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Minors Do Not Interact
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Black Authors Masterlist - From my original blog, remade via my hobby blog and now here. Have fun!
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Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as dubcon/noncon, power imbalance, age gap, and other possible triggers. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.
This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.
Summary: Your father invites a work friend to the neighbourhood barbecue.
Characters: Nick Fowler (Dad's friend trope)
As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me <3
Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Asking for more or putting ‘part 2?’ is not feedback.
Love you all. You are appreciated and your are worthy. Treat yourself with care. 💖
The smell of the macaroni salad drives you crazy as it wafts from the container. You're overly cautious as you pull into the long drive. There are a few vehicles along the tarmac you don't recognize. People must have started showing up.
Behind you, another car pulls in. Sporty and sleek. You turn off the Bentley and double check the interior. Your father will give you hell if you leave one hair inside. Even letting you take one of his three cars was enough to bristle him.
You get out and go around the passenger's side to get the large container of gourmet salad. It's from the overprice steakhouse where your dad goes to drink with his work buddies. He insisted on it but made no effort to do it. You volunteered, hoping he might offer a crumb of approval. He only told you not to spill it.
You balance the container as your satchel dangles awkwardly against your hip. You use your shoulder to close the door. As you door, a figure startles you, nearly knocking the salad from your hands. A large pair cover yours as you dip to save the prized side.
"Huh, Toree's? Must be for Chuck." The man comments. You don't recognise him though he doesn't act as stranger. He keeps his hands on yours. And Chuck? No. Everyone calls your dad Charles. Except you. You call him sir. "Told him, they got better steak at Chop."
"Um..." your eyes round.
You never know what to say to your father's friends. They're all older and more important and more responsible. He doesn't look as old as the rest but you can tell he's got some years on you. Everyone does.
"Here, I'll get it. Looks like you got enough going on."
"Oh, that's...." your voice trails off as he wiggles the container free. "Thanks."
He leans in, angling his ear to you. "What's that, sweetheart?"
"Um," you murmur then clear your throat. You speak louder, enunciating carefully. "Thank you."
He smirks, "you seem like you know the way around. Wanna show me where I'm going?"
You bite your lip then stop as his bright blue eyes follow the nervous gesture. You nod and point down the drive. He doesn't move. You turn and walk along the row of cars. You hook around the hedges and toward the iron gate. It's open, the archway marked with your father's initials.
"Nice place, huh?" The man clucks. "Chuck always goes all out."
You don't have a response so you just shrug. No one notices you as you enter. They do, however, notice your unexpected escort.
"Fowler? That really you?" Jethro, your father's especially liquor-happy friend greets the man with a shoulder slap. You stay back, happy not to be seen by him. He's still trying to get you to call him Uncle.
"Well, you know, I think they're running out of things for me to do," the man, Fowler snickers.
He keeps on and you trail after him. You shrink down as several others call out to him and he stops to exchange niceties. He makes it seem so easy but it must be when they don't talk down to you.
"There you are," your dad's timbre makes you trip. You look at him in a panic.
Fowler turns and struts toward the deck where you dad stands next to the grill, your brother, Austin, clapping the tongs as he lifts the lid next to him. You stay on the man's heels, readying yourself for a chew out.
"Nick," your dad extends his hand.
The man in front of you puts the container on the table across from the grill and shakes your dad's hand. "Chuck."
"You brought the salad."
"Ah, no, actually, I forgot the scotch I brought in my car," the man chuckles. "Actually, this kind woman brought that slop."
Your dad glances over and his jaw ticks in recognition. "Huh."
"Gonna be bored around here, isn't she? Bit young for this crowd."
"My daughter," you dad derisively pronounces your name, "she's got nowhere else to be."
You lower your eyes. He's not wrong but it's not something he needs to say.
"Ha, well, I'm sure she can figure something else," Nick turns to you. "Bit of advice, run."
He laughs again but you just feel stupid. You're always the joke.
"Stand up straight," your dad reproaches. "Why don't you offer him a drink? I taught you manners."
"Really? You? Manners?" Nick chides. "Don't you worry about me," he frightens you as he squeezes your shoulder gently, "I'm a big boy. I can get my own drink." His thumb rubs you briefly and he retracts his grip, "point me to the trough, Chuck."
Your dad directs him to the cooler and follows him over. You back up, content to fade back into oblivion, and skirt back down to the lawn. You look around at the smattering of guests. All those older men who work with your dad at the agency or play at his golf club, a few neighbours too.
You keep to the edge of the yard and find the flat stone behind the rose bushes. It's just big enough for you to sit. You'll happily hide there until you're quickly forgotten again.
💜
The smell of the barbecue builds with the tenor of the guests. You listen to the shuffle on the other side of the bushes and watch through the thorns as dinner is served up. Methodical as always, you wait until the rush has dispelled before you go to get your own share. Or rather, the leftovers.
It's funny. Your dad says you never think ahead but it feels like you have to analyse every second of every minute. He'll be sure to find something to pick apart.
You go up onto the deck. There's a chicken burger but no buns left. You take it and scrape up what's left of the romaine salad. There's no macaroni. It sure smelled good but oh well. You glance around. Hm. Maybe you can scrounge up a bun, or at the very least, some bread inside. Besides, you wouldn't mind the excuse to get away.
You let yourself in the back door and stop short. You're met with an unexpected sight. That man you met on the way in, the one some call Fowler but your father called Nick, stands at the sink... exposed. He has his shirt off and in his hands as he scrubs it under the running faucet.
You're so stunned you can't move or think. His arms are muscular and bulging with his effort. His chest too. You can see tension in his sides. There's that little cautious voice in the back of your head. You shouldn't be staring and you certainly shouldn't be feeling all tingly about it.
"Oh, it's just you, sweetheart," he glances over and grins. His eyes sparkle as his hair falls forward. "You wouldn't know how to get barbecue sauce out, would ya?"
You blink and cough. You can't speak. You near and put your plate on the counter. You look at the stain on his shirt as he holds it up to show you.
"Dish soap?" You find your voice. "Or..." it feels like he's getting closer. Leaning in, or something. Why is it so hot? You can hear the AC going.
"Sorry," he reaches to shut off the faucet. "You're so quiet, dish soap?"
"Yep, or... baking soda."
"Baking soda, sure... think I heard that one before," he clucks. "Right, let's give it a go."
He reaches for the bottle of soap. He squirts it on to the stain and put it back. Then he flips the faucet on again. He huffs and lets out a disappointed groan.
"If this even comes out, I'm going to be walking around with a wet shirt." He clicks his tongue and shakes his head.
You peek up at his profile as it sets in concentration. Straight nose, thick brows, high cheekbones. There's a shadow of stubble around his sharp jaw and a sliver of silver woven in at his temples.
"Oh, I..." you begin and back up.
You turn and quickly flee as the unfinished thought spurs you to action. It's a good reason to get away and stop gawking. You don't usually do that but your eyes just don't want to stay away.
You hurry upstairs to the bathroom and open the drawer. You take out your small purple blow dryer. You spin and rush back down.
As you enter, he holds up the shirt and faces you. He lowers it just enough to see you over the top. "What do you think? Noticeable?"
You look at the blue pattern. You know where to look so you can see it. You tilt your head.
"Not that bad."
"Oh, don't spare my feelings," he scoffs.
You look down as his eyes blaze at you. You raise the blow dryer. He crosses the kitchen and you nearly wilt.
"Good thinking, sweetheart."
Sweetheart... he keeps calling you that. Your dad doesn't even do that. You're just the kid or whatever. You're twenty-one. You're an adult. Or trying to be.
"Clever," he holds out his hand.
You look around. "Uh, one sec."
You go to the counter and reach across to plug in the blow dryer. He follows. Closely. He raises the shirt and you take the front of it. You spread the fabric with your fingers and turn on the dryer. You aim the air at the wet patch.
You don't know if it's the heat of the dryer or if it's him staring, but sweat coats your scalp. You feel the spot with your thumb and shut it off. You unplug it and wrap up the cord as he turns the shirt.
"Hm, not bad. You're right." He says.
"Probably come all out in the wash."
"Just a shirt," he shrugs and slips his hand through the sleeve. "What're we having then?"
He pushes his arms into the shirt and it falls to his shoulders. He tugs it and turns to look over your plate. You try to wipe the glimpse of his torso from your mind.
"Just chicken and salad." You put the dryer aside and go to the bread basket. It's only croissants.
"No bun? You're not on some sort of wacky diet, are you?" He wonders.
"None left," you shrug and go to your plate. He doesn't move. "It's fine. I'm not too hungry."
"What about that salad you brought? That was yummy."
You try to smile at him but your cheeks are tight. When you look at him, all of you locks up. You don't know why he cares, if he really does.
