your pussy that if he thought too hard about you, he’d get hard again.
Your hand taps lightly at his shoulder, words all garbled when you speak, “Sugu, too heavy.”
Shoving his arms under you, he rolls until you’re on top of him. Cock slipping from you in the process and it has you letting out a cute whine.
“It’s leaking out of me,” you warn him.
He groans, “Don’t say that.”
You rest your check to his collarbone. “Why not?”
“I’ll get turned on again.”
Rolling your eyes at him. “You’re an insatiable pervert.”
“You’re not much better.”
His hands tickle up your sides, repeating the motion over, it’s making you feel sleepy. “You’re still worse.”
He just hums at you, apparently not caring to argue back. “You gonna be okay to shower?”
“In a bit… and only if you carry me the whole time.”
He laughs at that, “Sure.”
You draw mindless patterns on his chest with your finger, “So… where are you taking me on my first date?”
α.η. THIS IS A REPOST .. a repost from my old account @/lovelivision, if you feel like you've read it before, maybe you have !
thank you for reading !! fun fact : this was originally someone's drabble request on my old blog and i got carried away and it turned into this. if that anon see this.. i still think about you <3
꒰꒰. all works are the intellectual property of aliienangel .. do not plagiarise/translate/reupload/feed to ai ♡. 。
Synopsis. Gojo Satoru: he’s the best striker the Japanese national team has. The strongest, the sharpest, the fastest—and the hottest. With a 66% accuracy rate and a goal headed straight for your heart.
You: a reporter for the FIFA World Cup, and the greatest at goalkeeping Gojo’s flirtations. You just can’t stand him- or so you say…
You—1. Gojo—0.
Pairing. Gojo Satoru x Reader
Content. MDNI, fem!sports reporter!reader, football pIayer!Gojo, FIFA World Cup AU, Football AU, enemies-to-Iovers, sorta, he has a BIG crush on you, yearner!Gojo, fIirting, banter, bets, first date, paparazzi, fan cIubs, pússydrúnk!Gojo, MUNCH!Gojo, oraI (f + m), 69, bets in BED, fíngering, spítting, p taIking, sIight p sIapping, bj’s, cIit bíting, goals, races, bIack cards, tongue f, doggy, wearing his jersey, manhandIing, making it fit, stopping you from running, he’s FÉRAL, cervíx smooches, counting, he BREAKS, babbIing, sIight overstím, making him whímper, making him cry, getting together, happy ending aww, PDA, pet names, swéaring.
Word count. 13.9k
A/N. In honor of the FIFA World Cup heheheh I just had to-
“—Geto—a beautiful pass to Gojo. The one and only Gojo.” Booming. If there was one word that could describe the FIFA World Cup then it would be simply that: booming. Everything from the bacchanal cheers; the resounding noise of the football coming into contact with flesh; and excitement mixed with fear that was an amorphous neighbor next to where one sat.
Speaking of seats; everyone was on the edge of theirs.
They watched as Gojo Satoru stopped the football using his chest. Alternating it to a dribble—he’s quickly bypassing some of the opposing team’s defenders- and it doesn’t take long before Gojo’s coming face-to-face with the goal.
“—the famous Gojo technique, Limitless, because of the sheer unlimited speed and strength. It’s a play unable to be recreated by another, with a 100% scoring…” Gojo takes a deep breath. He points. He kicks.
And he misses.
And in-between the commentary and the chaos, Gojo’s eyes can’t help but meet yours pitchside. Amongst the cameras and the anchors-
—you were laughing.
At him.
“And it seems the world-famous Gojo Satoru has missed! He missed! Oh—what a blow for the Japanese team—hey Mech, can we get a close-up of who he was pointing at before missing the goal?”
As requested; the wedding replays the moments before Gojo’s missed goal: his look of determination, his deep breath, his arm raising for mere split-seconds to point…straight at you. And then it’s cutting to you outright laughing at the missed goal.
Fucking laughing.
Gojo himself pauses to watch the unfortunate sequences of events from below.
“Aaaaand that’s half-time, folks!”
He immediately feels a wave of adrenaline strike him - nearly knocking him over at the force. The molten lead sensation floods every corner and crevice of him, and it makes his fingers tremble, it makes an unexplainable heat rise to his cheeks. Where the hell was this energy when he needed to score that last goal?
Gojo’s eyes remain fixated on you like two frozen-over lakes- made only brighter, not warm, in the face of the Sun.
As you’re finding yourself at the edge of those lakes, you wind down that laugh of yours- that stupid, gorgeous laugh of yours. It makes his heart ripple. And then with a soft smile upon your lips, you’re mouthing an apology. Instead of backing from those stone-cold lakes, daring to dip a toe in. Mocking, surely.
Fuck.
Gojo feels his clenched fists unfurl.
And his irritation.
He doesn’t suppose that you’re feeling guilty in the slightest - but what sort of world-famous sports reporter would you be if you got caught laughing at the star player?
And Gojo Satoru is the star player—mind you. He’s just…having an off day? It’s exactly 45 minutes and 22 seconds into the quarter finals of perhaps the biggest football tournament in Gojo’s life: the FIFA World Cup. Japan has been facing off against an opponent they’d already been told would be a tough match to beat, with the odds stacked 79% against them- it just surprised Gojo that that 21% included him, too.
After all, he’s motherfuckin’ Gojo Satoru (don’t quote that).
With his signature white hair- and his ‘twinkling’ blue eyes- and that dimple at the corner of his smile. See that dimple? That dimple’s insured for ¥2,000,000.
But it wasn’t just fanfare and his dashing good looks. There’s no football without Gojo Satoru, and there’s no Gojo Satoru without football.
Ever since he was a young kid, the game just seemed to…call for him.
Just starting out as some stupid sports channel he’d put on in order to avoid having to do his chores; then he’d started watching. Then he started paying attention. Then he started remembering their names and collecting his pocket money to buy some markers and a red, red t-shirt. He still remembers sprawling the t-shirt out on the floors of his cramped living room, and scrawling on Akers 10. Gojo Satoru was raised by Michelle Akers, Alessandro Del Piero, Roberto Baggio, Homare Sawa, and Jay-Jay Okocha as much as he was by his parents.
And then he’d started playing.
He’d begged and begged his parents to get him a football for Christmas- even going to do extra chores around the house to butter them up.
And once they caved - making him promise not to play inside - Gojo had stumbled out to the playground faster than his legs could keep up. Although he remembers thinking that he’d make them- he’d make them keep up.
He admits he wasn’t instantly amazing - just slightly above average, if anything. But kids on the playground used to think he was the coolest thing.
Wanting to become a professional footballer? Every kid wanted to become a professional footballer at that age. So he’d gather the teams, he’d assign their roles, he’d play with them until the streetlights turned on and the crickets started chirping - except the only difference between Gojo and the rest…was that he wouldn’t go home. Refused to.
Not until his parents had to come down and physically drag him back home.
Until then, Gojo would kick and kick that damn ball as long as he had to to become good enough. Until his feet had to fuse with that damn ball, if it had to.
In middle school they adored him just as much.
The best football player and he’s got dimples to boot?
He won’t lie - Gojo understands why he was called out for a confession at least thrice a week throughout the entirety of middle school. His grade, lower grades, and even some in the grade above. Manga club captains and school presidents- and some friends of friends not even going to this school. Some of his friends. Most…who’ve never even talked to him.
And he doesn’t regret not letting any of that ‘sweet Spring love’ that his father always talked about blossom. He just wished his middle school-self had a bit more tact when rejecting girl after boy after girl.
Although he admits that the attention was nice- and those onigiri they brought him after practice was a sweet touch. But Gojo could never quite understand—what did they see in him?
He was hot, yes. He was talented. He was smart. He was funny- yes. But he just wasn’t…like the heroes that he looked up to. Not yet.
Gojo Satoru could never quite understand how he could love another as much as he loved football.
Sometimes when the confessions and the onigiri got a little too much, he’d go to the school rooftop and kick his ball around until the bell rang. Sometimes he’d simply sit and stare off into the distance—what was love? If we should love another as we love ourselves, then perhaps one doesn’t need it? Who said love had to be a person, not a dream?
Around this time, Gojo applied for the local junior football club.
He smoked them all- hah!
Then high school rolled around and here people started giving him looks - still dreaming of becoming a professional footballer? Wasn’t that child’s play?
Popularity was measured, at least for most guys, by how many girls you’d banged or whether or not you’d actually tasted beer. He himself wasn’t one to subscribe to such notions - but the status quo meant that people started…distancing themselves from him.
Reaching for him- if only to point at him like a party trick. Maybe throw a volleyball at him during gym classes, or puncture his football.
They actually did puncture his football.
He beat that boy until his knuckles bled - Gojo had gotten a temporary suspension, of course. He didn’t argue with the punishment. He thinks they went so lenient on him because it was his first offense.
But when he came back, it was even worse. There goes that freak still obsessed with football- isn’t he just going to get his dreams crushed? Isn’t he going to wake up? Grow up? He didn’t need them. He didn’t need a single fucking one of them.
Gojo threw himself into playing football more than ever around these years; until every bone in his body seemed to ache, and he always tasted metal from how hard he’d grit his teeth. He imagined their sneering, snickering faces at the end of the goal and kicked and kicked and kicked that fucking ball. And it was also around this time that he’d gotten the offer.
The offer.
He was glad to leave it all behind.
He was the youngest player in Japan to get a national team offer - oh, he remembers how nervous he’d been then, walking, wondering whether they’d look at him like they all do - and the second-youngest in the world to join an international club. He was an express - and damn expensive - pick for Real Madrid, and the only Japanese player to make a first-team appearance. He was the youngest player to win a major tournament at the UEFA European Championship. He was the youngest Japanese football captain leading them into the FIFA World Cup- and the only one to lead them into the quarterfinals. Not to mention his rabid fan club and his four-time title as the world’s prettiest striker!
But fuck, man.
All that…for this.
Today, Gojo Satoru was having an off time. And he’s blaming it on you—was that necessarily fair?
Hm…not likely. But nothing matters when he’s in the zone and he’s supposed to keep his eyes on the football- but they keep somehow drifting to you.
Fuck again.
This was on him, he knows. He knows. And yet-
And without a single word to any of his teammates or Coach Yaga…he’s marching straight over to you. Behind him, he hears Yaga’s choked-up call of his name and his teammates’ confusion.
The cameras follow him with every step he takes- of course they do, he’s Gojo fucking Satoru. In the distance he can practically hear the tension tighten, as the commentators mention something about him, as the big screen zooms in on his steadfast path, as you’re turning around to see him nearing and your eyes widen.
For a mere split-second - before your hand tightens ‘round your mic, and you’re immediately holding it towards him at the ready.
“And here we have the star player-” It amuses Gojo how your lip tightens around that little phrase you just have to say when referring to him. “-Gojo Satoru’s…best friend in the distance—can the camera capture Geto Suguru during his pre-match stretches?”
The. Fucking. Audacity.
Gojo’s mouth drops as the camera hastens to focus on that damned Geto next to Coach Yaga behind him. He isn’t even the one that came up with those stretches! He stole them from Gojo-
Pointedly—he coughs into his fist.
And then you’re turning towards him with a faux-shocked expression on your face. Lashes fluttering. Those glossed lips of yours dropped into the perfect ‘oh’.
Gojo gets the urge to mimic the exact same expression - and just his luck, the camera’s turning to him at that very moment. There’s a small smirk at the edge of your lips as you’re bringing the mic up to your lips.
This wasn’t his first match interview with you.
Not in the very least.
Gojo was the greatest in his field, and you were (admittedly) the greatest in yours. So it was inevitable that the two of you would meet- match after match, interview after interview, you’d fired your questions away at him.
And sure…there were the usual ones he already scripted for. But you’d quickly climbed up the ranks for asking on-the-spot questions specific to each player, to pick their brains - and in Gojo’s case, to make him squirm.
You asked him about his elementary school nickname as ‘The Strongest’ (which he later adopted as his actual field name so hah- jokes on you!), and his affinity for sneaking sweets into his strict athlete’s diet (Yaga lectured him after that one…jokes on him), and his utterly barren love life.
For someone so flirtatious, one must wonder why he’s never seen out and about with anyone. Maybe he’s simply football-sexual?
That particular interview had racked up quite a few (…million) views across various social medias as Gojo had turned red and stuttered - the first time someone had managed to get the chatterbox to pause - s-something about well, if you really want you can date him-
But he digresses. The point is that Gojo has had interviews with you before - so this should be a piece of cake. Really. Actually…Gojo’s first ever professional interview was almost with you- but that’s a story for another time.
“—and we’re live at the FIFA World Cup Quarterfinals with Gojo Satoru, Captain of the Japanese team.” You’re plastering that camera-ready smile of yours; though honestly he finds your priggish one more- “It’s your first time at the FIFA as a team captain. How are we feeling today, Gojo-san?”
His heart leaps a little at the honorific. “G-good. Good.” And then at the little raise of your brows - did Gojo Satoru just fucking stutter? Again? - he’s instantly shaking his head free of…whatever. Splashing on his own irresistible smile- dimple? Check. “Oh- y’know me, sweetheart. I’m always good~”
“Is that so?” You ask. “I’m glad to hear that. Because it seems like we’re going to need all the confidence we can get, Gojo-san. Tell me—what changes might the defense have to see in the next half if we’re going to beat the opponent’s two-point lead?”
“Well, I can’t share every secret here now, can I~?” Gojo chuckles. “But just know that we’re going to make good use of Geto in the next half- I know Coach Yaga has some good plans for him.”
You nod. “Speaking of- how is Geto Su-”
“We’re talking about me.” Gojo whines. And he’s sure that this part of the interview is going to get clipped to hell and back—but it doesn’t matter when you’re smiling…like that. When you’re throwing your head back and gesturing at that Japanese jersey of yours- number 4?
Geto Suguru.
“My apologies, I do tend to be favorable towards defenders.” You hum. “But I see you’re rather defensive yourself today, Gojo-san. What changes might the strikers have to see for this next half-”
“Nothing.”
That makes you pause. Your smile falters, though you manage to salvage it. “Erm- my apologies, I didn’t seem to hear you over the crowd. Did you say nothing?”
“I did.” And for how priggish you might act - you’d never amount to his sheer levels. His haughty hair flip that sends a few fan club members fainting in the front row, “Absolutely nothing. I’m perfect.”
“Oh-”
“I’m Gojo Satoru, don’t you know? Neeeeext question~”
“Yes I…I am aware.” You mutter under your breath. “Unfortunately.”
“What did you just-”
“But whilst we absolutely erm- adore your confidence, Gojo-san, one really does start to wonder with the two point lead…” You have a fire in your eyes - for how much you might be exasperated by him, it was undoubtable that you needed this win, too. “And I have only one more question for you: will we win?”
He pauses at that.
Just a split-second.
It’s a fleeting moment, yet it seems to hold the world. You’re not letting your gaze waver from his, and he’s not letting his gaze waver from yours. That fire in your eyes? It’s spreading across his own cheeks and then down his neck, across every inch of his body and coiling around his heart. And who’d have thought…that the great Gojo Satoru was flammable?
Gojo shoots a quick look down at himself to make sure that he’s not actually- before then wrapping his hand around the mic handle. He doesn’t exactly take it from you - just keeps his fingers resting on top of yours, and you’re not letting go either..“Nah, I’d win.”
Someone’s breath hitches- either yours or his.
He’s leaning in - down -so close that his lips are nearly grazing the grille.
Gojo keeps his summer lake-blue eyes directly on you as he speaks—“And if I do…how about I get to take you out on a date?”
“You what-” Around you, cheers are erupting. And you’re wondering just what might have been shown on the big screen, only to realize that it was…the two of you. Glamorously displayed for millions of people to see.
You wonder if he can hear your heart race.
You wonder why he wasn’t paying attention to the thousands of people nearby that were chanting ‘say yes, say yes, say yes-’
“So, Miss Reporter?” Gojo cocks his head, a smile upon his lips. “What’ll it be?”
You’re biting down on the inside of your cheek- and it’s only too late that you’re realizing it’s to keep yourself from mirroring that world-famous smile. “Yes.” Your heart leaps.
