#soft aftercare

[oopsimimagining]

Dr. Maybank

‧₊˚𓆉 JJ Maybank x gf!Reader

‧₊˚𓆉 Summary: JJ Maybank has always been restless. But now? All he wants to do is make sure that your okay.

‧₊˚𓆉 Warning: implied smut, sexual innuendo, mild language, dorky JJ, soft aftercare, Not proofread

‧₊˚𓆉 Word Count: 1.9k words

‧₊˚𓆉 A/N: Requested by @groggy-acorn69!!! thank you so much for this request! i never rlly wrote anything that rlly implied to smut before lol so this was defo something new hope u like it <3

masterlist

The breeze from your open window slipped across your blanket wrapped body, cool against your overheated skin.

You stretched your legs, rubbing them together before tucking them back into your chest and curling inward.

Behind you, JJ’s arm tightened, his forearm pressed against your waist and bicep flexing on your shoulder. The pads of his fingers traced thoughtless patterns on your hip before slowly dragging down to your thigh. He hummed  lightly to himself before pressing lazy, absentminded kisses on your shoulder as if it was second nature.

“Another round for the lady?” He whispered in your ear before nipping at it playfully. You could practically hear the smirk in his voice.

You huffed out a laugh, rolling yourself over until your bodies pulled apart. An embarrassing little pop following you as cool air filled the now empty space.

Your face bumped against his nose and you were met with the mess of blonde hair and JJ’s bright blue eyes, already raking over your body like he was undressing you all over again. 

“You’re such a pervert,” you mumbled, fighting back the small smile that dared to show on your practiced glare. Your fingers betrayed you though, splaying across his chest and staying there. His heartbeat thudded against your palm mixing with your own. Somehow, the little rhythmic beat felt more intimate than anything that happened ten minutes ago.

He glanced down at your hand on his chest then back at you, his face softer than usual. He bent his head, lips meeting your hair. “That’s not what you were screaming earlier.”

“JJ!” you snapped, but the blush creeping up onto your cheeks gave your amused look away. 

“What?” He laughed. “You told me to stop lying!”

You wrestled your arm free from his grip, pushing at his stupidly smug face. He laughed into your palm, nodding his head back dramatically into the pillow with his eyes closed.

Silence filled the room leaving you with the taste of serenity.  It was just the chirp of the birds from the nest that hung dangerously low off of your window pane,  the hum of your ceiling fan, and the steady breathing from you and JJ. 

“JJ?” you muttered. He hummed in response looking down at you. 

“Are you good?” You asked tentatively. “Was it… uh was I-“ you cut yourself off, chuckling embarrassed at yourself. 

He pushed himself up slightly on his forearm enough to see your face. He curses himself taking note of the red hue creeping up and he pushed a strand of hair from your eyes. 

“No, no, no.” He rushed out, making you jerk back and furrow your eyebrows. “I mean yes! you were… are.” He dropped his head on your shoulder, his blonde hair tickling your neck. “You’re good. Perfect actually.” 

“Jay.”

“Scouts honor.” He placed his hands on his heart in mock seriousness before his face fell into something much more softer. Nervous. Much more real. “It’s just — You remember on the boneyard when you said you didn’t want your first to be with someone  who just forgets the next day?”

Your face softened, nodding your head and lowering yourself back onto his chest.  “I won’t forget okay?” He said reassurance laced in his tone. 

You tilted your head up catching his shy gaze. You smiled lightly and pecked him on the inside of his jaw. “I know,” you whispered. A beat of silence swept between you two before you settled back into his chest. “You’re good too. You didn’t - like - do anything wrong. y’know?”

He chuckled low, tightening his grip on you. “You sure? Head still good? like uh not too much?” 

You laughed loudly and his eyebrows scrunched up slapping you playfully. This was a side of the tough klepto Pogue your friends always warned you about that you never saw. He was shy, dorky, and a little scared. “Yes JJ, I’m okay.” 

“You don’t have to like lie okay?” His blue eyes meeting yours. “I’m a big boy. I can handle it. I won’t combust or whatever.” 

You snorted. “Big word Maybank.”

“Shut-” he sighed, smiling towards you and dropping his head back into the pillow. “I’m just worried. You sure your legs aren’t sore? You need water? or wash your hair? I could snag some of that fancy hotel shit you like from that Hilton place.” 

“You saying I stink?” you joked, but he was not amused. 

“No! Sue me. I’m sorry I care.” He huffed turning around presenting his back to you like a big baby. 

You hummed lifting yourself up from the bed.  Your blanket rolled off of your shoulders, melting into your comforter as you leaned against JJ’s shoulder. You rested your chin on top of him and slid your hands down his torso, using the leverage to flip him around. 

