tags: 18+ [MDNI], zayne x reader, smut, p in v, dirty talk, dom! zayne, implied marathon sex, implied multiple orgasms
“Am I not satisfying you?”
You blinked.
You immediately stopped watching the movie on the television, and your head tilted to look at Zayne, whose arms were crossed, leaning on the doorway.
“Um, what?” Your brows knitted together as you watched his cold gaze lock on you. “Sorry, Zayne. I don’t understand what you mean.”
“Am I not satisfying you in sex?”
Your eyes widened slightly, feeling caught off guard by your husband’s question. “Of course you do, Zayne. Where is this coming from?”
“I am your husband and your primary physician, and I have your cycle memorized,” he firmly said. “Right now, you're ovulating. So how come you're not asking for sex?”
You immediately averted your gaze back to the television, unable to meet his darkened expression. “Um, it's not like that, Zayne. I can manage myself just f-fine.”
“Really? Because as far as I remember,” You heard his slow, heavy footsteps approaching closer. “Three, four, and the previous months prior, you would initiate having sex during your ovulation.”
You gulped. “I— I just learned how to handle it on my own.”
“Why?”
Your body trembled in nervousness, eyes staring at the television, trying to seek some comfort from the noise.
“Zayne, it's not really a big deal. I swear!”
Zayne picked up the remote control and pointed it towards the television, immediately shutting the screen off into pitch-black.
“That is not what I asked.” He sternly said, setting the remote control aside.
He stood in front of you with his arms crossed, and you lowered your gaze to the floor, feeling yourself shrinking in front of him.
“I– I just don't want to bother you with trivial matters, Zayne.” You nervously fidgeted your fingers. “Your work is already physically and mentally demanding. I just don't want to add to your exhaustion…”
Zayne’s cold gaze lingered on you for a while. “So you decided to endure and relieve it on your own?”
“Zayne, it's just ovulation—”
“It seems that you have reached conclusions on your own, and most of them are inaccurate.” Zayne interrupted.
You noticed Zayne's body shift a little, making you look up.
“I can confidently attest that your assessment of my physical condition is incorrect.”
Your eyes widened, seeing Zayne unbuckling his pants.
“Z-Zayne? What are you—”
“I’ll have to properly demonstrate it instead.” Zayne’s hand reached for his glasses, hastily taking it off and placing it on the coffee table. “Let's test whether your hypothesis is correct.”
“Z-Zayne— wait— Hngh!”
“Aren't you a big girl now? Then surely you can handle my cock just fine.”
Zayne has been ramming his thick cock into you for at least three hours now, like a rutting madman.
Your chest is pressed against the bed, and your face is buried against the pillow, your tears staining the white fabric. Your hips were limply raised, gripped by Zayne's strong, large hands to maintain support.
“Ngh— Zayne… more…”
Your walls were gushing wet, and you could not distinguish whether it was from the stimulation or your cum, but it did not matter. All you could hear was the wet, unrelenting thwop, thwop, thwop.
Zayne leaned closer until you felt his breath against your ear. “My love, you said you already relieved yourself enough. But look at you, still dripping wet.” His hands traveled to your breasts, gently squeezing them. “You wanted me to bury myself inside you so badly, didn't you?”
Zayne, being a physician, already knew the answer. But would he pass this opportunity to remind you that only his cock would satisfy your thirst during ovulation? Of course not.
“‘M sorry, Zayne… your— mhmp— feels too good…” Your tongue lolled, and your mind was in a haze, feeling Zayne’s thick length hit your deepest spots.
"Cum, my needy wife." Zayne pounded you harder, and with one strong thrust, you squirted juices once again even before your mind could process it.
Your legs trembled in pleasure, feeling Zayne halt for a brief moment. Then, you weakly tilted your head to the side, eager to see his face.
Just when you thought it was over, you felt his cock rubbing against your clit, still erect.
“Z-Zayne, we've been at it for hours, y-you just came back home from work earlier—”
“No, my love.” He kissed your temple, gently turning you around, making you lie on your back. “We haven't finished the assessment.”
You looked at him teary-eyed. “I— I believe you already.”
“I disagree. The mere fact that you continue to express your concern when we're in the middle of the assessment clearly implies that I have not demonstrated enough.” He gently brushed his finger against your chin.
“You rang the bell...the bell means you need me.”
“I always need you, Zayne.” You guide his hand beneath your shirt, pressing his palm flat against your bare stomach, and the breath he lets out against your neck is almost a surrender in itself. “I think you need me, too.”
synopsis: butler!zayne is trained to anticipate your every need. what he hasn't been trained for is you—home alone, ringing the one bell he's never been able to ignore, asking for the one thing he's never been able to give.
wc: 8.8k | ao3
tags: butler!zayne, brat tamer!zayne, age gap, power imbalance, porn with plot, fluff + smut, comfort no hurt, spanking, edging, cunnilingus, hair pulling, vaginal sex, backshots, prone bone, size difference, aftercare
a/n: giving zayne one (1) barely legal fantasy……..as a treat……….
The first time you tried, you were sixteen.
It was the thick of summer, the kind of damp heat that turns the estate into a greenhouse. Your mother's garden party sprawled across the south lawn, and you’d hidden upstairs long enough to change into a sundress that was definitely too short and absolutely on purpose.
You padded barefoot down the service stairs to the kitchen, where Zayne—the perfect butler, the one who runs the household, the one who never lets anything go wrong—was reviewing the evening's schedule.
You perched yourself on the counter beside his clipboard, crossed your legs, and let the hem ride up.
“I need help with my zipper,” you said, turning to show him the back of the dress, which was zipped perfectly fine and you both knew it.
Zayne hadn't looked up from the schedule, hadn't so much as blinked. He simply reached over, tugged the zipper up the remaining quarter-inch it didn't need to travel, and said, “Will that be all?”
You stared at the back of his head, face burning, and vowed that one day you'd get him to break.
You tried again on your eighteenth birthday.
Your parents had thrown a party, the kind with floral arrangements and a champagne tower and three hundred people who knew your family's net worth better than they knew your name. You spent the evening smiling until your cheeks ached, accepting congratulations from strangers, and dancing with boys your mother hand selected who were perfectly nice and perfectly boring and perfectly wrong.
By midnight, you escaped to the kitchen—kicked your heels off, discarded your tiara on the counter, and sat on the floor with your back against the island eating leftover cake with your fingers.
Zayne had found you there. He'd taken in the scene—the dress pooling around you, the smudged mascara, the pink frosting on your thumb—and silently retrieved a fork before sitting down beside you.
He was still in his suit, still immaculate as ever, but he'd loosened his tie—and the sight of that one concession to comfort had made something hot pulse through you. You sat together in silence for a while, passing the cake back and forth. Then, because you were eighteen and a little drunk and very tired of pretending, you asked:
“Zayne. Do you think I'm pretty?”
He blinked, keeping his eyes shut for an extra heartbeat—processing the question, the context, the thousand reasons he should deflect.
“You've been drinking.”
“That's not what I asked.”
“The answer doesn't change based on your sobriety.”
“So there is an answer.”
He reached over and wiped a smear of frosting from the corner of your mouth with his thumb. The gesture was gentle and natural, the kind of thing he'd done a hundred times when you were small. Except you weren't small anymore, and his thumb had lingered a second too long, and you ached to know if he’d still be gentle if he pressed it against your tongue.
“You should drink some water,” he'd said quietly. “And go to bed.”
“Come tuck me in, then.”
You'd meant it as a joke, but the words came out too soft and the look on his face told you that you'd gotten closer to something real than either of you was prepared for.
He didn’t give you a response. Just stood up, filled a glass with cold water, and set it on the floor beside you.
“Happy birthday, princess.”
You'd sat there alone in the kitchen as the door shut behind him, holding the cup with both hands, and hated yourself for pushing. Maybe hated yourself more for not pushing harder. You'd felt his thumb on your mouth for the rest of the night. For weeks after.
Sometimes, if you closed your eyes, you could still feel it now.
Tonight, you’re twenty, and the house is trying to eat you alive.
You’re home from university for winter break, but the house is empty—your parents are out of the country, occupied by some charity board retreat that requires a week of their attention. The staff has all gone home for the holidays, leaving you alone in a house that was built for thirty.
Alone except for Zayne.
Zayne stays. He always stays, because someone has to manage the property and someone has to manage you, and your parents have never trusted anyone else with either job.
The estate is settling into its bones, creaking and groaning like it’s alive and reminding you how small you are inside it. The hallways are too long, the ceilings are too high, and every shadow seems to have eyes looking directly at you.
You’re not scared.
You’re an adult. You have self-defense training and a home security system that could protect a small nation.
You're not scared.
The floorboards squeak directly above your bed, and you flinch so hard you nearly fall off the mattress.
Okay. Maybe you’re a little scared.
Your eyes find the bell on your nightstand.
It's small—worn with age, fitted with a wooden handle meant for hands of a much younger you. Your grandmother had gifted it after you'd had a nightmare and screamed the house down and said, Ring this whenever you need someone, darling. Someone will always come.
Someone always meant Zayne.
Your parents never really had the time, or the patience, or the interest in dealing with your whims. But Zayne…Zayne always did. He was paid to maintain order after all, and managing you was just another task—though it never felt like one.
Not when he answered the call of your bell every time.
You'd rung it the night of the thunderstorm when you were eight, and he'd appeared within minutes with a flashlight and a copy of The Secret Garden and read to you until the storm passed. You'd rung it the night before your first day of secondary school, sick with anxiety, and he'd brought warm milk and sat with you while you listed every possible catastrophe and he assured you, very gently, that none of those things would happen and that if they did, he would personally intervene.
You rang it less and less as you grew older, saving it for the real emergencies—when your first boyfriend broke up with you by text, or the night before your final exams when you couldn't stop shaking. He always came. Never commented on the hour or the reason, just showed up at your door ready to handle whatever you needed handled.
You haven't rung it in over three years.
You pick it up, letting the cool brass warm in your palm. You turn it over once, feeling the weight of it, the history, the lifetime of someone always coming when you called.
You ring it.
The sound is small in the vast quiet of the house, barely louder than the wind outside your window. But you know he hears it. Zayne hears everything.
Two minutes pass before footsteps echo in the hallway, followed by a soft knock at your door.
“Come in,” you call.
He opens the door and stands in the frame, and the sight of him makes your mouth go dry.
After all this time living under the same roof, you've only ever seen him in his suit, his work clothes, or—once, memorably—a white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up that had nearly killed you. But this is something else entirely.
Grey sleep pants hang low on his hips, a white t-shirt stretching across his chest. His hair is tousled over his forehead, glasses sliding just slightly, jaw shadowed with the kind of stubble he'd never allow during working hours.
His eyes find the bell in your hand, and something in them softens.
“The house is making noises,” you explain.
He leans against the doorframe, taking in your oversized t-shirt, your bare legs, the way you’re sitting cross-legged at the center of your mattress on high alert.
“It's an old house,” he says. “It makes noises.”
“Scary noises.”
“You're not a child anymore.”
“Age and fear are not mutually exclusive.” You return the bell to the nightstand with unnecessary care. “I read that somewhere.”
“You read that nowhere.”
“I might have,” you counter. “You don’t know my reading habits.”
“You're currently halfway through a fantasy romance novel you hide inside a copy of The Economist when I bring your breakfast.” He crosses his arms, which emphasizes the broadness of his chest in a way that should come with a warning. “I know your reading habits.”
“It’s romantasy, Zayne,” you correct drily, though your face heats. “And that's—invasive.”