And you’re sure that Gojo heard you- you’re sure of it. But he’s taking the mic completely now, and turning it upon yourself—“I’m sorry, what was that?”
“I said…” Something akin to…adrenaline? Something akin to…excitement? You didn’t know what name to put on it, but it’s making it difficult to keep your voice exactly steady. “-yes.” Thank goodness it was just a one-word answer.
Gojo smiles wide.
And as the commentators recite the entire interaction in various languages, Gojo’s hearing a call of his name from the coaches’ bench. Realizing that he’d nearly spent the entire break with you- he’s throwing a dazzling smile your way - and several flying kisses at the fans - before making a break for it.
Reaching Coach Yaga, Gojo’s ducking his head and listening to every word the older goalkeeper has to say. There’s a fierce look of concentration on his face—
“You’re staring~” Shoko, from behind the camera, croons. “He really is even better-looking in person, huh?” She’d long since known about the little tension between you and Gojo Satoru- not any kind of good tension, that is. You’d just somehow gotten on his nerves as much as he got on yours.
And you shake your head free of any suggestions that Shoko might put in it. “I wasn’t staring-”
“Mhm.”
“I was just imagining the look on his face after he loses that bet.”
Shoko smirks. “That’s if he loses that bet.”
“Well…”
And then you’re glancing at him once more. Gojo was now jogging in place and doing a few warm-ups before the second half of the quarterfinals started.
Because for all that talk- Gojo Satoru wasn’t going to win that easily, was he?
Was he?
.
.
.
“It’s incredible—Japan has won! The Japanese team has really won!” The commentator’s voice booms across the stadium, making it shake with sheer excitement. It was contagious. The taste of victory was often sweet. “Gojo Satoru has led the Japanese team to the semi-finals—!”
2-3 to Japan.
All the way from 0.
And you knew the scores - you watched the game unfurl before your very eyes. And yet - surrounded by it all - you stand stunned.
From your right, you’re feeling Shoko euphorically shake you. Her camera equipment nearly slips out of her hands before she’s back at it and recording close-ups of the players’ tearful reactions.
Most of them had surrounded Gojo and were crushing themselves together in an embrace. They’re pushed so far together that you could only make out a flash of white hair and an uproarious distinct laugh. The microphone damn-near slips out of your hands.
“I repeat, folks—Gojooooooooooooo Satoru has led the Japanese team to the semi-finals for the first time in history! It’s a momentous occasion for the underdogs- Gojo Satoru and his Unlimited hat-trick, everybody.”
They’re replaying those historic moments on the big screen: when Gojo dribbled past four players to strike his first goal of the match, just two minutes into the second half of the game; when Gojo upset the game by drawing the score 2-2 with a goal from the 18-yard box, a goal that went around the fucking goalkeeper; when Gojo finished with a flourish with a head-butted goal just over the goalkeeper’s shoulder, at the 89th minute.
At that last goal, he’d pointed right at you- a hatrick. A hatrick.
“Who’s gonna win?” He’d mouthed, as his teammates were drawn to him in embrace like magnets flying across the field.
You’d simply rolled your eyes.
It was a match for the books - and for generations of footballers just like him to watch and rewatch and watch. And maybe…just maybe they’d buy their own blue t-shirts and scribble down: Gojo 66. Around you, reporters were already chattering about Japan’s succession into the semi-finals—could these underdogs actually have a shot?
Japan had risen from an impending bitter defeat- and that very same Gojo 66 was breaking free from his teammates and flouncing across the field. And the MVP - surely - beamed as he lapped up the attention; running across the pitchside and blowing sappy kisses to his fainting fan club. He’s getting thrown a water bottle- and wastes no time before tearing it open and letting the cool water run on top of his head. Water making his jersey stick to him even more so.
Long legs slightly shaking from fatigue. Blue eyes brighter than ever. If there was one word to describe him, then it would be- dazzling. His skin glistened with sweat, and small droplets of water like diamonds - his jersey was practically glued to him—a part of him, in every single possible manner. Celebration seemed to cling to Gojo just as tight as that jersey did.
And Gojo then catches sight of you watching him- and runs. Runs.
To you.
And stops right before you.
“So…” He pants out, and makes sure to flash a quick smile at the rolling cameras. “-about that date…?”
You sigh.
But you can’t help yourself- you chuckle.
“Fine.”
“Fuck yeahhhh—!” And then Gojo’s darting back onto the field in celebration - his team engulfs him once more, and before you know it he’s being thrown into the air. Cameras shift between his ecstatic celebration, and your more muted watching, because honestly…you had no idea what to say. What to do.
You just bagged yourself a date with Gojo fucking Satoru - and you hadn’t even thought you’d be able to tolerate him just about an hour and a half ago.
But that earnestness in his eyes…
You wonder if-
Nope. And then you’re watching Gojo threaten to take his jersey off and throw it somewhere into the crowd - you’re sighing and wondering just how you’re going to get through this. When a mic happens to be shoved into your line of vision—and you’re just about to take it and get ready for your post-match interviews, when-
“Ah ah-” Shoko tuts, amusement lacing her tone. “The interviewer holds the mic. The interviewee answers the question on how it feels to be the future girlfriend of the MVP of the match? Japan’s pride and unofficial prettyboy?”
“Terrible.” You state, extremely seriously. “In fact, I’m considering breaking up with him this very second.” Well…partially seriously.
Shoko faux-gasps. “After a hatrick like that? Why?”
You’re waving breezily. “I’ve always been more of a Geto or Modrić fan myself. Strikers aren’t my thing.”
“Well they’re about to be your thing because you’ve got a date with one-” Shoko checks her watch. “-in just a few hours.”
It’s sinking in. And although you don’t regret saying yes- “Fuck, the fan clubs are gonna kill me.”
Shoko nods. “I won’t disagree with that. I’ll miss you when you’re gone.”
“Shoko- darling- sweetheart- you’re supposed to disagree to make me feel better.”
She shrugs. “You’re a reporter- give ‘em hell. Whack them with your mic or something.” She’s then finally handing you the mic—and you’re smoothing out your suit with a sigh. “But until then- try not to kill Gojo Satoru. We need him for the semi-finals.”
“No promises.”
And as Shoko and the rest of your team start counting down until you’re On Air again, you’re stealing a fleeting look behind at Gojo Satoru. It seems he hadn’t tired of the fan service yet- and now actually had taken off his jersey and thrown it at the fan clubs- was that a brawl up there in the stands?!
He catches your eye and sends you a flirtatious wink.
And a flying kiss.
You mean to swat it away- but then you’re rolling.
.
.
.
“Shoko- what does one wear to a date with a football star?”
“I don’t know, ask the Akinator.”
“Shoko, that’s…actually I should have done that.” It seems that all around you was defeat: having the team you were rooting for win the quarterfinals for the FIFA World Cup, scoring a date with the MVP of the match, getting a promotion and a bump in your paycheck all because of it? All in all, you were having a terrible day.
And not to mention- you hadn’t even begun to check your social media—according to the way that Shoko had painted it: the football side of the Internet had crashed into your little circle of the Internet, and then it’d been set on flames and trampled with cleats five times over. And that’s not even beginning to dive into Gojo’s stan Twitter…the horror…
The edits. The speculation. The articles. The fanfiction- out of curiosity, you’d searched a few up.
And you’d have to say…that they were very…descriptive. @tonycriesaboutfootball you were looking at her.
All in all- it’s safe to say that your little agreement had caused a little break in the Internet.
And here you were: cooped-up in your humble hotel room for the match. On the phone was Shoko <3 your biggest help since after the match and right now- gathering your thoughts…and your look…and yourself. After putting her on video call—the two of you worked together to sort through your suitcase and find something half-decent for some fancy schmancy date.
In the end, you’d decided on a chic outfit you’d actually planned to wear when reporting the FIFA World Cup Finals.
And nevermind how much you protested and lamented and complained about how expensive shopping for another dress is going to be, Shoko had simply replied- “Just get your millionaire athlete boyfriend to buy one. Take his black card, duh?”
Ah…
And right now you were simply putting in the final touches- slouched over your hotel vanity.
She disappears from the screen for a minute and comes back wielding her chunky laptop. “About 21% of people think this is a PR stunt…18% think you two won’t actually go on the date…and 44% think that this is true love and both of you can bear their children. They also may or may not be camped outside the restaurant.”
You take one last look at yourself in the mirror. Hell yeah…“And the other 2%?”
“Ah- well they’re out for blood.” Shoko casually closes her laptop. “Ready?”
You shudder. “As I’ll ever be. Do I look okay?”
“You look good enough to eat- now go.”
Someone from what you assume to be Gojo’s team had actually approached you after the match - something about exchanging numbers, and then letting you know the details about the date. And around 5PM that evening, you’d just been getting off of a final few interviews from another match- when they’d texted you.
(+81 03 XXXX XXXX): hehehe you have three guesses. clue no. 1: i’m hot asf. clue no. 2: i’m even hotter wwwww.
You: I’m blocking you.
(+81 03 XXXX XXXX): waitヽ(O_O )ﾉ
(+81 03 XXXX XXXX): wait nooooooooooo
(+81 03 XXXX XXXX): don’t block me ( ◣∀◢)ψ
(+81 03 XXXX XXXX): i was jokinggggggggg
(+81 03 XXXX XXXX): it’s satoruuuuu ☀(▀U ▀-͠)
You: Ah, of course.
(+81 03 XXXX XXXX) added to your contacts.
(+81 03 XXXX XXXX) changed to (Foot)ballz.
You: Hello, Satoru-san.
(Foot)ballz: hehe
(Foot)ballz: no need to be so formal with me when we’re going on a date~ (͡o‿O͡)
(Foot)ballz: i’ll come pick you up at your hotel so just lmk where you’re staying!!
You: You just want to find out which hotel I’m at, you perv…
(Foot)ballz: I’VE BEEN CAUGHT (ʘ ͜ʖ ʘ)
Ultimately you ended up sending your location to the ridiculous man - however you’d expected Gojo Satoru to text like…it certainly wasn’t this. But you found yourself tolerating it, for the most part.
You suppose.
And once you’re done spritzing on some of your favorite perfume, your phone lights up with a new message.
(Foot)ballz: here ⸜(*ˊᗜˋ*)⸝
With a small huff of laughter, you’re grabbing your things and heading out.
The car parked outside was anything but inconspicuous.
And you don’t exactly know what led you to think that in the first place—because when has Gojo Satoru ever wished to fly under the radar?
What was sprawled across the hotel porte-cochère was a gleaming red feline of a vehicle; that type you’d see on the covers of car magazines, or parked outside stadiums with fans surrounding it. Many, many fans. It had all those sorts of curvatures and indents that made it built for speed just like the athletes that owned these types - spoiler wagging behind it, bumper pawing forward, iridescent tyre rims catching the light and showing off. Even stopped outside the hotel, it purred as though impatient to get back on the prowl once again.
From the driver’s seat, Gojo Satoru is opening the door and standing tall- and your breath catches in your throat.
Gojo had cleaned up nicely. He was dressed in a form-fitting suit—such a dark blue that it was nearly black. The velvety fabric draped around his trim waist, flaring ever-so-slightly where his broad shoulders were- it made him look so much more handsome than was fair. His long legs were covered in the same fabric, and at the ends peeked out shoes so polished they were almost painful to look at- you wonder how long he spent on that…
That usually-messy hair of his had pushed backwards, and on his face were semi-opaque round sunglasses. On his face was a smile.
Where a celebrity often wished to blend in, Gojo stood his six-and-a-something feet high above the rest.
In seconds, Gojo’s reaching inside the car and pulling out a massive bouquet of red roses. Thus he crosses the short distance between you both in two strides, and gently hands them to you- you take it with bated breath. “This is…”
“I know I know-” Gojo cocks his head with a smug smile. “I’ve outdone myself.”
And without further ado, he’s tipping the valet well - the elderly man catches your eye, and you’re shrugging at him helplessly - and helping you inside the car. “You look gorgeous, by the way- although, of course you always do and this isn’t just me saying-”
“Gojo.” You smile. “Shut up and get in.”
He wastes no more time.
“D’you like the car?” Gojo asks as he buckles up, “It’s a Ferrari F80. I was thinking of buying this here as a little congratulatory present for myself- you’re the first one in here besides myself.”
“Seriously?” You ask. And he holds your gaze earnestly. “This is amazing.”
His smile flashes as he sets his hand on the wheel. “Then buckle up, sweetheart. We’re gonna be the hottest couple in town.”
“Not a coup- oh.” He speeds away.
.
.
.
“GOJO- GOJO—LOOK HERE—! GOJO IS THAT YOUR PARTNER?”
“GOJO HOW DO WE FEEL ABOUT THE HISTORIC WIN TONIGHT—DID HAVING YOUR GIRLFRIEND THERE HELP?”
“GOJO HOW DO YOU MAINTAIN THE TITLE OF PRETTIEST STRIKER FOUR YEARS IN A ROW?”
That…last one Gojo actually stopped to give a thorough answer.
And as for the rest, he’d given those paparazzi a coy smile and a wink before diving into the restaurant with you. The maître d’ quickly helped you get escorted to your private table.
The restaurant was…fancy. Right. That was one way to put it.
Another way to put it would’ve been: it was the type of restaurant that you honestly would’ve talked shit about with Shoko, then spent the next hour scrolling through its pictures. Then you’d catch a glimpse of a menu…and have immediately turned your phone off. Because in no conceivable world would you attend a restaurant of that high a price, for portion sizes no bigger than the meat rations you’d given yourself during your impoverished intern days.
And yet, here you were.
Gojo Satoru seemed to fit right in amongst the decor- the abstract artwork on the walls that looked like phalluses, the lights on the walls that also looked like phalluses, and the bowl of oranges upon every table - like a piece of the furniture himself. You don’t doubt that such a place was as casual as walking into a fast-food restaurant for him—but for you…let’s just say that whilst sports reporting jobs may pay high - especially for someone of your ranking - it wasn’t phallus-restaurant level quite just yet.
“So uh…what did you say the name of this place was, again?” You ask Gojo after he’d ordered…whatever he was having. You’d gone with the same primarily because you didn’t want to butcher the pronunciations of the menu.
“Hm?” Gojo delicately folds his napkin. “Big D’s, why?”
You’re biting back a laugh, “No reason.”
He sends you a look. “And um…how was your day?”
“What are we, an old married couple?” Though there was something strangely…jarring about having the world-famous football player - the very same one you’ve rolled your eyes at or been forced to interview about a million times over - speak about something so…mundane with you. What else could you have expected? Maybe to talk stats, maybe updates on his fan club—maybe what ranking he’s surpassed now. You sigh. “But if you must know, the usual- oh, although I did get to interview Gakuganji for the first time in a while today—so that was fun.”
“Gakuganji Yoshinobu?” Gojo’s interest clearly piques. “Oh, he’s a legend. Did you know that since retirements he’s taken up-”
“Electric guitar.” You nod eagerly. “And he’s damn good at it, too.”
“I was thinking that after my retirement I should take up writing or something.”
“You seem like the type to never retire.”
And so the conversation…had strangely enough flowed- not something you would have expected from the haughty football player, but it was a pleasure nonetheless. And it had been about two hours into the conversation - currently on the topic of whether sharks were misunderstood - when the two of you looked down at your empty plates—and servers that seemed to be flitting about literally every table…but yours.
“Do you think they forgot about us?” You whisper to Gojo.
“Maybe they were so stunned by my devilish good looks that-”
“Okay.” And with a semi-fond smile upon your face, you’re standing up in your seat. Gojo’s mirthful expression drops—but before panic can start setting in, you’re gesturing for him to stand up as well. So you weren’t going to leave him in the phallus restaurant…you surprised even yourself with that. “C’mon- I know this great place downtown that sells the largest pizza you’ve ever seen.”
“Oh, please.” Tipping the servers, you two darted out of Big D’s through the back entrance where no paparazzi roamed. And into a night that was wild and untamed, you snuck into the darkness between stars and created light of your own—you copped a few good slices of pizza, greasy and not half-bad for the price, before walking down shadowed alleys where no one could find you. Almost no one. A few pictures snapped here and there- surely it couldn’t do much harm?
Oh, who were you kidding.