The mattress dipped at his weight, and he landed on your arm playfully. You yanked it free before resting your forehead in the crook of his neck. “Don’t over think it Jay. I just need you.”

JJ stiffed and then wrapped his arm around you again. “Cool. Amazing. I can do that. Cool. Sick. Cool.” 

You laughed, feeling his hand rub against your neck before spreading and resting his hand in between your shoulder blades as if he was holding you together. 

He grabbed the edge of the blanket pulling it over your shoulders and tucking under you in an almost painfully dorky way. You raised an eyebrow at him and he smiled stupidly at you. “Your goosebumps have goosebumps. I can’t have you freeze on me that’s bad for the image.”

“Tragic,” you rolled your eyes but still cuddled against your fuzzy blanket, the mixture of detergent, your perfume, and JJ’s cologne mixed in your nose. 

He chuckled softly, pushing the blanket slightly down so that your chest was exposed, and placed a hand over it. You giggled and quickly pushed his hand away. He nodded to himself before resting his hand on your forehead. “Yup, exactly what I thought.”

“And what’s the verdict Dr. Maybank.” 

“You’re cold to the touch, and your heart ‘s beating too fast.” 

You scrunched your eyebrows faux worry laced on your features. “What’s the prescription.” 

A smile spread across his features, dimple illuminated from the sun that peeked from your blinds. He flipped you onto your back and leaned against you. Forearms on either side as he placed open kisses on your neck. “This right here. Me n’ only me.” 

“You’re such a loser,” you said, fighting back the shudder of your shoulders and the friction between your thighs.  

“A loser that fuck-“ 

“JJ.” You warned and  rolled your eyes even though a smirk threatened to crack through. You grabbed a pillow in your hand, hitting his face lightly. He collapsed dramatically beside you, grabbing your cheeks and smothering you with kisses all over. 

He rested his forehead on yours, caressing your lips with his finger before dragging them down to your jaw, popping them back up to hit your teeth. 

“I like you a lot.” He whispered quietly that you almost missed it. He looked like a little boy who just announced his marriage proposal during 2nd grade recess. 

“I like you a lot too.” you whispered pulling him closer by the shoulders to eliminate any more space. 

‧₊˚𓆉Taglist: @bailsmbnk @mariamadison6-blog @wonderland2425 @lunascerebro @drewstarkeyswife-7

hey hey heyyyy!!! if u wanna be added to the taglist u can a message through yaps n’ giggle or ask in the comments of this post or fics thanks and i appreciate everyone of you 🫰

[junos-chronicles]

Kitchen Counter

Pairings: Gojo x f!Reader (Modern AU) Content warnings + tags: 18+ MDNI: Explicit sexual content, fingering, oral f, penetrative sex, unprotected sex, domestic vibes, playful tone with soft undertones Art by: @srnghotcake on X

Synopsis: Gojo always said the kitchen counter was his favorite place to fuck. You thought he was joking—until one lazy morning in his shirt, making pancakes, proved otherwise. (Domestic smut with a side of pancakes and heart eyes.)

Satoru Gojo had a lot of opinions—loud ones—about where he liked to fuck.

He shared them freely—over dinner, in passing, during car rides when the radio went quiet. He liked it all; rough, gentle and slow, on his knees, on the couch, in the backseat of whatever expensive car he decided to drive that day. In the shower (“though depending on the water pressure, it could really ruin the mood”), bent over the bathroom sink, up against the wall or the front door. Anywhere, really, that would make you gasp like you hadn’t seen it coming. 

But his favorite?

The kitchen counter. 

“Underrated,” he murmured once in your ear, sipping black coffee like he wasn’t talking filth before 9 a.m., voice sleepy and rough. “Sturdy. Great height. Plus, you always look so fucking cute when you're cooking. Makes me wanna just ruin breakfast.”

Underused. Sturdy. Just the right height.

You hadn’t really taken him seriously, thought he was joking. 

Until this morning.

His apartment smelled like cinnamon and butter and something warm—something soft and domestic that didn’t match the gleam that lit up his eyes as he leaned against the kitchen doorway.

You hadn’t noticed him yet.

You were standing barefoot on the tile, hair messy, lips parted as you hummed along to a song drifting lazily from your phone. Your hips swayed slightly to the music. His shirt—one of his old Jujutsu High ones from his school days, faded and worn thin—hung low on your thighs, sleeves nearly swallowing your arms. The fabric clung in the right places, shifting as you moved, riding just a little higher every time you reached for something across the stove.