“It's observational. You leave the dust jacket loose.” He steps into your room, letting the door close behind him. “What do you need?”
You. I need you. I've needed you since I was sixteen and you zipped a dress that didn't need zipping and I need you to come here now and hold me and never leave this room.
“Company,” you say instead. “Just—stay for a while. Please.”
“There's a guest room adjacent to—”
“Zayne.”
“—mine, which I can prepare in—”
“Zayne, come on. You used to read to me when I couldn't sleep.”
He tilts his head, eyes narrowing. “You were eight.”
“And you were a very good reader. I remember the voices you did for the characters.”
“I did not do voices.”
“You totally did voices. Mrs. Medlock had a Yorkshire accent.”
He tries to fight the corner of his mouth lifting and loses. “That's historically accurate.”
A branch scrapes against the window and you jolt, pulling your knees in tight to your chest, and you watch it happen in slow motion—the moment Zayne registers the current of anxiety beneath your bravado, the delicate weight of his propriety crumbling against the fact that you rang the bell, the bell that means I need you, the bell he's never once ignored.
He crosses to your bookshelf, scans it, and pulls out a slim paperback.
“Persuasion?” you say, catching a glimpse of the cover.
He takes a seat on the edge of your bed, leaving a tortuously polite foot of distance between his hip and your knee. “It was on the shelf.”
“It’s a romance novel.”
“It's Austen. It's literature.”
“You just gave me a hard time for reading romance novels.”
“I gave you a hard time for hiding them.” He settles his glasses higher on his nose. “And this is a novel about patience. Restraint. Waiting for something even when it seems impossible. I thought you could use the lesson.”
You scoff in mock offense. “Was that a dig at me?”
“It was a recommendation.” He opens the book, then clears his throat. “Now stop talking.”
He reads.
You lie back against your pillow as his voice fills your bedroom like candlelight, settling into the spaces between the house’s creaking. When you were younger, his reading voice was a sedative, designed to pull you under. Now you're aware of every inflection, every pause, every place where his tongue shapes a word in a way that makes your thoughts drift to what else his mouth could be doing if he stopped being so goddamn careful.
After a few minutes, you start to shift. Not dramatically—just adjusting yourself in a way that happens to settle your body closer to his.
“You're not sleeping,” he says without taking his eyes off the page.
“I’m listening.”
“You're fidgeting.”
“I’m cold.”
“You’re not using a blanket.”
“A blanket isn't warm like a person.”
His gaze drags between you and the blanket you never bothered to use, eyes caught somewhere between mild disapproval and reluctant indulgence.
“Come closer,” you continue. “I’m requesting warmth. As a service.”
He lifts a brow. “You're requesting warmth.”
“From my butler. Who is paid to ensure my comfort.”
“I'm paid to manage the household.”
“Managing me is part of the household.”
“A fact I'm reminded of daily.”
Still, he moves closer an inch. Then another, when you give him a look that says it’s not enough. He eventually ends up beside you, back against the headboard, close enough that you can feel the heat radiating from his body but not quite touching.
“Better?” he asks.
You let your head rest on his shoulder, the way you used to when you were small—except you weren't thinking about the way his shoulder felt under your cheek then, or the firmness of the muscle, or the way he smells like clean linen shadowed with something rich and heady and him that you’ve never been close enough to catch before.
“Getting there. Keep reading.”
He obeys, though the words have lost all meaning. All that matters is the vibration of the words from his body into yours, the way the sound fills the aching space behind your ribs with something tender and safe.
You let a few minutes pass, let him settle into the false security of the routine—you leaning on him, him reading, the benign pretense that this is just an act of service. Then you curl closer, tucking your legs up and angling your body until you're pressed along his side with your face against his chest and your hand resting on his abdomen.
His reading stops.
“Comfortable?” he asks without looking down.
“Almost.” You spread your fingers wider against his stomach, savoring the way the muscles there tense beneath your touch. “Your heartbeat is fast.”
“I was reading aloud. That's exertion.”
“Liar.”
“Cardiovascular response to sustained vocalization is well-documented.”
“Seriously?”
“There are several studies. I'll send you the citations in the morning.” He shuts the book and sets it on the nightstand, effectively abandoning the charade. He folds his glasses and places them neatly beside it, pinching the bridge of his nose with a long exhale. “Go to sleep.”
“Hold me first,” you insist, wrapping your fingers around his wrist and guiding it to your waist. “I said I was cold.”
His hand rests at your side, settling on top of your shirt with a minimal contact that technically fulfills the request while giving away not an ounce more.
“Zayne.”
“Mm?”
“If I asked you to hold a box, would you balance it on one finger?”
“If the box asked to be carried with unreasonable specifications, possibly.”
“I’m not a box.”
“No. A box would be far less difficult.”
His arm wraps around you, pulling you against him properly, and the sudden full-body contact is dizzying. He's warm everywhere—the solid plane of his chest against your cheek, his arm heavy around your waist, his thigh pressed along the length of yours.
“There,” you murmur. “Was that so hard?”
“Yes,” he replies simply. “Now sleep."
“I’m not tired.”
“Then close your eyes and try.”
You shake your head against his shirt. “I can't sleep like this.”
“Like what?"
You shift, turning in his arms until your back presses against his chest. His body seems to adjust instinctively, turning with yours before his mind registers the implication—his arm resettling around your waist, chest flush against your spine, and you feel more than hear the sharp intake of breath he tries to hide when your bodies slot together.
“There.” You hum in approval. “Perfect.”
Zayne’s hand flattens against your stomach the smallest fraction, and the silence between you buzzes like a dare neither of you has the courage to break. The wind whips outside your window, but you don’t hear it, can’t focus on anything other than the way his thumb starts to move in a faint line, back and forth, tracing the hem of your shirt where its ridden up at your waist.
You’re barely breathing, afraid that any acknowledgment will make him stop, afraid that the touch you’ve been craving for so long will disappear before you even have the chance to feel it. His thumb runs over the hem again, and this time his fingertips dip beneath it—barely a touch, the rough pad of his finger against soft skin, and the sensation is so acute it makes your spine arch involuntarily.
He freezes, thumb stilling mid-stroke, as if suddenly remembering exactly who he is—and who he shouldn’t be right now.
“Don't stop,” you whisper.
His forehead drops to your shoulder. “You rang the bell.”
“I rang the bell.”
“The bell means you need me.”
“I always need you, Zayne.” You guide his hand beneath your shirt, pressing his palm flat against your bare stomach, and the breath he lets out against your neck is almost a surrender in itself. “I think you need me, too.”
When his hand moves again, it isn’t the absentminded tracing from before. His palm slides across your stomach with intent now, exploring the naked skin beneath your top—up your ribs, down to the dip of your waist, to the space just above the waistband of your shorts.
A soft noise catches in your throat and his hand stills, as if deciding whether to reward or reprimand the sound.
“More?” he asks against your neck.
You nod. “More.”
His hand resumes, but he doesn't go further, continuing the same path—ribs, waist, hip—following it again and again, learning you by touch. And every time his fingers drift close to the waistband, your breath catches, and each time he retreats to safer ground without crossing the line.
“Zayne—” Your voice is thin with want. “That's not—you're teasing me.”
“I’m doing exactly what you asked,” he replies, casually enough to make you want to put a pillow over his face. “You asked me to touch you. I'm touching you.”
“You know what I mean.”
“I know what you said. If you want something else, you'll have to request it.” His thumb draws an infuriating circle around your navel. “I’m a butler, not a psychic.”
He's playing the game, you realize. Your game, your rules, following your every request to the letter, and the compliance is intoxicating. He owns the control, yet the way he bends just enough to match your desire feels like a form of surrender uniquely his.
“Kiss me,” you try next.
“Where?”
You tilt your head to the side, certain he can see your pulse leaping where it shows. “My neck.”
He presses his lips there so gently it barely registers as contact, lingering for a moment before pulling back.
“Again,” you whisper.
He kisses the same spot equally soft, and you could scream from the tenderness of it, from how something so gentle can make you feel like you're burning alive.
“More.”
“More what?” His breath heats your skin as he speaks, and the almost-contact is worse than nothing. “Be specific.”
“Harder.” Your hand finds the back of his head, fingers threading into his hair, and the groan that it pulls from him is quiet and improper and makes your thighs press together. “Open your mouth.”
He presses his mouth more firmly against your neck and parts his lips slightly, just enough for his tongue to steal a taste of your skin.
“Anything else, princess?” He holds there, lips parted against the curve where your neck meets your shoulder, breathing you in like he needs this just as much as you do. “I’m at your service.”
The title drips with affection and irony and heat, twisted together like ribbons old and new. Princess. He's called you that since you were small, since you used to stomp your foot and demand things and he'd raise an eyebrow and say as you wish, princess. Except now his tongue is on your body and your ass is pressed where his cock strains against his pajama pants and the word means something it was never supposed to mean.
You turn in his arms until you're facing each other on the pillow, his hand still on your waist under your shirt. This close, you can see where the hazel-green of his eyes has gone dark with desire, where his lips shine wet from where he kissed your neck, where the muscle of his jaw tenses with something that looks like it hurts to hold back.
You bring your hand up to soothe it, the stubble there rough against your fingertips. He leans into the touch, a tiny tilt of his head that presses his cheek harder against your palm.
“I want you to kiss me,” you whisper, “here.” You touch your own lips.
He leans in slowly, mouth stopping just short of yours, hovering over your lips.
“Here?” he asks.
“Yes.”
The kiss is barely anything. A brush of lips, the softest pressure, there and gone before you can feel it. You chase his mouth as he pulls back, but he's already out of reach—settled against the pillow, calm on the surface, though the flush at the tips of his ears betrays him.
“That wasn’t a kiss,” you pout.
“It was, definitionally, a kiss.”
“It lasted half a second.”
“You didn't specify the duration.”
“Zayne.”
“Yes?"
“Kiss me longer.”
He leans in again, pressing his mouth to yours for—you count—exactly two seconds.
“Zayne.”
“That was measurably longer. I can go get a stopwatch if you'd like to formalize the parameters.”
You roll your eyes and swear you feel his wrist twitch at your side.
“I want you to kiss me like you can't help yourself. Like if you have to tear your mouth away from mine you'll lose your mind. I want the kiss I imagine when I’m alone in the bath and I close my eyes and pretend it’s your hands on my—” You stop to catch your breath, frustrated, heat rising to your face that’s part shame, part want, all desperate anticipation. “That kiss. Give me that one. Please.”
His hand slides from your waist to the back of your neck, cradling your head, angling you beneath him. His eyes move between yours and your mouth and back again, and the man who read you bedtime stories and carried you when you fell and tucked your blankets with precise corners is nowhere in this room. The man looking at your mouth right now is one who has been drowning for years and decided that here, now, tonight, he’s coming up for air.
“Hold still,” he says, and kisses you again.
This time he starts slow and stays slow, his lips moving against yours with a patience that burns, learning the shape of your mouth, the way you respond to pressure. His tongue traces your lower lip, not parting it, but outlining the edge, you whimper at the tease of it.
He swallows the sound, feeding it into his mouth like he means to keep it long past tonight, a secret possession for him and him alone. Finally—finally—his tongue slides against yours, deep and unhurried, filling your mouth until there’s nothing left but feeling.
The kiss goes on and on and on. Zayne is in no rush. He kisses you like he has all night, like time is a resource he intends to spend lavishly, like every stroke of his tongue against yours is an end in itself rather than a means to something else. And each time you try to speed up he gentles you, his hand on the back of your neck holding you in place, his mouth setting the pace, refusing to let anything take this moment away from him until he’s ready to release it.
