ryomen sukuna never asked you to stop wearing panties in his house.
he just made it clear, after the first time, that it was easier for him if you didn’t. easier to bend you over the kitchen counter. easier to fuck you into the couch cushions between shows. easier to slip his fingers between your thighs while you pretended to scroll through your phone, pretending like you weren’t waiting for it.
so now, you don’t. not when you’re at his place. not even for a second.
you walk in, take off your shoes, and take off your underwear, too—folded politely, dropped in the same spot by the door every time.
it’s not a rule. he never said it out loud. but it’s his house, and you like being good. sukuna likes it even more.
he touches you whenever he wants. pushes you down onto the carpet, or the cold kitchen tile, or the shower wall when you’re still dripping shampoo. sometimes he fucks you halfway through a sentence. sometimes he finishes inside you without saying a word. once, he pulled your legs open with a yawn—didn’t even look at you while he slid in. just sighed and mumbled, “missed this cunt all day.”
it’s never rough when you don’t ask for it. never mean. just constant, casual, intimate in the most fucked-up way. like your body is his to use, and you like being used.
and the worst part is that you do—you crave it. crave the way he brushes his fingers over your thighs while passing by, checking if you’re still wet. the way he ruts against your ass when you lean over the sink to rinse a dish. the way he pulls you into his lap just to idly fuck up into you while playing some mindless game on his phone.
“you’re soft,” he murmurs sometimes, pressing his palm to your lower belly while you’re full of him. “made for me.”
you nod. you always nod—because in sukuna’s house, you don’t wear panties. you wear obedience—slick thighs, and his cum leaking down your legs. and that’s exactly how he likes it.
you raise your hands in mock surrender, looking at toji’s green eyes narrow at you slowly. “just sayin’.”
“what does that even mean? do i give the attitude of an elf, then?”
crossing your arms, you give him the stink eye, “maybe you do, babe.”
toji huffs and mirrors the way you’re stood - arms crossed but his stance leaves more for the imagination; his biceps bulge in the way where you just want to take a bite out of his arm.
he steps even closer to you, his arms brushing against yours now and he leans down just enough to be nose to nose with you. cocking his head, he asks, “is this tall enough for you?”
there’s a cocky grin on his face and he grabs the ball of your shoulder and pushes you back against the wall. with the coolness of the wall behind you, he grasps your chin and tilts your head to look up at him. he's so close and the proximity is making any smart retort die in your throat.
his nose brushes against yours and you can feel the edges of a smirk on his lips. his beefy arms cage you in, trapping you between him and the wall. "is this tall enough for you, doll?"
the hand that is holding your chin edges you closer before your lips crash into his. toji's arm leaves the wall to caress your body, hands roaming everywhere - your waist, your hips, your back, everywhere. he pulls you in impossibly close, kissing you with such ferocity and you let out a deep sigh against his lips.
just as suddenly as he kissed you, he pulls away with the stupid grin still plastered on his face. "guess i'm tall enough for you to kiss, huh?"
the moment sukuna had told you that he was gonna be bulkin’ again, this time far much longer than he had last time, you immediately started meal preppin’, you made anything that would add heavy calories into his diet, pasta, cookies, rice and chicken smothered in sauce, fatty steak, you name it.
you started to notice that he was getting a lot heavier as the weeks passed by, arms ridiculously stronger, thighs thicker than usual, a belly that turned from lean abs to a sexy pudge, boxers that barley fit him anymore, each pair on the brink of literal doom, one wrong move and they’d bust open.
he was always extra sweaty when he got home from the gym, rushing to the kitchen to grab one of your prepped meals, scarfin’ it down before gulpin’ down a chocolate protein shake, you’d always come up to give him a hug, small frame wrapping around his.
but fuck did you love it.
the way his arms were bigger than ever, heavier, chubbier, when he’d finally wrap them around you—your entire body was swallowed by just his arms.
and when he’d fuck you…
heavy, thick, warm. that’s how he felt when he had you in a mean mating press, thick fingers gripping your thighs, pushing them down into your chest, veins protruding through his skin, bulging, pulsing. and god the way his cock had gotten chubbier Jus’ a tad bit, stretchin’ you open wider than before.
the way his belly rolled over a tiny bit when you were perched on top of his cock, his back pushed against the couch, cock slidin’ in an’ out of you. you loved it.
or sometimes, he’d place a heavy hand on your skull, pushin’ you down against the plush bed, face smooshed into the blanket, mascara smudging all over it.
even his grunts had changed into animalistic sounding groans and rough pants when he’d bully his chubby thickened cock deep inside you. he needed it more often as well, beggin’ for sex every single day, most of the time, multiple times a day. always cummin’ in thick ropes, whether it be, painting your face, filling that cunt up, makin’ you swallow, on your tits. everywhere.