You could see the headlines forming already - had this been anyone else, you’d have been the one writing it. But tonight…“Everyone’s going to think we’re dating after tonight.”
“I know.” Gojo had replied, half of his profile illuminated by the neon shop signs. The two of you were walking around the less-nicer parts of town, or so one would say…how strange it is that where things are discarded and dilapidated, the lights shine the brightest and the moon seems to sing softly tonight. “But strangely enough- I don’t mind.”
“Getting dating rumors?”
“Getting dating rumors with you, I mean.” Gojo’s saying- before he coughs into his fist and attempts to amend. “Although, of course, you’d be lucky to get dating rumors with the Gojo Satoru~”
“You mean the Gojo Satoru who’s never gotten a dating rumor in his life?” You scoff. “Y’know before tonight they were calling you No-game Gojo?”
Gojo’s gasp is so loud that it startles passerbys.
In order to soothe him, you’re forced to buy this grown athlete ice cream. He asks for three scoops with extra sprinkles, and the two of you walk together - close but not touching - down by a nearby waterfront—the river around the massive city and pulled it into a tight embrace. You yourself felt the strange coil of something at the pit of your stomach.
“Did you really mean it?”
Gojo, who’d been eying your own ice cream cone, startles. “Hngh?”
Sighing…you hand him your final bite. “Did you really mean the thing about not minding dating rumors with me?”
“I did. Why?”
“No…just thinking that if I had to get dating rumors with anyone- at least you’re not the worst option.”
“Awwww-”
You smirk. “Although, Geto would have been-”
“Let me have this moment—”
His pinky finger grazes yours as you two walk.
.
.
.
The door slams behind you.
And following right behind it, Gojo’s doing the same to you.
He has his hands clutched at your waist, and his mouth down your neck - leaving hot, slimy strings of spit wherever he’s pepperin’ the most filthiest kisses. You’re moaning as you let yourself get engulfed in Gojo Satoru’s wave of need—molten desperation shooting through your veins.
There’s something wet forming at the in-betweens of your pretty legs- and it seems as though Gojo almost has a sixth sense. Because he wastes no time before sliding a hand down your front and cupping your throbbing pussy through your dress. “Mmm-” He grunts off against the side of your ear. The hot breath sends goosebumps skittering down your exposed skin. “And who are you this wet for, sweetheart~?”
“Mmm, dunno.” You bat your lashes up at him. “Probably the best player on the team.”
A priggish smile toys at Gojo’s lips, and he’s leaning ever-closer to you. “And just who might that be?”
You’re pulling Gojo down as though this was a secret just between the two of you - and the man eagerly reciprocates closing the distance between you. You’re basked in his likely maddeningly expensive cologne as he leans in—“Geto Suguru, of course.”
And Gojo’s letting out just the softest surprised gasp—
He leans backwards with slightly-parted lips, and you’re getting the feeling that no one’s ever said anything like that to him before. Gojo’s eyes sweep down where your pretty body is pressed up against him- and before you know it, he’s crashing his lips onto yours. “Mmm—” He’s lappin’ at your moans- and the edge of your bottom lip. There’s a squeaky noise that’s being let out as Gojo tastes the lipgloss slathered on your maw. “Cherry.” He notes.
You’re stringing your fingers into his pure-white hair.
With the pad of his thumb, Gojo wipes off the remnants of glossy make-up on his mouth. “You taste sweeter than you are, y’know that?”
And with your fingers twisting into his hair so that he moans- you’re dragging him right back to you. “And you’re better when you shut up.”
Eventually, you’re backing him into your bed.
The hotel room wasn’t all that spacious, and it’s only a few hasty strides before you’re preparing to push him onto the mattress—
But Gojo’s reflexes are too quick. And he’s flipping the two of you around so that it’s your back that’s coming into contact with the springy bedcoils, falling onto the cloud-like bed with the MVP of the match. Mr. Hotshot Gojo Satoru himself.
Gojo smirks as he hovers above you. “Wanna hear a magic trick? I know exactly what you’re thinking about, pretty girl~” He husks.
And you’re letting out a gasp as his lips come kissing down your neck once more. You can’t help it - you’re arching into him already. “And what’s that?”
“Me.”
As he chuckles, you’re rolling your eyes. “You’ll have to be more specific than that.”
“Oh?” Gojo raises one of his white brows- like a challenge. If there was anything he was weak to—then it was a challenge. And maybe you, but…you didn’t need to know that just yet. “Then let me be clearer…you were thinking about me—” As he speaks, his dominant hands are exploring your body - starting at the right side of your tits, and massaging for a few moments before switching to the other one. “-running these trained hands everywhere on your body like this, weren’t you?”
Your heart leaps to your throat- and down there. “Maybe. Maybe not.”
He chuckles. “And then you must’ve thought about my fingers- I did have a little stint as a goalkeeper—” Through your fabric, he’s pinching your left nipple and you moan. “-did you know that?”
“I did.” You admit. Your reporting habits left you investigating every single nook and cranny of these footballers’ careers and lives.
“And then maybe these spectacular abs- I have them insured, did you know that?” The urge to roll your eyes is immense—but you’re more focused on the way that the world-class player was shuffling his body purposefully down yours, letting the button-up underneath his suit push against your core- you’re feeling his abs. As though he could read your mind, Gojo flashes you a devilish smile and keeps going down- “Or these arms.” Down. “Or these thick thighs. Heh.” Dooooown.
All the way until he’s between those tremblin’ legs of yours. At least his face was.
“But most of all…how about this glorious face?” Gojo shoots you his camera-ready smile inches away from your clothed cunt—pearly-white teeth and dimple to boot. “And I know m’fucking pretty- but I get the strange feeling that I’d look even prettier between your legs.”
And just as he’s about to lean in-
You’re sitting up and putting a hand on his shoulder. Stopping him.
Gojo looks up at you with a face full of concern.
But you’re merely shaking your head. “You’d be hard-pressed to think that I’d let you get all the bragging rights.” You scoff. “Get up. Let me sit on your face.”
His blue, blue eyes gleam in delight. “Now you’re speaking my language.”
“Shut up and get over here.”
And you’re sure that Gojo murmurs something about ‘making him shut up’ (you’d be more surprised if he didn’t) and yet within seconds you suddenly have his 6’4 toned frame stretched-out beneath you.
With your knees making the mattress upon either side of his head dip, straddling him, you’ve straddled the two of you into an oh-so-perfect 69 position - but he doesn’t seem to notice. Or maybe he doesn’t care. Looking underneath you, you notice that the white-haired man has hunger consuming every inch of him, with his eyes half-lidded and his mouth slightly-ajar, licking his lips as he fucking chases your clothed cunt—
“But just ooooone thing.” You’re placing a hand on his chest and pushing him back down- Gojo lets out a cracked whimper. He stares up at your clothed cunt like the gates of heaven above.
“Yes, my demanding girl~? More demands? Isn’t having the great Gojo Satoru underneath you and begging for your pussy enough?”
“Hmm, nope.” You pop the ‘p’. Without wasting more time, you’re fumbling with Gojo’s outrageous dress pants until they’re managed off. What’s revealed to you first is his v-line that stands out—moving with every one of his impatient bucks; then his bulging boxers; then looooong smooth legs, toned from so many years of training. And then you’re almost done. “How about a bet that whoever makes the other cum first gets a reward?”
“A reward?” You’re not turning to look at him- but you don’t need to to know that Gojo’s eyes were probably shining by now. “What kind of reward?”
“Hmmmm, how about…” You suggest. “The winner gets to decide the position for se-”
“I’m in.”
And that’s all that’s being said before Gojo reaches up n’ pushes your dress up. He titters as he takes in the way your pussy was oh-so-wet being outlined against your underwear—that already-thin fabric hugging to your pretty lips n’ soaking wet for him already.
“What’s that about not being so wet?” Gojo hums. He makes the loudest noise as he leans in and presses a great big smooch right on top of your sopping lips. You’re keening out sweetly on top of him- he didn’t even know you could sound that sweet-
“You said that out loud.” You’re grumbling behind at him. “Don’t tell me you’re pussydrunk already, hotshot?”
“Awwww—” Gojo’s spankin’ that swollen exterior of your cunt. “You think I’m hot?”
And now about that damn evening dress obscuring his view- ah, he knows…
Soon enough, you’re hearing a rip-rip-riiiiip—! that makes your blood grow cold. The sensation of cool air biting into your skin is registering in your brain - and then only the realization that Gojo had just fucking ripped your best dress- “Now, I know that isn’t what I think it is.”
“Ah…” He grunts distractedly. Before reaching down to his dress pants and pulling out something dark, sleek, and cash-cold. “Buy yourself whatever you need usin’ this, sweetheart.”
Gojo reaches forwards and stuffs his black card between your pretty drivelling lips. And then he’s divin’ nose-deep between your legs and eating you out with the panties on—letting his looooong luscious tongue zigzag across your slit and accumulate every wad. Once he’s done stealing every drop of slick leaking out of you, Gojo wastes no time before slippin’ aside your panties using his tongue, then making your inner lining feel eeeeeevery coarse tastebud of his taking over you.
It’s just so much.
You’re arching your back and letting out a prolonged moan - or at least you’re attempting to. But what’s really coming out instead are a few muffled sounds as the black card holds firm between your lips.
Your eyes widen.
How could you let yourself be swayed by Gojo Satoru’s black card, of all things…?!
Spitting the black card out, you throw a glare at Gojo. “D-don’t think you’ve won the bet just because you’ve gotten a headstart.”
“Oh?” Gojo coos. “I think I’ve won the bet regardless by how much you’re stutterin’ and whining like a slut on my tongue.” He’s spitting every syllable out against your pussy- literally. He’s drizzling a splash of saliva that he’s using a hand to smack- to smear across every inch of your sodden lips.
You let out a sudden whine, and he laughs.
“Was I wrong~? Mmm- shell me. Who’s the bwest—?” Muffled by his burning-hot kisses.
And you won’t let yourself be bestest just like that, would you? Especially not when he sounds so silly already drunk on your pussy?
In sultry seconds, you’re spittin’ out his damn black card and dragging Gojo’s boxers down. By how much he’d been showing through his bulge…you’d already assumed that he’d be massive.
But Gojo was…really massive.
Mentally you’re counting about eight or nine inches- seriously. And each of those inches were fat and throbbing, the girth of a Coke can and the length of something you’re sure would leave you unable to walk. At least for a week.
As though somehow sensing what you were thinking; Gojo’s thickened tip pulses. Grows even pinker.
“Cock got yer tongue?” He giggles wetly. “Why’re you stupefied, huh? Looks like m’gonna win~”
From the top of his shaft, he’s ooooozing out a constant source of precum—and you’re leanin’ in to sweetly kiss away the syrup that clings to his tip. Just the softest kittenish kiss- but it’s enough to make the football player yelp from underneath you.
His toes curl. His hips buck up without him even seeming to realize - and Gojo lets out an echo of your name - like a prayer - as his fat tip sticks inside your mouth. “O-ohhhh, now you’re playing dirty, sweetheart.”
“M’just doing the same thing you’re- mmm, doing.” You answer- purposefully keeping your mouth on Gojo so that the vibrations shoot up his veins.
“Tch- yeah.” Gojo admits. “But s’only fun when you’re the one getting all drunk on my tongue-” And just because he’s babbling away doesn’t mean that he’s stopping his ministrations for a single second - he’s lavishing and lavishing the tight rim of your hole with his tongue. Licking. Lingering. Letting the top of it hook inside and stretchin’ you out just a little bit more. “Why can’t I be the one to have all the fun—?”
“Do you always have to win?”
“Yes.”
As ridiculous as that sentence sounded, it doesn’t surprise you that it came out of Gojo’s mouth.
The very same mouth that’s becoming more n’ more feverish on your cunt - as some form of revenge, you suppose. Gojo’s grabbing a handful of your left ass cheek and using it to drag you deeper into his mouth.
His jaw unhinges. His nose pushes against your skin.
He’s sucking onto every tender spot of your pussy- eventually resting his pinkish lips on your hole and shoving his tastebuds in so deep. “Tch- this is my fuckin’ win—and this should be my pussy, girl.” Deeper. “C’mon. C’mon. Forget sucking my cock- just fuck back in t’me, sweetheart.”
“F-forget? Sneaky…you just wanna win.”
You can feel him smile against your cunt. “Awww, you know me so well—”
“So selfish, Satoru.” You huff.
“Ohhhh.” And he’s shivering- wracking with something primal all the way head-to-toe. “Call me that again~”
“Satoru.” You’re plopping your mouth over his puckered, pretty head- he was just so cutely needy.
It wasn’t something that you’d expected over the hotshot player. Even though Gojo Satoru might not look like it upon first impression—his cock was so sensitive, so very honest with you that it almost gave you secondhand embarrassment to see. The moment you’re putting your mouth on him n’ starting to suck, he’s spurting out the sweetest honeyed wads of precum here n’ there. The moment you’re leaving him- Gojo throbs even angrily bigger and shuffles his hips to chase your warm mouth.
One of your hands reaches down to squeeze at his balls - so plump and perfectly-shaped. It was annoying that everything about him seemed to be handcrafted by the heavens themselves.
And you’re massaging his most sensitive spots using the mountain of your palm, grinding him against your hand every time your mouth sucks on him. You’re repeating this sequence a few more times.
But he’s not holding back either - Gojo’s now started using the side of your waist as a handlebar, almost.
And he’s grabbing you hard- dragging you onto his awaiting mouth even harder.
“Sweetheart. Sweetheart. Sweetheart- sweetheart.” He repeats like a broken record player. All whilst his tongue was open and ready—he hones it at the tip, sharpening, so that it can probe even deeper. Slithering it inside again and agaaaaaain until you’re soaking all down his face. “Mmm- again, sweetheart.” Gojo whispers, feeling the mess start to trickle down his chin. “C’mon- Satoru needs to hear you say his name when you cum.”
“Satoruuuuu—oh.” You’re gasping. “But you’re not winning before I do-”
He’s immediately reaching for your throat with a vicious thrust of his hips.
You’re relaxing that muscle there so that he can delve deeper into your velvety cavern- the tresses of his veins scrapin’ against the roof of your mouth. Breathing through your nose as you have to win this. You fucking have to. It’s the competitiveness that’s getting to the both of you—and you’re moving in a fucking frenzy.
A stalemate.
Every zap of electricity, both of you reciprocate it twofold.
With your thighs wrapped around his head, with Gojo’s cock shoved down your throat. And the two of you move in synchronous tandem - you with the rapid bobs of your head, slobberin’ all down his plump inches—and him eatin’ away like a ravenous fucking wolf between your legs. The both of you were starved.
But you have to realize…that a draw just isn’t enough for Gojo Satoru.
Because Gojo Satoru was a competitive motherfucker.
And without warning; he swipes three slick-buttered fingers ‘round the orifice of your cunt. ‘Round and ‘round a few times. Before he’s then letting them sliiiiiiiip in—he replaces his tongue with those long fingers of his that just manage to stretch you out so right.
You’re removing yourself from Gojo’s cock with a lecherous pop! Just to gasp n’ moan away as Gojo opens you up using his fingers.
“How about it now?” Gojo coos. He elongates his words- and something about it just makes your limbs twitch—as he’s probin’ inside in loooooong yearning thrusts with his seemingly never-ending digits. Again and again. “How about you say- ngh- ‘Satoru you’re the best~’ and maybe I’ll go easy on you when I win?”
Gojo mocks your voice by pitching it about a zillion octaves higher and making himself sound ridiculously flirty.
You scoff, embarrassment sizzling across your skin. “You fuckin’ wish.”
“Now, that’s not very nice~”
And he wasn’t going to play easy. He reaches his fingers back- then slams! them down all the way till the knuckles. The curvaceous tops of his digits were slightly thicker than the rest of him—so he’s able to drive apart your sticky walls n’ stick himself into every hidden spot and crevice.
He was filling you up sooooooo good - “Oh p-please…” Tears drizzle down your cheeks. “That feels so good-”
“That’s not what I wanted you to say…” Gojo had amusement laced into his every syllable. “C’mon- tell your Satoru that he’s the best.”