"No big deal, this is good for me," you take your plate and head for the door.
He follows. Shoot. He's quick too. He swoops around you and opens the door ahead of you, holding it from the inside so you brush by him to get out. He trails after you.
"You know, wouldn't take you as Chuck's kid. You're too nice. Too quiet. He's a bit of a loudmouth," he chortles. "But I'm guessing you know that."
"He's my dad," you shrug.
"You live here with him?"
You nod.
"Ah. Not bad. Good place to crash while you finish school. You go?" He asks.
"Uh huh. Biochem." You answer. "It's hard."
"Would be," he says. "Wow. Chuck choose that or you?"
You furrow your brow and look at him. He really guessed that easily? You shrug again.
"Sorry, nosy. I get bored at these things. Hence, why I never show up." He checks his watch. "Well, I won't ruin your supper." He looks at your plate and makes a face, "if you can call it that."
He runs his hand up your back as he steps past you. It sends a chill through you. You watch him go. He approaches Brad, the neighbour, as he points at the sports cap on his head in some sort of manly challenge. They posture and chuckle. For someone who claims to hate these things, he's sure good at working his way through them.
You drag your feet down the steps and back to the rose bushes. You sit on the stone and balance your plate on your lap. You tear a piece of the chicken burger away and gnaw on it. It's cold and the salad is soggy from sitting in the dressing. Well, at least you got something this time.
Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as perversion, casual misogyny, noncon/dubcon, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.
This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.
Summary: Lloyd is feeling a new weight on him and his friend, Lee, offers to help take the load off by finding some fun in the sun with some special ladies.
Characters: Lloyd Hansen (POV), Lee Bodecker, plus sized OCs
Note: I've had this on my mind and I thought it would be interesting to change the perspective and maybe make some OCs.
I welcome and appreciate all feedback. This means replies, reblogs, and asks. I do prefer if you can reblog and share my work along with your thoughts. <3
Please check my pinned post for more information on my blog, stories, and asks!
Do one kind thing for yourself today and take care.💖
Lloyd Hansen might lack self-awareness but he’s never been short of self-confidence. He’s never shied away from a fight or a fuck. Still, even for him, a man above all others, change is hard. Change is new and different.
He tries not to think about it. Tries not to notice how his belt digs in more than before. How he can feel the new softness pillowing over the designer logo at his waist. Well, fuck you, he's not buying a new wardrobe. You think he can replace his vintage Armani jackets?
He growls as he sucks in his guts as much as he can. He doesn’t get it. He works out as much as ever. He’s even doubled his crunches, as much as he fucking hates them. More than that bitch in the condo under his that keeps leaving nasty notes about his parking. Fuck her, he pays his fees. Does a woman with an ass that tight even have an opening left?
He twitches. It’s been… a while. It’s not really that he can’t find someone to bend over or put on their back, he just hasn’t tried. He’s been distracted. And he just wants his damn body to behave. Even now, he’s getting hard for no reason.
He growls and shifts. He checks his watch. He doesn't usually wait on people, they wait on him. Bodecker’s lucky he's halfway interesting.
Lloyd examines the rough edge of his pinky nail. He cancelled his last manicure. He doesn't know the fuck why. He just didn't feel like it.
He sighs as he runs his thumb nails along the slightly jagged edge.
“Sir, did you need more water?” The waitress startles him.
“Fuck balls.” He sneers. “I'll let ya know when I need you.”
“Yes, sir.” She chimes in the fake honey voice they all put on. He's never been stupid like those other jackasses. These bitches work for their tips, he just knows that if he's extra nice, he can give them an extra one when he wants too. Well, not today. That skinny-waisted bitch doesn't deserve the privilege.
The place is quiet. That’s why he likes the place. It’s out of reach to most people that make him want to shoot himself in the balls. They can’t even afford to clear his plate in this place.
“Sweetheart,” the syrupy drawl crawls through the air.
Lloyd glances over at his long-awaited breakfast partner arrives through the open gate of the patio. Lee Bodecker pulls down his sunglasses to wink at the hostess, brazen in his short-sleeve button-up, the top undone to show off some of his wiry grey chest hairs. His pudgy stomach pillows over his brown belt that doesn’t match his black shoes, but it doesn’t deter the effect of his greeting.
The man is more confident in his cheap aviators and knock-off Rolex than those wannabe crypto bros in their overpriced polos and ill-fitting Cartier frames. Lloyd doesn’t envy any but he admires Lee for his arrogance. He isn’t oblivious to himself, he just doesn’t care.
“Ah, I see my buddy, sweetheart,” Lee’s timbre carries over to Lloyd as he points with a thick finger. “You think you can bring us some mimosas.”
“Certainly, sir. Anything else?” She toys with the wave at the front of her hair.
“I’ll let ya know,” Lee pushes his aviators back up his nose and lifts a palm in recognition of Lloyd. He struts across the patio, no, saunters.
He pulls the chair back slowly and grips the back, sliding out his phone and wallet to place on the table before he sits. He leans back and sighs. Just by his posture, you can tell his knees are wide under the tablecloth. He rubs the back of his neck, his arm bulging with unexpected muscle, as he slides off his sunglasses with his other hand.
He yawns and lets his arms fall down to the chair rests. He sucks his teeth and eyes up Lloyd.
“You look like you haven’t tasted pussy in months.” He scoffs.
Lloyd is rarely caught off guard, but he is. Can he see it or is he just being a jackass? Well, it’s Lee. Of course he’s being a cunt.
“Took ya long enough.”
“You’re early,” Lee tosses back coolly.
Lloyd rolls his eyes. “Still in a different time zone. Just got back.”
“Em,” Lee grunts and sets down his glasses. “All work, no ass play.”
Even for Lloyd, it’s a bit much. It’s nine in the morning.
“Well, I’m here. I’d’ve loved to have my morning lie-in, Hansen. Wake myself up nice and slow with my hand on my–” He sits up and tilts his head to the waitress as she approaches. She sets down two tall glasses with orange slices on the brim. “Thanks, sugar. That’s perfect. We get some menus?”
“Yes, sir…” she smiles. “Anything else?”
“Nah, just that for now,” Lee purrs.
Lloyd watches the waitress go with a twitch of agitation in his lip. He runs his finger over his mustache and huffs. He shifts in his chair again. When she returns with the menus, he lets her place it in front of him as Lee eagerly accepts his own. She goes and Lloyd leans his chin in his hand.
“Now that sounds good. Paradise stack with whipped cream.” Lee peruses the options. Getting no response, he glances up at the other man. “What’s wrong? You already eat?”
“I don’t need a damn menu.” Lloyd reaches down to adjust his belt and tugs the front of his shirt.
Lee shrugs and looks back to his menu. “Hmmm. Apple maple sausage. Savoury and sweet. Same’s been said about me.”
Lloyd lifts his head and rubs his fingertips together. He flicks his middle finger restlessly. He gestures to the waitress with a scowl. “Coffee. Black.”
She responds at once. She’s doing her best to get that tip. Good luck. He’s annoyed and he’s not feeling it.
As the waitress fills his mug, Lee sets down his menu. “We’ll order. I’ll take the Tropics Platter and a side of that sausage you got. French toast with whip, and sourdough with marmalade, sweetheart.”
She takes his menu and preens, “got it.” She looks at Lloyd. “And you, sir?”
“Egg white omelet. Two pieces bacon. Fruit cup, no bananas.” Lloyd grits and slides the menu over.
She takes the menus and turns away. Lee scoffs then tuts. Lloyd crosses his arms and glares at him.
“Whatsa matter, boy?” Lee asks.
“I’m two years older than you,” Lloyd snips.
“And I look the reverse,” Lee chortles. “What’s this eggs white bullshit?”
“Nothing. Late night. Don’t want nothing heavy.”
“Uh huh. I see you chafin’ over there.” Lee slurps on his mimosa then licks his glistening lips. “And I see that meat in ya belly. Ain’t no hidin’ it.”
“Shut the fuck up.”
“You’re comin’ of age,” Lee snickers. “Why you such a bitch about it?” Lee slaps his stomach. “Ladies love the padding.”
“I fucking don’t.” Lloyd mutters.
“Ya for real? Pretty boy Hansen and his midlife crisis.”
“No.”
“Yeah.” Lee insists. “Nah, you don’t get it. It’s nothin’ wrong with extra. It’s fuckin’ nice, actually. You put her on top, she can bounce a lil on it. Or from behind, you get that nice clap–”
“They can’t see you from behind, that’s why,” Lloyd rolls his eyes.
Lee laughs, loud. “There he is. Those balls still clenched up inside or you loosening up?”