Your hands slip underneath his shirt, pressing flat against his abdomen, and the muscles there flex at the contact. You trail both hands upward, following the ridges of his ribs until he huffs out a breath against your lips.
“Eager,” he murmurs, pressing kisses to the corner of your mouth, your cheek, your jaw.
“Impatient,” you correct, tugging the hem of his shirt up his chest. “And maybe a little eager.”
“A little, hm?” He catches both of your wrists, halting your exploration. “These are going above your head.”
“That seems unnecessarily restrictive.”
“It seems like the only way to keep you from getting ahead of yourself.” He guides your wrists to the pillow above your head, pinning you there with one hand. “Better. Now stay.”
He releases his hold to remove his shirt, and whatever bratty comment you had prepared dies in your throat the moment he tosses it to the floor in a move so unlike your butler you’d laugh under different circumstances. He works your top off next, pulling it up and over your arms, letting it join his on the ground.
The cool air makes your skin prickle, and you fight the immediate urge to cover yourself—a reflex that has nothing to do with him and everything to do with the fact that you’re not generous in this department, never have been, and lying beneath him with your arms above your head and nothing to hide behind makes you feel completely, uselessly small.
“Don’t,” he says quietly.
“Don't what?"
“Whatever you're thinking right now. Stop.” His fingertips graze your collarbone, then lower, trailing between your breasts. “You have no idea how many times I've thought about this body.”
“About my tragically average—”
“Finish that sentence and I'll make you wish you hadn’t.” His palm covers your breast easily, thumb brushing across your nipple. “These are perfect. And I don't say that about many things.”
“You say that about your silverware polish.”
“My silverware polish is also perfect. You're in excellent company.” He rolls your nipple between his fingers and your back arches off the mattress. “Responsive, too. Do that again.”
“I can't just do it on command—”
He rolls your nipple once more, firmer this time, and your body betrays you with an identical arch, with a sharp hiss of breath you can't hold in. Zayne watches it all unfold with an expression of deep, undeniable satisfaction.
“Interesting,” he says. “So it's pressure-dependent.”
“Are you taking notes?”
“I'm nothing if not thorough.”
He lowers his mouth to your breast, and the first brush of his tongue is almost painful in its relief. He paints a lazy, wet path before closing his lips around your nipple and sucking hard, drawing out a humiliatingly loud gasp from you that echoes through the room.
“That—” he says before his mouth closes around you again, teasing his teeth around the peak “—is my new favorite sound.”
He moves to the other side, giving it the same attention—tongue and teeth and the occasional scrape of stubble that sends sparks straight down your spine. His free hand stays on the breast his mouth just left, rolling your tight nipple between his fingers, then trails down your stomach, fingers grazing along the top of your shorts before retreating. Again and again he teases, each time a little further, each time making you jerk your hips up, chasing contact he keeps pulling away.
“You're doing that on purpose,” you say.
“Doing what on purpose?”
His fingers line the waistband again, dipping just below the elastic, and pull back. He blinks down at you, all wide-eyes and deceptive innocence, and you’re certain you’d be strangling him if your hands weren’t busy holding onto the pillowcase above your head for dear life.
“That. You keep almost touching me and then—“
“Patience—” He kisses the underside of your breast, your sternum, the dip of your navel. “—is a virtue.”
“Patience is for people who aren't this turned on.”
He pins your hip with one hand and you squirm harder, as if your body senses where he's headed and is vibrating with the need to get there faster, faster, faster.
“You never could hold still, could you?” You’re flipped onto your stomach so fast the room blurs. He works your shorts down your legs, leaving you facedown in nothing but your underwear. “Not once in twenty years.”
His hand strikes the curve of your ass.
You gasp, not from pain, more from the shock of it. The thrill that Zayne—controlled, careful Zayne—just spanked you on top of the same pink sheets he used to tuck you into.
“That's for squirming,” he says.
He lowers and presses a kiss to the spot he just struck, then smooths it over with his palm.
“You always needed this part,” he mouths against your skin, where it tingles from the sting. “The injury was never the problem. You just wanted someone to make it better after.” He travels higher, kissing up to the small of your back. “Every scraped knee. Every bruise. Every splinter you could have pulled out yourself but brought to me instead.”
“You had better hands than the first aid kit.”
“I had hands you trusted.” His hand settles at the base of your spine, nearly spanning the width of your low back. “You'd come find me wherever I was in the house and hold out whatever was hurt. Then stand there as long as it took for me to pay attention, looking up at me like I could fix anything.”
“You could fix anything.”
His hand slides up your spine with a familiarity that prickles at the edges of your memory. You've felt this hand on your back before—this exact path, this exact pressure.
Zayne has, too.
“Do you remember,” he says, bracketing your hips with his knees, “when you had me put sunscreen on your back?”
He asks as if every detail isn’t burned into your being.
It was the summer before you left for university—the sun was too bright, the pool smelled of chlorine, and your hot girl summer playlist terrorized every corner of the estate. You lay on your stomach by the pool with your bikini top untied and your bottoms hardly covering anything, and called your butler over with a voice you'd practiced sounding careless in the shower a dozen times.
Zayne, I need sunscreen. I can't reach my back.
He'd knelt beside your chair and obliged. His hands had been cool from the shade inside, the sunscreen warm from the sun. The restraint in his palms as they moved across your bare skin should have been unsexy but wasn't, because you could feel the effort in it as his fingers slid down your spine, across your waist, along the sides of your body.
You missed a spot, you'd said, though he hadn't. Still, he'd gone back and covered the same ground slower.
My legs, too.
His hands had worked your thighs, slick with sunscreen, rubbing the lotion from the backs of your knees up to where your thighs met the barely-there bottoms, the two inches of swimsuit the only barrier between the wet heat pooling between your legs and your butler’s thorough hands.
“I remember,” you whisper.
He traces the path now—down your spine, your waist, to the flare of your hip. The same route, the same pressure, except there's no sunscreen and no pretense, just his hands on your body.
“You lay there for an hour after I went inside,” he says, moving his palms in the upward strokes he'd used that afternoon. “In those godforsaken bottoms that hardly qualified as clothing.”
“They qualified.”
“They qualified as a provocation.” His hands move to your thighs, thumbs pressing into the soft skin. “And every time I moved away from them, you'd wiggle your hips and tell me I missed a spot.”
“You did miss spots.”
“I didn't miss a single spot. I take UV protection very seriously.” His knuckles graze your inner thighs, and your hips lift involuntarily. “You just wanted my hands closer to places they had no business being.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“No? So you don't remember what happened when I reached right about—” His hand stills at the crease of your thigh, fingers resting against the edge of your underwear. “—here?”
You press your face into the pillow because you remember exactly what happened.
“You spread these legs apart, just enough for my fingers to go somewhere they shouldn't have.” He follows the edge of your underwear with one fingertip, over the swell of your ass, down to the strip between your legs that does nothing to hide how desperate you are for his touch. “And I cleared my throat. And you said sorry, I'm just getting comfortable. And I said of course. And we both pretended nothing happened.”
“Something happened.”
“Something happened,” he agrees. “And you knew. You always knew. That's why you kept pushing me, isn’t it?”
He traces the same line again, the border between what’s covered and what isn’t. Though this time when he dips low, he stays there—hand cupping you fully through your underwear, the pressure of his palm against the soaked fabric at your pussy delicious and unbearable and enough to make you moan.
“Answer me.”
“Mm,” you manage. He rocks the heel of his palm in a slow circle, and your nails dig into the sheets. “Maybe.”
“Maybe?”
He grinds against you more firmly, pressing the damp cotton deeper between your folds. You try to press back, to reach for the friction you’ve been chasing all night, but he pulls his hand away.
“Yes,” you concede in a shaky exhale. “Yes, I knew, and I—I wanted to see what would happen if you didn't walk away. If you just—kept going.”
“Kept going where?”
You shoot him a glare over your shoulder. “You know where.”
“I have a long list of places I've wanted to put my hands on you.” From this angle, you’re able to watch as he fists his cock over his soft pants, the light grey fabric darkened with precum where the head of him leaks. “So you're going to have to clarify which one you were hoping for.”
“Past my bikini. Past the line you always—” Your breath catches as his fingers brush inside your underwear, skating the skin he's never touched. “—always stopped at.”
“Like this?” His fingers slide deeper, tracing along the edge of your slit as he strokes himself more firmly, still not quite touching you properly.
“Further.”
“Greedy.” He removes his hand entirely, and you wince at the loss. “And then what? If I hadn't walked away. If I'd let my hand keep going while you lay there in the sun pretending to be innocent. What did you want to happen next?”
“I wanted you to—”
Your thoughts are interrupted by a blunt pressure against your center from behind—not Zayne’s hand this time, but his cock. The tip nudges between your thighs over the soaked cotton, the warm weight settling against the outline of your needy cunt.
“Keep talking,” he says, voice nearly a groan. He stays motionless, the thick head of him pressing the fabric further into you, letting you feel exactly what he’s withholding. “You wanted me to what, princess?”
“I wanted—” You try to push back against him, and his hand blocks your hip. “I wanted you to stop thinking and just take what you wanted.”
“What I wanted.” He rocks forward slightly, a small movement that drags his leaking tip down the length of you, his precum mixing with your wet arousal as he slides toward your clit. “You were eighteen years old, lying outside on a pool chair, and you wanted me to put my hand into your bikini and touch you.”
“Yes.”
“In the middle of the afternoon. Where your parents could have walked out and seen.”
“As if they’d bother paying attention.” He smacks his cock against your underwear deliberately, and any attempt at keeping your voice casual shatters. “Besides, I didn't care.”
“No. You didn’t.” Your panties cling to every part of you, slick enough that he slides easily between your thighs. The friction is obscene—his cock hard and throbbing where you’re soft and needy, separated by nothing but a scrap of ruined underwear. “I had to care enough for both of us. And you made me pay for it with every little scheme you pulled to put my hands on you and watch me try to walk away.”
“And?” You dare through gritted teeth, smirking into the pillow. “Did it work?”
His hand at your hip guides the rhythm into something more punishing. His mouth finds the back of your neck, and the kiss he presses there is soft and completely at odds with the way his hips are bucking against yours.
“I’m grinding my cock against your pretty little cunt in your childhood bed, sweetheart. What do you think?”
He pulls away suddenly, and between the filthy words and loss of his weight you think you actually could cry.
“These—” His fingers hook under the center strip of your underwear, knuckles gliding up and down between your swollen folds as he assesses. “—have been through enough tonight.”
“So ruin them the rest of the way.”
He tears the fabric with two hands, ripping them off you in one clean pull. His hands spread you open from behind, and the sound he makes at the sight of you—bare before him for the first time—goes straight to your core.
“Christ.” His thumbs trace the inside of your thighs, spreading you wider. “Look at you.”
He lowers his mouth to your low back and kisses his wa down, patient even now, following the path of your spine, nipping the curve of your ass, outlining the crease of your thigh with his tongue. You feel his breath against your center, warm and unsteady, then the lightest brush of his nose against your entrance as he breathes you in.
“Fuck, Zayne—”
“Language,” he chides, the word humming against you. His tongue drags a single, slow line through you from behind, and you both groan at the contact. “If you could follow instructions even once in your life, this would go much faster.”
“I don't want faster. I want more.“
“You'll get more. When I decide you've earned it.”