he knew the affect it had on you, he knew that you loved the feeling of his heavy body fuckin’ deep inside your gummy walls, he knew it and would always mutter a sly “yeah baby? you love how big I feel?” or a “cocks gotten bigger too, better savor it woman”
he was a lot warmer as well, the body heat that radiated off of him could work as your own personality sauna, you didn’t even need a blanket anymore. when you were cold, he’d just grab you, pull you up onto his chest, lay against your thighs, anything and you’d be warm within seconds.
every single shirt he owned was now stretched out, what once was a small, used to be tight around the edges, fit him and you perfectly now, is almost twice the size on you and nearly falling apart on him.
god you were obsessed.
mlist ╱ all work done by @orgasmbunny, do not plagiarize or feed my work to ai.
a/n: my man is bulking so yk what that meannnsssuhhhh, new fic ideas😝😝😝, I’m being so honest when I say this, the sukuna fics I do are all based on my manLMDAO, bro he literally gets exactly like this when he’s bulking maybe it’s the testosterone or something 😭😭😭😭 I have seen a few fics on this in the past but I tried to make it as different as possible and stick to how my man acts
one of toji’s wonders of the world is the sight of your ovulation breasts in a tank top.
it’s no surprise that toji likes to grope your body. the minute you gave him the green light to touch and squeeze whenever he can, he has never wasted a single opportunity.
he’s so touchy that he practically has your anatomy memorized. so when he noticed that your boobs look a little more plump than usual, he knows it’s a sign that it’s his favorite week of every month.
toji caught sight of you one afternoon with your hair up and a tank top, showcasing your neck, shoulders, and chest. the thin fabric of your tank top hugged the shape of your breasts as if inviting him to unwrap you. one of the straps fell from your shoulder and toji swore he finally understood why schools think shoulders are distracting. it’s not long before he has you under him as he stuffed your pussy full of him.
each thrust from him rocked your body on the sofa. his eyes are glued to the way your boobs bounced when he thrust into you. the sight alone could make him cum but combined with how your walls clench around him, toji felt like he’s in heaven.
as your moans became louder and your words became mere babbles, he knew you were close to climax.
“want daddy’s milk to fill you up?” he grins, hands groping your chest as his pace became ruthless.
you could only nod in response. your glossy eyes and fucked out expression was enough to show your desperation. with one, delicious clench, toji spilled his seed deep in your womb as you drowned in pleasure. you felt so full of him that it wouldn’t surprise you if your lower tummy was bloated from his milk.
“your greedy cunt loves my milk that much, huh?” he teased. he licks his scared lips as he diverted his gaze to your breasts. his rough, large hands enveloped over the two moulds as he squeezed and groped. “but…”
you looked down at your boyfriend, waiting for him to continue. your head spun when you envisioned him sucking milk from your breast. you blame it on ovulation week. unbeknownst to you, you’re not the only one with the imagination.
“i want something else filled with milk too.” his tone was wicked as he gave one final squeeze to your boobs.
it only made sense to you what he was talking about when the next position he put you in was a mean mating press.
boxer!toji didn't care for much. except for megumi and his next paycheck. for being a well known name underground, that didn't correlate to day to day life. getting by was hard, until you came along.
boxer!toji was baffled that you agreed to take him and megumi in. being roommates with someone like him couldn't have been ideal for you. and his past history being a tenant was not squeaky clean. especially when he literally got kicked to the curb for blood staining the carpet in the bedroom. but you didn't mind that. you saw a man who needed your help, so of course, you weren't going to refuse.
boxer!toji couldn't gather the courage (or the balls, as sukuna likes to say) to tell you the truth about his profession. underground boxing was dangerous and could get you hurt. could get megumi hurt. so, he didn't bother mentioning it, until it became unavoidable.
boxer!toji wanted to know you after a while. you never poked or prodded into his business, which he was grateful for, but you stayed on your side of the apartment. you cooked, you cleaned and always helped with megumi if need be. he couldn't deny, he was curious about you. wanted to know more.
boxer!toji counted his lucky stars when you started to show interest. funny, a guy like him could pull anyone. but you should have known better than to give some jerk like him the time of day. you did and he wasn't going to fuck it up.
boxer!toji had rough hands, calloused fingers that were so thick and filled you up perfectly. your cunt clamped down on his fingers, making him smirk while you writhed beneath him, soft whimpers slipping your kiss swollen lips.
boxer!toji wanted to cum deep inside your pussy after being in it for a few seconds. his tip twitched and he flashed his mind with past injuries to calm himself down. he was supposed to have the stamina of a horse, not cum like a teenage boy out of excitement.
boxer!toji was meannnn. legs hiked over those deliciously broad shoulders, toes curling while his fat cock split you open. he fucked you like he was angry, didn't want you to walk and remember just how he split you wide open. not that you were complaining.
boxer!toji, despite his mean demeanor in bed, held you close and kissed the back of your head, wondering when he can do this again. except this time a lil softer for his sweet girl.
frat!toji (who definitely doesn’t have a crush on you) … is the biggest cockblocker ever when it comes to you and your frat bf!sukuna
you’re convinced it’s on purpose at this point. and you’re halfway sure sukuna will kill him if it happens again.
making out on sukuna’s bed?— toji opens the door “needing to talk to sukuna” despite you both being halfway naked.
dryhumping in the kitchen before anyone in the house is awake?— toji’s mealprepping, muttering a “sorry” that’s rendered moot when he smirks at sukuna like it was purposeful.
now he’s swooping in and joining your team for beer pong, brushing off sukuna—who’s always your teammate.