“I’m not– I’m just–”
“How long it been?” Lee asks.
Lloyd leans his head back and exhales slow. He feels his shirt ride up at the bottom of his stomach. Fuck, piss, shit.
“Guy, you need a vacation.” Lee claps his hands. “Good thing for you, I was just thinkin’ bout headin’ outta town. Gettin’ some sun and fun. Them kitties on the beach are tipsy and toasted. Ready for the fucking.”
“How about a resort?”
“How about you get out of your own goddamn ass and leave it to me? I’m gonna find you the best thing you had since never. You just gotta lean into it.” Lee grins. “The belly, that is. Ladies love it.”
Lloyd rolls his shoulders. “I’m not… you know, whatever. Fine. You foot the bill, I’ll go.”
“Uh huh. Just you wait, buddy. Lloyd’s gonna get his groove back.”
“I’m not a fucking menopausal bitch.” Lloyd barks.
“Coulda fooled me.”
🩲
Lee is right. Despite his delivery. Lloyd needs a break and Susan can go to hell and stop calling.
He snarls at his car system, “do not fucking disturb.”
The automated British woman responds, “setting notifications to do not disturb.”
Whatever. Probably for the best. He doesn’t need to be concerned with all that shit. If it’s not one thing, then it’s another.
He follows the GPS up a slight incline, along a curving road that looks out onto the rippling lake. He kills the A/C and rolls down the windows. He can smell the freshness; the water, the trees, even the dirt smells better out here. Why the fuck did he ever like the city?
He pulls up to the house with white wash on the siding, an awning over a large deck, with steps that lead down to a winding trail over the incline. He parks beside Lee’s tacky old Cadillac. He takes a moment, stretching his neck and his fingers. Lee’s as close to a friend that he has. The guy’s a bit much but they get each other.
He gets out and shuts the door, eyeing the facade of the lake house. He goes to the trunk and pops it open. He blindly slings his bag over his shoulder. He can smell bbq already.
The deck creaks as Lee emerges from around the corner of the house. He’s shirtless, with a visor around his large head, his hair chest glistening with sweat above the edge of the apron strained across his square belly. He points the spatula in his hand at Lloyd as he approaches the railing.
“There’s the man. Hurry the fuck up and crack a beer.”
“Beer?” Lloyd echoes. “I brought my own stuff, thanks.”
“Uh huh. Hoity toity scotch drinker,” he retorts.
“Damn right.” Lloyd trods up to the bottom of the steps. He climbs one at a time.
Even with his shirt only half buttoned, he feels… thicker. He sets his bag on the patio table as he passes and Lee returns to the grill. He flips the sausages sizzling over the flame.
“Any chicken dogs?” Lloyd asks.
“Fuck yourself. We’re not down for that. We’re eatin’ good.” Lee snorts. “And I don’t just mean food.”
Lloyd puts his hands on his hips and paces. He nears the far railing and looks off at the lake below. He examines the jagged path down the shore. In the distance, he can see a speckling along the public side of the beach.
“We’re gonna eat till we’re full then we’ll go down and find some nice sweet things that we can fill up too.” Lee slithers.
“Sure,” Lloyd grumbles.
“Christ, pal. You got a twist in your jock?” Lee jabs him with the spatula. Lloyd spins away and tries to wipe the grease from his sleeve.
“Dude, this is designer.”
“Not my fault you wore it out here.”
“You brought me here,” Lloyd drones.
“Don’t act like you don’t need it. Wing men, alright? You don’t even gotta do nothin’. Let me do the lookin’ and the talkin’. I’ll find us the perfect little kittens.” Lee snickers into a groan. He rubs his stomach through the apron and shamelessly lets his hand hover just over his crotch. “You even jerk off these days?”
“Why? You got a free hand?”
Lee booms with laughter.
“Love ya, bud. Nah.” He turns the sausages again. “It ain’t like one of those… they got pills these days–”
“Don’t even.” Lloyd warns as he slaps Lee’s arm. “Fine. You think you can find me something good, go for it. But I’m not in the mood for twenty questions about Lloyd’s cock. It works just fine. Almost too good.” He crosses his arms and sighs. “I wake up and it won’t fucking stop.”
“Ha, yeah. They say that shit stops after puberty.” Lee shakes his head. “Can’t remember the last time I wasn’t ragin’ hard.”
2003-5 Stanford era Samantha with her aaaabsolute bombshell of a girlfriend Jess Moore, they’re so special to me oml
Speedpaint under the cut and the non show coloring version of them
I love samwena and saileen a lot but theres just something so gut wrenching about samjess dude, like they really were doomed from the start- god it blows
Being the teenage son of Tony Stark and Steve Rogers is even harder.
Between school, supervillains, overprotective Avengers, and trying to survive his father’s terrible jokes, Peter is doing his best. Unfortunately, HYDRA decides to make that everyone else’s problem.
Or: Peter gets kidnapped, the Avengers lose their collective minds, and several people discover that threatening Tony and Steve’s kid is a terrible life choice.
Words: 8619, Chapters: 16/?, Language: English
Fandoms: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Categories: M/M
Characters: Steve Rogers, Tony Stark, Peter Parker, Pepper Potts, Pietro Maximoff, Wanda Maximoff, Sam Wilson (Marvel), Natasha Romanov (Marvel), Bruce Banner, Wade Wilson, Matt Murdock, Frank Castle, Vision (Marvel), Loki (Marvel), Thor (Marvel), Stephen Strange, Harry Osborn, James “Bucky” Barnes, JARVIS the AI (Marvel), Michelle Jones (Marvel), Ned Leeds
Relationships: Steve Rogers/Tony Stark, James “Bucky” Barnes & Steve Rogers, Avengers Team Members & JARVIS the AI (Marvel), Peter Parker & Tony Stark, Avengers Team Members & Peter Parker, Peter Parker/Wade Wilson, James “Bucky” Barnes/Sam Wilson
Additional Tags: Idiots in Love, Peter Parker is Tony Stark’s Biological Child, Tony Stark Has a Heart, Protective Steve Rogers, Protective Tony Stark, Steve Rogers Acting as Peter Parker’s Parental Figure, Wanda Maximoff and Peter Parker are Like Siblings, Kid Peter Parker, Kidnapped Peter Parker, Hydra (Marvel), Hurt/Comfort, Slow Burn, Angst, Fluff, Alternate Universe - No Thanos (Marvel), Pietro Maximoff Lives
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Synopsis: You’ve always had a hard time standing up for yourself. Your new roommate loves that about you.
(Warnings: yandere, dark content, manipulation, slight exhibitionism, forced voyeurism(?), non-con, gojo being a freak)
It was a clerical error.
Gojo Satoru wasn’t supposed to have a roommate because he was Gojo Satoru. The apartment was specifically his, as most things were.
You were a mistake.
The administration apologized to you both. They’d fix it in no time, they promised. This would only last a month before you’d move to your permanent residence.
You didn’t mind the error. His apartment was large and expansive, and you’d already unpacked your stuff. The plan was to keep you there until everybody settled in for the semester, and then they could swap you out to an empty room.
Gojo didn’t seem to mind too much either. You assumed he’d be a bit more irritated with the situation, but his lax nature was a pleasant surprise. You wouldn’t necessarily call the two of you close, but you weren’t on bad terms either.
Positive, is the better word. Not exactly neutral, but not too friendly either. You existed on the edges of each other's peripherals, and you were pretty happy with that. Gojo wasn’t a bad roommate either. He kept the apartment mostly clean and didn’t leave any food out. You thought you’d have to deal with loud parties; he seemed like the type, but the tiny circle he gravitated towards never overstayed its welcome.
The only issue was the music.
It wasn’t bad music. You enjoyed his taste. You would just rather not hear it blasting through the walls at 2 am.
A roommate disagreement. It’s the first one you’ve ever had.
You want to do this right. Your biggest worry is offending him. You spend days figuring out the best way to approach him. You look up ways to gently bring up disagreements between your roommate. You fill a bag with treats and sweets–the kinds you’ve seen him munch on before. You even write a letter because you know how flighty you get in these situations, and you can’t thank him enough for all that he’s done for you, but if he could just maybe perhaps slightly–
“-So you just want me to turn the music down?” Gojo interrupts your rambling.
He’s sitting on the sofa, one leg across the other. You remain standing, too strung up to really relax. The paper you were reading out loud crinkles as you fold it back up.
“Yeah.” You mumble. “If you can.”
He takes another candy you’d gifted him, popping it in his mouth.
“Yeah, sure.” He shrugs, as if it were hardly an inconvenience.
You, on the other hand, nearly deflated in relief. You didn’t expect it to be so simple. You were half-preparing for the possibility that he’d blow up at you and go back to administration, demanding your eviction. Everything was resolved so easily.