“S-Satoru—” No—you can’t give up so easily. And lazily…you’re instead slobberin’ down his thick, vein-covered shaft instead. You can’t even take him in by now, because you were too afraid a sudden graze of Gojo’s fingers along your tender spots would leave you scramblin’ for air.
Speaking of tender spots…
“Y’know I’m real close to the goal.” Gojo trundles. Those long lashes of his flap, as though innocently. “Real close. I could just…”
“O-ohhhh, fuck-” All three of those fingers are slippin’ around your g-spot - you get the impression that he was missing it on purpose, and it made you nervous over just what he might have planned next. Fuck he was massaging the softest areas of your cunt’s channel. “You’re bluffing.”
“By how much wetter you’re getting…” He smirks. “-I think the fuck not. C’mooooon the world’s strongest striker is eatin’ your pussy out, and you can’t even be nice?”
“N-no-”
“I sure can be.” The area of Gojo’s knuckles were practically gluuuued like adhesive to your cunt’s folds. His other hand lifts off of your hips- starting to knead your swollen nub—you’re starting to see stars as Gojo toys with your clit. “But only if you admit m’the best. C’mon, tell me I’m the best- tell me…and I miiiiiight just go a little easier on you.”
“S-Satoru…” It’s inevitable - between the constant probing, the suckling ‘round wherever he could reach, the targeting of your clit - that you’re about to reach your high. It’s simmering right underneath your skin. “Oh no-”
“Oh yes.” Gojo’s eyes glimmer with delight. “Close, huh? And what do you have to say—?”
“Satoru—” You knew that you’d have to do this if you wanted a satisfactory orgasm- Gojo would’ve gladly left you high and dry just to prove a point. “Y-you’re the best…”
The words feel sickeningly sweet leaving your tongue.
But just as soon as they’re rollin’ off- Gojo probes deeply into your g-spot. Hitting that exact area of nerves dead-on. And your orgasm crashes through you like a tidal wave - it’s burning hot and feels more blissful than anything you’ve ever felt before. Anything.
You hate to admit it, but you’re seeing stars as you cum on Gojo’s tongue.
And he has the audacity to giggle- giggle, pussydrunkenly. “Mmm, you think I’m the best, sweetheart?”
“Yeah…” You breathe. “When you shut up.”
Immediately, you’re pushing back into Gojo’s mouth - shutting him up. His mouth drops open for you on instinct. His cock’s floooooding silver, satiny spurts of precum at the mere act of being used—your walls fluttering around his tongue. Sucking him up.
Gojo’s eyes roll to the back of his head. “G-goal…”
Your jaw drops.
His fingers are tunnelin’ straight to your g-spot during every peak of your high - those twinges of extra pleasure that he’s managing to prolong using his fingers, his mouth, his other set of digits kneading your pulsing clit. And what’s driving you even further past that tipping point is the way that Gojo whispers ‘goal, goal, goal, goal’ every time he strikes your g-spot.
Goal.
Goal.
Goal.
Goal.
Goal.
There’s no use trying to make him cum soon afterwards—you’re too drunk on your pleasure, and Gojo’s attempting to squeeze his thighs together to keep himself from cumming. Once your clit’s properly massaged, he uses that hand to squeeze his thickened hilt and prevent anymore beads of pearly-white from leaking.
Fucking unfair.
By the time you’ve ridden through your high - you’re well and fully wrung out. Struggling to catch your breath. Struggling to stop your limbs from shaking- sensitively.
He’s left you oh-so-sensitive.
Gojo Satoru hadn’t even had to fucking try to overstimulate you—he’s just that good with his fingers. He’s just so flexible with his tongue. He’s just so-
“Is this some sort of subliminal? Why are you whispering those to my cunt?” You ask him. And it’s with a final squelch! - and Gojo whispering for a goal once his fingers detach from your g-spot - that you’re managing to untangle yourself from his ravenous mouth.
Though it wasn’t for a lack of trying from his part—Gojo chases after your drippin’ wet pussy like a bee chasing his beehive. Were you the Queen or were you the honey? He’s having a hard time deciding, as Gojo finally sits up on the bed- dazedly.
“Woah-” Now sitting opposite him, you steady him with a hand on his shoulder. “Are you okay there, Satoru?”
His cock twitches. For both your dignities, you pretend you don’t see that.
“You’re fucking asking me if I’m okay—?”
Using that same helping hand you’d lent him- Gojo flips your positions around so that now your back’s facing the creaky hotel headboard. And then you’re both shuffling down the mattress, so that you’re being bent into-
“A mating press.” Gojo grins. His eyes twinkle with something so…dark. “Since I won our little bet, I choose the mating press- oh, and that’s not all.”
To your astoundment, Gojo suddenly stands up and flounces off the bed. He scans for something on the floor- “Give the great Gojo Satoru one second.” And then saunters up to your open suitcases of clothes as though they were his—it doesn’t take long for Gojo to find what he’d been looking for.
And you’re feeling embarrassment curdled with something akin to an unfamiliar shyness start to rise in your chest. Because in Gojo Satoru’s hands…was his own jersey.
“You had Geto’s jersey.” He smirks. “I knew you must’ve had mine in there somewhere, too.”
“Someone should teach you not to go through others’ things.” You huff, crossing your arms.
“Oh, my apologies.” Gojo says, sounding utterly unapologetic. “How about I make it up to you? Arms up, baby.”
And, well, a bet is a bet.
You’re raising your arms and letting Gojo take off the rest of your clothes. Before you know it, the Gojo 66 jersey on you—one you’d never even admitted to Shoko that you’d bought. In your defense, it was a buy-one-get-one-free deal that they’d been doing for the FIFA World Cup- but you doubt that Gojo would be open to hearing about your transaction history right now.
Not when he’s admiring the look of his name - his last name - emblazoned against your back. The look of his team’s colors rising and falling with every deep breath.
Your hardened nipples looked so pretty against the athletic fabric that he can’t help but reach out and pinch—
“Change of plans.” Gojo grunts- breathless, as if he hadn’t planned to say this. “We’re doing it doggy style so I can look at my name across your back while I hit it from behind.”
You grumble but you’re changing positions anyway. “Ever heard of the story of Narcissus, Satoru?”
“Are you the river because you’re so wet, or…?”
“No, don’t worry- that dried me up enough.”
He temporarily shoves a knee between your legs. “Lies.” Smirking.
You’re on all fours now. And Gojo shrugs off whatever else is left of his garments- and his rock-hard abs press into your back from behind, practically gluuuued skin-to-skin. A line of goosebumps shoot up your spine at the sudden feeling of him pressing into you—and Gojo takes the opportunity to lean down and kiss up your back.
All the way sloppily to your shoulders.
Your neck.
“Mmmm—and this is my win, isn’t it?” He rasps against your skin- there’s a…slightly crazed tone in Gojo’s voice that you’d never heard before. You shiver. You nod. “Mhm- then this is going to be how a winner fucks, sweetheart.”
In the time that you’d been distracted by Gojo’s incredible body, his ruby-reddened cock had slipped between your legs. There, Gojo had been keeping his length cushioned by your pretty, pretty legs.
Only now was he lettin’ his drivelling tip sliiiiiiide down your slit- giving you an experimental stretch along your first rim. “And yer wearing my name, aren’t you~?” It makes him fucking blush - out of everything…this is what breaks him - to see Gojo 66 and the blue jersey against your skin. You can’t help but nod again. “Then you’re doing to- fucking- take it- like a winner, sweetheart.”
Between each word, Gojo pauses to give a thorough slashing of his thickened cock.
He’s not even fitting in all the way at first- just the globular tip.
Just that decadent girth; where his shaft had flared out massively - all blushing red and plastered in precum - and then honing out into a perfect point to just dive right into you. Gojo’s length also had a slight curve reaching towards the top of your cunt—and he was built oh-so-perfectly to itch at your sweetest spots inside.
Not that you were going to admit it, of course.
“Cock got your-”
“You already used that line, Satoru.” You’re grumbling- though it’s a proper task to keep your voice steady in front of him. To pretend you’re not as affected as you really are.
And Gojo notices. Of course, Gojo Satoru notices. “Y’know…you might not be honest.” He titters in your ear. And then he’s shovellin’ in a few more thick inches—you’re feeling the near-spherical end of his shaft slip inside without too much resistance. You just wanted him so badly. “But this pretty cunt sure is. And what do you think she has to say about me?”
“I-I don’t need to—”
“She’s saying…”
Gojo trails off. Though not without reason.
Almost that very instant, he’s un-velcroing his chiselled abs from your back. A soft whimper leaves your lips as you’re startin’ to miss him already. Already.
But Gojo’s merely pattin’ at your utterly stuffed pussy. You only had a few inches of him pushed inside and throbbing inside you, but your cunt still struggles to take him. “Needy girl. Be patient for a fuckin’ minute- sheesh.”
And then he’s tugging at your jersey.
You’re looking up in confusion.
Then he’s pulling at your jersey—
And only too-late are you realizing that Gojo has that hem of your - his - football jersey bunched up. Using just a single one of his hands, he’s twistin’ his fingers around the velveteen fabric and trapping you right along with it—then he’s dragging you- just by the hold he has on your jersey. He falls back on his haunches.
And he’s taking you right along with him.
Now you’ve got your arms lifted off the bed- in a praying position…except Gojo’s fat cock was drilling into you from behind. With your ass cheeks against his pap-pap-papping hips, with his thick meaty thighs kneading into yours.
His hips are pushing and pushing and pushing—wielding his cock into yours so deeply, so furiously, that it’s as if the man’s entire body has been set alight.
Raw desire runs through his veins instead of blood- and Gojo’s letting out such an animalistic growl- “S’my fuckin’ name on you…”
His mouth waters- waters at the mere notion.
Shit, what an effect you had on him. Maybe all that adrenaline during interviews was…
Gojo’s never felt so utterly drunk than he was in this very moment—pussydrunk. Like the most intense of alcoholics chase their vise, he’s chasin’ the back of your gooey cunt. Every thrust manages to scrape his pumping veins against that snug channel of yours, every thrust manages to push him a little deeper than he already was. What a wonder he’s managed to fit in the first place.
You were just so fucking tight and heavenly that it’s as though you were sucking Gojo’s sanity - and soul - right out of him.
“My fucking name.” He repeats. Breathless. Gojo thwacks! his extremely tight balls against the front slit of your cunt. More beads of syrupy slick end up leaking out of you—n’ they’re pouring down Gojo’s vast shaft. “My fucking number on you.”
“Sh-shiiiiit—” You’re clawing for a lifeline: anything. Your only hope is to bend your arms behind your head- and start clawin’ at Gojo’s own sweaty scalp instead.
As he rams in again and again and again—your poor ass cheeks were stinging.
Gojo’s almost all the way bottomed-out now. It makes your back arch, and your throat bubble over with moans instead of answers. “Fuck-”
The audacity that he has…no one but Gojo Satoru could have. He’s mocking your moans- “Satoru, fuck~” Before rolling those azure eyes of his and emptyin’ every inch of himself into the back of your pussy. “Yeah, yeah- fucking you is exactly what I’m—oh.”
Oh, was right.
It was exactly right.
Because just then Gojo finally - finally - bottoms out. He’s gotten all of his inches happily trapped between your gorgeous legs.
And it’s not just that.
Just then Gojo’s breath hitches.
Just then Gojo thinks he can’t breathe- his entire upper half collapses on top of yours—and you’re being pushed back into a regular, sloppy doggy position. Gojo’s letting shivers run amok across his skin, Gojo’s letting his handsome features twist into something of pure euphoria as he bottoms out- how can it feel this good?
This fucking good?
And in the time it’d taken the self-proclaimed world’s best striker to shatter on your pussy- you’d gathered yourself up.
At least to the point where you can look at Gojo over your shoulder and smirk. “Pussy got your tongue, Satoru?”
He frowns. “Har har—very fun- fuck, don’t squeeze me like that.” Gojo’s eyes flutter shut- on the edges of his lashes, you think you’re seeing tears. “I th-think I might cum.”
“Just that from a winner?” You’re tutting. “I thought you were the strongest, Satoru.”
“I-I am-”
“Then wouldn’t the strongest also have incredible stamina?” You’re looking at him—Gojo’s peripherals are glazed-over with a thick layer of lust. His hair was a mess. His lips were kiss-bitten. There’s a sort of unleashed hunger within him that makes you wish for him to ravage you…You pout. “And here I was hoping we could go- all night.”
He shivers at the words - cock pulsating deep inside you.
But you’re not done just yet. “But ah…I suppose if you can’t, then maybe Get-”
You don’t get to finish your sentence - not even your thought - before Gojo’s hips are pinning yours down. His upper half is cushioned against you. His bodyweight fully keeps you delightfully trapped- as Gojo’s starting to fuck you like an animal.
He pushes you into the mattress.
He fucks you into the mattress.
His thrusts deeeeeep and loooooong—all the way from the slick-embellished top of his shaft, and then down, down, down until you’re feeling your cunt struggling around his incredibly thick base. The scruff of Gojo’s white pubic hair pushed n’ pulled against your pussylips-
Grinding.
And before you could even register the different sensation, Gojo already has one of his hands looped underneath you. The calloused tips of his fingers are instantly finding your clit, like magnets find one another, and he’s teasin’ that sweet nub. Again and again—tuggin’. “I c-can’t believe…” Gojo chokes out eventually.
“What was that?” You’re asking with a pointed clench of your sopping wet lips.
And the man above you instantly shudders. “Don’t think I don’t know what you’re doing, girl.” He somewhat snaps- but rather than irritation it’s simply pure need in his words. Gojo pinches your clit. “It doesn’t matter h-hoooooow many times you clench- or just hooooow pussydrunk you’re getting me…”
You’re keening as he swabs your g-spot several times.
“But I- won’t- forget- whose- jersey- is on- you—” Gojo says between thrusts.
Every one of his movements was getting more n’ more erratic by the second- sweat drenched every part of him, and a curtain of his white hair obscured those laser-blue eyes. Locked in on his target: you.
Gojo’s touch is searing as he’s pinching your clit once again—“But just in case this pussy does- heh, get too rowdy…how about you remind me?” Your eyes are jerking open at his words. What does he…“Because it feels fucking gooood wearing the winner’s jersey as he fucks you, huh? Huh?”
Your lips quiver. Pressure was building at the pit of your stomach. “Y-yes…”
“Oh yeah? What does it say, then?” The team captain whispers. He’s using his dexterous fingers to twist your too-sensitive nub, and you’re whimpering.
“Fuck-”
“I already told you before- oh. M’already fucking you.” Gojo’s mirthful grin spreads across his face. He had that pussydrunken look about him as his hips accelerated. Even more. “But that’s not the- hah, question. What number is it?”
“S-six six…” You’re letting out in a defeated gust of air.
“Mmmm, good girl.” Maybe because you’re being such a good girl - Gojo takes the time to lazily and lethargically draaaaaaag his vein-covered cock wherever he felt like you were the most delicate. His zig-zagging patterns were getting outlined deep, deep inside you—and you’re shivering as he inches close to your g-spot. “And what name?”
He can’t stop himself from nudgin’ himself just a little closer and puuuushing down hard and thoroughly on that nerve-covered spot. “O-ohhhhh, fuck, there-”
Gojo’s face contorts - his brows furrow, his jaw drops. “Tell me the fucking name, sweetheart~”
“Gojo Satoru.” Barely even audible.
He leans in with an exaggerated smirk. “What was thaaaat?”
“Gojo Satoru- fuck.”
“And how many goals did I score today, Miss Reporter?”
You’re clawing at the pillows by now. “Th-three—!”
“Oh yeah?” Gojo hums. “M’gonna double it tonight.”
You don’t need to wait too long to find out exactly what Gojo meant- because in mere split-seconds, he’s reeling his hips baaaaack and snappin’ them. Once from the very blushin’ tip-top and down to the hilt. “Goal.” He whispers as he grazes past your g-spot - activating the white-hot pleasure from your cunt to your brain - and striking his target of your cervix. “H-heh.”
“Yellow card for being such a dick.” You whisper.
“Oh, but you love a winner’s dick.” He counters. And it’s barely three seconds later that you’re feeling another forcefield of carnal vibrations that set your teeth on edge—“Oh- and goal.”