“gotta make the teams even—right?” he tells sukuna, who’s currently fighting back a pissed off expression—and failing. for godsake sukuna’s arm is halfway around your waist when he butts in. “besides— i think me and pretty lady make a nice team.”
“yeah, yeah. sure.” sukuna grumbles dryly before stomping over to the other side of the table, now not even trying to force a smile.
oh and the way sukuna’s blood boils when he calls you ‘pretty lady’ right infront of him.
honest to god he’s thought about murdering toji—warranted in his mind… especially after tonight.
you hadn’t seen sukuna in a week, schoolwork overfilling your schedule, and boy was he excited to see you. he wore that cologne you love, put on that chain you picked out for him, hell he even shaved that fuzz on his chin you wanted gone. he invited you over to watch a baseball game, planning to sit close to you, hand on your thigh the whole time and fuck on his bed after—that was your plan too…until toji fucked it up.
sukuna got up to get a beer once—and by the time he came back there he was, toji, sat right next to you, shoulder to shoulder, thighs clinging to eachother.
he can’t help but say “the fuck?” toji’s even leaning into you, nearly on top of eachother.
“jus’ sit next to me.” toji offers with a shallow smirk sukuna’s halfway to punching off.
“you fuckin’ kidding me?” he replies, louder and a lot snappier than he intended—still warranted in his mind.
“‘s not a big deal—tryna watch the game, y’know.”
sukuna is going to fucking kill him.
not proofread. this isn’t good sorry but i wanted to get this posted tonight.
cw: smut, dry humping, one bed (surprise surprise), +18
You’ve worked with Riley for years, long enough to know his patterns, the way he disappears into silence for hours and then suddenly speaks like nothing happened, the way he reads every room before even stepping into it.
You’ve seen him angry, tired, bleeding, calm, all of it, and somewhere in between those missions and those nights spent cleaning weapons and pretending you weren’t staring at each other for too long, something changed.
It wasn’t a crush, not really. It was a tension that neither of you ever acknowledged because doing that would mean it existed, and that was a risk neither of you wanted to take.
And it wasn’t sudden. It built itself out of the smallest things, the way his hand would brush your arm when you passed him something, how he’d always stand too close when checking your gear, that one time he called you “love” without even realizing it, voice half-asleep after a night watch. And you caught him looking more than once. Not in the usual way, not like men look when they’re trying their luck, but heavier, like he was trying not to think about it and failing anyway.
You played it off, both of you did. And teasing turned into habit. You’d roll your eyes when he made dry comments, he’d grunt when you told him he was getting soft, and beneath all of it was that constant pull. You’d feel it when you shared a cramped car for hours, or when your fingers brushed passing him a weapon, or when he’d mutter “good job” in that voice that made something in your stomach twist every single time.
You always told yourself it was better this way. It was easier to stay focused, easier to ignore the way his eyes lingered sometimes when you took your gear off, or how his voice dropped when he said your name after a long mission. You were fine with pretending.
Until tonight.
You’d been dropped off at a safe house in the middle of nowhere, barely four walls and a roof, and the air inside was colder than it was outside. The power was out, the heating was dead, and the only thing you could see through your breath was one worn-out bed shoved against the wall. It was supposed to be a short stop, a few hours, some rest, and then extraction in the morning. But hours were slow in a place like this, and the cold crept in fast.
He didn’t say much when you both realized what it meant. Just that quiet, resigned look before he muttered something like, “Ain’t exactly luxury, is it?” and set his gear down near the door. You tried to laugh it off, tried to sound normal when you said you’d take the floor, but he wasn’t having it.
“Don’t be stupid,” he said, already pulling off his gloves. “You’ll freeze.”
You wanted to argue, but you were already shaking. So you nodded, pretending it didn’t mean anything when he climbed in first and lifted the blanket like it was the most normal thing in the world.
It wasn’t.
You lay there stiffly at first, both of you on your sides, a wide strip of cold air between your bodies. The bed creaked every time one of you shifted, and the silence started to feel worse than the dark. You could hear him breathing, and you tried not to think about how close that sound was.
Then he moved, his low voice cutting through the quiet.
“Come here,” he said, barely above a whisper.