“Thank you.” A genuine smile graces your lips.
Gojo hums. The candy cracks between his teeth.
“You’re pretty shy, huh?” He tilts his head, studying you.
A laugh escapes your throat. Nervous.
“I just don’t like confrontation,” you admit.
Gojo nods, returning your wave when you say your goodbyes. You think nothing of the exchange. Hours later, you’re still riding the high of how effortless it all went.
⌂
Two things change today.
First, Gojo is up this morning.
He’s never up this early. Usually, you only hear him moving around at noon. You’re the early bird, not him. You never minded his routine. If anything, you appreciated that you ran on separate schedules.
Second, he was naked.
Gojo typically dresses conservatively: T-shirts, sweatpants, hoodies. He adorns the look of a typical college student most days. His tastes are a bit on the expensive side, considering how casually he wears luxury brands, but he’s mostly covered up.
Today, Gojo walks around the kitchen in nothing but boxers.
You’re awkwardly standing in the hallway. You want to go back to your room and hide out until he leaves, but you’re already running late for class. Briefly, you think about keeping your head locked on the ground and slinking out the door. Maybe, if you’re lucky, he won’t notice you.
You aren’t that lucky.
Gojo looks at your miserable figure. There’s no embarrassment about how little he’s dressed. No apologies. No stutters that will make you feel the tiniest bit human. He bares his white teeth as he smiles.
“‘Morning, roomie!” He chirps.
You repeat the pleasantry with far less enthusiasm. You avoid looking at him directly, preferring to look at the counter, the floor, the refrigerator, anywhere that didn’t have Gojo in it.
This was normal, you kept repeating to yourself. This is his house. You’re practically a squatter. He should be comfortable in his own home. He should wear whatever he wants.
Besides, now you can make the most of your situation. You first considered skipping breakfast, given his situation. Now that the worst has happened, you could grab an apple or something.
You slip past him. You think Gojo is making some type of smoothie, but you refuse to look directly at him to confirm. The fruit basket is right at your fingertips. You start to swipe the first one you can grab before making your escape.
Something presses against your back, caging you against the counter. You freeze. You feel hard muscle as Gojo reaches up to mess with the cabinets.
“Sorry.” Gojo casually excuses, rifling through the shelves. “I’ll just be a second.”
One second.
Five seconds. He’s still there. Your knuckles are white from how hard you’re gripping the counter.
“Gojo–”
“My music didn’t bother you last night, did it?” He asks.
For a second, you wonder if that’s why he was doing this. Maybe you had offended him earlier with your complaint. But you don’t hear any resentment in his voice. He sounds cheerful.
Delighted, even.
“No,” you say, “it was fine.”
He hums. When he finally pulls away, you get your autonomy back. You scramble away from the counter, not wanting to get caught again.
“That’s good,” He says, “I’m glad you were upfront about this. We’re roommates! No use in hating eachother, right?”
Temporary roommates, you correct in your head.
“Also, we should use our first names from now on, roomie.” Gojo continues. “We should speak more comfortably.”
Fine, whatever. You just wanted to leave.
He suddenly leans in so he’s eye-to-eye with you. You hadn’t noticed it before, but his gaze is intense. You try to back away, but there’s nowhere to go.
“Say it.” He lowers his voice. “Sa-to-ru.”
It feels like he’s mocking you, but you can’t seem to find the joke.
“Satoru,” you obey.
He smiles.
“Yeah.” He pulls away. “Just like that.”
⌂
After a couple of washes, you finally notice its absence.
It wasn’t the most expensive of your collection, but it was still pretty pricey. You liked the silk material and the dark red color. It was your favorite pair of panties.
You skulk around the apartment, hoping it just fell from the basket. That, or the washer ate it. You tried not to think of the other option.
Days pass, and you give up searching. You decide to forget about it. You have other pairs. It’s not the end of the world.
A part of you thinks about asking Satoru, but you’re quickly squashing it down. No way would you willingly ask him something so embarrassing. You just toss it to the back of your mind, hoping it will just show up again.
And then, Satoru invites you into his room.
It’s not exactly an invitation. When you’re trudging home from class, he pops out from his room, excitedly telling you about a TV show before you’re being dragged inside. You’re not a big fan of the genre, and you have no interest in the show. It doesn’t matter to Satoru. You’re forced to sit on his bed as the characters on screen follow the script.
He’s doing that a lot lately. Interrupting. Invading. You keep brushing off the thought that he’s testing you, somehow.
“Roomie, this guy is so annoying.” Satoru comments. “Don’t worry, he dies in the next episode, so you don’t have to suffer for long.”
You say nothing as he casually spoils the show for you. Honestly, you couldn’t care less. You were getting a little bored. Your eyes wander around his room. It’s cleaner than you thought it’d be. A few clothes are scattered around. A college hoodie hangs off the door. There are all sorts of papers on his desk, each is covered in meaningless algorithms you can’t decipher, and you suddenly remember he’s a physics major. You ask about maybe getting some math help from him later on, before you’re brushing that thought away.
There’s a snap of fingers. Your gaze drifts back to Gojo.
“Roomie, pay attention!” He whines, urging you back to the screen.
There are only 10 minutes of the show left. Fine, you sit there, counting down the minutes until you can make your escape.
Satoru’s hand brushes the edge of your bare thigh.
He’s not exactly touching. You two are sitting pretty close. He was just sitting comfortably, resting his weight on his hands. It’s barely a touch, but it’s there. You can feel his fingers on your skin.
He doesn’t move his hand back. It’s more likely because he doesn’t notice, you convince yourself. You’re overthinking things again.
He shifts. His hand slips even closer.
When you try to open your mouth, he hushes you with a, “This is the best part!” and all the courage leaves your body again.
It feels like hours until the credits finally roll. Satoru steps off the bed to turn off the TV, and you make your move too, eager to find refuge in your room.
“Oh yeah.” His voice stops you in your tracks. “What did you want to talk about earlier?”
You stare. It feels crazy to bring up what happened just now. See? He didn’t even notice.
But now, you have nothing to say, and saying nothing feels like a lie.
“Did you see something in your laundry?” You blurt out before you can even think.
Satoru encapsulates a picture-perfect replication of an innocent doe. He tilts his head in confusion.
“Like what?” He asks.
Dark red panties, with just the hint of lace. You can’t say it. You just can’t.
“I think we might’ve swapped some clothes.” You unhelpfully murmur. “If you see anything…just let me know.”
He nods. “Sure thing, Roomie!” He calls to you as you hurry back into your room and lock the door.
Soon, Satoru’s actions turn less ambivalent.
Sometimes, you’d hear him once or twice in the middle of the night. He’s loud. The walls thankfully muffle most of it, but you know what he’s doing. You usually just plug in your headphones and try not to look at him the next day. So far, things have worked out pretty well.
Today, his door is wide open as he jerks off.
You’re standing right next to your own door, mouth agape, forced to listen to his moans and babbles for five minutes. You’re already late for class.
But you can’t bring yourself to even open your door.
To get out of the apartment, you’d have to cross Satoru’s room. The one that is currently open, where you’d see him stroking his dick.
You know this is going too far. You needed to fucking do something already. There’s no way you can be kept a prisoner in your own home.
And yet, you stay, forced to listen to him openly masturbate.
“Fuck yes,” you can hear him say over and over again. “Just a little more, pretty girl. C’mon, just a bit–there we fucking go.”
He’s talking to someone. No, that’s not right. He’s fantasizing about someone.
More babblings and you’re squeezing your eyes shut as he comes. He curses again, and you stand there until you no longer want to melt into the floor.
A few minutes later, you’re stomping around the room, trying to be as noisy as possible. You loudly adjust your bookbag and fiddle with your chair. You try to give him as much time as possible.
By the time you come out, the apartment is back to normal. His door is still open. You stare straight ahead, ignoring the clear invitation to look as you pass his room.
“Hey, Roomie.” Satoru casually calls from his place on the bed.
You nearly trip over your own feet. Satoru gives a hiss.
“You good?” He asks.
No.
“Yes.” You adjust your bag. “Just tripped.”
“Okay.” You hear him shift. His bed creaks under the weight. “Have fun at class, pretty girl.”
You slam the door a lot harder than you should. You were ten minutes late for class that day, but it doesn’t matter. As much as you tried to focus on your professor’s drones, your mind kept drifting to the name he called you right before you fled.
No, no it couldn’t be. You needed to forget about it.
Also, he was holding something in his hand. You didn’t know for sure, you didn’t want to stare but…
…it was a dark red piece of fabric.
⌂
You like it when Satoru’s friends come over. They create a buffer between you and him.