Saliva puddles on the pillow in front of you. The hotel headboard has your nail marks on it- dammit.
Gojo repeats- faster this time. “Goal- oh, look at that…a hatrick.” His voice is on the verge of shattering- “Can we make that double hatricks?”
“O-oh my god, Satoru-”
“It’s captain.”
And then he’s pumping out those final few thrusts—hands a blur upon your throbbin’ clit, hips a blur between your legs. That jersey bearing Gojo’s name was drenched in sweat and stuck to you like a second skin- “Goal.” It’s radiating the heat that your body was giving off. “Goal.”
It’s displaying that number and that name so proudly. So fucking proudly.
And for that last and final score of his—Gojo’s bending down until he’s able to press his mouth against the area between where your shoulderblades should be. He kisses that spot. He licks his name on your skin. “Goal.”
And it’s inevitable that you’re crashing into your high as one.
Gojo holds you closely as incredible bursts of pleasure make your cunt convulse- you’re practically keeping him glued to your walls. It just felt too good to let him go, even if it was just to fuck you through your high. And it’s by pushing past that little resistance that Gojo’s managing to probe his rounded tip into you- to press those invisible buttons of yours that prolong your high.
More and more and more. This was an orgasm even better than your last one- and you hadn’t even known that’d be possible (not to boost Gojo’s ego).
Counting underneath his breath, he times the exact moment of your euphoria peaking—and then he’s bangin’ his rock-hard tip right on time. Bruising the back of your pussy.
White-hot pleasure was sizzlin’ just beneath your skin every time he did—and you felt as though your heart was beating too fast for you to keep up with. It’s a pounding drum in your ears, your chest…and your pussy.
Wrapped so vehemently ‘round Gojo’s own twitching cock.
He was pumping out wad after wad of looooong white cum that sticks to the inner lining of your pussy. Groaning. Grinding. Pleasure was tingling at the tips of his fingers, and all around him- soon enough you’re feeling a few tears of bliss splatter down your back. “You’re…” You just barely manage to breathe.
Gojo humps your behind like an animal- just shaking at the sheer force of his high. Gojo hums as he collects the droplets on the tip of his cock, and starts fucking it into your deepest depths- inside. Inside and inside.
It was just so warm and gummy inside you. Spreading. Seeping.
Overspilling.
There wasn’t to be a single ounce wasted.
Gojo’s fingers alternate between rolling over your clit n’ helping push the excess amount of cum frothing around your entrance back inside. Some of it was currently forming a ring around his hilt, and he’s swiping it away using his thumb—popping it inside his mouth. “N-not bad for a guy you hate, huh~?”
Your eyes are shooting open. “Hate?” You frown. “I’ve never hated you, Satoru.”
And that makes the smile slip off his face. “Huh? But I always thought…you always asked me those probing questions and-”
“Satoru, that’s because I’m interested in you…as a player. Of course.” You’re admitting somewhat shyly. The two of you were past your orgasms by this point, and Gojo had taken to spooning you from behind whilst his cock was still inside. “I thought you hated me-”
“Me?” Gojo gapes. “When have I ever hated you? I flirt with you all the fucking time-”
“You flirt with everyone.” You huff. “But it’s just…that time after you’d gotten your offer for the national team. I don’t know if you remember, but it was my first interview then and-”
“Of course I remember.” He interjects.
Something warms in your chest. “But then- why didn’t you show up?”
“Pardon?”
“You promised you’d do your first interview with me- and I promised you’d be the first athlete I interviewed.” There’s a sadness in your tone - not overwhelming, just missing what might have been. “I waited and waited for you, but you never showed up.”
“You waited for me?” Gojo gasps.
“Yeah? I didn’t want to bother you too much, so I went to meet you at the field-”
“I didn’t want to bother you too much, so I went to meet you at the media room.”
You stare at Gojo. Gojo stares right back.
You sort of want to laugh- no wait, you’re laughing.
And he’s following right after. “I think we have a lot to talk about.”
“Mhmmm, but first how about you pull out, Satoru?”
“Aw, man.”
“And then next I’ll let you put the black card in my mouth while you fuck me.”
“Fuck yeah.”
.
.
.
Eight years ago.
“Are you new here?”
Gojo startles.
The Japan Football Association (JFA) had a meeting room…as Gojo Satoru supposes that all football headquarters do.
He wouldn’t know.
But outside was the waiting room.
He also wouldn’t know whether other places had such purgatories- but then again, he digresses.
It was a hallway with two rows of chairs pushed against either side of it—gleaming plastic chairs that sat emptily - and strangely ominously - before photographs of some of the JFA’s most famous recruits. Gojo felt a strange sense of pride and fear soar up in him as the only chair occupied—perhaps mirror images of all the great players that had sat in them years prior.
Well, as the second chair occupied.
So focused on reciting his name, his age, and his position to himself - things that should come as naturally to him as breathing, now strangely so foreign in this stuffy waiting room - he hadn’t noticed you until you actually spoke to him. Which…you must forgive him.
Everything tends to slip Gojo Satoru’s mind when he thinks of football: people, places, eating and sleeping.
And yet…with your soft call- he turns to you. There’s an instantaneous and mad urge for Gojo to flash his best, most flirtatious smile that’d gotten him voted as Most Handsome Boy for every year of elementary school and middle school. And yet, the memories of high school come rushing to him unbidden—and Gojo’s suddenly tampering it down.
Expressionless. “Yes?”
“Don’t do that.” You huff. You looked about his age- and by the uniform you were wearing, it didn’t seem that you were another recruit. He wonders what you were doing in such a place. “That smile of yours is so pretty- did you know that you have a dimple?”
“I…” Gojo watches as you point at the edge of your left lip. He reaches a hand up to feel for that very spot, softly smiling—just for the experiment. “Oh- I suppose I do.”
You shrug. “Win ‘em over with that smile, I tell you. You’re Gojo Satoru—the youngest recruit for the team, aren’t you?”
He feels his heartbeat pick up. “I don’t know…I hope so.”
“Tch- don’t be silly.” And it shocked Gojo just how casually you’d waved away his uncertainties - as though they were mere annoyances, like easy-to-catch mosquitoes, and not blood-thirst buzzards. “The interview’s basically a formality. The entire building’s talking about you. Gojo Satoru: the youngest recruit in Japanese football history, the football prodigy from a small town in Hokkaido, the new generation of Japanese football.”
The more you spoke, the more Gojo’s eyes widened. The more he held his breath.
“You’re like the Luffy of football right now, man.” You smile. “Have some more confidence- you’re Gojo Satoru.”
At the time, he hadn’t known how to respond to that. So he’d simply asked—“And are you…”
“Not a player.” Turning to the chair on your other side, you pulled out a notebook and a pen, an audio recorder, and a camera. “I’m an intern for the sports reporting department- it’s all I’ve ever wanted to do when I was young.” And he watched in something he’d later come to recognize as awe as you stared at the photographs of players in much the same way he did. “All those photographs? All those articles? It’s because of reporters—and if I can’t play on the field, maybe I can write the field’s stories, y’know?”
You sigh.
And he simply keeps on staring like a buffoon.
“Everything that happens on that field is a tale to be told.” And as Gojo’s awkward silence stretches, your smile turns sheepish. “Or- something like that…I don’t know it’s just-”
“Don’t do that.” He interrupts. This time, there’s a faint smile on his lips—and you could see the dimples. “Be confident, erm…”
You share your name.
He repeats it like a winning scorecard, a legendary play, maybe a last-minute unexpected goal. Extremely unexpected.
And from inside the meeting room, there’s a call of his name. Gojo’s jerking up to his lanky feet and looking at you- you shoot him two thumbs up. He nods.
He turns.
And he’s just about to enter through those doors that could very well change his life—
But, Gojo Satoru turns back.
He looks at you and flashes you that too-handsome smile. The first sight of it seems to shock you. “How about if- when I get back you can be the reporter to get the first-ever exclusive interview with the Gojo Satoru~?”
You blink. “I’d like that.” Surprise melting from your expression and letting you smile. “I’d really, really like that—oh, shit, I should get my good camera for the photos- good luck—!”
And with your cheerful tone echoing down the hallway, Gojo huffs out a chuckle. He’s almost at the meeting room door when he realizes that he hadn’t exactly gotten a time and place for this interview - and who knows how long this meeting will last - but when he’s looking back you’re already disappeared.
Ah, that’s fine. He supposes.
He’ll find you anyway.
.
.
.
Gojo Satoru’s first-ever professional interview was alongside Coach Yaga with some veteran reporter he now can’t remember the name of.
Your first-ever professional interview as a sports reporter was with the long-retired striker, Gakuganji, who’d taken time out of his busy electric guitar shredding schedule.
The two of you shouldn’t have drifted apart.
But then again, the two of you shouldn’t have found each other either. We are all parallel lines of the same football field; untouching and unceasing—not unless there’s bound to be a—goal
Gojo Satoru was face-to-face with the goal.
He takes a deep breath.
He points.
He kicks.
He scores.
There’s a second of silence before anything happens - like the brief yet somehow deafening pause before a rocket takes off. And just as loudly—the cheers of fans, Japanese and non-Japanese supporters alike, erupt raucously until the very frame of the stadium seems to rattle itself. They were crying. They were jumping. They were cheering themselves hoarse, because—
“Japan has just won the FIFA World Cup! For the first time in history, Japan has just won the FIFA World Cup! Gojo Satoru has done it again—!”
1-2 to Japan.
To say that the match had been close would be the understatement of the century; but you suppose you’ll write all about it in some exclusive article. Later.
Right now, your gaze was fixated on the flashes of white n’ blue barely discernible through the explosion of confetti. As what seemed like hundreds of members of the audience break through the bars and run to the embracing team, there’s only one that’s untangling himself free from the embrace and running straight—to you.
You’re in Gojo’s strong, sweaty arms before you even know what’s happening.
“And is that Gojo—?! Our MVP Gojo is breaking free from his team- running to the lovely lady, eh? All because of that bet. And here we have more celebrations from—”
His face pushed into the crook of your neck, and his chest hammering against yours- “We did it.” Gojo pants - and you’re vaguely aware of Shoko zooming in on the scene with a cackle. “We did it, sweetheart.”
You’re pulling back slightly from him and smiling. “I always knew you could.”
He kisses you and he’s never meant anything more.
A/N. WHERE’S MY GOJOOOOOOOO?? Anyways ugh I’d been SOBBING during Modrić’s final match.
You were friends with him from birth - the boy across the street, Satoru Gojo. However, you lose touch in college, but finally you're going to the same school! You have a love letter written, but you find Satoru - the football captain - is dating the top cheerleader. And she hates you. You're the girl who doesn't really get noticed, the girl in the bleachers playing the clarinet, watching Satoru score a touchdown and kiss his girlfriend. It hurts, but you try to stay uninvolved, but you're watching the boy you knew hurt. Can the two of you have a friendship anymore, and does he feel the same way as you?
pairings - football star! gojo x band geek! reader
warnings - angsty, emotional, hurt comfort, smutty - this chap - cute, fluffy, a first date with Satoru, lots of tension, kissing, dry humping, oral (m receiving) fingering, panty fucking, the two of them being all fucking cute and in love bc I need it.
based on the T Swift song! Part of @indiewritesxoxo series event! I missed this one and wanted to dive back in hehe <3
art by @/Jan on X!
<<<part four
part five
The scent of your pretty perfume is in the air as you give yourself one last spritz, across your collarbones, turning this way and that as you look at your reflection in the mirror. Satoru’s favorite scent on you, the one you’ve worn since he’s met you damn near.
God, it’s been a long time.
Doubts abound in your mind today prepping for your date – no matter how much pep talk you’ve gotten from Nanami, Utahime, Shoko and Suguru, there was the lingering doubt that perhaps Satoru was just rebounding. That it was way too fucking soon since Sarah destroyed him, his confidence was clearly lacking, and you didn’t want to be a rebound.
Yet you wanted to be there for Gojo, wanted to be with him – wanted to belong to him, and him to belong to you. As it always was in your mind, yet for years Satoru never saw you as more than the ‘best friend’. So your mind couldn’t stop racing, remembering the shitty words Sarah had said in your ear.
She thought Satoru was all hers – and he was, for some time, until you came. In a way you feel every bit this terrible woman who came and stole her man, but on the other side of that, you can’t imagine not taking the chance with the boy you’ve loved as long as you could remember. The one who lost the light in his eyes due to just how terrible Sarah was.
Sarah didn’t get Satoru.
She didn’t understand him, she wanted him to be a perfect Gojo, not the nerdy Satoru deep down, and how she broke him? You can’t ever accept it, but it didn’t stop the nagging doubts as you touch up some lipstick.
You didn’t dress glamorous like Sarah, but you were trying to look pretty. The dress you chose for tonight is simple and cute, a pretty pink silk that cinched right in the waist with a cute little bow. It’s something you didn’t know you’d ever actually wear, the girl who always tends to be casual, you can’t help but tug at it this way in that, making sure it looks pretty on you.
Your phone buzzes on your nightstand, making your heart race – cheeks heating right up as you pick it up and see his name.
Toru: I’m outside, sweetheart.
“Sweetheart,” you murmur, biting your lip and almost giggling with how fucking excited you were.
He always called you that as kids, but after last week when he’d buried his face in between your thighs, came in your hand, kissed you?
It felt different.
You grab your bag and sling it over your shoulder, wondering just why you were so nervous. You’ve known Satoru Gojo your whole life and he’s seen you bare faced, wearing sweats, bathing suits in the summer, you’re more comfortable with him than almost anyone. So why now, was it so different?
It was a date. That’s why.
You take a steadying breath, eyes shutting for a moment to calm yourself, before opening the door, down the stairs and in front of the dorm building in a few moments, seeing Satoru leaning against his car. Legs crossed at the ankle, the setting sun reflecting and shimmering on his form, just enhancing how good he looks.
It’s a pair of dark blue jeans and a black t-shirt, simple, sure, but you know Satoru Gojo – and you just know that shit costs thousands. He loves a good material, and that shirt and those jeans fit him perfectly. He looks up from the phone, smiling all cute right at you, melting your fucking heart, which hammers as his gaze slips across your body carefully.
“Well, fuck,” he breathes out those words as you walk over to him now, pretty blue eyes studying you slowly, lingering on the pretty curve of your tits in that dress, you can feel it like he’s actually touching you. “You’re trying to kill me.”
“What? No way,” you giggle, your voice just a breathy whisper as you bite down on your lower lip, and he takes you by your hands, holding your arms out a bit to tilt his head.
“I don’t even think I’ve seen you in a dress since like prom,” he murmurs, you blush under his gaze, letting him spin you around. “Fuck it’s cute on you.”
“I just wanted to look nice for our date,” you look down shyly, unused to so much attention, Satoru tilts your chin up, letting your hair fall back.
“Nice? No, beautiful is what you look like.”
“Toru…” he cups your face, leaning down, his breath ghosting sweetly over your lips. “Thank you. You look so good-”
He doesn’t wait for you to finish your sentence, he just dips his head and captures your lips with a soft kiss, one that has you melting in his embrace. Your lips part, letting his tongue sweep inside the hot recesses of your mouth, gliding against yours in a slow, teasing motion that has you aching for more.
Your arms wrap his neck, tip toeing to hold on to him, his hand warm against your lower back, pressing you even closer against the hard lines of his body, you can already feel his length behind those damn jeans, pressing against your stomach. The memories of him whimpering as you stroked him hit hard.
He promised the next date you’d get to suck him.
You swear you’re so worried you’ll do a terrible job, you tried to research via porn and couldn’t figure out how these girls were so talented. Satoru was huge.
But the thought of sucking it?
It has you arching, gasping for a breath as he takes you over, his other hand entangling in your hair, turning so you’re pressed against his pretty sports car. He lifts one of those thighs, pressing harder, and you can’t help but eagerly arch, rolling your hips and crying out.
“Toru,” you whine those words out, pulling back with saliva dissolving between your mouths, when he finally pulls back, whispering your name right back in an octave that fucking ruins you. “Someone will see!”