You hesitated for a second, your mind telling you no, but your body already sliding closer, until your back brushed against his chest and the heat that hit you made your pulse jump. He adjusted behind you slowly, until his arm came around your waist. The fabric of his shirt brushed your skin, and it was ridiculous how good it felt, how easy it was to forget you were supposed to be just teammates.
You told yourself it was just to stay warm, that this was just practical, nothing else. But then he exhaled against your neck, the air hot and uneven, and you felt it, the hard press of his dick, unmistakable even through the layers between you, and your breath caught before you could stop it.
For a while, neither of you moves. You stay still, trying to pretend it’s fine, that it’s just about keeping warm. His arm is heavy around your waist, and the sound of his breathing brushes over the back of your neck, feeling a bit too intimate.
You tell yourself to sleep, to think of anything else, but your body’s too aware of every small thing, of the way his chest rises against your back, the warmth of his hand where his glove used to be, his thumb resting just under your ribs, unmoving but there. It feels safe, but it also feels like something you shouldn’t want this much.
You shift just slightly, barely more than a breath, trying to get comfortable, and that’s when you hear it. The sharp inhale behind you, breaking the rhythm of his breathing. His body tenses, and you don’t have to look to know what it means.
For a second, you both freeze. His grip tightens a little at your waist, not enough to pull you closer but enough that you feel the tremor in his fingers. Neither of you says anything.
Then, softer than a whisper: “Don’t move,” he murmurs.
You stay still, but your pulse won’t. His breath lands against your skin again, heavier this time, and when he exhales, it sounds like he’s trying to swallow something down. The silence stretches thin until it almost hurts, and your body betrays you with another small shift, this time slower. You don’t even mean to. You just need to feel him again, to make sure you didn’t imagine that sound.
He inhales sharply again, and this time, his hand moves. His fingers flex against your stomach, holding you there, close enough that you can feel his heart hammering through his chest. You can tell he’s fighting it, that voice in his head probably telling him to stop, to keep it professional, to not cross the line you’ve both walked around for years.
But he doesn’t move away.
His nose brushes the back of your neck, the smallest touch, and your body reacts before your brain can catch up. You arch back just slightly, your hips brushing his, and he lets out a sound.
His hand slides higher, his palm careful, and you can hear how his breathing’s changed, with each exhale landing against your skin like it’s burning him to hold back. When he speaks again, it’s quieter, almost broken.
“You keep doing that,” he mutters, voice low near your ear, “and I won’t stop this time.”
You don’t answer, but you don’t move away either. The line that used to be there between you is gone, and maybe it’s been gone for a long time, and you’re only just admitting it now. He shifts behind you, closer, his body pressed to yours in a way that leaves no space for pretending anymore.
The bed creaks as he tightens his arm around you, his hand flattening against your stomach, holding you in place. You can feel the tension running through him, the kind that has nothing to do with the cold anymore.
And then, slowly, you turn your head, just enough that your cheek grazes his face, and he doesn’t pull back. He stays there, close enough that you can feel the words before he says them.
“Tell me to stop,” he whispers.
But you don’t.
You just breathe his name, quiet and shaky, and that’s all it takes. His arm flexes, pulling you back against him fully, and all that tension that’s been building for years finally snaps, the air between you breaking open into something hot and desperate and way past the point of denial.
When his mouth finally found yours, it was savage, not gentle, with a rush of cold air and warm breath and the taste of the field, of dust and mint and something else that was just him. It wasn't the tentative kiss of a first date, but a demand, a release, the culmination of years of suppressed glances and close calls.
You met the intensity, turning fully in his embrace, your legs tangling instantly beneath the thin blanket. The cold was still there, but it was miles away now, a faint hum around the edges of the heat radiating off his body, the heat of his desire, of his shock at finally giving in. His arms, always so capable and controlled on a mission, wrapped around you fiercely, one hand sliding into your hair, tilting your head back to deepen the angle, to take more.
A low sound rumbled in his chest, absorbed by your mouth, as your fingers found their way under the rough fabric of his shirt. His skin was hot, taut over the muscle that had always commanded your attention. You felt the faint scars and the hard lines of his ribs beneath your palms, tracing them with a frantic curiosity that had been years in the making.
He broke the kiss, gasps of air between your mouths, but he didn’t move away. His forehead rested against yours, eyes closed, his breathing labored and loud in the small room. “God,” he breathed the word like a confession. “I’ve wanted to do that for so long.”
There was no need for words, no need for caution. The time for pretending was over, and the realization was a current, a relief running between you. You lifted your hand, fingers trembling slightly, and dragged your knuckles across the stubble on his jaw, an action so simple, so intimate, it felt revolutionary.
He reacted instantly to the touch, pushing you back onto the mattress with a sudden urgency. The worn blanket shifted and fell away as he followed you down. The movement wasn’t slow or sensual; it was the sharp, necessary collision of two people who had held themselves apart for too long.