These days, you aren’t in the apartment as much. You’re out early. You come in late. You aren’t avoiding Satoru. You talk to him when he talks to you. You listen to whatever ramblings he has that day. You aren’t avoiding Satoru.
Today is one of the few times he manages to catch you. Maybe you should count yourself lucky that he did it today, because Suguru was here.
He lounges on the sofa as Satoru drags you behind him. Suguru barely glances up from his phone. He’s pretty used to Satoru’s antics. You aren’t.
Satoru plops right next to his friend, picking up his remote.
“Okay, we’re ready,” he says before frowning and glancing around. “There’s no more space.”
He’s right. Both men are big, barely overcrowding the minuscule couch. You awkwardly loiter nearby as they both set up. You open your mouth, ready to say that you were fine with not joining, that you didn’t really care about a video game, no matter how awesomely Satoru described it.
Satoru’s grin is filled with nothing but delight as he turns to you.
“Here–” he eagerly pats his lap “–I've got plenty of space left, pretty girl.”
You blanch, and his smile just grows wider. He starts to reach for you before his friend steps in.
Suguru shoves him off the couch. Satoru dramatically collapses onto the floor.
“Don’t be a dick.” Geto chides before motioning you to sit.
You take a seat, with a relieved smile directed at Geto. Satoru grumbles from his spot on the floor, but he doesn’t try to move back as you thought he would.
“I can’t believe you’re abusing me in my own home,” Satoru complains. “Where I pay rent.”
“Your parents pay rent, you trust fund baby.” Geto is more than happy to refute.
“Same thing.” Satoru rolls his eyes. “It’ll all go to me in the end.”
Out of all of Satoru’s friends, Suguru seemed to have the biggest hold on his collar. They seemed close. Maybe their friendship had spanned years before college. You don’t know if anyone could bear to be around Satoru for that long, but maybe Suguru is that exception.
You think you spend about an hour watching them play. You aren’t too interested in video games, much less combat games, but they seem to get a kick out of it. Eventually, Gojo demands to play with you. Geto relinquishes his remote to your reluctant hands, more than happy to go back to his phone.
“Damn.” Satoru laughs as he kills you for the 4th time. “You’re bad at this.”
You frown at the YOU LOSE on your side of the screen.
“I haven’t played this before,” you respond.
“I can tell.”
He doesn’t seem particularly upset that his new gaming partner sucks. If anything, the more he kills you, the wider his smile gets.
“We should place bets.” He suddenly pipes up. “However looses a round: strips.”
You shrink. Geto rolls his eyes.
“Satoru, stop bullying your roommate and play the game.” He leans back. “Let the poor thing breathe.”
He whirls around to look at you with wide eyes. You can’t tell whether he’s being genuine. You glance away.
“Yeah.” You fiddle with the remote. “I know.”
“See, it’s fine!” Instantly, Satoru forgets the game. He crowds into the couch to circle his arm around you, pulling you into his side. “You’re the only person who understands my humor, pretty girl.” He sighs.
“This sounds more and more like a hostage situation.” Suguru idly comments.
But when you look at him, really look at him, you can see the apathy clear in his eyes.
Maybe that’s why they got along so well.
“Shut up.” Satoru snaps.
“You’ll tell me, though, right?” Satoru says as he snuggles even closer. “If I’m going too far?”
You want him to get off of you. You know he knows, too.
“I will.” You say instead.
Satoru grins, continuing to swaddle you with his body.
“See?” He blows a raspberry in Suguru’s direction. “My Roomie loves me.”
⌂
Sometimes you prefer to be alone with Satoru. He just gets worse with more people around.
The club he dragged you into was smoky, with the occasional lights that flicked and changed colors, illuminating the floor. It was crowded. Someone spilled a drink on the floor earlier that night. The sweet sticky scent lingered in the air.
Satoru had brought a couple of other people too, more than happy to stuff the lot of you into his car before driving off. One of Satoru’s other friends, Shoko, was here somewhere. Suguru was here too, but you lost sight of him sometime back. You, standing against the wall, wonder if you could take a bus back to the apartment.
The only person in your line of sight was Satoru.
Earlier, he’d asked if you wanted to dance. You declined. You thought he’d make a bigger fuss out of it, like usually he does when you don’t fully accommodate him. Instead, he shrugged off your rejection, casually tossing over his shoulder to ‘join in at any time’.
Someone else was with him. She was shorter than him, even with the heels. You watch as she drags manicured nails across his arms as he leans down to kiss her. You doubt they know each other. Satoru’s just like that. Overly friendly.
It reminds you of all the people he brings over for ‘late-night study sessions’. Apart from the noise, you don’t mind the girls and guys. Most of them are pretty nice. They actually give you a lot of relief whenever you see them. For a second there, you thought that the reason Satoru was doing this to you was that he–
So yes, the people he brings over are a nice thing.
Someone clears his throat.
You don’t recognize him. His grin is sheepish. Polite, you smile back.
The small talk is a bit awkward at first. It’s hard to hear him with the screaming crowd and music. You two exchange names. He comments on the phone case you have, claiming his sister likes that character too. He perks up when he says something that makes you laugh.
“Did you come here with anyone?” He finally asks.
“My roommate,” you offer, turning your head to point to Gojo.
He isn’t there. Neither is the girl he danced with earlier. You wonder if he decided to ditch you and take her home. You don’t think you’d be surprised if he did.
At the implication you aren’t seeing anyone, he asks:
“Can I get you a drink?”
You think you’re about to refuse. You know Satoru and the rest of his group will be drunk by the time the night ends. You’re pretty sure the only reason you were dragged along was to play babysitter and drive them home.
You open your mouth for a polite rejection.
Satoru does it for you.
He was fast. You hadn’t noticed him until he was putting himself right between you and your conversational partner.
Satoru’s smiling. It doesn’t look friendly.
“Hey man,” Satoru casually says, “the fuck are you doing?”
He can read between the lines, something you’re grateful for. Within seconds, the stranger is hurrying off. Lucky, you think to yourself, watching his back disappear into the crowd. Satoru lets him go so easily.
Unlike you.
He turns on you almost immediately. You want to sink into the wall.
“We’re going.” He finally says.
You pliantly nod, letting him lead you out the seedy club. Only when you get to his car do you realize he meant just you and him.
“What about–” You cut yourself off when you see his eyes.
Dark. They no longer resemble the color of cloudless skies. Now, they’re more like thunder and rain.
You’ve never seen him more furious than the entire time you’ve known him.
You remain silent as you slip into the passenger seat, tucking yourself into the seatbelt. Satoru starts the car with a distinct rumble. The locks click into place.
You’ve always known Gojo to be an erratic driver. Tonight feels even worse. His knuckles are white from how hard he’s squeezing the steering wheel. The car keeps speeding up and up, careening past the speed limit. You can hear your heartbeat thudding in your chest.
And Satoru?
Satoru looks like he’s about to murder someone.
“Who was that?” His voice is cold, devoid of all the playfulness he had earlier tonight.
“I don’t–”
“Who the fuck was he?” He demands.
You flinch, and your hands curl into fists to keep them from shaking too much. You can’t do anything but stare into the window, watching the night sky dwindle past with all the other cars on the highway.
“I didn’t know him.” You weakly tried to defend, even if you didn’t know why. Your instinct was to placate. “He just came up to me, and we started to talk.”
He laughs. It’s dry, bitter, and sardonic.
“Okay.” He tells you, turning the wheel so sharply that you press further into the door. “I let you outta’ my sight for two seconds, and you’re letting some fucker feel you up?”
“I–”
“What’d you two talk about?” He demands. “Did he ask if he could touch your pussy? If he did, you would’ve let him, right? I mean, you were practically throwing yourself at him like a slut, so maybe the guy thought he had a chance.”
It hurts to breathe. Something stings in your eyes as your vision blurs.
No one has ever said such horrible things to you before.
“Nothing like that happened.” You insist. Why was he doing this? Why was he acting like this? “Please just–”
“Shut up.” He snaps back. “What, you seriously thought anyone would fall for the shit you pull? You think he actually cared for you? Don’t make me laugh. He only wanted your tits and holes.”
The words Satoru barks out are mean and vulgar. Your body freely shakes, you press yourself further up against the door, feeling tears stream down your cheeks. Satoru’s voice only softens when your hiccups and sobs fill the car.
“Baby, no, I–I didn’t mean that shit.” His voice is oddly strained. You feel fingers brush against your neck, but you only shift away.
You didn’t want to be in that club. You didn’t want to talk to that man. You didn’t want to get into Satoru’s car. You just wanted to go home.
The car slows to a stop right in an abandoned parking lot. Satoru kills the engine, letting the car hum into silence. Whatever happens, you think it will happen now. At this very moment. You prepare yourself for the worst, squeezing your eyes shut.