His tongue works in long strokes, tasting every inch of you he can reach from this angle, and when he finds a spot that makes your thighs tense under his palms, he stays there.
“You're—that’s—”
Your lack of composure only seems to spur him further. “Articulate as always.”
He licks into you over and over again, and you feel yourself clench around nothing, feel your body begging for something to hold onto that he hasn't given you yet. The angle this way, his mouth against you from behind, is indirect and maddeningly intimate and never quite enough and always almost there.
“Zayne—I swear to god.”
“Swear all you want.” His tongue barely grazes you, keeping you suspended with a laziness that borders on cruel. “Begging looks good on you.”
He spreads you apart wider with both thumbs and builds you back up with wet, hungry strokes that don’t have a rhythm, that aren’t meant to serve a purpose other than to let him taste what he does to your body, what he’s been doing to it since long before he answered the bell tonight. Pleasure pools low in your belly, winding tighter and tighter, and you're right at the edge and—
He pulls away.
“No—” you whine. ”I was right there—Zayne, don’t—“
“Shh.” He presses a kiss to the inside of your thigh. “Not from this.”
“You can't just—”
“I can. And I did.” You hear him moving behind you, feeling the shift of weight against the mattress as he discards the last of his clothes. “The only place you’re going to come tonight is around my cock, and that’s not open for negotiation. I've waited too long for it to happen any other way.”
You feel the head of his cock press against you, this time bare against your slick skin. He doesn't enter yet, resting there with one hand on your hip, the other flat on the mattress beside your head.
“Last chance to ring the bell,” he murmurs. “Tell me to stop.”
“If you stop now I will scream.”
He pushes in.
It’s slow, so slow you feel the stretch of every inch building in a long, devastating ache that empties your lungs and fills you with him. He groans hot against the back of your neck, fingers digging into your hip, and when he bottoms out you both need time to breathe. You’ve never felt so complete as you do in this moment, so perfectly full, Zayne’s cock thick and heavy as it throbs inside you. Your walls flutter around him involuntarily, pulling him deeper inside.
“Fuck,” he breathes.
“Language,” you mutter, the tremble in your voice undermines any sense of authority.
“You're right. How unprofessional of me.” He pulls back in a slow drag against your walls that makes your mouth fall open—and pushes forward again. “I’ll submit a formal apology. After I’ve made you come so hard you can’t speak, let alone critique my vocabulary.”
He starts to move, the full length of him withdrawing and filling you whole, and when he finds the spot that makes your thighs shake he doesn't say a word. You're soaked—you feel it on your thighs, hear it in every wet slide of him inside you, and your face burns even as your body seeks his with every thrust.
“You get tighter every time I pull out,” he observes. “Like you're trying to keep me inside you.”
"Am not—"
“You are.” He grinds forward and you clench around him again—hard—and his breath comes out in a hiss. “And it's making it very difficult to think straight.”
You turn your head on the pillow, looking back at him over your shoulder, because you need to see his face, need to see what Zayne looks like right now, inside you and undone. With his jaw tense, eyes dark, sweat at his temples—he looks nothing like the butler who irons his shirts twice and arranges bookshelves alphabetically. He looks like a man who has wanted something for a very long time and is finally, finally taking it.
“Eyes on me,” he commands when he catches your gaze drifting away. “You started this. You're going to watch me finish it.”
You scrunch your nose and stick your tongue out at him. “Make me.”
His eyes narrow with a flash between amusement and danger, and he wraps your hair around his wrist and pulls—enough to keep your face turned toward him, your neck arched, your eyes locked on his while he drives into you from behind.
“There's your make me, princess,” he says low, hips bucking harder with the leverage. “Any other requests?”
“Several,” you manage between thrusts, “but at your age I’d hate to put too much strain on you.”
“In all the scenarios I’ve imagined.” He gathers your hair tighter, using the grip to tilt your head back, and his tongue traces the exposed line of your throat from your shoulder to the bone of your jaw. “Not once did stamina come up as a concern.”
“You've been dreaming about me?” You try to sound unaffected despite the fact that your voice is shaking and your knuckles are white in the sheets. “Should I be flattered?”
“You should be terrified. I've had a long time to plan,” he says against your neck. “Though in my head, you were slightly less mouthy.”
You clench around him deliberately, and his groan vibrates against your back. “And in mine, you were considerably less smug.”
Zayne sucks hard at the sensitive skin above your collarbone in response before releasing your hair, letting it fall down your back. He braces both arms on either side of your head, and the change in position lets him go harder and deeper, his hips driving you into the mattress with each thrust.
“You've spent your whole life making sure no one could take care of you the way I do. Making sure no one else fit. Ruining yourself for anyone who wasn't me.” His hand reaches beneath you, and the first touch to your swollen, aching clit makes your entire body tense. He circles with barely any pressure, in time to the grind of his hips, and the combined sensation is almost too much to bear. “So now I’m going to give you everything you’ve been asking for all this time. Take care of you the way I’ve always wanted to. And you’re going to be good for me and take it.”
Every edge he pulled you back from tonight, every almost, every year of wanting with nothing to show for it—all of it—collects into a single climax that tears through your body in waves. You clench around him so hard his hips stutter, and his mouth is at your ear the whole time—
That's it—that's my girl—you've been waiting so long for this, haven't you? So long. I know. I know. I've got you. Feel that? That's all for you. You earned this—you earned every bit of it—
—and his voice is the anchor you cling to while the rest of you drowns, his name the only word left in your mouth, your mind, your heart.
He slows, letting you breathe as your aftershocks tighten around him in involuntary pulses. And you wait for it—for his hips to drive forward one final time, for the heat of him to fill you from the inside the way you've always imagined it would.
He pulls out instead, and the sudden emptiness makes you frown, your hips pressing back against nothing, searching for him.
“Zayne—why did you—” You turn your head, and the confusion must be written across your face, because his gaze softens even as he strokes his cock, slick from you, in long pulls.
“Not tonight, sweetheart,” he says, and the two words form a promise that makes your heart flip—that there will be other nights, that this is the first and not the last, that he’s already planning the ones that come after. “Tonight I want to see it on your skin.”
He straightens behind you, settling both hands on your hips. His thumbs press into the dip of your lower back, pressing circles over the skin there.
“I’ve been thinking about this since the day you asked me to put my hands on you by that pool. And I've thought about it every day since.” His palms trace the canvas of your back a final time. “Marking you. Imagining how pretty you'd look with the evidence of what you do to me all over your body.”
“You don’t have to imagine, Zayne. I’m right here.” You arch your back for him in shameless offering, and the sound he makes at the sight is low and wrecked and strips away any remaining possibility that either of you will ever recover from this night. “I’ve always been right here.”
“You're going to be the end of me,” he says through a ragged sigh. “You know that. You've always known that.”
“Promise?” you murmur, tilting your hips higher, giving him more of yourself.
His laugh is barely a sound, and his hand picks up speed, rougher now, knuckles brushing against your skin with each tight stroke. You watch his lips part, watch his brow furrow, watch the moment arrive on his face before you feel it on your skin—the warmth of his release spilling across the small of your back in pulses, painting your body with the proof that he was here, that this happened, that you belong to him in a way no amount of respectable distance will ever undo.
He stays like that for a while, breathing hard, looking at you looking at him. His expression softens into something so affectionate it makes your chest ache, and he leans down and presses a long, lingering kiss between your shoulder blades.
“Promise.” His hand finds yours on the pillow, squeezing once before pressing a kiss between your shoulderblades and lifting himself off you. “Now don't move. Give me ten seconds.”
“Was that an order? Because I've been told I'm bad at those.”
He grabs his pants from the floor, sliding them up over his hips. “Nine seconds.”
You hear the tap running, the drip of a towel being wrung out in the sink. He's back before you can count to four—warm cloth in one hand, cold glass of water in the other—and sits beside you on the bed.
He cleans you with a care that shouldn’t surprise you but makes tears prick behind your eyes anyway, following the path his mouth traveled earlier, rewarming the cloth twice because it cooled too fast and he noticed before you did. He wipes your thighs, the backs of your knees, places that don't need cleaning but get attention anyway. When he reaches the small of your back, he presses his lips against the clean skin there one final time before setting the cloth aside.
He helps you into fresh pajamas—a matching flannel set he selects from the second drawer of your dresser—lifting your arms, guiding them through the sleeves, smoothing the fabric over your shoulders and down your back. The gesture is so careful, so him, so entirely removed from everything his hands were doing ten minutes ago that a tear actually escapes down your cheek before you can catch it.
His thumb finds it, though, and wipes it away without comment, without concern, without making it into something you'd have to explain. He pulls the blanket up around your shoulders, tucking the edge beneath your chin the way he's done since you were small, and reaches for the glass on the nightstand.
“Drink,” he says, holding it to your lips.
“I’m fine—"
“Humor me.” The corner of his mouth lifts, barely. “I’ve been humoring you all night.”
He watches as you drink, gives a small nod of approval once he’s satisfied you’ve had enough, then sets the glass on the nightstand. He pulls on his t-shirt—you mourn the loss of his bare chest immediately—and slides under the covers beside you.
When you curl against him, his arms wrap around you like a reflex he's done fighting.
“I should resign,” he murmurs.
“You should absolutely not resign.”
“This is a rather significant breach of professional boundaries.”
“I don't care about your professional boundaries. I care about you staying in this bed.”
He lifts his head to look at you in the lamplight. With his hair wrecked, glasses long gone, and an expression so open and unguarded, he looks…younger. Lighter. Like something heavy has been set down after years of carrying it.
“Stay,” you whisper. “Not as my butler. Not as my anything. Just stay.”
His arm tightens around your waist. You feel his heartbeat match yours, both rhythms slowing to something calm. His chin settles on the top of your head, and for a while neither of you speaks, but the silence is nothing like the one that scared you an hour ago.
“Mm,” you hum against his chest. “I always get what I want eventually.”
“You do.” His thumb traces a lazy circle on your shoulder. “It’s your single most irritating quality.”
“And yet you keep indulging me.”
“You are exceptionally difficult to say no to.”
“So stop trying.”
“I suppose that would simplify my schedule considerably.” He pulls you closer. “Free up the hours I currently spend on damage control and cold showers.”
“See? Efficient. You love efficiency.”
“I do love efficiency.” His mouth presses against your hair, and you feel him smile. “Though I suspect you're going to be far more work than you were before tonight. Not less.”
“Probably.”
“Almost certainly.”
“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
“It’s the worst thing that’s ever happened to me.” His fingers find the spot behind your knee—the left one, the one he knows is ticklish—and you yelp, squirming against him, your laugh bright in the quiet room. He catches you before you can escape and pulls you back against his chest. “Now promise me you’ll ring the bell again tomorrow.”
“That depends. Will you read me more Austen?”
“If you behave.”
“And if I don’t?”
His teeth graze your earlobe, tongue teasing the sensitive skin just below. “Then I suppose I’ll have to resort to alternative methods of tiring you out.”
You give his chest a playful shove and he catches your hand, kissing each knuckle one by one. You melt closer, curling yourself tighter against his chest, letting the cadence of his breathing, the warmth of his arms, the undeniable sense of home pull you under.
The house continues its symphony through the night—wind whistling through the cracks, pipes bellowing deep in the walls, wood floors sighing under the weight of the night.
synopsis: caleb makes you use his evol to ride him. that is all.
tags: smut, dom caleb, mean caleb, mean dom caleb, lowkey brat reader, p in v, riding, improper use of evol, unprotected sex, coming inside, somnophilia reference, he threatens to withhold his own orgasm, teasing, mocking, caleb makes you kiss him, sweat, implied marathon sex, impact play, Caleb the Interrupter
pairing: caleb x fem reader
word count: 1.1k
“when you sink down, do it slowly. i want you to feel every inch of it.”