The sunlight kissed your skin, spilled golden over your bare legs. The spatula in your hand hovered over the pan, a pancake mid-flip, but you were too wrapped up in the music to care. Too soft and sleepy, too wrapped up in the peaceful rhythm of breakfast to notice the quiet shuffle of feet behind you.

You only realized he had been there, watching you, when you felt his strong hands curl around your waist.

“Good morning, gorgeous,” he purred into your neck.

You jumped, spatula clattering against the counter. “Satoru—!” You twisted around, breath caught somewhere between startled and laughing. “You scared the hell out of me.”

He grinned, unabashed. “Couldn’t help myself.”

“You never help yourself.”

“Consider it payback. You walk around dressed like that and expect me not to do something?” He tugged lightly at the hem of the shirt—his shirt, oversized and just barely covering your thighs. “Cruel, really.”

You rolled your eyes, but the grin tugging at your lips betrayed you. Your voice was so soft and sleepy, which only just drove him crazier. “Let me finish cooking, I’m trying to feed us.”

But he dipped his head, kissed your jaw slow, reverent, then again—just beneath your ear, where your pulse jumped. “Mmm. You can feed me later.” 

Before you could protest, he turned you around and lifted you, your back hitting the cold marble of the counter with a soft thud.

“Satoru,” you hissed, hands finding his shoulders. “The pancakes—”

“Can wait,” he said, already sliding your thighs apart. His voice dropped, velvet and honey-slick. “Told you, this is my favorite spot...”

His hands were everywhere. Calloused palms gliding over your legs, thumbs teasing along the crease where your thighs met your hips. He kissed down your neck, open-mouthed and slow, nipping just enough to make you whimper into his ear.

“Been thinking about this all week,” he murmured against your skin. “You sleeping over. In my clothes. Thought I was dreaming when you found me in here.”

You tried to sass him, act unaffected by his ministrations, but then his fingers slipped beneath the fabric—between your legs, where you were already aching for him.

“Fuck, Toru—”

“So wet already?” he said with a smirk. “Hmm, and no panties. You like this.”

You didn’t want to admit it, but you nodded helplessly, wanting more.

He sank to his knees against the tile, kissed your inner thigh once, then licked a stripe up your cunt like he was starving. Your fingers dove into his hair, tugging desperately at the strands. He moaned into you, like the taste of you was a five-course meal. Like he needed it.

“Toru—oh, God—”

“Yeah?” he said, mouth hot against your skin. “Say my name again.”

He didn’t stop until you were trembling, thighs twitching around his shoulders. Didn’t stop until you came with a cry that echoed in the quiet morning air, fingers gripping the edge of the counter like it was the only thing keeping you tethered.

Your orgasm rolled through you slowly, like syrup sliding warm through your spine—your back arched, mouth slack, breath catching in your throat.

And Satoru stayed there—licking you through it, moaning into your cunt like he needed to taste every second of it.

Only when your thighs shuddered did he rise, licking his lips, eyes blown dark with something that wasn’t just lust. He leaned in close, forehead resting against yours for a second, your breaths mingling. He was already pushing his sweatpants down.

“Turn around for me,” he rasped, already guiding you by the hips. “Hands on the counter. Let me see you.”

You didn’t argue. Didn’t want to.

You just did as he asked, the fabric of his shirt riding up over your hips as you bent forward, palms braced on the cool marble. You heard him groan behind you, the slap of skin as he fist-pumped his cock once, twice. Then he was nudging your thighs apart once more, until you felt the hot, heavy press of his tip against your entrance, slicking it through your folds.

“Satoru,” you breathed, already needy again.

He was too big—he always was—but you loved the stretch, the way he filled you like no one else could.

And then he pushed in.

Slow. Tortuous.

You felt every inch, the thick head of him parting you open, the heat of him burning into you inch by inch. The stretch made your breath catch, and his hands gripped your hips like he was holding barely back.

“You feel like fucking heaven,” he purred, forehead resting against your shoulder as he let you adjust.

“You feel like—God, baby, I’ll never get used to this…”

You whimpered, fingers curling against the marble countertop. He was deep now, so deep you swore you could feel him press in your stomach—and then he pulled back and drove into you again, harder, setting a rhythm that was unhurried, but had your legs shaking.

He needed to remind you just how much he loved having you like this. In his shirt. In his kitchen. On his favorite fucking counter.

His hips slapped against your ass, the sound loud and obscene in the quiet room. One hand gripped your waist, the other reached under you—fingers finding your clit, rubbing tight, slow circles.

“Satoru—fuck! I’m gonna—”

“That’s right,” he growled into your ear. “Come on, baby. Let me feel you.”