His body was heavy over yours, and you welcomed the weight. His mouth devoured yours again, fiercer this time, and you felt his knee nudge between your legs, a silent, demanding question. Your hips arched naturally in response, pressing your jeans against his trousers, a thin barrier against the heat that was now too much to contain.
He shifted, muttering something low and inarticulate against your neck, something that sounded like your name mixed with a plea, and then his hands were everywhere, movements practiced and quick, pulling away the layers of clothing that had kept you both separated. The cold air rushed across your exposed skin, but it was instantly forgotten as his hands returned, sliding beneath your shirt, his fingers finding and closing around the curve of your breast.
A gasp tore from your throat, and you arched your back, pressing yourself into the heat of his palm. His thumb brushed over your hardened nipple, a quick stroke that sent a shiver through you, with a blend of pleasure and disbelief. He had always been so observant, so precise, and even now, in this moment, he knew exactly where to touch, exactly how to get your attention.
The heavy thud of his own trousers hitting the floor was the last thing you heard before his mouth was back on you, moving lower this time, trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses over your collarbone, down your neck, lingering on the sensitive skin right where your pulse beat frantically.
He lifted his head, his eyes dark, deep in the gloom, and for a split second, you saw it—the fear, the vulnerability, the naked desire that he’d hidden under that calm exterior for years. He didn't ask again. He just took his last few layers off, and then he was back, pressing his entire length against you, skin to skin, heat to heat.
His hand found the sensitive curve between your thighs, and you cried out, a muffled sound against his shoulder as his fingers stroked and pressed, finding the slick heat he had created. He worked you expertly, the precision of a man who measured every action, but the touch itself was hungry, impatient, reflecting the desperation you felt echoing in your own body.
You gripped his shoulders, fingernails digging into the muscle, urging him on, and he answered the unspoken command. He shifted once more, positioning himself, and then he was sinking into you—not a gentle slide, but a single, deep thrust that made you gasp his name, sharp and clear in the small, dark room.
It was everything you had both denied, with the tension, the danger, and the intimacy, all compressed into this single, shattering physical reality. You wrapped your legs around him, pulling him deeper, matching his pace until the bed beneath you groaned in protest.
He leaned down, burying his face against your neck, his breath coming in short, harsh pants against your skin. “Look at me,” he commanded, his voice raw, close to your ear.
You opened your eyes, meeting his in the dark. He wasn’t hiding now. His expression was a mess of pure passion, a mirror of the explosive feeling coiling tight in your own core.
The climax felt like a desperate, shuddering release that tore through the cold and the dark and the years of denial, a silent explosion that left you both gasping, clinging to each other.
When it was over, he collapsed against you, his weight a comforting pressure, his heart hammering against your chest. He didn't speak for a long time, just held you tighter, until the tremors in your body subsided, and the air around you slowly cooled back down.
Finally, he shifted, pulling the blanket up and tucking it around both of you, cocooning you in the shared heat. He didn't move away. He settled in, his chin resting on the crown of your head, his arm heavy and across your stomach.
“I suppose,” he finally murmured, his voice filled with exhaustion and satisfaction, “we won’t be needing the floor after all.”
You didn't answer. You just pressed a kiss to the solid muscle of his shoulder, closed your eyes, and, for the first time in years, truly let go. The silence that followed was no longer heavy. It was simply the peace of two bodies finally at rest, side-by-side, no longer pretending.
you don't know what you expected when ghost took off his mask for the first time in front of you; it wasn't this. (18+, ghost x f!reader)
you keep your face neutral. he keeps his hair shaved close to his head. he has three long slashes that go from his left eyebrow to his nose. they've healed poorly, pale skin raised and puckered along the lines. his nose is crooked, septum deviated for sure, and his mouth looks like someone tried to cut a smile into it.
when he runs his tongue over his lips, you notice his chipped teeth. his face is dry, carved, and missing chunks. his eyes are the only thing they left alone, and they are hard to read and darker than you are used to.
he looks away from you as you inspect him. he's prepared, anxious, knowing that if you react some kind of way, he's ready to just throw the mask back on and leave. it wouldn't be the first time he's had to leave after revealing himself, but if he did this time, he knows it would be the last.
"jesus," you whisper, reaching up to cup his cheek. "what did they do to you, baby?"
his throat closes up when you wrap your arms around his neck. you kiss the side of his face, taking a deep breath of him, and he's slow to wrap one big arm around your back and hug you back.
"not runnin'?" ghost murmurs into your hair, and you guide his hand from your waist lower, until it slips under your skirt. he interprets what you mean, slipping two thick fingers between your thighs, and he lets out a sharp breath when he feels how wet you are. when he inspects his fingers and pulls them apart, the fluid webs, and he drags his tongue over them before going back in to feel more. your nails dig into his big shoulders as he circles over your puckering hole, and your knees weaken a little as he hikes your knee up around his hip and starts to tear a hole in your knickers. "fuckin' hell..."
there's really nothing like feeling your girl creaming over just the look of you.
enjin loves girls who make him chase. girls who make him work day and night for it, until his temples throb with want and his chest aches. ones who get the job done and don’t need a thing from a guy like him unless they’re bored.
girls like you crack eventually. you however, prove to be a challenge.