“isn’t this too much?” whining, you make a desperate attempt to escape—to no avail, of course. that familiar feeling weighs down on your body almost instantly. “please? i’ll help you next time, i swear! today was just a one-time thing!”
“you begged me to help you clean up the house before your big book club meeting this weekend. i take off work, get here early, and as soon as we get started, what do you do?” glaring at you from below, he clears his throat and puts on a high-pitched voice. “caleb, i’m so sorry, but my friend’s car broke down. i need to drop them off at the store, then at work, but i’ll be back soon, i swear!” he squeaks with a dry chuckle. “yeah. if by ‘soon,’ you meant seven hours later.”
“there was traffic! and i ended up just staying through their whole shift, because—”
“i’m not fallin’ for your little tricks today, so you can cut it out already.” he takes your chin between his thumb and index finger, firmly forcing you to meet his heated gaze. “our house is spotless because of me. my hard work. it’s time for you to return the favor.”
his hand engulfs yours, and the familiar warmth of resonance flows through you.
caleb gives, you take, just like usual. he lets his power becomes yours and smiles at the sight.
this time, his reasoning is far from selfless.
“don’t hurt yourself.”
it’s his command for you to start.
whimpering quietly, you sink down on his thick, hard length, breathing slowly while your body accommodates the stretch.
by now, your core is more than used to him—his size, his girth, his occasional punishing pace—but now, you hold the reins. mastering the monster bullying the rawest parts of you? it’s almost as big an adjustment as your first time together.
he watches you brazenly as you start your own rhythm, maneuvering yourself with timid, exploratory drags up and down. when you channel his evol, harnessing gravity to inch yourself up ever so slowly, you can feel his hot, tender skin slipping past your walls, promising never to leave you for very long. and each time that invisible force tugs you right back down? he grows a little bit bigger inside you.
a sharp hit to your backside disrupts your unsure movements, the loud crack resounding through the otherwise quiet bedroom. “you think you'll get any leverage like that? hold onto me harder. push at my chest if you need to. i can barely feel you.”
gritting your teeth at his wanton order, you bury your nails deeper into his skin. you tell yourself you don’t care if it hurts—he deserves it—but eye him with caution all the same. “i’m trying, caleb. you know i’m not used to this. i’m already getting tired. i’m not as strong as you.”
he tsks, knocking on your temple twice with his knuckles. “a fact hardly works as flattery.”
“i—”
“you say you’re sooo tired,” he drawls. “how? i’m doing all the work, just like always.” to prove his point, he flicks a hand in the air. your head tilts forward at his command, and he puppeteers you down for a heated kiss.
he pulls back once your air supply starts to wane, only to narrow his eyes as your skin smacks together once again. “i may get tired, letting you use me like this, but don’t think you can stop if i drift off for a sec. we’re in this for long haul. you can stop when…if…i say so.”
“can you at least help me?” even with his support, your thighs still burn like hell.
“if you’d helped me this afternoon, i’d be rewarding you right now. you’d be moaning my name even louder than normal.”
“caleb, please,” you whine. “what else do you want me to do?”
“just keep going,” he says smugly. “i did allll the work earlier. i’m not doing a single thing ‘til you prove you can pull your own weight. right now, i’m just gonna sit back and enjoy my luxury view.”
grumbling, you swipe at his neck but keep moving, gasping when the slight curve of him brushes just right against that special spot.
“are you getting close?” he purrs. “good. go faster.”
faster? since his outright refusal to help you, you’ve made enough squelches and smacks to make an erotica author blush. lines of muscle and stores of fat ripple with every slam down on him. how are you supposed to go faster?
“i can’t! this is as fast as i can— i can’t go any faster, caleb.”
your cries fill his ears, and he leans in close to murmur in yours. “make me come, and i’ll let you stop. but unless you go faster, i’ll hold everything back. we’ll be here all night. i promise you that.”
you’re babbling now at the weight of his threat, spearing yourself up and down on his length too fast to even sneak words in between. each time you rise and fall in the air, all you can smell, all you can taste, is sex. you and him, him and you. both of you, together.
despite his bravado, his head falls forward on the hardest bounce yet, slumping against your sweat-slick shoulder. he doesn't hesitate to mouth at the damp skin, groaning as his thighs finally start to tremble beneath you.
“good,” he hisses. “so, so good.” an open-mouthed kiss sears your collarbone. “can you feel it? how close i am? you’ll feel all of it soon. don’t stop.”
“not gonna stop,” you slur, shaking your head frantically. “just hurry, please. i can’t hold on, i can’t, i—”
strong arms wrap around your back and yank you downward. fully seated on his spasming cock, you feel the heat first—then the unsteady bursts flowing inside you.
each thick spurt flooding in, claiming all of you, plays its part in sending you over the edge. before his high loses momentum, your muscles clamp down on him, forcing all of what’s left into your deepest depths.
gasping to catch your breath, you all but mewl into his keen ears. “there’s so much…so much…we need to wash the sheets before we go to be—”
big, warm hands squeeze the flesh of your thighs, hovering you threateningly above his still-soaked tip. that cruel, cunning smirk you’ve come to dread curves his full lips. “i said you could stop when you made me come,” he murmurs lowly.
Canine level of smell means that scented soaps can probably be a bit of an assault on the nose. There’s aslo the fact that he probably enjoys when he can smell a person’s (especially your) natural, clean scent.
Lactose intolerant:
Now this one is more of a gag headcanon that I don’t really believe in, but it would be funny. Canines can’t have chocolate, but he’s a human. Now he could have a mild allergy, but I think it’s funnier if he was just lactose intolerant. And every lactose intolerant person I know just goes “we ball” and eats/drinks the dairy product filled whatever it is anyways. So he would love chocolate but feel absolutely awful later.
Very specific about fur care:
Likes to keep his tail soft and glossy, especially after meeting his mate. None of the cheap stuff, either. It’s a whole thing including several brushes and a LOT of fur.
A baby about getting his claws clipped in wolf form:
He knows it needs to be done, but dislikes it. He asks you to help him with it, but whines and gives you puppy eyes the whole time. You’re the one in charge of making him get it done. He’s not in that form enough for his nails to naturally wear down from walking and running around and whatnot in the forest.
Scenting:
Yes more smell stuff. This one is specifically about him leaving HIS scent on you and your belongings and even your space. Finds joy in knowing you smell like him even if you and all the other humans can’t perceive it. Also likes to casually brush against your doorways, and wall corners while passing by like marking. It’s nice having his scent in your “territory” lololol. Same with you. Rubs his cheek over yours and the top of your head and your shoulders- Digs his nose into yours neck to smell but also rub his nose against your skin.
Crepuscular:
This is another silly one. Unlikely, but funny to imagine. Wolves are crepuscular, meaning they are most active during twilight hours. Meaning dawn and dusk. Meaning the time most would want uninterrupted sleep. You wake up to find he baked a cake for no reason other than he had energy at 4 in the morning. You tell him to make cupcakes next time instead of a whole cake.
something about serial killer yuuta. he’s got the soggiest dark eyes, gentlest smile, and a horrific intuition that’s rubbed you wrong since you first met him.
so you make a joke of it, between saké, “you seem like someone who’d moonlight as a killer.”
and he only smiles faintly, gaze cast aside. so flustered, you think, so shy, you almost want to apologize for it.
Cultleader!Geto who just adores you. His sweet angel who left Jujutsu High with him to help start the cult and now runs it alongside him. He truly cannot be more grateful that you put your faith in him. The mission he sets for himself alongside sorcerer supremacy is ensuring you feel loved and comfortable. This means he simply must attend to your every whim.
Cultleader!Geto who automatically assumes you can do no wrong, much to the cults amusement.
"Geto-sama, your wife can be very ruthless" One man says, watching an interrogation
"Yes, isn't she just splendid! I'm taking her out for a walk in the gardens later so I do hope she isn't too tired by all this. Sometimes my princess gets a bit sleepy."
"From torturing people?"
"I wouldn't use such crude words, but yes."
Cultleader!Geto who sits you right next to him on the dais in every meeting. He likes a hand on your thigh, just to reassure him. Plus he doesn't want you sat by any silly monkeys who might corrupt you or worse, rub off their smell on you.
Cultleader!Geto who after a long day of dealing with non-sorcerers investing in the cult, will sit and bathe with you. He just loves to rub soapy bubbles up and down your body. Hot steam curls up around the two of you as he massages your scalp.
"Lavender or rose today?"
"Hmmm, your choice"
"I prefer the lavender, hides the monkey smell better"
"Of course thats what you think about!"
Cultleader!Geto who absolutely hates anyone who decides to dismiss your place beside him. He views you as an equal, not a toy, despite what some people may think. Unfortunate worshippers who get caught with an out of line tone are swiftly dispatched, never to be seen again.
Cultleader!Geto who gets noticeably more irritable when you are away on missions. Usually his composure is calm and cold, but it can quickly become snarky and aggressive in your absence
"All of you are incompetent, this meeting is adjourned"
"I hope Geto-sama's wife will return soon. I think he's suffering from withdrawals"
He overhears
"Not soon enough! I should never have sent her away. Now get out!"
Cultleader!Geto who abuses the fear people have in him to keep you safe. Every stare. Every chilling smile. Every quick nod to a subordinate. It's all wordless protection done without second thought. Geto cannot imagine a world without you in it and he intends to keep it that way.
Cultleader!Geto who carries you with him even when youre exhausted from a mission. He likes to have you sleeping on his lap where he can watch you. Even in important meetings, he will rest a hand on your back and have your head tucked into his shoulder.
"Is there something wrong?"
"Uh of course not"
"Then stop staring. I'm surprised she can get any rest with the racket you make."
Eyes flutter open.
"Suguru?"
"Go back to sleep dearest, it's nothing"
Dont forget to interact if u enjoyed!! Also my requests are open pls send some for me to do!!
satoru fucks you in full nelson after seeing that you were ovulating 𑄝੭
“that’s so not fair!” you whined, clasping your hands with satoru’s who was currently leaning over your body, flashing that stupid grin of his at you. “you know martial arts and I don’t!”
“sounds like a skill issue, sweets. you’re so weak.” he teased, putting his entire weight down on you to hear that small little squeak of yours.
this was normal between the two of you, enjoying your usual pillow fights with one another whenever a sleepover happened. gojo had invited you over to his place after class, offering to cook dinner and sit through your favorite movies after seeing you had a rough day.
he assumed you were overloaded with classwork but that wasn’t entirely the case.
you were ovulating.
and you were also planning on avoiding satoru at all costs especially because he was the only thing on your mind. his voice, his lips, his fingers were all you could think about. it wasn’t helping that he was shirtless at the moment, making him 100x hotter. his pink pecks blended so well with his pale skin, beauty marks littered all over his body.
you wanted to kiss every single one of them.
“cmon, don’t tell me you’re giving up already.” he taunted, slapping your face playfully. you bit back a moan, finding out a new thing about yourself right that second. you had to think of something quick before he realized how flushed you were and the way your legs were trembling. you quickly shifted your hands to his waist, tickling away until he was laughing, begging you to stop.
“shit! this isn’t f-fair ow!” gojo wheezed, dropping back onto the floor, trying his best to catch his breath and he hugged his sides to stop you.