But it’s even worse.
There’s a hiss of a zipper. Your eyes open just in time to see Satoru pull out his dripping cock.
He’s already hard. His cock curves up, almost touching the steering wheel as he wraps his fingers around the base. The tip is painfully swollen as beads of pre-cum leak down his cock. Veins bulge against his skin as he frantically pushes his hand up and down.
Your fear melts straight into horror as you stare at him. He’s staring right at you, desperately pumping his cock with his hand. The worst part is his eyes–wide, blown out like he’s high. He looks right at you like he wants to eat you alive.
You’re immediately reaching for the handle. No matter how much you tug, the car won’t open. You’re trapped there, forced to watch as your roommate jerks himself off in front of you because your crying turned him on.
Your sobs quieten. All you can hear in the car is his moans and the words he mouths, your name over and over again.
You think the worst part is that he still tries to talk to you, to comfort you.
“You’re okay–you’re okay, baby.” He’s spitting the words out through his teeth as his hand throttles his pulsing dick. “Lemme–lemme–can’t help m’self–just–”,
You flinch when he comes. His cock spurts white cum all over his hands.
You’re fully silent. The only thing you can hear is his heavy breathing as he cleans up.
You think he’s about to reach for you. His fingers never make contact.
You stare out the window. Everything’s dark. Nobody was around. No one was around to see you. To hear you.
Even if someone was around…what could you say?
“Can we go home, please?”
There’s a sharp inhale.
“Sure.” The affection in his tone makes you nauseous.
You close your eyes.
“Anything for you, pretty girl.”
⌂
Ten minutes later, you’re still twiddling your fingers in the waiting room.
Getting this appointment had been excruciatingly difficult. Constant last-minute cancellations. Reschedules. It felt like they were trying to deter you from entering the housing office.
They promised you this was a temporary arrangement. You were only supposed to be at Satoru’s place for a month, maybe even less. But then one month turned to two. Two months turned to three. You don’t think you’d last another day in that apartment.
He was getting worse each day. It was only a matter of them until he—
A man steps into the lounge. He’s tall and lanky, carrying a smile that screams dismissive. You perk up as he squints at you. When he calls your name, you immediately rise, following him into the back of his office.
It’s stuffy. There are papers everywhere. You squish into a chair just before he starts talking.
It’s the usual stuff. You spell out your name, and he pulls up your housing account. He squints at the computer.
“You said this was a temporary assignment?” He asks.
You eagerly nod, straightening your posture.
“Yes,” you say. “My roommate wasn’t supposed to have another one, but there was a mix-up and—“
“No.” He taps on the screen. “You said it was temporary, but here it says it’s permanent.”
You swallow.
“What?”
He messes around with his mouse for a bit. Your hands feel strangely clammy.
“Ah, here it is.” He cleared his throat. “It says you came in a month ago wanting to make the change. I see your and your roommates' signatures. You must have come here a while ago.”
You struggle to find the words.
“I don’t—“
“In any case, it’s too late to change anything now. The deadline for reassignment passed weeks ago.” He gives you a sympathetic look that strangely cuts deep into your skin.
“Are you and your roommate having issues?”
You think about the truth.
“No,” you hear yourself say. “Everything is fine.”
You don’t remember much after that. You think you were polite as you stood up. You think you shook his hand. You think you walked out of his stuffy office and out of that stifling building. Everything is a blur until you step into the sunlight, feeling it beat down your face.
You don’t want to go back to the apartment. You still feel too raw, too fresh.
You don’t have any classes left for today. You can’t hide out on campus. Satoru will find you. He always finds you. Maybe you should stay at a friend’s place and recuperate.
Right, you don’t have any friends. Satoru made sure of that.
Briefly, you think about going to the police. Could you maybe use them as a buffer somehow? At the very least, it might scare him from taking this any further.
But then you glance over at the campus buildings. The name Gojo flashes brightly in the sun.
You aren’t stupid. You may not know his family all that well, but you know the influence of his background. There is a reason his campus apartment is thrice the size of everyone else’s. There is a reason he wasn’t supposed to have a roommate in the first place.
He is everything. He has everything.
You are nothing. You have nothing.
When you arrive at the apartment ten minutes later, Satoru is already lounging on the couch.
He excitedly waves you over. When you get inside striking range, he reaches out, pulling you onto the cushions. You pretend not to notice the way he breathes in your scent as you settle on the sofa. An arm wraps around your body, pushing you into his side.
“Where were you, roomie?” Satoru whines. “Didn’t class end an hour ago?” It would be a harmless question if his grip weren’t so tight. You won’t be surprised if you find a bruise there in a day or two.
Something plays on the TV. Neither of you pays attention.
“Sorry.” It’s all you can muster to say.
He seems satisfied with your answer–the submission of it. You find yourself counting down the clock. Seven minutes go by before you speak up again.
“Satoru?” You ask.
There’s a distant hum of an answer.
“Did you tell Housing I was staying?”
For the longest while, Satoru does not speak. Then, he relaxes. He groans, easily delving into your space. A hand rests on your thigh.
“Oh, that.” There’s a yawn. “Yeah, I just went ahead and told them you didn’t need to move out. We were getting along so well, ‘makes no sense why you’d get a different apartment, right? Sounds like a hassle moving halfway through the semester.”
Then he shifts. You can feel him stare right down at you.
“Unless you have a problem with that?”
He doesn’t even bother to hide it. Pure excitement.
Was there ever a possibility you could’ve come out unscathed had you just stood up to him earlier? Maybe you should’ve been a bit less timid when speaking to him about his music. Maybe you should’ve commented on his lack of clothing around the house.
Or maybe it was always going to end up this way.
“No.” You tell him, staring straight at the TV. “I don’t have a problem with that.”
A couple of days later, another pair of panties goes missing.
Unlike last time, you don’t bother looking for it.
⌂
You always locked your door at night, but looking back, it was stupid to assume Satoru didn’t have a spare key.
This is his apartment, after all.
The lock gives with barely a click. You’re already wide awake, body rigid, tucked underneath the covers as hallway light bleeds into the room. You’re facing the textured wall, watching as his shadow drifts into your bedroom. The door shuts in a way that sounds final. It’s dark again.
He’s quiet. You can barely hear the sounds of his breath. There’s a footstep. Then, another. Eventually, he’s right behind you.
You don’t know what he was doing. You’re too scared to turn and check. Naively, you think if you pretend to be asleep, he’ll leave.
One minute.
Two minutes. He’s so still, for a moment, you wonder if you imagined the whole thing.
The edge of your blankets lifts. Your bed creaks under his weight. His chest presses against your back. Warm hands grasp your shoulders.
He’ll leave eventually. If you pretend to be asleep, he’ll leave.
You squeeze your eyes shut when his head nuzzles into the crook of your neck. He inhales.
Fingers play with the ends of your shirt.
He’ll leave soon. He’ll leave soon. He’ll leave–
“You’re not gonna stop me, are you?” His voice makes your shoulders tense. You can practically hear his smile.
His fingers manage to slip under your shirt. You can barely hold in your gasp when he grabs a handful of your tits. He doesn’t even bother to be gentle, squeezing and pulling until you’re practically whining.
“C’mon.” Satoru coos into your ear. There’s a kiss on your neck. “Say it. Tell me no.”
He nibbles the skin right on your jawline. His hair tickles your cheek.
Your hands reach out to grab his own. You squeeze, digging your nails into his skin.
“Please stop.”
He laughs–the kind of laugh you’d give to a toddler if they misbehave. It feels so mean.
“You’re so cute.” Another kiss right at your ear.
“Stop.” You repeat. His hands don’t budge, not even when you start to draw blood. “Let go. Don’t–don’t touch me–”
He flips you right on your back. From the streetlights peaking through the blinds, you can see his face. The widest smile is stretched over his pretty lips. It looks almost manic.
Your eyes sting.
“Can I kiss you?” He asks. It’s almost cruel how soft his voice is.
You shake your head. His teeth gleam.
“Please?” He leans closer. “Just one kiss?”
It’s heartbreaking how sweet the kiss is. Soft, barely touching as he melds his lips with yours. He keeps a hand on your chin, holding you in place before the greed takes over and he ravages you.
By the time he pulls away, your lips are bitten and bruised.
He sinks lower, face dipping into the skin of your neck as he makes himself home there. It’s laughingly pathetic how weak you were compared to him–how little you fare when he pulls off your shirt, then your shorts. Soon, his clothes join yours, leaving a small puddle of cloth at the foot of your bed.
He pulls away from your body, looking over the whole of you.
“Oh, baby.” His eyes are blown out like he’s high. “I…I just wanna do everything to you.”