“c’mon baby” he drawls, practically purring at you. “just stay for a drink, yeah?”
you're tempted, feigning disinterest as you will yourself not to blush at the way his ridiculously warm fingers dance up your side. large, heavy palms knead you like dough at the smallest part of your waist, your head swimming with thoughts you'd rather not address.
“okay, one,” you start, pushing him off by his wrists. “I told you I have plans tonight,” you almost snicker at the way enjin’s face drops at the obvious lie, eyebrows raised like he can’t believe what's happening to him, “and two, don’t call me baby.” you state plainly, ducking under his arm and out of cleaner HQ.
you don't know why you sway your hips just the slightest bit as you pace down the steps and onto the sidewalk, but the way enjin curses under his breath lets you know you're doing all the right things to make him tick.
“fuck, you drive me crazy.” he rasps, jogging to catch up to you.
“what, cause i don’t want you?” you tease, letting your shoulder brush against his as the two of you walk. you liked keeping him on his toes, it kept you busy.
enjin’s pupils blow wide at your little quip, the corner of his mouth twitching. you wonder if he knew just how obvious the cracks in his little facade were. how his body gave him away, heating under your gaze like a fowl in a brick oven.
“watch, you won't be saying that in a month.” he promises, letting you scoff with a knowing smile.
toji can't just make love to you. that's too easy. there needs to be some dynamic where he has the upper hand. just so you know who you’re dealing with.
tonights no different. you’re already turning red just from the look on his face. that sly, hidden smile that tells you he’s got something on his sleeve. toji has you laid prone on your back, his forearm tucked under your skull like a pillow. you know he's up to something when he eases his length out, just enough to have his tip catch before pressing back into you ever so slowly.
“got a pretty fucking smile when i fuck you on your back, you know that?” he croons, caressing the weight of your face in his palm like he didn’t just embarrass you enough to last a lifetime.
but toji knows. the way your cheek instantly heats in his hand tells him his words are worming their way into all the right places. it’s cute, how you hide in the crook of his elbow, mind wandering back to the aching yarn ball of pleasure nestled deep in your tummy.
toji's thrusts refuse to let up. every drag against that special spot keeps you full and sated while he picks apart every adorable noise you make. every twitch and pull of your brow, every gasp his dick punches out of you feeding his ever growing ego.
“what, getting shy on me?” he laughs, "nothing to be shy about, baby." he whispers, letting you cling to his chest like a shy puppy.
have a request if thats okay 😶🌫️… basically, congressman!bucky coming home to wife!reader after being stressed out, especially by his campaign and pr team after “this worrying issue is… worrying”… and yeah?? girl idk where im going with this but yeah
ooo… delicious. something about the word wife turns me on more than it should 🤭
smut warning !!
You don’t know which version of Bucky you’re going to get when he comes home stressed.
Sometimes he goes quiet. Sometimes he rants for hours until he tires himself out. Sometimes he’s already tired. Sometimes he’s angry. Sometimes he gets anxious and jittery.
You never know how the stress is going to manifest in his body.
Today, you get your answer as soon as he walks through the door.
Usually you get a hello, or a how was your day, or a hug. But not today. Today, he strides in, slides off his suit jacket and his shoes, and makes a beeline straight towards you.
“On your knees, baby.”
When you look at him with mildly concealed surprise, he doubles down.
“Now, honey. Knees.”
You don’t know what else to do other than obey, sinking down to gaze up at him, awaiting further instruction.
“Fuck, you’re so pretty. My pretty, pretty wife.”
He’s unbuckling his belt without breaking eye contact with you, popping the button on his trousers and undoing his fly in a fluid series of motions. He’s hard and heavy in his underwear already, clearly having thought about this on his journey home.
His fingers dance along your jaw, thumb skimming across your bottom lip as he hums.
“Open, honey.”
You do as you’re told, eager to please.
“Here’s what’s gonna happen,” he practically purrs, all low and slow. “I’m gonna fuck your face right here on the kitchen floor, and you’re gonna take it like the good girl you are. And then after your pretty little face is painted in my come, I’m gonna bend you over the counter and fuck you so hard that you see stars - over and over and over until you’re begging me to stop.”
You take a deep breath, practically vibrating with anticipation.
“Understood?”
You nod, and he shakes his head.
“I want words, please. Use ‘em.”
“Yes,” you choke out. “Understood.”
“I love you, Mrs Barnes.”
“I love you,” you say sweetly, taken aback by the unexpected moment of tenderness. “So much.”