“i win!” you cheered.
“you cheated..” he managed to let out. you responded by sticking out your tongue, ready to sit against the pillow propped up when suddenly you got attacked with the tickles as well. “not so funny now, hm? you crying?” he laughed, watching you grip onto his bicep as if that would help at all.
“satoru! a-stop!” you shifted onto his lap, feeling his arms wrap around your torso to lay you down on his chest. “i win.” he whispered into your ear, tucking your hair behind it. the current position he had you in was awkward. your back was on him and his arms had a firm grip on you.
why the hell was this making you wet?
you gulped, wanting to get off of him but he wasn’t letting go, unsurprisingly. “what’s wrong sweets?”
“nothing.. just, you’re hugging me weirdly.”
gojo hummed, letting one hand leave your waist to wrap around your neck. your eyes widened at the sudden weight on your nape. as if that wasn’t enough, the roll of his hips made it clear what his motives were. his prominent bulge poked at your backside, twitching needlessly.
“you actually thought that i wouldn’t notice my best girl was horny? you’re practically dripping through these flimsy pj shorts, baby.”
your mouth dried out, only gasping when he pulled down your shorts to prove his point. your panties were drenched. “see?” he coo’ed, teasing your clit with a feather like touch. “satoru!” you whimpered out, struggling to do anything but watch him toy with you.
“let me help you out, okay?”
he temporarily released his hold on you, only to grab onto the back of your thighs, forcing them up to your chest. with your panties now to the side, he had full access to your cunt. “wish i could see you properly.” he sighed. “but i like this position, don’t you?”
the bastard didn’t give you a chance to reply before he inserted two fingers into you. he chuckled at the way your body arched, groaning at your walls closing in on him.
“i’m going to make you feel so good, wanna show you how much i’ve been needing you.” he kissed your shoulder, curling his digits, causing an embarrassing wet sound to come out of you. “you’re so wet.” gojo hummed. “think you’re ready to take me.”
you shook your head, grabbing onto his hand that was fingering you. “just.. just touch me a bit more like this..” you pleaded, fluttering your eyes shut.
gojo raised a brow, but did as you said.
you moaned, grinding your hips to the same rhythm he was using, fucking yourself on his fingers. he watched carefully over your shoulder, mesmerized by the way he just slipped in and out. you felt your tummy turn, a warning of your release. you braced yourself to let go before gojo halted his movements.
“alright that’s enough of that. i need my cock in you, like right now.”
“but-“ you protested, pouting when he reached toward his pants, pulling them off to release his cock. his lips curled at your reaction, loving how flustered you’ve gotten upon seeing his length. “i don’t expect you to take it all, so i’ll put half of it in. how does that sound, sweets?” he mumbled against your skin, trailing hot kissed down your collarbone. he didn’t wait for a response, gripping his base after a few pumps, lining it up to your entrance.
he needed to feel all of you, fuck condoms.
your nails clawed at his arm that was still wrapped around your neck, moaning when he split you open. “oh my god!”
gojo clamped his hand over your mouth, muffling your screams. he loved how in just one thrust, he had you unraveled. “shhh, sweets. you forget i have neighbors.”his breath hitched as you clenched around him, making it impossible to go past a few inches. “fuck, baby. please stop being so goddamn tight.”
you could feel his veins scrape at your inner walls, touching in just the right places. “that’s it..”
he praised with every thrust he gave, using your body for leverage as he picked up the pace. “you’re taking me so well.” your eyes were shut close, drooling into his mouth. this wasn’t how’d you imagined your night to go, but in no way were you complaining.
your pussy was so relieved to get the attention it needed.
a wicked grin spread across gojo’s face, knowing you were close. he tightened his hold on you to the point of bruising, inhaling sharply. “fuck fuck fuck.”
“ngh!” you whined, head falling back on his shoulder. his hair’s even more of a disaster than usual, sweat-damp strands sticking to his forehead as those ocean-blue eyes stay on you. "fuckin’ hell," gojo grits out between panting breaths before suddenly flipping you over in one brutal motion. "wanna see your face"
“b-but i liked the other position..” you bit your lip after admitting to that.
he flashes is all teeth before driving into you again deeper this time just watch those pretty noises fall apart for him instead.
“we’ll go back to that one in a bit. just wanna see your face when you cum.”
yuji itadori doesn't understand the difference between what he should do in private with you, and what he should do in public with you.
he just likes being near you. his brain chemistry is simple—make you feel protected, and make you feel loved; and he knows the physicality aspect of that is highly important to you. if you're close enough, he'll loop an arm around your waist and tug you closer to him. temple kisses whenever he senses you're upset because your cursed energy isn't stable enough, and big bear hugs when he's proud of you—which is most of the time.
megumi's absolutely tired of it. watching you both with disdain as you feed each other like the lovey-dovey couple you two are. nobara, on the other hand, still refuses to believe that yuji managed to get a boyfriend before she did. the idea of yuji managing to precede her in finding a partner still irks her to this day.
yuji itadori loves to see your smile.
you come back to your dorm from a mission disheartened after being scolded by nanami for reckless behavior, which, in other words, most likely means you tried to save everybody—again—, which both you and yuji know is impossible. yuji was lounging around on your bed, awaiting your return. he puts his phone away immediately when he sees your face. "you okay?" he asks, a small frown on his face which signals that he's worried.
silent treatment—usually means you're too discouraged to talk.
"okay, guess i'll try a different strategy." he says cheekily, approaching you with a giggle that could light up a dark cave, and oscillating fingers that threaten to attack your middle. he tentatively reaches out, but then stops when he hears how small your usually bright voice is.
"yuji, not right now," you murmur, crawling into the bed. when one finger brushes your waist, you squirm a little and roll away from him on the soft, silk sheets. "yuji, i said—"
"tickle fight!" he announces.
you yelp, but it's too late. yuji's already launched into his tickle attack. your pout cracks at the edges, a smirk and a few giggles. you swat at his hands but it's no use, he's got a superhuman grip on you. you break into full on laughter, throwing your head back as yuji tickles you.
"feeling better yet?" he chuckles, still relentlessly at it. ribs, side, underarms and neck.
"yeah, yeah!" you huff, "just stop tickling me!"
"alright, alright." he says, raising his hands in surrender. he leans closer and presses a kiss to your cheek. "you did amazing on that mission." he whispers softly, reassuringly.
"you weren't even there?"
"yeah, well ... i just have a feeling! i know you do great at stuff, so yeah." he says, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly now. it's a habit he's defaulted too ever since he met you.
you chuckle. "thanks, yuji"
yuji itadori loves talking about you, even when you aren't present.
yuji slides onto the beige cafeteria table bench with a tray of food in hand and a smile plastered on his face. four sticky onigiri, three perfectly cooked gyoza and a small bowl of rice is in the tray. megumi and nobara sit across from him, nobara halfway through her lunch and texting on her phone, meanwhile megumi hasn't started his and seems to be watching something on his phone as well.
"guys! guess what!" yuji exclaims, and megumi's head snaps up immediately. most likely muscle memory from fighting a particularly loud curse earlier that week. nobara's still looking down at her phone, uninterested with yuji's shenanigans by now. her typing stops as she groans and finally lifts her face from her phone. she takes a bite of her food before speaking.
"what?" she shouts.
"...it better not be about that guy again, i've heard enough about him this year i could probably write a biography." megumi sarcastically remarks under his breath. though he thinks it's great yuji has someone who can cheer him up enough that he makes it into their lunch conversations.
"my boyfriend finally learned reverse cursed technique!" he says, loudly enough that a few other students glance over in curiosity.
megumi's eyes actually widen a little in shock and a newfound respect for you. not that he didn't respect you before, but that learning a new technique—reverse cursed technique at that—is a huge accomplishment. "gojo told me he only learned that on the brink of death with his fight against my dad."
nobara scoffs. "what's so special about that?" she retorts.
yuji nods in delight, barely even hearing his friends. "gojo said he's got a natural affinity for it, like shoko or something."
"cool." megumi says, dropping his head back down and reopening his phone.
"whatever," nobara rolls her eyes.
yuji itadori swears that human earthworm two is better than human earthworm three.
"that's because three was boring!" he says. "no substance, no plot, just cheap jumpscares and gore. but two, two was a masterpiece," he makes a grand gesture with his hands. the air surrounding you both has a slight autumn chill as you both make your way to the cinema to see human earthworm two, again.
"the plot was amazing, the build-up, the deaths. all of it was amazing! they really had me believing the last guy was going to escape!" he adds.
"yeah, but earthworm three was scarier! and they actually delved into the gross anatomy of it all!" you retort. yuji makes a "bleh" face at that.
the rest of the walk is pretty much the same, you two arguing—affectionately of course—the whole way there. yuji acting dramatic whenever you mention that the anatomy of three was better than two, you rolling your eyes at the "plot", and you both ending up in accordance when you bring up that four was more of a sellout than either two or three.
when you finally reach the cinema, yuji holds the door for you as you enter. he shows the employee at the front the two adjacent seats you purchased, and she lets you both in with a smile.
yuji gets two large buckets of popcorn—partly because he knows the movie is around 3 hours long, and partly because he knows you plan on stealing his. he also gets two slushies before heading over to your theater.
the theater is dark, an ad about when the premiere of backrooms is going to be available and where. neither of you pay it any mind, still chatting about which one was better. once the lights begin to dim, you both quiet down, focusing on the movie. when gory, scary parts play, yuji holds your hand, tight. half because he wants to make sure you're okay, but also because he might be a little scared himself.
Always want to make this AU tbh, took inspiration from 2004 van helsing movie. Valko as van helsing that can turn into a werewolf, mc as a witch who doubles as a hunter. They on each other throat but one thing another, they need to work together ^^ (also this an excuse for me to try draw furry 😭)
tojis sweet wife makes shiu a bit too jealous... ♡ (hubby toji x chubby!wife reader)
tojji is leaned back on the couch with one leg stretched out, elbow resting on the armrest like he owns the air in the room while shiu stands near the kitchen counter going through something on his phone with the expression of a man already regretting showing up.
"you really gonna sit there and tell me thats the cut," shiu says, not even looking up.
tojii clicks his tongue. "aint no tellin. it is the cut."
shiu sighs, already having had enough of toji. the damn guy was too stubborn. but before he can respond, the bedroom door opens.
you shuffle out first, all soft and sweet in your house clothes, smiling softly at both of the men. you spot toji immediately and your whole face changes, expression melting into something warm and familiar.
"..hello," you mumble quietly. your voice is quiet, sweet, still thick with sleep. tojis entire posture changes instantly like someone just reached over and rewired him.
"baby," he rasps.
his shoulders drop a fraction, jaw unclenching, eyes flicking over to you like youre the only thing in the apartment that matters. the scowl doesnt disappear completely, it never does, but it turns lazy.
"sleepin all day again," he mutters, but theres no real bite in it.
you ignore that completely and pad straight over, bare feet quiet against the floor, stopping right in front of him like its second nature. your hands come up immediately, smoothing down the front of his wrinkled t shirt.
after that, you lean up and press a quick kiss to his temple. toji exhales through his nose, something almost pleased passing over his face for half a second before he settles back again, letting you fuss over him without complaint.
tojis hand tightened at your waist immediately, and before you could step back he shifted in his chair, tilting his head slightly toward you as if deciding something without saying it. his grip guided you closer, and then he pulled you down and gave you one of those big fat kisses he loves.
he held you there between his hands while he kissed you properly, calm and heavy and entirely unconcerned with the fact that this was happening in front of an audience, his eyes flicked over to shiu, definetly showing off his wife, giving shiu a look that says 'yeah, look at her. thats my wife.'
when he finally pulled back, it was only by a fraction, your face still close, his thumb brushing once at your cheek like he was finishing something he started.
shiu watched all of this in silence, giving toji a flat look. you finally glance over at shiu, polite as ever even though you lowkey just made out with your husband in front of his best friend.