You can’t hold back the tears anymore. They drip down your face, sculpting your cheeks. He coos, sinking lower to pepper your face in kisses.
“I’m sorry, baby.” The excitement in his voice betrays him. “Don’t cry. I won’t do anything bad, I promise.”
Liar, you want to call him, but you don’t. You can’t. Your throat traps your voice as his fingers delve underneath your panties.
There’s no tact as he presses into you, immediately filling you up with his finger. Your pussy can barely fit one of him, almost choking when he slips in another. There’s no rhythm, no grace for how fragile you are as he thrusts his fingers deeper and deeper.
You can barely muffle your cries as he hits a spot deep inside you.
“See?” he asks, toying with your clit. “Not bad things, right?”
You don’t answer, barely able to keep the noises in check as he abruptly pulls out of you. His fingers are shiny from your pussy juices. He crudely wipes his fingers on your tits.
You’ve seen his cock before, but it looks even bigger from this angle. It slaps against your inner thighs as he finishes yanking off your drenched panties. The mushroom-tipped head brushes against your slit. He tosses one of your legs over his shoulder, opening your hole just enough to get his cock in the perfect position.
The fight comes in too late. You think you’re reaching up to claw at his face, those pretty blue eyes.
It dies as he bottoms out inside your pussy in one thrust.
He doesn’t wait for you to settle down; he’s not kind enough for that. As soon as his cock sits as deep as it can into your pussy, he’s immediately moving. Your abused cunt immediately tightens around his cock, almost like you’re trying to suck him back in.
You squeeze your eyes shut as you feel Satoru collapse on top of you. His head drops into the crook of your neck. You can hear his ragged breaths as he fucks himself deeper and deeper into you.
“‘need you to relax for me, baby.” He hisses like it’s your fault he can’t control himself. “Can–can barely fit into this cunt.”
To emphasize his words, he reaches down. There’s a soft slap right on your clit. You yelp. He soothes you with gentle circles with his thumb.
“Satoru,” you can barely get out from the pressure, “please just stop–” Another smack on your pussy. Harder.
“Can’t stop.” His breaths are ragged, and his hips shift so he can plow into you at a different angle. “Can’t ever stop. Not when I know how good you feel.”
There’s a rasp of a laugh as your own noises get louder and louder. Your back arches. Something hot writhes in your belly the more the fucks you. He’s gripping your waist so harshly that you know they’ll leave bruises.
It’ll pair well with the clawmarks you leave on his back as you arch further into his raw cock.
There’s a sharp hiss before he’s kissing you again. There’s a harsh thrust that makes you moan directly into his mouth. He reluctantly pulls away, licking the taste of you out of his mouth.
“I’m so glad I found you.” He tells you, continuing to ram into your pussy.
“Can’t even imagine how–how someone else would react to you just givin’ yourself to ‘em. Fuck, even thinkin’ about it makes me wanna kill someone.”
Distantly, you think about all the times you could’ve stopped him. You think about what you could’ve done differently to never cross paths with a man like Gojo Satoru.
“You’re all for me.” He sighs, leaning close so he’s whispering right in your ear.
He wants you to hear this right before he makes you cum all over his cock.
“It’s all you’ll ever be.”
You're writhing against his cock as he forces you through an earth-shattering orgasm. Your pussy clenches hard around him, milking him for all he’s worth as your climax is reluctantly dragged out of your exhausted body.
There’s a grunt, then a sigh as something fills you to the brim. His cock pumps his cum steadily into you. There’s so much your poor pussy can’t keep it all inside. It leaks crudely from your hole.
He stays like that for a minute, breathing you in as you start to come down from your high. Then, Satoru flops to your side, gathering up in your arms. You’re forced to lie against his chest, listening to his quickening heartbeat.
The anger comes too late to do anything about.
“I hate you.” You hiss as he continues to cuddle you. “I hate you, I hate you–you sick, twisted–”
“Aw, you don’t gotta’ pretend to be mean with me, pretty girl.” Satoru coos, snuggling into your exhausted figure. You can feel the hard shape of his cock press right against your thigh.
CONTENT WARNINGS! all my fics contain dark content including, but not limited to, noncon, dubcon, and explicit descriptions of violence and abuse. DEAD DOVE: DO NOT EAT. 18+, please!
Girls, this one is pure, absolute filth and nothing else. Like, oh my god, this is smut city.
There is little you enjoy more than spending time with Bucky. While you love everything about him, you can’t deny that, a little vainly, a big strength in the relationship is that Bucky will worship the ground you walk on. You’ve had guys like you in the past and of course you’ve dated, but none were as devoted to you as Bucky is, as starstruck and pathetic for you as he is. If you said the word, he’d lick the bottom of your shoe and thank you over and over for letting him do it. Of course, though, you wouldn’t exploit your power over him like that, though it is fun to imagine, to sort of push him a little sometimes, just teasing. Like when he drops to his knees at the foot of the bed, begging to taste you and swearing he’ll make you feel better than you could imagine, and you pretend to think it over for a few seconds. He’s shaking and desperately clawing at your legs. “Baby, please! P— please, I can’t— I can’t take it, I need to taste you, oh god!, please let me—” And lord knows you want him just as badly as he wants you.
He’s coming over tonight, and as a little treat, you decided to get some lingerie. You’re admittedly a little nervous about it—before Bucky, you never would have definitively classified yourself as ‘sexy,’ and always felt a little awkward with exhibitionism, but you’re feeling pretty good about this.
For your first set, you certainly went with an ambitious choice: you picked white lace because Bucky often calls you an angel, over and over, he’ll say it like a prayer. When he’s in you so deep you can’t do anything more than whimper and scratch your nails down his back, his pathetic voice reaches you through his pants and whines: “God, this… fuck, this is fucking heaven—” he breaks off to let out a strangled, broken moan that makes you let out a curse of your own and clench tighter around him, which only increases his whimpering and makes him double his efforts, dragging his thick length in and out of you like it’s the only thing he knows how to do “—You’re— fuck! — You… You’re my own… own personal fucking angel, baby. God, you must be an angel, this has to be heaven—” And you never know how he manages to go on and on when his voice is strained, his muscles taught with the effort of not coming within the first few minutes of being inside of you. You can’t remember a time when he hasn’t made you come at least twice before he dared focus on himself, never sliding in before you’ve come on his tongue and/or his fingers.
You pull on the bra and stun yourself with how bold it is, though maybe you just don’t know all that much about lingerie. It barely contains your breasts and consists mostly of thin mesh leaving little covered except beautiful lace trim running around the cups. When the bell sounds, you jump up and rush to the front door. Bucky is coming over for what is supposed to be just dropping off some books you left at his place, but once you saw the white lace set in the store earlier that day, everything changed.
With a deep breath, you open the door, posed casually but a little provocatively, with posture that makes your breasts a little higher and one hip raised.
“Hi, honey, I…” he trails off and you can practically see his mouth run dry. You have to suppress a smirk as his blue eyes scan you from down to up until they meet yours, and you swear you watch his pupils dilate in real time. But it’s you offering an innocent smile that sends him over the edge.
In a flash, he’s dropped the tote bag he was holding and is instead using that hand to grasp at your cheek, caging your face against his with one hand while the other desperately slides up and down your side before snaking around to your lower back and pulling you so your chest is to his, kicking the door shut behind him. He’s relentless; once his lips smash onto yours, you know it’s over, and the little game you had planned was spinning out of your control. But still, you try to have a little fun with it.
When you finally manage to break away from the kiss, its absence making Bucky whine, you let out a breathless chuckle. “Well, hello to you, too.”
His gaze rakes over your form again, up and down, and when his eyes meet yours again, he can’t even speak. He looks like he can’t even breathe, chest stuttering and eyes watering with the restraint it takes him not to pounce on you.
“What is it?” you ask, sweetly, pouting up at him and tilting your head to the side. When he doesn’t respond, you slide your hand over his shoulder, making him jump, and round so you can grip the back of his neck and pull him closer to you. “Words, Bucky. Use your words.”
That seems to snap him out of his silence, but definitely not out of whatever trance you’ve brought him into. He swallows thickly, and when he finally gets his voice to work again, it’s hoarse and raspy, and even still, he can hardly string a sentence together: “You— Fuck, baby, you gotta let me— I need to—” But his rambling is broken off by the soft rake of your fingers through his hair, which makes him shudder and his knees threaten to buckle.