“Remember that,” he drawls, thumb slipping into your mouth. “Because I’m not about to be gentle.”
part 2 of simon crashing your wedding and confessing his love.
Your head was spinning, and your chest hurt from how fast you were breathing. Everything about this was wrong, every single detail, and you kept shaking your head because you couldn’t make it fit.
“This is insane,” you said, your voice almost breaking. “I’m supposed to marry another man. There are guests out there, there’s music, and everything is waiting for me. This is completely insane.”
Simon didn’t even blink; he just tightened his hold on your hand. “I’ll fix it,” he said, like he’d already decided everything.
Before you could ask what the hell that even meant, the double doors at the end of the hall burst open. The sound made you jump, and then you saw Johnny walking in first, suit stretched across his shoulders, his steps unhurried.
He was grinning like he’d been waiting for this moment all day. Behind him, Price and Gaz followed, both of them in suits too, guns visible under their jackets, and the entire sight of them moving down the hall together was enough to steal the air from your lungs.
They didn’t hesitate, didn’t even glance at you, and just pushed right past and into the venue. The doors swung open, and you heard Price’s voice rise over the startled gasps. “Ladies and gentlemen, we’re going to need you all to calmly make your way outside. Now. We’ve had a bomb threat, and this building needs to be cleared immediately.”
The music stopped, and chairs scraped. People started panicking, their voices overlapping as they tried to figure out what was happening. Gaz was already telling them where to go, ushering them to the doors with a voice that was calm but firm, not giving anyone room to question it. Johnny leaned against the doorframe for a second, tipping his head at you, eyes shining with mischief, before he disappeared inside too.
And then he appeared—your fiancé, the man you were supposed to walk toward in just a few minutes. He rushed in through the side door, his face pale and his eyes wide. He looked from Simon to you, his voice sharp. “What the hell is going on? What are they doing? What is this?”
You tried to speak, tried to push words through the knot in your throat. “I’m sorry,” you said, your chest aching as the guilt rose. “I can’t marry you.”
He stared, his mouth parting, confusion etched across every line of his face. “What?”
Simon moved in front of you then, his shoulders straight, his presence filling the space until the man could hardly look anywhere else. His voice was cold. “Don’t talk to her again. Don’t look at her again. Get out before I kill you.”
Your fiancé froze, his face draining of what little color it had left. He searched Simon’s eyes, maybe hoping for a crack or a joke, but there wasn’t any. Simon meant every single word. The man stumbled back a step, his lips parting like he wanted to argue, but he turned instead, disappearing as fast as he’d come.
You grabbed Simon’s sleeve, your voice trembling. “Simon, this is too much. You can’t—”
“I’m not waiting another second,” he said, his eyes on yours, his hand already curling around yours again, stronger this time. “I’ve waited too long already. It ends here.”
You shook your head, but before you could say anything else, he caught your hand fully, bringing it up between you. His eyes dropped to the ring glinting there, the one that had been on your finger for months, the one that suddenly felt heavy. His lips pressed into a thin line.
“Let me fix something first,” he muttered. Then, without giving you a chance to stop him, he slid the ring off and tossed it aside. It clattered against the floor and rolled into the shadows. He reached into his jacket and pulled out a small black box, snapping it open with one hand.
Your breath caught.
Simon took out the ring and slid it onto your bare finger, his touch careful. He looked at it for a moment, then back up at you, his thumb brushing over it. “There. Much better.”
Your chest tightened. “You’ve been carrying this with you?”
He didn’t hesitate. “Yes.”
Before you could speak, Johnny’s voice called from inside the hall. “Come on then, we’re ready!”
Simon didn’t wait. He turned, still holding your hand, pulling you with him through the doors. The venue was empty now. Every chair was abandoned, the flowers left untouched. The only ones waiting were Price, Gaz, and Johnny, standing near the front where the altar had been set.
Simon stopped and faced you, the weight of everything hanging between you. His hand stayed wrapped around yours, his eyes fixed only on you. “Marry me,” he said, as if he’d already made the decision for both of you.
You laughed through the tears, nodding your head, but you didn’t move away from Simon. His mouth brushed yours, his grip unrelenting, and the empty hall around you didn’t matter anymore. There were no guests, no flowers, and no speeches. Just you, Simon, and the men who’d made sure nothing stood in your way.
And for the first time all day, you actually felt like a bride.
You were supposed to be happy. That’s what people kept telling you while they adjusted your veil and fussed with the folds of your dress, smiling like this was the most beautiful day of your life. But all you could do was stare at yourself in the mirror and think about how wrong it looked, how wrong you looked standing there in white, getting ready to marry a man you weren’t even sure you wanted.
He wasn’t bad. He was polite and decent enough. He liked you, maybe loved you in his own way, but it wasn’t enough. Not when the only name that kept echoing in your head was Simon’s.