"hi," you say softly, and shiu nods once. "morning," he replies.
you stay there a second longer, then gently pat tojis chest like youre confirming hes still in one piece before shifting away again, drifting back toward the hallway.
"would you like some tea?" you ask, voice still gentle, shiu opens his mouth, but youre already gone again, disappearing toward the kitchen like you werent just the center of attention for a whole minute.
shiu slowly turns his head toward toji, and toji is still leaning back, looking way too comfortable for a man who was just arguing about money five seconds ago, one hand loosely hanging over the armrest like nothing in the world could possibly stress him out right now.
shiu stares at him for a beat longer and then exhales through his nose.
"youre a lucky bastard,” he mutters.
tojis mouth twitches like hes been waiting for that exact sentence his whole life.
"i know," he says simply, stretching slightly like hes got nowhere to be and all the time in the world. "aint she cute?"
you were in nothing but your underwear and a sports bra. every window in your house was wide open, every fan you could find was running, although there was no point seeing that all they did was push in more warm air.
you’ve been tossing and turning in bed for the past three hours. the darkness of the night meant absolutely nothing temperature wise, you were still scorching up. sweat clung to every inch of your body, as well as another, larger, heavier, and hotter body.
“ryo get OFF”
“mmm” his sleepy whines vibrated against your neck. how the hell he even managed to fall asleep in this heat, let alone the added body heat that was living between the two of you.
this heat was already irritating you, with sukunas added heat you could feel yourself going ballistic.
“Ryo i swear to god.” you tried pushing down on his shoulders, but it was no use. pushing and shoving did absolutely nothing, his grip on you was steady, even in his sleepy state. this was it. you were going to die of heatstroke, under your massive boulder of a boyfriend.
“m’stop pushin’ me woman.”
“ryomen. it is too fucking hot for your fatass to be on top of me like this.” silence rang out for a few moments, only to then be cut by sukunas snores.
there was no way you were ever gonna be able to sleep like this, so you had to find another way.
“Sukuna move yer ass I needa piss.” he groaned, but still rolled off of you. finally. it was like breathing for the first time.
you stood up from the bed and crept out of the bedroom, making sure to close the door, and plopping on the living room couch. it wasn’t much different from the heat from your bed, yet the slight temperature difference provided you a nice moment of relief.
until it was ruined approximately ten minutes later, by a big fat, scorching hot, log plopping on top of you.
“Sukuna.”
“fuckin’ liar.”
“Sukuna get off of me I’m so serious.” your eyes were near tears at this point, the heat only bringing out your frustrations even more.
“alright alright calm down woman, and go get dressed.” your big lug of a man sat up and leaned back into the couch.
“what? why?”
“I got us a hotel room.”
“Ryo-“
“yes there’s air conditioning. now hurry, cus I ain’t sleeping without holdin’ on to my woman.”
caleb can be a bit unhinged. especially when it comes to you.. and his ‘tomodachi life’ island.
he only started playing in secret when you showed him your own island. all your miis ranging from your close friends to movie characters, he found it sweet that it was your favorite past time. what really sparked his interest was when you said: “i hope your mii falls in love with my mii. we can get married and have kids.”
now, he’s obsessed with your mii on his island. he feeds mii you every day, afternoon, and night. when his island leveled up, he made sure he built you a tiny private island where your colorful house stood surrounded by water and plenty of flowers. he buys you clothes from where & wear everyday and has you both take endless pics at foto-tomo!
caleb also makes sure your mii interacts with nobody else’s but his. dragging his mii across the island just to talk to you. and he absolutely hates it when he comes back just to see you’ve reached the ‘seems like-minded’ phase with anyone else who roams the island.
“gideon? are you fucking serious, man? why are you talking to her?” he growls to himself, the switch lighting up his face in the darkness of his bedroom. he presses delete, watching gideon’s mii disappear before he remakes his close friend and making sure you and anyone else on the island remain as ‘strangers.’
"両面 宿儺 ✶ SUKUNA RYOMEN," ◦ ₊ㅤ ﹙ she's literally a princess and he's the devil. what the fuck. ૮₍ ´ ꒳ `₎ა artist credits: @/f_tality0 on insta reblog / like 2 support ⃘໋ׅ♡ 𝑤.𝑐: 1.1k ⁀ ˳ ⟡
♡⏝ ⸝⸝ 𝓦ARNINGS ˖ ❝ sfw fluff crack she/her pronouns satoru, nobara, itadori & megumi cameo reader is sweet and popular sweet/innocent!reader bully!sukuna 2006 timeline reader & sukuna are like 17 they're in high school only tooth rotting fluff no curses au 2006 Japan references sukuna & gojo besties 2nd person perspective ❞
── #⃝ MINA'S NOTES ( 💬 ) gojo ver. masterlist <3
SUKUNA RYOMEN was the devils incarnate. No, like literally that's what people whispered and believed.
"I saw horns on his head, and he was talking about killing a duck," 4 year old Nobara whispered and told 4 year old Megumi and Itadori. Nodding and pursing her lips as she had learnt from Gojo when he was gossiping with Geto and Shoko, mimicking his behaviour. Itadori widened his eyes before gasping and placing his hands on his cheeks, "HE WHAT? WHAT THE HECK!?," he looked distraught before huffing and pouting, as if the sun was exploding. He couldn’t believe his uncle, who was only around 13 years older than him, was so evil.
"She obviously didn't see that, idiot," Megumi looked at him in annoyance, curling his upper lip. "And stop copying how my babysitter acts!" he scoffed before tackling Yuuji.
The rumours didn't start and end with 4 year olds though, almost everyone in Jujutsu high believed that Sukuna was to be feared and that he would curse you if you stared too long. Almost everyone anyways, since there were two big exceptions. One being the most popular boy in school, the boy who was famous on Mixi and owned a Blackberry before anyone else in Japan did.
Satoru Gojo.
"Don't look," a girl whispered to her friend, holding her hand tightly and staring ahead into her dark locker, while heavy footsteps passed behind them.
She was pursing her lips, about to turn back to check before Gojo came up behind them both, resting his arms over their shoulders and smiling happily. "Who're we hiding from?" He beamed.
Her frozen expression didn't give much away, while her friend grew flustered and quickly looked over her other shoulder, locking eyes onto the only figure who wasn't in uniform. His pink hair standing out, hands shoved in his pockets, lolling his head back with a big sigh.
"Satoru, stop following me," he glared, turning back only to look at the white haired menace.
“But whyyyyy? You’re my best friend!” He whined, pouting and playing along, quickly tagging along behind him and chatting to him non-stop about the new game he was playing online and how they should go to an internet café again soon.
Other students walking by quickly changed their course of direction, looked away, or started to empty out their pockets in case Sukuna Ryomen decided that they were the ones who were going to pay for his next expense. Bullying? Sukuna's minions made haibara fear for his life until he transferred to a different school, which in turn caused Nanami to resent him.
All was changed when one of the students smelled the roses in the air, quickly smiling and looking towards the school entrance.
"It's Y/N!" One of the girls happily pointed, while another ran up to give you a hug. "Y/N-channnn! How was your weekend?"
Unlike Sukuna, your reputation was written in a fancy cursive and written in a sparkly pink gel pen. You were a breath of fresh air to many students there, not a single student had a negative energy towards you. Rumours about you sounded like they were out of a fairytale, which is why you were listed as "most likely to be a princess" in the yearbook in your last year of secondary school.
"She gave me her ice cream when she heard about my failed test," a second year boy sighed dreamily, before looking towards the entrance for a glimpse of you. "Is she singing?" His friend questioned, raising a confused eyebrow. You lived up to your name, skipping towards the entrance and humming, while squirrels, birds, raccoons, stray cats and some deers followed behind. A hummingbird even resting on your shoulder and tweeting along.
"Alright now, make sure you all get along and don't get hit by cars, okay?" You smiled and brushed off the bird, blowing a kiss in the direction that the animals scurried off before entering the school gates.
"Do you think I have a chance with her? I think she smiled at me like… more than usual yesterday," a first year boy named Haruto scratched the back of his neck. Flushing from his cheeks, and making quick glances towards your approaching figure. His friends looked unconvinced, all sharing the same look and one of them even holding onto his backpack so that he didn't do anything rash.
"She smiles at everyone, plus I heard she has a boyfriend," one of them shrugged, sighing and watching your figure. It was like all of them were communicating telepathically, trying to discern if you had a boyfriend from the way you walked.
Haruto was about to approach, "I don't think she has—" before freezing and clenching his jaw tightly when someone came up behind him, wrapping an arm around his shoulder tensely. His friends glancing over, only to take one look and be on their way, knowing there was nothing they could do.
"I'm pretty sure she has one." Sukuna mumbled, looking down at the younger boy with sharp eyes.
Haruto gulped, before nodding and looking up at the older boy shakily. "O-oh… sorry, I didn't know.." he mumbled, the air from his throat suddenly feeling like nails, increasingly hard to breathe in and out without sounding like a nervous wreck. "I'll g-go apologise to Gojo, sorry—"
"Gojo's not her boyfriend." Sukuna grumbled, tightening his grip on Haruto's shoulder, making the boy wince out. "I'm her boyfriend," he tsked down at him, narrowing his eyes, almost pouting before shoving the boy away and walking towards you.
People seeing what was happening were already pitying you and wishing that you'd stay safe.
Many people knew that you were dating Sukuna Ryomen, just as many people did not know. The reaction was always the same, whether they knew or not, whenever sukuna approached you. People looking at him in disdain, jealousy, anger, or even looking at you with pity.
"Poor girl, he's probably been manipulating her," whispers floated amongst the student body, people shaking their heads, teachers gossiping in their lounges. "She's too sweet for him, he doesn't deserve her!"
You knew the truth and Sukuna knew the truth.
"Hii!" You happily squealed, rushing up to him and hugging him. His body didn't stiffen or hesitate, as he'd gently wrap on arm around and pat your back, glancing back subtly so that no one saw him lose his edge. "…you're going to make me look like a softie," he whispered, flustered from seeing you, looking comically shy, trying to snarl down at you.
You blinked up at him curiously, tilting your head and playing dumb. "What edge? You're the cutest, most softest, sweetest and smartest guy I know!" You pinched his cheek, before humming and skipping past him, towards the steps of the entrance of the main building.
He paused, before pouting and quickly following after you.
synopsis: you and the gang are on a winter cabin holiday! though you’re now forced to share a bunk bed with your boyfriend because you forgot to tell them you were dating
cw: smut, minors dni.
“well, it is your fault for keeping your relationship a secret for so long. how was i supposed to know you’d want to share a bed?”
your friend kirishima directs this question to your boyfriend bakugou as all three at you stare at an old wooden rickety bunk bed. you were the first one to be down for a cabin holiday with your friends at the end of the year. marshmellow roastings, campfires, gloves, hot chocolate and kisses on the tip of your nose. until you realised you were slow to tell your friends you’ve actually been dating the grumpy blonde and now you’re stuck sharing a teeny tiny room with a bunk bed you hope can fit him.
honestly to you, it wasn’t that big of a deal. you were still in a room with him but you were sure that if bakugou stared at the bed any longer, it would set on fire. he’d be happy about that too.