“Let ‘em see,” he chuckles just a bit, this psychotic look in the normally sweet blue eyes that fucks you up more. “They should know who you belong to now, who I belong to, shouldn’t they?”
“You have no clue what that means, for you to…” You trail off now, letting his cool thumb stroke your cheek.
People were walking back and forth, in and out of the dormitory, and some did peek over – Sarah and Satoru were the ‘golden couple’ and you surely looked like the very ‘rebound’ you were afraid to. You swallow down the nerves, hands clutching and unclutching his soft jacket he had slung over that dress shirt, his letterman’s jacket that not long ago was slung over Sarah’s shoulders.
Why are you still so jealous!?
You hate it – you hate how worried you are for her revenge, how cruel she was not just to you, but to Satoru. The hurt she could cause.
“Sweets,” he tilts your chin up, feeling you tremble. “I’m going too fast-”
“No! No, please I want it all… It’s just that I’m so worried,” you whisper, eyes shutting a bit, before opening back to focus on the boy you love.
Things have been said – but not that.
“About her?”
“Her, the friends she has, hurting you somehow… your reputation. It could hurt and I’d feel terrible.”
“Let me worry about all,” he kisses you once more, easing your thigh down, the gentle breeze rushing across your skin, making you tremble even more. “They can say what they want about me, I really am tired of caring, sweetheart.”
“I bet you are,” you blink just a bit, kissing his chin, resting your brow on it. “It feels too easy in your arms and it’s terrifying me.”
“I kind of know what you mean,” he hugs you tightly, feeling not just the eyes of everyone around you both, but how scared you are.
It is scary, though, truly to have had this forever one way, and then to cross that boundary, one he never even dreamed of doing. Every time Satoru thought he would tell you his feelings, he had to hold it all back, so worried of losing you forever, not knowing the entire time you could have felt like that for him.
A part of him felt guilty, moving on from Sarah like this – he knows she’ll hate him more for it, but another part of him can’t fucking care. After the shit she pulled, the things she said, the way she acted? He couldn’t believe he’d let it go on for as long as he had, really, if it wasn’t for you he’s not sure he would have come out of it.
Would he have married her, like his parents’ wanted, and lived the cozy life that she desired, being a kept woman, which Satoru didn’t even mind. He would love to take care of the girl he marries so she doesn’t have to worry about anything, he wants kids some day, too. None of that was the issue – it was her.
Imagining the life he damn near almost had and how hollow it would feel had him sick to his stomach if he lingered on it for too long.
So he doesn’t.
He looks down at the way the pinks and golds in the sky are setting behind you, and just how fucking pretty you look like this, your eyes so nervous and glimmery, your cheeks hot to the touch. Your pretty lips all parted, slightly swollen from his very kisses, his kisses.
His.
You were his.
Or, you would be – there was not one world where Satoru would let this go, would let you go from him.
“Are you ready for our date, pretty?” He asks now, trying to lighten the slightly heavy mood, the lingering tension of a girl who should be gone from your mind, but one who is clearly still there.
He can read you like a book, it’s insanity to think he never could read the fact that you liked him back.
Like wasn’t really the word for what he felt, not even close.
“I am so excited,” you admit, giggling and kissing him again, Satoru opens the car door for you, but his hand lingers on your lower back as you slide in, his fingers tracing the curve of your hip through the soft material.
“God your ass in this - I mean!?”
“Satoru Gojo!” You smack at him and he blushes, looking rightfully abashed. “You pervert!”
“Fuck it’s like my mouth just said it without my brain connecting,” he grimaces and shakes his head as you snort, rolling your eyes and letting him slide in beside you, a hand on your thigh. “Forgive me, pretty?”
“The dinner better be good.”
“Mhm, of course it will be.”
A date with Satoru Gojo – the inner youth in you is fucking flipping out, right along with current you.
*****
Satoru’s hand is on your thigh so casually as the two of you sit next to each other in the little booth, his thumb stroking little circles on your skin that inch higher and higher, just to dart right back down. Maddening, like a second nature as the two of you peer at the menu, though you can’t focus on a goddamn thing.
Every time you shift in the plush bench, you feel the friction of the seat against your twitchy lil clit, already craving him so damn bad, the memories of the way he flicked his tongue on it swirling through your head. He looks at you as you move again, hips shifting, this smirk on his lips.
“You keep shifting like that and we’re not gonna make it to dinner,” he murmurs softly, leaning low. You gasp.
“You’d have me not eat!?”
“I’d be the one eating,” he teases, you exhale, a breathy little laugh escaping your lips as he moves his hand higher, teasing that skin there, you damn near press his hand between your thighs you clench up so tight. “Oh, you like that idea?”
“You know I do, bratty boy,” his fingers press firmly against your panty clad cunt for a brief moment, and you barely fucking bite back a moan, burying your face against the crook of his neck, hoping no one could hear your little gasp. “Toru….”
“Fuck, you’re already soaking through these panties, hmm?” You just nod, your face burning as you shift once more, his fingertips brushing over where you’re swollen and needy. “All from thinking of me?”
“You’re teasin’ me, meanie,” he laughs softly, shaking his head as you nip his neck with your teeth, earning his own little soft moan. “Revenge.”
“Revenge, hmm?”
“Mhm…” The waitress comes, having you both separate, she is bright and bubbly as she damn near gives Satoru her number, just for him to politely ignore her advances.
The audacity of people never serves to blow you away.
Yet in that very moment, you know all the attention is right on you, even as his damn phone goes off – it’s on vibrate as you’re both sipping on wine, nibbling on appetizers together. Yet it keeps buzzing on the table, moving in little circles it’s vibrating so fucking hard – Satoru glances at it, his jaw tightening a bit visibly.
“Wanna check?”
“No.”
“Toru it could be your parents, Suguru…” He sighs at that, picking up the phone and peeking at it, frowning, shoving it into his pocket with a hasty little gesture.
“Not them.”
Ah.
“Sarah?” you ask softly, unsure of just how to bring it up, he’s clearly frustrated at her incessant calling.
“She clearly can’t stand the thought of me not being at her beck and call anymore,” Satoru sighs and looks at you, forking a bite of food in your mouth. “Open up now.”
“You can’t say that,” he laughs softly, clearly trying to ease the tension, as you chew thoughtfully. “Mmm, it’s yummy.”
“It is,” you laugh again, when he reaches his hand over to you, his fingertips brushing against the corner of your mouth, where a little drop fell. The contact alone has your pulse just racing. “Very yummy.”
“Will I be finding out tonight?” You tease, then gasp. “Oh my god, I said that!?”
“Yeah you did,” he’s damn near snorting as you playfully shove him, feeling that blush rush across your cheeks, especially when his fingertips slide down the side of your neck, tracing the line of your collarbone, leaving goosebumps everywhere as the tension builds even deeper.
God it’s hard not to slide on his lap.
You’ve never felt this, and it’s terrifying.
The only thing that breaks up the tension is when that phone starts ringing again, buzzing in his pocket, he peers at it and glares.
“Toru…”
“She can fuck right off. I’m busy with you,” your lips tremble a bit, he grabs his fork and feeds you more. “Very busy.”
“Good,” you answer softly. “I’d get jealous.”
“Oh yeah?” He raises a brow and you nod, making him chuckle. “You’re fucking adorable.”
“Adorable, I’m serious!”
“I won’t make you jealous, ever…” He leans close, cupping your face once more. “All my undivided attention is here, okay?”
“I do?” He hums and nods, capturing your mouth in another sweet kiss, one that lingers and feels you so full, you can’t help but sigh and lean into it.
“I’m all yours tonight,” he grins, letting you feel the lines of his teeth. “Sounds slutty, doesn’t it?”
“It does a bit,” you’re so nervous now – Satoru is absolutely the more experienced one, and you won’t know what you’re doing when you try to please him. But damned if that will stop you from trying. “All mine?”
“Mhm.”
*****
The tension is damn near unbearable when the two of you get back in the car, and the two glasses of pinot are rushing through your veins, making you dizzy.
“I had so much fun,” you say softly as he pulls out of the parking lot, his hand right back on your thigh, possessive, so fucking warm. It’s not teasing like at the restaurant, it’s firmly sitting there, squeezing almost too hard. “Did you?”
“I did,” you hear his sigh. “Too much fucking fun.”
“It was! I can’t believe we went on a date,” he’s laughing again softly at how cute you are, with the lights shining in the car as he drives through the nearly empty streets at night, his fingertips trailing up towards that heat.
“We went on a date,” he slips his fingers past the hem of your dress, pushing aside the soaked fabric of your panties to find your slick, swollen folds, eliciting a filthy little whine from your throat. “Fuck… you’re even wetter…”
“All your fault,” you mumble, arching your hips, leaning closer. “Had me thinking of your promise.”
“Oh?” He feels how soaked you are, groaning out at it – his eyes flicking between you and the road, as he glides a lengthy finger through your wet, puffy folds, so hot he can’t imagine how good it’d feel around him. “All this thinking of sucking my cock, really?”
“Yes… ah! W-wanna…” Your head falls back against the seat as he finds your clit now, circling it with a practiced ease that has you petty and jealous as fuck that Sarah got it, you shove it right out of your mind, knowing it’s nonsense.
You wish it was only ever you two and that’s fucking ridiculous, what this boy makes you feel, as you’re rolling your hips against his hand, craving even more.
“Wanna what, hmm? Can’t talk?”
“Tease,” you moan in frustration when he pulls his fingers off, sucking one and making you gasp. “Toru… could I try now?”
“Sucking my cock driving!?!”
“Yes?” His eyes widen, fingers falling from his lips as you start panicking just a bit at your bold ass words. “I mean… no? I mean…. Yes.”
“Fuck…”
Is he in a dream?
“You really wanna?” He’s almost nervous, yes he’s done that a lot with Sarah, but this was you – sweet, innocent, band geek girl who he’s played alongside since the damn sandbox at the playground.
What if he hurt your mouth?
What if he gagged you?
What if you hit some speedbump and you bit it on accident, if you-
“I do want to try um, only if you want,” you whisper, he can hardly hold his thoughts together, mind swirling with every thought ever as you look at him all pretty in the night, your scent clinging to him, taste ruining his senses. “I wanna please you like you did.”
“Anything you do will,” he murmurs, leaning back as you all hit a red light and nervously fumbling with his zipper like it’s his damn first time, the metallic rasp of it echoing in the car, mixing with the quiet him. You bite down on your lip, undoing your seatbelt to lean over, a strap falling down your shoulder to reveal some of your pretty collarbone. “God, look at you.”
He frees his cock with a pathetic little whine, and it slaps hard against his stomach, thick and heavy, just leaking pre-cum right down that swollen tip, reddened with how badly he needs you. “Toru… you’re hard from…”
“Touching you? God, yes,” you lean forward, ever trusting, as he takes your hand and wraps it around him, exhaling, the light turns green and he very reluctantly starts driving, his hand leaving yours now, slipping up the back of your hair on your neck and entangling there as you kneel. “Feel what you do to me, pretty girl? Feel how hard I am for you?”
“Yes,” it’s heady, knowing you have this effect on him, as you stroke him carefully, your thumb swiping over the slick head, swirling that pre right around, earning his little groan, his head tilting back against the seat for just a moment. “Should I put my mouth around you?”
“God, please,” he laughs now. “Got me pathetic.”
“No, Toru,” you lap your tongue to gather it, climbing so you’re right on your knees with your ass up as he drives, his hand tightening when you wrap your mouth around his fat tip and suck. “Mnnh…”
“Fuckin’ perfect, shit,” he’s having trouble with just the tip in your mouth, that’s how fucked you have him as you suck, and he can’t stop the sounds escaping his mouth, ones Sarah would have made fun of if she could have ever even gotten them from him.
You’re so different.
You moan at his whimpers, you arch higher, soft and sweet how you suck, like you’re worried to hurt him – each bump on the road knocking his cock deeper in your throat. Stretching it, burning it, making him suck in a breath – whispering your name in a way that has you slick when he finds you over your panties.
“Oh sweetheart, you’re even wetter,” he runs his fingers underneath your panties, right along your bare, dripping folds, finding your hole and plunging right inside.
After teasing it all damn evening, his fingertip that pulls out and drags against your sensitive clit is almost too much, you’re drooling down his cock, taking him even deeper. “Mnh!”
“Like that?” he asks softly, his voice husky and deep – so fucking low it hits some part of you that makes you clench around him, as you swallow around his cock, slurping up every bit of pre that spurts out. “You’re doing so good, that’s it – don’t even have to tell you what to do.”
The praise fucks you up furthher, as he’s dragging his shaft through your wet mouth, his fingers pumping in and out of your slick pussy, she sucks two fingers in far easier than last time, so full with those callouses inside you the sensation is too hard to articulate. Your brain is all addled as you take more, until you’re choking on him, spit falling right around.
“Oh my…” He’s at another red light, hand pulling hard at your hair, his hips bucking up. “You takin’ cock like that? Choking just for me?”
“Mhm,” is your only response, your hands gripping his thighs, the denim rough underneath your skin as your head starts moving with his guidance. He’s bucking his hips up in a desperate, needy little rhythm as your lashes flutter shut, the noises just urging you on.
“Are you okay, baby?” He pauses when you gag, you pull back, looking at him with dazed eyes and dripping lips, nodding. “You sure?”
“I like choking on it…”
Fuck.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
Satoru knows he doesn’t have much longer, so fucking drunk off your mouth that he doesn’t notice the green lights, the horns behind you both, your mouth landing right back on his length. He hits another speed bump, shoving his cock so deep he feels your tiny throat stretching, his fingers landing back in your hair to try to tug you up, leaving your pussy empty.
“Sorry, shit, I…”
“No,” you murmur now, your tongue focusing on his tip, hand stroking his spit soaked cock as he drives. “Please, I like it.”
“Can’t take it,” he pulls right in front of your dorm now, dragging you on his lap, completely and utterly done for when he kisses the white off your mouth, tongue lavishing alongside yours as he drags your bare cunt against him, your thighs trembling on either side of him once he’s in park. “I need to feel her.”
“Toru I…”
“Won’t take your first time like this baby,” he reassures you immediately, gliding his tip through your swollen folds, hearing your every little sigh and whine as the steering wheel presses against.”
“What if I want it?” He pauses, cursing and resting his head against your chest, sighing.
“Not gonna fuck you in the car for the first, sorry,” he sighs at your cute little pout. “Didn’t you wanna wait a bit?”
“Not now.”
Satoru chuckles, grinding against you once more, watching your head fall back as he kisses up your throat. “Oh? Now you’re so ready, hmm?”
“Very,”, the friction is unbearably sweet, each jerk of his hips and drag of his cock against your clit shooting hot need right through you. The purring hum of his car is filled with the wet, slick sounds of your cunt on him, with the light whir of that air conditioner blowing on your skin. “I want it.”
“I want you,” he murmurs now, leaning back to tug your panties aside and slip his seat back, his eyes darting right to where you’re gliding and making a mess on him, watching his cock disappear and reappear from between your folds, picturing how good it’ll look when it’s in your stomach. “You’re so fucking wet for me, hmm? Making such a mess.”
He grabs your ass now, firmer than before – his long fingers digging into the soft flesh of it as he takes control of the pace, rutting even faster, kissing up your collarbone as your head falls to the side.
“Toru, in me…”
“Wanna lose it on the first date, baby? Tsk,” you shove at him playfully, making his eyes light up, and you pause.
Even if it’s filthy straddling Satoru Gojo like this, even if he’s leaking pre against your twitchy, needy clit, his eyes lighting up in the dark?
It’s so sweet.
It’s what you missed the most about him since he endured Sarah, the light you’d give anything to see again, right here, as he’s moving you up and down, fucking your panties when they slip back. His tip presses in and out, stretching the cotton, making it completely soaked and nearly transparent with the mix of fluids.
All while you peek at him under your lashes, so much left unsaid between the two of you.
“What is it? Hmm?” He is teasing you now grinding against your cunt, the rough denim of his jeans brushing against your inner thighs in a way that makes you even wetter. You can feel the pressure inside you building up so tight, this burning hot need in your stomach as you moan out, kissing him and rolling your hips right with his guidance.
“Your eyes,” you whisper, nose nuzzling his for just a moment as he pauses. “They're so happy right now.”