Simon, who you swore you’d moved on from. Simon, who hadn’t called, who hadn’t tried, who probably didn’t even think of you anymore. Simon, who you loved so much it made you sick.
You told yourself he didn’t want you. That was the only way to go through with this, because if you believed for even a second that he did, then standing here would feel unbearable. So you swallowed it down, you told yourself this man at least chose you, even if it wasn’t the same kind of love. Even if it wasn’t the love you wanted.
You could hear them on the other side of the door. The music starting, chairs creaking, and people whispering and waiting for you to walk in. Your heart was hammering like it wanted to break out of your chest, and your hand hovered on the handle, the bouquet trembling because you couldn’t get your fingers to stay still.
One more breath. Just one step and you’d be walking down the aisle, pretending you weren’t suffocating in this dress, pretending you weren’t about to make the biggest mistake of your life.
You almost turned the handle when a low voice came from right behind you.
“If you marry him,” Simon said, his voice calm but sharp and so close you felt his breath at your ear, “I’ll blow this whole fucking place up.”
You spun around so fast your veil slipped off your shoulder, your eyes going wide because there he was, leaning against the wall like he had all the time in the world, suit stretched over his shoulders, mask tucked in his hand, staring at you with that look that still somehow burned right through you.
“Simon?” Your voice cracked. “What the fuck are you doing here?”
He pushed off the wall, closing the space between you in two long strides until your back nearly hit the door. His eyes didn’t leave yours, not once. “What does it look like? I’m stopping you from making the dumbest decision of your life.”
Your throat tightened, anger flaring just to cover the way your stomach flipped at his words. “You don’t get to—Simon, you don’t get to disappear on me and then just show up the day I’m supposed to get married, saying shit like that—”
“The only person you’re marrying,” he cut in, his voice low and rough, “is me.”
You froze, your fingers gripping the bouquet so hard the stems dug into your skin. “You can’t just—”
“I can,” he said, stepping even closer until you could smell the faint trace of smoke and cologne clinging to him. His jaw clenched, his hand twitching like he was holding himself back from grabbing you. “Because I’m not letting you walk through that door. You hear me? I’m not watching you give yourself to some man who doesn’t even know you. Doesn’t even deserve you.”
Your chest rose and fell too fast, your eyes stinging. “You don’t get to say that. You don’t love me—”
“Don’t you fucking say that,” he snapped, his hand slamming flat against the door beside your head, making you jump. His eyes burned into yours, furious, desperate. “I’ve loved you every goddamn day, even when I was too much of a coward to tell you. You think this is me not loving you? This is me not surviving without you.”
Your knees went weak, your whole body trembling because it was too much at the moment.
“Say you don’t want me,” he growled, leaning so close his forehead almost brushed yours. “Say it, and I’ll walk away right now. But don’t you dare open that door and marry him just because you think I don’t want you. Because you’re fucking wrong.”
You swallowed hard, the bouquet slipping in your sweaty hands, the sound of people waiting outside echoing through the wood behind you. The world was waiting for you to walk out there, but Simon was here, in front of you, looking at you like he’d burn it all down if you took one step away from him.
And God help you, you wanted him more than you wanted anything else.
“I have never touched abs in my life,” you slurred, getting a whoop of laughter especially from Johnny. “Its like a d-dream for me.”
“To touch abs?” Simon leaned, sitting next to you. He hasn't been drinking much unlike Johnny who was shit faced and Price whose cheeks were getting warmer.
Mother hen would probably drive you home as always.
Maybe tuck you in bed and give you a forehead kissie as Kyle liked to snicker—you told him to fuck off, not blushing at all! Although there were memory of Simon kneeling and removing your shoes off while you anticipated when it was time to get sick. Even getting hair off your face as he said something that you only heard with an underwater distortion.
“Yep.” you grinned, turning totally towards him.
Simon nodded, then he took your hand by wrist and pushed your limp palm up with his one thumb wiping along. Your dopey smile beaming in his attention.
He pulled his clinging tshirt up a little to let your hand slip inside.
“Woah, get a room, get a room.” Someone jittered but it had faded distinctly.
Your smile started to hurt your cheeks, breath huddling inside like train on a bridge as his skin heated under your touch.
Fingers tracing upon the tight stretch of skin across his muscles. “Dream coming true?” he said, half groan, half whisper.
“Yeah...”
“Huh.” he leaned back a little, giving you full access and so you marveled.
Your palm pressed flat against his abs. Heat pulling at your navel with tug at your bones that shivered you inside and out. There was a rush at your heart and churning of guts, something tightened inside you as his abs flexed under a flicker of your thumb.
Simon exhaled. He placed his hand over the mold of yours visible from the thin fabric, “Shall I drop you home, late innit?”
You felt his fingers pushing in between the gaps between yours, hand pressed even harder at his ribs buried deep in there.
“You're right...so late.”
You swore Kyle was smirking when Simon picked your purse from the table.
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