“but you still made us share a room? shoulda got us two separate rooms with bigger fuckin’ beds,” he grunts, crossing his arms across his chest with his black suitcase on his right and your suitcase on his left.
kirishima laughs with a shrug, “that was on kaminari, he thought making you share would push you guys to be together. guess you both were way ahead of us.”
you roll your eyes with a grin while bakugou grunts.
“well i’m taking top bunk. i’m not letting you crush me during the night,” you announce, hanging up your jacket and pushing your suitcase to the ground to get ready for bed.
“i’ll leave you both to it then, see you in the morning!”
after saying your goodnight to the red head, you look up to find your boyfriend still frowning.
“i want another room. i’ll go out and find a hotel,” he states, shaking his head.
“we are on a cabin holiday with our friends. we are not leaving the cabin, katsuki.”
the room was sweet and cosy despite the sleeping situation. a tiny television with more bezel than screen hanging on the wall with a single desk and chair. the room smelt of cranberries and chocolate and you loved the feeling of the rug between your toes. you were even lucky enough to get an en-suite bathroom and you know the rooms your friends were sharing didnt have those.
bakugou grunts again, kicking off his slippers and plopping down on the floor with you. he’s wearing a black fisherman’s jumper paired with grey joggers after a long day of travelling and you’re never one to lie, he looks cute and adorable. his glasses hang from his jumpers neckline and he stretches his legs across the floor and you realise how small the room actually is.
“i swear i’m taller than this fuckin’ room,” he mumbles and you stand up, fresh pyjamas in your hands and stuffing your hand in his face.
he snuggles behind your hand, a mumbled, “hey!” escaping.
“i’m gonna shower and once i’m back you’re gonna stop moaning, ‘ki.”
he scrunches his nose pulling your hand away to study you from your feet to your head. his smirk is slow and sexy like a flower blooming, sharp canines and a handsome face. you’re lightheaded.
“how about i join you? that would make me better, princess.”
you huff, shaking away the desire. “no.” you confirm, before closing the door behind you.
your first night routine has gone beautifully fine in the cabin. paired with your new ginger eye cream and gingerbread body cream, fitting for the cold weather. as soon as you came out the shower, bakugou was ready to have his and during his shower, you’ve been in bed reading a new book. tucked under the covers, the wall lamp on casting a yellow glow. you’re warm and toasty wearing your matching red tartan pyjamas, full from the meal you had earlier and actually looking forward to going asleep.
until your boyfriend emerges from the bathroom, only wearing the matching bottoms to your set. you’re allowed to so you scan his upper body. the dips and curves of his chest, the tattoos sneaking up his side, how soft and dewy his skin looks, up to his face giving you the same glare he gave the bed before.
“you’re not actually sleepin’ up there are you?”
you laugh, “we can’t both fit on a single bed. you can barely fit on a single on your own.”
he walks to your bunk, and you realise again, how big he is compared to your room. he’s still managing to look down at you as you lay on the top bunk and the thought makes your heart race.
bakugou ignores what you say, “sleep in the lower bunk with me.”
he could inch forward and kiss you in this position. you sigh longingly at the smell of him, fresh and sweet after the shower, hair swiped back to show his forehead.
you must be staring at his mouth because he holds your chin and places a kiss horizontal on your mouth.
“it’s gonna be the worst sleep of our lives if we share a single bed.”
“it’s never a bad sleep if you’re beside me.”
“i’m gonna be on top of you, there’s gonna be no space to be beside you.”
he grins, resting a muscled arm on the wooden structure of your bed, “fine by me.”
you breathe a laugh through your nose, not giving him the satisfaction of a real laugh. you continue to stare at him in silence, waiting until he gives up.
it’s not really a staring contest as much as it is waiting for the other to break somehow. staring at his ruby eyes, the slit in his right eyebrow. the two silver hoop piercings in each ear and the tattoo on his collarbone. his white teeth biting down into his plush bottom lip. he looks beautiful even in your bright ass yellow book light and you’re so close to giving in when he says, “fine.”
you nod at him with a smile, “good.”
“lemme have a kiss though.”
it’s like he knows you a little too well. he knows you’re about to give him a proper kiss, like sleeping just below you is way too far away. you sit up, resting on your forearm and sliding your hand across his stubbled cheek. then your lips press to his. twice. until he bites down on your bottom lip for you to open your mouth. it’s the type of long, tongue tangled kiss he’d give you when he’s going away on a mission for too long. way too dramatic and sensual for a goodnight in the same room.
the kiss has you craning in for more and he gives it all to you as his hand cradles the back of your head. you twist your head, nose almost nudging against his as he licks across your tongue, sucking and unsurprisingly, a low moan comes from your mouth.
you could never say bakugou katsuki is a bad kisser because that would be a lie. at least you can say you’ve made him better.
the moan seems to be the red light to stop, as bakugou pulls away from you, pecking your forehead as you stare at him dopey eyed. he wipes his bottom lip with the back of his hand and smiles at you. it’s sexy and makes you rub your thighs together, “see you tomorrow, baby.”
katsuki’s about to let go of your hand but you hold it tighter, making him raise an eyebrow.
one long kiss is enough to make you crave him, make you wanna press your skin to his and rock back and forth on any body part he allows you to.
you sigh longingly before sliding into your classic horny whines, “but there’s no space!”
his loud chuckle doesn’t make you shy, you’ve both long past the point of being shy. his pupils twinkle the same way they do when he’s feeling particularly cocky or when he’s won some type of game. you know that means he won this little tug and pull between you, all to lure you into his bed.
“if you want somethin’ real bad, baby, you can always make it work.”
any other time you’d roll your eyes, laugh at him being all quotable and deep but you’d much rather his face between your legs.
“but—,”
he taps the space twice where the ladder starts, the gap where you slide onto your bed. “open your legs here.”
there’s no question to it because he’ll know you’ll say yes. though he cutely shrugs, moving to scratching the back of his head, “i was thinkin’ about it in the shower. new position to eat you from.”
he runs his tongue across his bottom teeth, refusing to break eye contact with you.
“yeah, go on then.” you smile, shuffling to sit up and hang your legs off the bed.
bakugou chuckles, looking up at you sitting much taller than him. “i don’t have to babe, you don’t sound excited.”
“hey!” you giggle, locking your legs around his shoulders and dragging him closer. you slide your palm on his jaw, thumb rubbing against his cheek, “first time i’ve been taller than you.”
you press a kiss to the corner of your lover’s lips, before squeezing them between your finger and thumb. he only blinks slowly before shaking his head at you, eyes softer than you’ve ever seen.
“yeah, yeah, take off your bottoms,” he whispers and you do what you’re told.
you shuffle off the fabric, throwing them behind you on your bed as bakugou’s hands find your thighs.
“can’t believe we aren’t sharin’ a fuckin’ bed,” he mumbles to himself but as soon as your hands rake through his hair, he begins to kiss up your thighs, nibbling slightly up to your centre where your legs press together. “c’mon open up f’me.”
you hook your legs over the fences of your bunk bed, leaving your centre right in the gap for bakugou. you blink down at him, watching his every move. so sensitive before anythings even started.
the man before you hums, a slow smile rising on his cheeks. he stares at your pussy, your clit begging for his touch and the thin layer of wetness shining around your hole. he clicks his tongue, his hands holding your hips to stop you from moving, “so beautiful. y’know that don’t you?”
“touch me, katsuki,” you demand, leaning back on your forearms, heart already racing. you’re all open and exposed before him, your patience wearing thin.
“you get snappy when you wanna come,” he states annoyingly but just when you’re about to whine again, he tucks in.
two large palms grip at your thighs to spread you open as he licks one long stripe. you lean back on your forearms at the tingle of pleasure, your breath is already heavy.
bakugou hums into you, sucking on your clit and then licking across it before going back to sucking. he knows what gets you going, he even glances up to check your face is doing exactly what he thought. head lolled back with your mouth open. your eyes snap open when two curled fingers enter you and brush along your walls.
“oh fuck baby,” you whine, sparks of warmth shooting down every part of you. you start to get twitchy, pushing your hips up into his face and bakugou lifts his head, mouth shiny from you.
“so perfect, you know. my lil gift,” and he’s done this to you so many times that he can tell you’re close. your forearms holding you up are shaky, your leg is curling around his neck and you can barely keep your eyes open.
“more,” you urge, fingers sinking into his hair to push him towards your centre.
bakugou rolls his eyes but obeys, louder and much more precise than before. “cmon come for me, princess. lemme see it.”
you hold his head between your legs like a prisoner, trapped unless he sends you to bliss. his words turn you on even more, the last lick he swipes across your clit how you coming all around his fingers and mouth.
you slam your hand over your mouth to cover the noises but bakugou is never one to care if anyone hears. he works you through it all with small, “beautiful baby.” “gorgeous.”
you fling yourself back on the bed behind you with a soft giggle as bakugou kisses your thighs and goes to wipe your mouth.
“you good up there?”
your smile weaves within your voice, “yeah. just thinking how are we going to have sex on your bunk.”
bakugou sucks on his finger then pops it out his mouth. he doesn’t go to wipe you down, all the better when—, “you’re gonna be on top of me baby.”
you begin to climb down the bunk, legs so shaky they bakugou holds onto your sides. you’re only in your plaid pyjama top, with a gloss on your thighs. bakugou doesn’t think he could get any harder.
“hate being on top,” you whine like the princess you are though bakugou laughs, yanking off all his clothes.
“i do all the work anyway,”
and he does. he lays back on his tiny, single mattress, his hands holding your hips and practically controlling your whole body. you’re in a different world. completely naked, top flung to the floor somewhere as he slams your hips up and down to meet his own thrusts.
the wet skin slapping is loud and only turns you on more with the sight of his tensed biceps doing everything.
you can barely hold yourself up, stuffing your head in the crook of his neck.
“mind your head,” bakugou grunts and he’s sure your ass is gonna be sore from how he’s holding you.
“you feel so good. you’re so big inside me,” you moan before dropping your lips on his.
he keeps thrusting up into you as your hands grasp at his face. you’re swallowing his every breath as your own, sucking on his tongue wet and messy. bakugou moans down your throat, a sign he’s close.
lightening sparks through you, a rope beginning to snap. “i’m gonna come.” you mumble across his lips, then it gets teary and desperate, “i really need to come, katsuki.”
his name. you pull away to watch his flushed cheeks, the intense heaving of his chest, the sweat beads at his hairline. if you’re working out a prohero this hard, you wonder what sex other people are having.
“love you so fuckin’ much.” he mumbles, biting down on his lip to keep up the pace. your finger curls around his neck without meaning to but nobody goes to move it.
“love you too,” you reply and then you snap, a loud moan rips through you as your orgasm does. you spill all over bakugou’s cock, clenching as you do.
bakugou is over immediately after you say your last word, a low growl as he releases, rolling his hips in two final jolts.
you both are a sweaty mess, not any space for him to even slip out of you so you just lay on top of him taking a breather. bakugou’s arm hangs off the side of the bed as he hugs you to him with his other arm.
“i won’t lie babe. probably top five sex with you.”
you snort obnoxiously but bakugou loves it. “a tight bunk bed we both can’t fit in?”
bakugou hums, pecking your forehead, “yeah. love having you all over me.”
and what’s insane is you feel him hardening inside you again. “hold on, we can go again in a second.”
“no rush princess, we have five days here. can try out all the tightest positions.”