He tries to kiss you again but you step back with a raised eyebrow, and when he realises you’re not letting his words go unspoken, he matches you step for step, still letting out moans of “I need to— Please let me— God, you look—” until he’s got you up against the wall. When you think the fun’s over, he drops to his knees in front of you and inhales your scent deeply. His arms clasp around your thighs, squeezing them together so harshly it would nearly hurt if it didn’t feel so good. He closes his eyes and dips his head, letting out a shaky breath and trying to regain his composure. When he looks up at you, his eyes are big and wet and it’s making it hard for you to hold out.
“Baby,” he whines, and presses himself against you with a moan which makes you gasp. If he had it in him, he might have made a playfully snide comment about how he’s not the only one so desperate, but you’ve never seen him like this. He’s completely out of it, he’s on the verge of weeping at your feet. “I— ohhhh…” he groans and squeezes you harder. “Let me worship you. Use me, baby, tell me what to do and I’ll do it, you’ve just— you’ve got to let me taste you, I can’t take it—”
“Bucky, honey—” you begin but are interrupted by his strangled moan. “Fuck!” you startle and need to lean against the wall for support. “Don’t… don’t make that sound.”
You know he’s really gone when that earns not even a smirk from him. “You’re an angel,” he continues, “Oh, god, you’re a fucking angel, you’re my religion.” He pauses from his prayers to press wet kisses over your thighs, breathless as he pants against your soft skin, “Let me— I’ll do anything you want, fuck, I’ll let you do anything you want, whatever, just— just please!” You can feel his tears drop onto your skin and reach your hand down to tilt his chin up.
“Poor darling…” you coo sympathetically at him, bottom lip puffed out and eyebrows pulled into a show of concern. “You need something from me?” You swear you’ve never been like this, but this desperation is sort of bringing out a little bit of a sadist in you. Bucky just helplessly stares up at you with red eyes, and with the way you’re getting a little desperate yourself, you don’t have it in you to draw out your teasing any longer. “That’s alright, honey. I know what you need.” When you lean down to kiss him—softly, intimately, tenderly and slowly—the broken whimper he lets slip past his lips and onto yours lets you know neither of you can hold out any longer.
Suddenly impatient, you grip his shirt collar and tug him to stand, immediately crashing his lips onto yours and walking your bodies to your bedroom where he all but crashes on top of you as you fall to the bed, saved at the last minute by sticking his hands out on either side of you, but his arms are wobbly, his entire body is trembling like you’ve never seen before. And just as you’re about to ask him if he’s okay, he dives to suck on your right nipple through the mesh of your bra. You gasp and slide your fingers into his brown hair, sputtering out, “B— Bucky—” and that makes him stop.
He removes his lips and presses his forehead into your chest, looking down. Suddenly, instead of that whiny pleading, his voice is now deep and dark. “Don’t say my name like that, or I’m really gonna fucking lose it.”
You bite your lip to hide a smile, but it doesn’t work. Deciding to see just how far you can take this, you raise the pitch of your voice, turning to being the beggar now. “Bucky,” you moan, breathlessly.
That’s his undoing.
His head snaps up and he lowers himself to kiss you deeply again, one hand twisting at your nipple while he grinds himself down onto you for some relief of his own. He’s so hard it’s genuinely painful and makes him let out a sob when you slide your hand down to run your palm over his clothed crotch.
When he breaks the kiss, you think he’s pulling up for air (because lord knows you need it) but he instead dives straight for your nipple and tears the mesh fabric away with his fucking teeth, letting your tit spill out. You gasp at the display but your disbelief is immediately swallowed by intense pleasure as Bucky sucks just right, causing you to throw your head back and arch up further into his mouth. He finally slides a hand between your legs and pushes two thick fingers inside of you, making you let out an earth shattering cry and grip onto the back of his neck tighter. He responds to your moan with a groan of his own and speeds up his work. He’s too far gone to hear you breathlessly moan about how you’re on the verge of coming, and so is slightly surprised when he suddenly feels you clench around his finger. Swirling his tongue around your nipple, he moves to add a thumb to your clit but you’ve already come undone underneath him, your body sensitive to aftershocks as evidenced by your yelp when the pad of his thumb connects with your button.
He wants to look up at your flushed face but knows he can’t or he’ll really lose the minute amount of self control he’s barely holding onto right now, and so instead, he slips off the bed and onto his knees, quickly pulling your legs to rest over his shoulders without any hesitation. He hears you suck in a deep breath like you’re about to say something but the words die on your tongue, overtaken by the torturous moan that escapes you when his greedy mouth attaches itself to your weeping and over-sensitive cunt. Your thighs lock around his head making him brace his cold metal hand over your warm belly to keep you from squirming at his filthy ministrations.
You don’t know how long he’s got you there, you lost count after your fourth orgasm which he rode out just as he did every other despite your wriggling and protests and the tears streaming down your face. When he finally looks up, it hits you that there’s something deeper going on.
“But I haven’t even fucked you yet, angel, god!” He groans and presses himself into the mattress, letting out a whimper. “Please let me—”
You want to say no but you’re lightheaded and dizzy and you can’t get your brain to form the thoughts, let alone get your mouth to say the words. You’re groaning while he’s undressing and before you know it he’s ripped your panties off of you and pressed his tip against your entrance. He nearly fucking falls forward when his leaky cock only lightly nudges your folds. “F— fuck! Oh! Baby, angel, I— I need to— I’ll fucking die if I don’t, I’m so serious, babe, I’ve gotta— I’ve gotta—” He chokes on air, cutting off his words as he slides into you, bottoming out almost immediately due to your earlier slick still coating your walls (and his face). When you wrap your legs around his waist and squeeze him even tighter, he’s one million percent sure he’s never been closer to God than he is at this moment.
Through the haze, he finally makes out a sound, a voice — You’re sobbing beneath him, and your hands are weakly pushing at his shoulders, trying to get him to relent. You’re saying something about it being too much or too big or something but he can’t focus on a word you’re saying over how good you fucking feel, and he tells you: “Baby, I— I can’t hear a word you’re fuckin’ saying, I— Shit! I just— I can’t—” Both of you have tears streaming down your faces; you’re overstimulated and want him to stop but he’s only just getting started. It’s never going to be enough now. And as much as he hates to say it, you’re kind of ruining the moment.
“Mmm, just sh— shut up with that, okay?” He presses a hand against your mouth and uses the other to pin your free hand to the bed. “You fucking knew you were driving me crazy, you knew what you were doing, so you’re not a fucking victim, alright?” He accentuates that with a harsh thrust that has you arching your back and letting out a scream muffled by his hand. “I was wrong, baby. You aren’t an angel, you’re a fucking devil sent here to destroy me, but, god, I’d still do anything for you, do anything to be inside you, to taste you, fucking hell, you can burn me to ashes if you just let me fucking have you!”
✪
Thank you for reading! Likes, comments and reblogs are unbelieveably appreciated.
Read more here: Bucky Barnes Masterlist
If you liked this, try Polaroids.
[thank you for the support, my beloved taglist; @keito-123, @vogueprincess, @mybabygirllove, @chinggay85-blog, @10ava01, @darkles-6, @dreamlesssleepsaga, @cjand10, @hydrangel1c]
Married to Paul Diskant, the two of you move to Meade to a better cardiac hospital. In dire need of a heart transplant. While doing his usual runs, Lee Bodecker can’t help but to become a bit obsessed with you, and he’ll do anything to make sure you get your heart, but he’s the one that ultimately wants it…
Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7
A/N: This goes without saying, but this is a dark fic. Minors DNI. There will be dark themes such as obsession, corruption, manipulation, abuse of power, and smut, 18+ ONLY
Life would have been so much easier for you if you didn’t have a random run in with Robert “Mr. Freezy” Pronge. Or was the meeting that random?
Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7, Part 8, Part 9, Part 10, Part 11, Part 12 ⭐COMPLETE⭐
Drabbles:
Sun Bathing, Little Bit of Blood, Pretty Girl Confessions, Who’s Your Daddy, Psychotic Trio, X-Cross, Extra Sensitive, A Mouth Almost as Good as…, Merry Christmas Freezy Baby, Make a Mess
Imagines: (these are requests and not part of Freezy/Pretty Girl/Cherry’s timeline)
I’m Not Him, It Was an Accident, Visiting Robert with the Twins, We’re Keeping It, Paul Returns, Then There Was Four
Headcanons:
Life With Paul
Sweet Cherry Pops: The Sequel
Read in Chronological Order
A/N: this is a dark!fic. Each part will have tags at the beginning of the story. Elements in this story will include dub con, murder, dead bodies, secrets, lies, branding, and heavy/dark smut. YOU are the one responsible for the content you consume.
A/N: this is a dark AU. Once you journey into the woods, you may never get out, so proceed with caution. These stories will intertwine but they are mostly a lot of smut with a little bit of a plot. Read ALL tag warnings, and have fun.
*dividers created by @firefly-graphics
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