It hit you like lightning, sharp and sudden. Your walls clamped down around him, your voice cracking on his name as you came hard, shaking apart under his hands. You felt him curse, felt the stutter of his thrusts, the desperate slam of his hips as he chased his own high.

He spilled inside you with a groan, hips jerking, arms wrapped tight around you to keep you grounded, to keep you close to him. The aftershocks left both of you swaying, pressed together and slick with sweat.

For a long beat, neither of you spoke—just the sound of your breathing, still ragged echoed in the kitchen

Then—

“You okay, beautiful?” he murmured, brushing damp hair from your cheek, pressing gentle kisses along the back of your neck.

You gave him a breathless laugh. “My legs feel like jelly right now.”

“Guess that means I did a good job, huh?”

You snorted, but leaned back into him anyway, still pressed against the counter as he kissed your shoulder this time—sweet, soft, like he hadn’t just fucked you senseless where you were supposed to be making him pancakes.

“Wanna finish breakfast?” you mumbled.

“Not if you’re wearing pants.”

You eventually made it back to the stove, legs wobbly but determined, while Satoru pulled up his branded boxers and perched at the table like he hadn’t just wrecked you a few seconds prior.

He watched you in silence, chin resting in one hand, the other toying with the corner of a placemat he definitely didn’t remember buying (you must have).

The shirt—his shirt—was still hitched up on your hips, wrinkled and slightly damp from sweat. You didn’t bother fixing it, just flipped pancakes like nothing happened, the curve of your smile visible in profile.

It hit him all at once—like it always did.

You. Looking so beautiful this morning, the sunlight catching in your hair. That post-orgasm softness on your face. The hum of your voice under your breath as you poked a pancake and declared it done like you were some sort of breakfast pro.

And he was utterly, pathetically gone for you. So in love, it almost made him dizzy.

“You’re staring,” you said without turning around.

“Can you blame me?”

That earned a look over your shoulder—one of those sleepy, fond glances that made his heart squeeze. You slid a plate and a bottle of syrup across the counter to him, pancakes stacked high, butter melting over the top.

“You gonna eat or just eye-fuck me from across the table?”

“I can do both.” He grinned, already reaching for the bottle. “I’m a multitasking professional.”

You rolled your eyes and sat across from him with your own plate in hand, nudging his foot under the table until he gave you his stupid, smug little smirk again.

And in that moment—with pancakes, your knee pressed to his, and your smile warm enough to burn the place down—Satoru Gojo confirmed then and there, the kitchen counter was definitely his favorite place in the world.

[heldbybarnes]

Beefy lumberjack Bucky. I'll leave it at that.

YESSSSS

beefy can stick his wood in me any day i mean, yeah this is cool

----------

The first thing you notice about him is his size. The second is his beard.

It’s the kind of beard that looks like it’s seen winters that could kill a man, thick and wild, the color of mahogany and honey, framing a face that could split wood with a look. Bucky Barnes, the local lumberjack who lives half a mile up the mountain, the one every old lady in town calls a good man with strong hands.

You’d thought they were exaggerating. Until today.

The storm rolled in faster than expected, swallowing the sky in a whiteout, and by the time you realized your little Subaru wasn’t making it down the trail, he was already there — flannel sleeves rolled to his elbows, axe slung across his back, boots sunk deep in the snow.

“Truck’s better suited for this road,” he’d said in that gravel-and-honey voice, chin jerking toward the direction of his cabin. “C’mon, sweetheart. Before you freeze your pretty ass off.”

Now, you’re sitting in front of his stone fireplace, wrapped in one of his enormous flannels — it smells like cedar and smoke and something distinctly him. His truck rumbles outside, tires hissing under a blanket of snow, and Bucky stands near the window, one broad shoulder propped against the frame, watching the blizzard howl through the trees.

He’s huge. You can’t stop staring.

Those shoulders, the ones that make his shirts strain at the seams. That thick neck, the veins tracing down to the tattoo that curls beneath his collar. His hands—god, his hands—calloused and steady as he runs a thumb along the rim of his coffee mug.

You don’t realize you’re staring until he looks over his shoulder, that knowing half-smile curving his mouth.

“Somethin’ on your mind, sugar?”

You swallow, throat suddenly dry. “Just… wondering how often you get snowed in up here.”

“Every winter.” He pushes off the window and takes a slow step toward you, boots heavy against the wood floor. “Usually alone.”

The fire crackles louder. The wind howls. And when he kneels down in front of you, that grin softens into something darker—hungrier.

“But this time,” he murmurs, eyes catching the firelight, “looks like I got company.”

There’s something primal about the way he touches you. Like he’s built for it.