He can't stop the grin on his damn face.
“That's because of you,” you melt, kissing him messier now. “Got me all corny.”
“I like …. It, Toru… I’m…” you can barely form the words you need anymore, your body trembling as he lifts and drags you down, every kiss stealing your breath. “Gonna c-cum, I…”
“Me too, sweetheart,” he whispers out the words, his voice a hot breath against your lips. “Cum with me, yeah? Let me feel you soak my cock with all that pretty slick, please? Just for me.”
His words and his jerky motions are your undoing, the way he asks is so damn cute as if he's not this close to slamming you down on his cock. His tip hits your clit one more time, and you shatter over him, blinding pleasure so intense you see white hot stars behind your closed eyes.
“Look at me,” you try to obey, gasping out as you squirt right on him, your cunt clenching and pulsing around nothing as you gush. “Good girl. Fuck… good… girl…”
He's kissing you as he feels your slickness rushing down him, making the glide even easier, pushing him right over with you.
“Good girl…” he murmurs again, having you tremble from aftershocks and cling tightly to his shoulders, cursing when he finally cums right on you.
You gasp when you feel it – those hot, thick puffy ropes of white cum spurting against your cunt, so much some sticks to your stomach and pussy, coating your skin in a warm, sticky mess. He keeps grinding against you even after, even as he is so clearly desperate and needy, drawing out both of your pleasure orgasm as he pulses and twitches.
“God,” he groans out, the sound muffled against your neck, his teeth sinking into your skin as he bucks up a few more times, until you're both twitchy, oversensitive little messes.
For a moment, you both just breathe together and kiss softly, the only sounds in the now steamed up sports car are those, the whines, the whimpers, the hasty little murmurs of your names.
You can feel the frantic thrumming of your pulse, making you dizzy as you fall against him, whole body weak from pleasure.
If that's what just dry humping or panty fucking was, what was sex?
How would you take that!?
“Fuck I never thought I would feel this,” he finally whispers, after he catches his breath a bit, pressing soft, lingering little kisses along the curve of your shoulder, his hands coming up to stroke your back in little circles, easing back to study you.
God he is pretty like this.
“You okay. Baby, too much?”
You nod quickly, still so shy you hug him tightly, your face buried in the crook of his neck, inhaling his scent as you gather yourself. “Mhm.”
“You sure?” You nod again, too overwhelmed to speak with the sensation of still feeling his cum against your skin, feeling the intimacy.
“I am. Promise, just was… too good?”
He chuckles softly. “Yeah it was, I think I blacked out for a second there.”
You lift your head and giggle, a shy smile playing on your lips, brushing some of his hair back from his damp forehead, seeing just how affected he is too. “No way?”
“Yeah I really did.”
In the reflection of his dark, glassy eyes. you're just the mirror image of him. Fucked out and…
In love.
He looks utterly wrecked, just like you, and a part of you can't help but love it – love that you did that to him.
He reaches up, tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear, sighing as he studies you. “You’re so pretty, look at you.”
You blush at the praise, biting your lip. “You are.”
“Am I. Hmm?” He smirks lazily.
“Very, conceited boy, you already know…”
You are so in love it hurts.
Satoru is achingly gentle as he shifts you, eyeing the mess between you, his cum splattered across your stomach and the delicate silk of your dress, making him blush to the tips of his ears, seeing the crinkled material.
“Shit. I ruined your dress!”
You glance down and laugh softly, shaking your head.“It’s just a dress, it'll wash. It was so worth it.”
“Was it?” You giggle all cute again, ruining him. “Well, good… but, still, just lemme clean you up, yeah?”
Satoru is sweet and gentle as he carefully wipes the sticky fluid from your skin, that blush on his cheeks even redder as he sees just how much he came, his gaze still flickering back and forth between your eyes and the white on your skin.
“You were messy too,” you tease, he can’t help but grin as he kisses across your neck once more, wiping you carefully and easing your soaked cunt off him reluctantly.
“Very… there,” Satoru smooths your dress down over your soft thighs, his hands lingering on your hips and pressing in, despite the wrinkling of the fabric, you still looked so fucking pretty in it.
“All better?”
“Mhm, just perfect...”
He just holds you for a while after that on his lap, the sweetest hug after you are coming down from your high, back rubbed gently by his big hand, so soothing you feel yourself almost falling asleep.
It feels perfect with your head resting on his strong chest, his arms wrapped tightly around you, as the two of you match each other’s breathing, so much left to say that the silence is deafening.
Yet, it’s so new to you.
And he’s been hurt.
So for now, you both just snuggle, even as his phone buzzes again from his pocket, a persistent little fucking reminder that Sarah wasn’t just going to give up – despite treating Satoru like shit. The thoughts have your tummy flipping.
“Should you at least tell her to stop?”
“No, I won’t acknowledge her damn existence,” he says, taking the phone and putting it off vibrate now, grimacing and the amount of nasty ass texts and calls.
“What did she say?”
“Dumb shit that doesn’t matter,” he deletes the entire conversation, cupping your face once he sets down the phone. “Right now, this is all that matters, okay? You and me.”
You tilt your head back to look at him, your heart swelling. “Satoru… I…”
You swallow nervously, the words at the very tip of your tongue – It's too fast, even if you have known him forever. Satoru needs time to heal.
So for now, you just cup his face right back, letting him nuzzle and kiss your palm so cute your heart breaks.
The boy you always loved, you’re in his arms.
“I loved tonight, so much,” he grins again at that, bright white teeth against his face at your words. “I love the smile on your face tonight, and how your eyes are lit up so bright.”
“I feel the same looking at you,” he whispers, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead. “Me too, so much. I can't wait for the formal.”
“Oh my god, me too!”
He walks you back up after a little bit, lingering in your doorway, unable to stop kissing you over and over, almost having to literally tear himself off since he has football God awful early.
But it's damn near impossible not to beg to sleep next to you.
“Good night, sweets,” he says finally, after a million little kisses, seeing just how sleepy you are.
“I’ll be at your practice tomorrow!”
“No, you’re so tired…”
“I wanna go,” you yawn again, hugging him tightly. “I wanna be at every practice for you.”
His heart is melting as he kisses the top of your head.
“Then I’ll be here to pick you up, okay?”
“Mhm,” you sigh, never wanting to leave his embrace as sleep already tugs at you. “G’night Toru.”
He keeps ignoring that phone after he leaves you and heads back, only for Sarah to lose her shit – glaring as she paces back and forth, before she looks up your dorm information, smiling.
She'd have to just pay you a visit in the morning, to make sure you knew your place.
*****
You expect it to be Satoru when you yawn and open up the door, the love note in your hand – but it’s not him.
It’s Sarah.
Your heart races in your chest when she smiles all mean and jacks it right out of your hand, laughing.
Your closest friends Suguru and Satoru have come to your aid after a rough mission in this NSFW Choose Your Own Adventure. It seems they have a different way of comforting you, however...
🔗READ/PLAY HERE to make your own choices!
[Playthrough by Anonymous]
CW: Weed, intoxicated sex, Threesome, Cum eating / creampie eating, Overstimulation, Facefucking, Double penetration, Body worship, praise kink, Marking/possessive elements
"Then tell us. What have you been wanting?"
The red light hums. Satoru's hand goes still in yours, his thumb freezing mid-brush against your knuckles. For a long moment he stares down at your joined hands like the answer's written somewhere in the lines of his palm.
"I've been wanting—" He stops. Laughs, quiet and self-deprecating. "God, this is embarrassing. I'm supposed to be the smooth one."
"You're not," Suguru says, but there's no bite in it. His hand is still warm on Satoru's shoulder, grounding.
"Rude. And true." Satoru takes a breath, and when he speaks again his voice is steadier, softer, like he's finally decided to say the thing he's been carrying. "I've been wanting this. This— whatever this is. The couch, the red lights, the way you two look at each other like the rest of the world doesn't exist." His thumb traces your knuckles again, slow. "I've been watching you two for ten years. Ten years of 'you're my best friend' and 'I'm fine being alone' and 'this is just how it is.' And I kept telling myself I was fine with it. That I had my students, my mission, my— my role. That I didn't need—"
He trails off, and for once the joke doesn't come to rescue him.
"I didn't need to be part of something," he finishes, quiet. "Turns out I was wrong."
The room is very still. Suguru's hand on Satoru's shoulder tightens, just slightly, and his voice is low and rough when he speaks.
"You're not wrong anymore."
Satoru looks at him, blindfold catching the red light, and something in his shoulders finally, fully settles.
"We want you too. Both of us."
The words come out steady, warm, and you feel Satoru's hand tighten around yours, his breath catching in a way he'd never let anyone hear if he weren't this high, this loose, this open. His blindfold tilts toward you, then toward Suguru, reading both of you like he's checking for the punchline.
"You—" He stops, swallows. "Both of you?"
Suguru's hand slides from Satoru's shoulder to the back of his neck, a warm, sure weight. "Both of us," he confirms, low. "We've been dancing around it for years. You're not subtle, Satoru. Neither are we."
"I'm extremely subtle," Satoru says, but his voice cracks on the word, and he laughs at himself, shaking his head. "Okay. Okay, I'm not. I'm not subtle. I've been—" He gestures vaguely, blindfold slipping a little. "—this. For a decade."
"A decade," Suguru repeats, and there's something soft and wondering in his voice. He looks at you over Satoru's head, and his eyes are dark and warm in the red light. "We're slow."
"We're idiots," you say.
"We're idiots," Satoru agrees, and his grin is real this time, loose and bright. His hand is still wrapped around yours, and his thumb traces your knuckles like he's memorizing them. "Okay. Good. So we're all on the same page. Finally. Ten years, but who's counting."
The red light hums. Satoru is close now, knee pressed to yours, Suguru's hand warm on his neck, and the three of you sit there in the quiet, the silence full of everything finally said.
You lean in and kiss Satoru.
He goes still for half a second — the only tell, a sharp breath through his nose — and then his hand comes up, fingers brushing your jaw, and he kisses you back like he's been waiting his whole life for permission to. His lips are warm, slightly chapped, and he tastes like smoke and something sweet, a hint of the senbei from earlier. He tilts his head, deepening it, and a sound escapes him, quiet and surprised, like he didn't expect it to feel like this.
When you pull back, his blindfold has slipped, and you catch a sliver of blue before he blinks, dazed, pupils blown wide.
"Oh," he says, voice rough. "That's— that's a thing. That's a thing I like."
Suguru laughs, low and warm, and his hand finds the back of your neck, fingers threading into your hair. "Good," he says, and he presses a kiss to your temple, slow and deliberate, before his lips brush your ear. "You two are beautiful together. I've always known that."
Satoru's hand is still on your jaw, thumb tracing your cheekbone like he's memorizing the shape of you. He looks at Suguru over your shoulder, and something vulnerable flickers across his face before he grins, crooked and real.
"Your turn," he says. "I want to watch you kiss her too."
Suguru's eyes darken, and his hand tightens in your hair, tilting your head back just enough that the red light catches your face.
"Ask nicely," he says, but he's already leaning in.
You answer him with a kiss.
You close the distance and catch his mouth mid-lean, and Suguru makes a low sound against your lips, like he's been waiting for it. His hand tightens in your hair, tilting your head, and he kisses you deep and slow, the way he's kissed you a hundred times in kitchens and hallways and the backs of cars — but this time there's something unhurried in it, something that knows it doesn't have to end.
His free hand finds your hip, pulling you closer, and you taste smoke on his tongue, and dust, and the faint sweetness of senbei. Satoru's hand is still on your jaw, thumb tracing your cheekbone as he watches, and when Suguru finally pulls back, breath warm against your mouth, Satoru lets out a low whistle.
"Okay. Yeah. That's—" He gestures vaguely. "That's definitely something. I get it now."
"Get what?" Suguru asks, voice rough at the edges, eyes still half-lidded on you.
"Why you two are like that." Satoru's thumb brushes your cheek one more time before he drops his hand, grinning. "I've been watching you orbit each other for ten years, and I finally get it. It's not about the— the grand stuff. It's this."
His gaze lingers on Suguru, softer now. "It's this."
Suguru looks at him for a long moment, then reaches out and tucks a strand of Satoru's white hair behind his ear, slow and deliberate. Satoru goes still, then laughs, a little breathless.
"Careful," he says. "I might start believing you actually want me here."
"Good," Suguru says simply. "You should."
The red light hums. The three of you are tangled close now, knees pressed, hands touching, the bong forgotten on the table.
"I want you both. Now."
The words land like a match in dry grass. For a second nobody moves, and then Suguru's hand closes around your wrist, firm and sure, and he pulls you into his lap in one smooth motion. You settle against him, thighs bracketing his hips, and his hands find your waist, warm through the worn denim of your jeans. His head tips back to look at you, red light catching the dark of his eyes, and there's something in his face that isn't quite guarded anymore.
"You," he says, low and rough, "are going to be the death of me." His hand comes up, cups your jaw, thumb brushing the corner of your mouth. "You know I love you, right? You know that."
The words hit you somewhere soft. He's never said them before — not once, in all the years of shared meals and shared beds and shared silences. His eyes are glassy from the smoke, open in a way they rarely are.
"I had no idea what I would have done," he says, voice cracking at the edge, "if you'd died on that mission. No idea." His hand tightens on your jaw. "I love you. I should've said it a thousand times by now. I'm saying it now."
Satoru has gone quiet on the couch, watching, and there's something raw and tender in the set of his mouth. Suguru doesn't look away from you. He just pulls you down and kisses you, deep and slow and breathless, like he's trying to pour ten years of unsaid things into it.
When he finally lets you up for air, his forehead rests against yours, breathing hard, and his thumb traces your lower lip.
"Satoru," he says, voice rough. "Come here."
You reach out, hand finding Satoru's wrist, and pull him in. He comes easily — no resistance, no joke to hide behind — just the couch creaking as he shifts closer until his knee presses against Suguru's, his shoulder brushing yours.
Suguru's hand leaves your waist long enough to settle on Satoru's thigh, a warm, grounding weight. "There you are," he murmurs, and there's something tender in it, something that makes Satoru's breath catch.
"I'm here," Satoru says, quiet. His hand finds yours again, fingers threading through yours like he's checking you're still real, and his blindfold tilts toward Suguru. "I'm really here."
Suguru's hand slides from Satoru's thigh to his jaw, tilting his face toward him, and he leans in and kisses him. It's slow, the same unhurried care Suguru puts into everything he does, and Satoru makes a soft sound against his mouth, his hand tightening around yours as he kisses back like he's learning a new language.
When Suguru pulls back, Satoru's blindfold has slipped entirely, and his eyes are blue and wet at the edges, glassy from the smoke and something older.
"Oh," he breathes. "Okay. That's— yeah. That's definitely it."
Suguru's thumb traces his cheekbone, wiping at the damp corner of his eye, gentle and unbothered. "Good," he says. "You're ours now. No takebacks."
Satoru laughs, rough and wet, and leans his forehead against Suguru's shoulder, his hand still locked around yours. The red light hums over the three of you, tangled close on the couch, the bong forgotten on the table.
For a long moment, nobody says anything. Satoru's breath evens out against Suguru's shoulder, and Suguru's thumb keeps tracing slow arcs on your knee, and you sit there in the warm, quiet dark, full.
"Take us to bed, Suguru."
Suguru's eyes go dark, and for a long moment he just looks at you, his hands warm and still on your hips. Then the corner of his mouth curves, slow and knowing, and he stands in one fluid motion, taking you with him.
You wrap your legs around his waist on instinct, hands braced on his shoulders as he adjusts his grip, one arm under your thighs, the other splayed warm across your lower back. You can feel the dust and sweat on his uniform, the steady beat of his heart against your chest.
"Say it like you mean it next time," he says, voice low in your ear, and there's a heat in it that makes your stomach drop pleasantly. He turns his head, looking at Satoru, who's still on the couch, blindfold gone, blue eyes wide and wet and fixed on the two of you.
"You coming?" Suguru asks, and it's not a question so much as an invitation that's already been accepted.
Satoru blinks, then laughs, rough and disbelieving, and gets to his feet. He's a little unsteady on them, the smoke and the night and everything that's happened catching up with him, but his grin is real, bright, crooked.
"Ten years," he says, shaking his head as he follows, close enough that his hand finds your ankle, warm and tentative. "Ten years and you two finally let me in."
Suguru carries you through the doorframe into the dark of the bedroom, the red light spilling in behind you, and the room smells like your sheets and the faint ghost of sandalwood. He sets you down on the edge of the bed, gentle, and looks down at you, then at Satoru standing in the doorway, caught in the red glow.
"Shut the door," Suguru says, soft, "and come here."
You reach for Satoru, fingers closing around his wrist, and pull. He comes down easy, one knee landing on the mattress beside you, the other bracing on the floor, and for a moment he just hovers there above you, blue eyes catching the red spill of light through the doorway.
"You're really doing this," he breathes. "Both of you. With me."
Behind him, Suguru closes the door. The red light narrows to a thin line under it, and the room goes soft and dark around the edges, your sheets cool beneath your back, the air close with the ghost of sandalwood and smoke.
Suguru's hands find Satoru's shoulders from behind, warm and sure, and he guides him down until Satoru's weight settles over you, chest to chest, his breath hitching against your mouth. One of his hands lands beside your head, trembling slightly.
"Breathe," Suguru murmurs, low in the dark. He's kneeling behind Satoru, one hand sliding down his spine, the other finding your hip over the blanket. "You're okay. We've got you."
Satoru lets out a shaky exhale, and some of the tension leaves his frame. He dips his head, forehead brushing yours, and when he speaks his voice is rough, barely above a whisper.
"You have no idea how long I've wanted this. Wanted you."
Suguru's hand finds the nape of Satoru's neck, tilting his head up, and he leans in and kisses him slow and deep from behind, a claiming kind of kiss that makes Satoru's hand clench in the sheets beside your head. When Suguru pulls back, Satoru's eyes are wet at the edges, and he laughs, broken and bright.
Suguru's gaze drops to you, dark and warm, and his thumb traces the line of your jaw.
"Now you," he says, low. "Come here."
You reach up and catch the back of Suguru's neck, fingers threading into his hair, and pull him down to you. He comes without resistance, a low sound rumbling in his chest as his mouth finds yours. He tastes like smoke and green tea, and his hand slides up your side, warm through your hoodie, settling at the curve of your waist.
Behind him, Satoru shifts on the mattress, and you feel his hand land on your hip, tentative, then firmer when you don't pull away. His thumb traces the jut of your hipbone through the denim, and he lets out a shaky breath against your shoulder.
Suguru kisses you deep and slow, like he's got all the time in the world and intends to use every second of it. His fingers tighten in your hair, tilting your head just so, and he takes control of the kiss the way he takes control of everything — unhurried, certain, generous. When he finally pulls back, his forehead rests against yours, breath warm and even.
"Been wanting to do that all night," he says. "All day. All year."
Satoru makes a small sound — almost a laugh, almost a whine — and Suguru's eyes slide to him, dark and amused. "You're patient, aren't you? Ten years and you're still waiting your turn."
"I'm not waiting," Satoru says, but his voice is thin, and his hand is trembling slightly where it rests on your hip. "I'm just— appreciating. The view."
Suguru's mouth curves. He releases your hair and reaches past you, fingers finding Satoru's jaw, drawing him in until their foreheads touch.
"Come here," he says, low. "Appreciate closer."
You don't wait for an invitation. You lean across the small space between you, hand sliding up Satoru's chest to the nape of his neck, and you kiss him.
He makes a sound against your mouth — soft, startled, like he still can't quite believe this is real — and then his hand comes up, fingers brushing your jaw, and he kisses you back with everything he's been holding in for ten years. It's clumsy at the edges, unpracticed, and that makes it better somehow. Real.
Suguru watches. You feel his gaze on you, heavy and warm, and then his hand settles on the back of your neck, not pulling you away, just holding you there, a quiet claim. His thumb traces the line of your throat as you kiss Satoru, slow and deep.
When you finally pull back, Satoru's eyes are glassy, his lips parted, a faint flush high on his cheeks. He laughs, breathless, shaking his head.
"Okay," he says. "Okay. I get it now. I really get it now."
Suguru's mouth curves against your temple. "Told you," he says. "She's hard to let go of."
His hand slides from your neck down your spine, fingers tracing the line of it through your hoodie, and he looks at Satoru over your shoulder, something dark and satisfied in his eyes.
"You ready for more?" he asks, low, and his other hand finds Satoru's thigh, squeezing once. "Or do you need a minute?"
Satoru swallows. His hand is still on your jaw, thumb tracing your cheekbone like he's memorizing it.
"I've been ready for ten years," he says, rough. "I'm not gonna need a minute."
"Then show us."
The words hang in the dark, and you watch Suguru's eyes go dark and pleased, like you've just said exactly what he wanted to hear. His hand leaves Satoru's thigh and comes up to cup your jaw, thumb brushing the corner of your mouth.
"Gladly," he says, and he kisses you once, hard and quick, a promise — and then he's turning to Satoru, hand sliding to the back of his neck, drawing him in until their mouths meet. Satoru makes a sound against him, hands coming up to grip Suguru's uniform like it's the only thing holding him upright, and Suguru kisses him like he means it, slow and deep, one hand splayed warm across Satoru's chest.
You watch them from the bed, the red light catching the line of Suguru's jaw, the way Satoru's fingers curl into the fabric of his collar, the way he tilts his head back into Suguru's hand like he's been waiting his whole life to be held like this.
Suguru pulls back just enough to speak, lips brushing Satoru's.
"Look at her," he says. "She's watching us."
Satoru's eyes find yours over Suguru's shoulder, blue and hazy and hungry, and his mouth curves into something real, something unguarded. "Let her watch," he says, rough. "I've watched her for ten years. Fair's fair."
Suguru laughs low, and his hand slides down Satoru's chest, over his hip, pulling him closer. The mattress dips as he shifts Satoru toward you, until the three of you are a tangle of knees and breath in the dark.
"Your turn," Suguru says, looking at you. "Show us what you want."
Your answer is in the space between them. You reach for Satoru first, hand sliding along his jaw, and you kiss him — slow, letting him feel the weight of being chosen. He makes a soft sound into your mouth, his hand finding your waist, and he kisses you back like he's memorizing the shape of it.
Then you turn, and Suguru is already there, waiting, dark eyes half-lidded in the red light. You catch his mouth with the same slowness, and his hand threads into your hair, holding you there, letting you set the pace. He tastes like smoke and green tea and something patient, something that knows it doesn't have to rush.
When you pull back, both of them are looking at you like you've hung the moon.
"See?" Suguru murmurs, thumb tracing your lower lip. "She knows exactly what she wants. She always has."
Satoru laughs, a little breathless. "Yeah. That's— that's the thing about her." His hand is still warm on your hip, fingers curling into the fabric of your hoodie. "She's never been shy about it."
Suguru's eyes slide to him, then back to you, and his hand settles on the hem of your hoodie, knuckles brushing the skin of your stomach. He doesn't pull it up. He just waits, a question in the set of his mouth.
"Can I?" he asks, low. "I want to see you."
Satoru's breath catches beside you, and his hand tightens on your hip, watching.
You lift your arms, slow, and the answer is in the motion of it. Suguru's breath catches — a small thing, barely there — and his hands find the hem of your hoodie, knuckles brushing the skin of your stomach as he pulls it up, inch by inch. The fabric slides over your ribs, catching on the curve of your chest before he eases it over your head, and the room air hits your skin, cool and close.
He looks at you. The red light traces the lines of your body, the faint scar along your left ribs catching the glow, and Suguru's gaze goes dark and soft at once. His thumb finds the scar, featherlight, tracing it once before his hand settles warm on your waist.
"Hi," he says, low and rough, like he's seeing you for the first time.
Beside you, Satoru lets out a shaky breath. His hand is still on your hip, and you feel his fingers curl, knuckles pressing into the waistband of your jeans. "Okay," he says, voice thin. "Okay, that's— you're—"
He doesn't finish. He just leans in, forehead brushing your shoulder, breathing you in like he's trying to steady himself.
Suguru's hand slides up your spine, pulling you closer, and his mouth finds yours, slow and deep, one hand cradling the back of your head. Satoru's lips press to your shoulder, then your collarbone, open-mouthed and warm, and the three of you move together in the dark like a slow tide.
Suguru pulls back just enough to speak, breath warm against your mouth.
"Lay back," he says. "I want to take care of you."
You don't lay back. You reach past Suguru instead, hand finding Satoru's wrist, and pull him into the space between you. He comes willingly, knees shifting on the mattress until he's braced above you, the red light catching the line of his jaw, his blue eyes dark and wide.
"I thought you wanted—" he starts, and his voice cracks. He laughs at himself, breathless. "I don't even know what I'm asking."
"You don't have to ask." Your hand slides up his chest, over the high collar of his uniform, fingers finding the nape of his neck. "Just be here."
Satoru's breath shudders out of him. He dips his head, forehead brushing yours, and behind him you feel Suguru shift, one hand sliding up your bare side while the other lands warm on Satoru's back.
"She's good at that," Suguru murmurs. "Telling you exactly what you need. Aren't you, sweetheart?"
His mouth finds your shoulder, open and warm, and Satoru watches — a flicker of something raw and wanting crossing his face before he leans down and kisses you, unpracticed and honest, like he's been saving it up.
When he pulls back, Suguru's hand is in his hair, drawing him into a kiss of his own, slow and claiming. Satoru makes a sound into it, hands gripping the sheets on either side of you, and Suguru's other hand never leaves your skin, thumb tracing the curve of your ribs.
They break apart, breathing heavy, and both of them look at you like you're the center of something they've spent years orbiting.
"Tell us what you want," Suguru says, low. "We'll give it to you."
"I want you both. At the same time."
The words land, and you watch them settle into Suguru — the slow darkening of his eyes, the way his hand tightens on your ribs. Satoru makes a small sound above you, his blue eyes blown wide in the red light.
"You heard her," Suguru says, and there's no room for argument in it. His hand slides up your thigh, over the worn denim, fingers curling at the waistband. "We don't keep her waiting. Not anymore."
He looks at Satoru, a silent command, and Satoru moves — shifting down the bed, hands finding your jeans, popping the button with fingers that shake a little. Suguru's mouth finds yours as Satoru works the denim down your legs, and you arch into him, breath catching as cool air hits your skin.
"Look at you," Suguru murmurs against your mouth, pulling back just enough to watch. "Laid out for us. You have no idea how long I've wanted to see you like this."
Satoru's hands settle on your thighs, warm and hesitant, and Suguru reaches down, fingers threading into Satoru's white hair, guiding him down between your legs.
"You want her too," Suguru says. "So take her."
Satoru looks up at you, blue eyes dark and hungry and still a little disbelieving, and then he leans in.
You thread your fingers into Satoru's white hair and pull. He goes without resistance, a shaky exhale warming your inner thigh as his mouth finds you — clumsy at first, unpracticed, his nose bumping before he tilts his head and gets it right. When his tongue finally lands, he makes a sound against you, muffled and hungry, like he's been starving for this without knowing the name of the hunger.
Your back arches off the mattress. Satoru's hands grip your thighs, fingers pressing into the soft flesh, holding you open like he's afraid you'll close yourself to him. He learns fast — the way you gasp when he hits a certain spot, the way your heel digs into his shoulder when he lingers there. He stays, and you feel his groan vibrate through you.
Above you, Suguru shifts. His hand slides up your stomach, palm warm and callused, until his fingers find your jaw and tilt your face up to him. The red light catches his eyes, dark and half-lidded, watching you fall apart under Satoru's mouth.
"You're trembling," he says. His thumb traces your lower lip. "Look at you. Two minutes in and you're already like this."
Satoru pulls back just enough to breathe, lips slick, blue eyes hazy as they find yours over the curve of your thigh. "I want—" He swallows. "I want her to come on my tongue. Can I? Please?"
Suguru's mouth curves, slow and knowing, and his hand slides down your body until it settles over your stomach, pressing just enough to feel the tension coiling there.
"You heard him." His eyes stay on you. "Go on, sweetheart. Take what you want."
You ride his mouth.
Your hips roll against him, finding the rhythm, and Satoru takes it — hands gripping your thighs hard enough to bruise, tongue working you with a hunger that keeps building the more you give him. He groans against you, and the vibration rolls through your whole body, pulling a sound out of you that you don't bother to muffle.
"That's it," Suguru says from somewhere above you. His hand is on your stomach, pressing, feeling the muscles flutter under his palm as you chase it. "Let go for us, sweetheart. He wants it."
Satoru whines against you, high and desperate, his fingers digging into your flesh like he's drowning and you're air. He doesn't stop. His tongue finds you again and again, messy and devoted, and the coil in your belly tightens until it snaps.
You come with a gasp, hips grinding down as the wave takes you, and Satoru doesn't pull away — he stays, working you through it until you're trembling and oversensitive, until you have to push at his shoulder with a shaky hand. He surfaces, lips slick and red, chest heaving, and his eyes are dark and dazed and full of wonder.
"Holy shit," he breathes. "She's— that was—"
Suguru laughs, low and warm, and his hand slides from your stomach to Satoru's jaw, tilting his face up. He looks at the mess on Satoru's mouth, then leans down and kisses him, slow and filthy, tasting you on his tongue. Satoru makes a sound into it, hands fisting in the sheets.
When Suguru pulls back, his eyes find yours, dark and pleased.
"My turn," he says.
Your fingers find the buckle of Suguru's belt before he can move, and his breath catches — a small, sharp inhale through his nose that he'd never let anyone hear if he weren't this far gone. The metal clinks as you work the buckle loose, and above you, his hand closes around your wrist, not stopping you, just holding you there.
"Eager," he says, low, and there's something dark and pleased in it. His thumb strokes the inside of your wrist. "I like it."
Satoru shifts on the mattress beside you, propped on his elbow, watching with hazy blue eyes as you draw the belt free of the loops. The leather slides out with a soft rasp, and Suguru's hand tightens on your wrist before letting go, letting you work the button of his trousers, the zip.
He's hard beneath the fabric — you can feel the heat of him through it, and he exhales slow and deliberate as your palm presses against him. Satoru makes a sound, quiet and hungry, watching.
"Come here," Suguru says, but he's not looking at Satoru. He's looking at you, hand sliding to the back of your head, threading into your hair. "You've got me. Now take what you want."
The red light spills under the door. Satoru's hand finds your hip, warm and grounding, and he leans in, lips brushing your shoulder, breath hot against your skin as Suguru's grip in your hair tightens, guiding you down.
The belt slips from your fingers as Suguru catches your wrist, stilling you. "Not yet," he says, and his hands find you instead, lifting you, arranging you until you're laid out beneath him, head on the pillow, the red light painting your skin. He strips you without asking — jeans gone, underwear gone, everything gone, until you're bare under his gaze while he stays fully dressed above you, still in the dust and grime of the mission.
He settles between your thighs, hands sliding up your calves, over your knees, parting you. "Already wet for us," he says, low, almost to himself, and he sounds wrecked by it. His mouth finds you, slow and deliberate, tongue flat against you, and he groans like you're the best thing he's ever tasted. His fingers slide into you, curling, while his tongue works you in long, unhurried strokes. "So good," he breathes against you, the words vibrating through your core. "So warm. Let me take care of you."
Above you, the mattress dips. Satoru settles beside your head, knees tucked, and his hands find your face — gentle, almost reverent — turning it toward him. He kisses your forehead, your temple, the corner of your mouth, soft and unhurried, like he's handling something precious. His thumb traces your cheekbone as his other hand drifts down, hesitant, to cup your breast, testing, learning the weight of you.
When you gasp against his mouth — Suguru's tongue curling inside you, fingers pressing deep — Satoru's hand tightens, and he lets out a shaky breath. "You're so beautiful like this," he whispers, and he leans in to kiss you properly, slow and sweet, while Suguru works you open below.
You're pinned between them, spread and loved from both ends, and neither of them shows any sign of slowing.
Wanna make your own choices and see what happens next? READ/PLAY HERE! (˶˃ ᵕ ˂˶)
🎮interactive fanfic ":I like the way you kiss me I can tell you miss me:" by EdgyFluff
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