His hands are rough, big enough to circle your throat, your thigh, the curve of your waist—like they were made to hold you still. You don’t stand a chance when he tugs you closer, guiding you until you’re straddling his thick thighs in front of the fire.

“You’re shakin’,” he mutters, brushing his thumb along your bottom lip. “You cold, or just nervous?”

“Maybe both.”

He chuckles, low and fond. “Don’t need to be nervous, doll. Not with me.”

Then he kisses you.

It’s slow at first—soft, coaxing—but the second your tongue meets his, the control snaps. His beard scratches against your chin, his hands sliding under the borrowed flannel, palms hot against bare skin. He groans when he finds you’re not wearing anything underneath.

“Jesus Christ,” he breathes against your neck. “You’re gonna kill me.”

You don’t know what comes over you. Maybe it’s the storm. Maybe it’s the way he smells like pine and smoke and everything warm in this godforsaken winter. Maybe it’s the way his thigh flexes beneath you, solid as the mountain itself.

But when he drags your hips forward and you grind down on the rough denim of his jeans, you moan his name like a prayer.

“Yeah, that’s it,” he murmurs, voice wrecked. “Use me, honey. Fuckin’ use me.”

Your fingers dig into his shoulders, your breath catching as you rock against him, the friction delicious and desperate. He’s breathing heavy now, lips brushing your jaw, murmuring filth that sends heat straight to your core.

“Pretty little thing,” he growls. “You got no idea what you’re doin’ to me.”

He flips you in one easy motion, laying you back against the worn rug before crawling over you, all broad shoulders and wild hair and unrelenting heat. The firelight paints his skin gold, muscles shifting like they were carved by something holy.

You reach for him, and he catches your wrist midair, pressing it above your head.

“Stay still,” he says softly. “Lemme look at you.”

He traces his thumb over your collarbone, down the center of your chest, pausing when you shiver beneath his touch. Then he leans in, kissing his way down your neck, your stomach, lower—his beard scraping, his tongue soothing, his mouth worshiping like he’s found something sacred.

By the time his tongue slides between your thighs, you’re already trembling. He groans into you, one hand locking around your hip as if to keep you from floating away. Every slow, torturous lick makes your back arch, his name spilling from your lips like a mantra.

He eats like he’s starving. Like he’s waited his whole damn life for this.

When you finally come, it’s with his name on your tongue and his shoulders under your nails. He doesn’t stop—doesn’t even flinch when you whimper from oversensitivity—just presses a kiss to your inner thigh and murmurs, “Good girl. So fuckin’ good for me.”

He climbs back up your body, the heat of him near unbearable. His jeans hang low on his hips, belt undone, the line of his abs disappearing into dark denim.

You reach for him. “Please.”

Bucky’s grin is sinful. “Please what, doll?”

“Need you,” you whisper. “Need all of you.”

The sound he makes could shatter glass.

He lines himself up and sinks into you slow, deep, steady—the stretch makes your breath hitch, the burn delicious. He’s thick everywhere: chest, arms, cock, all of it built to fill and ruin you.

“Goddamn,” he grits out, forehead pressing to yours. “You take me so well. Look at that.”

You do—his hips rocking in lazy, perfect strokes, the sight of his body moving with yours reflected in the firelight. His hand finds your throat, not to choke but to steady, his thumb tracing the flutter of your pulse.

“This what you wanted, sugar?” he asks between thrusts, voice low and rough. “Wanted to see what a real man feels like?”

You nod, lost in it, in him.

“Say it,” he orders.

“Yes, Bucky. Wanted you.”

“Yeah,” he growls, fucking into you harder now, the rhythm rough and sweet all at once. “You wanted my cock, didn’t you? Wanted me to keep you warm.”

The fire crackles, snow tapping at the window. The world outside doesn’t exist—only him, this, the way his body presses you into the rug like he’s staking a claim.

When you come again, he catches your cry with his mouth, kissing you through it, swallowing every sound. And when he follows, it’s with a low, guttural groan, hips jerking as he buries himself deep and stays there, panting against your skin.

For a long moment, the only sound is the wind.

Then he exhales, long and shaky, and presses a kiss to your shoulder. “You okay, sweetheart?”

You nod, chest still heaving.

“Good,” he murmurs, brushing his thumb along your jaw. “’Cause I don’t think I’m lettin’ you leave when the roads clear.”

You laugh softly, curling against him, the flannel slipping off one shoulder. “That a threat, Barnes?”

“Promise,” he says, voice thick with warmth. “Gonna keep you here. Feed you breakfast, split wood while you watch, make you blush every time I take my shirt off.”

“Guess I could be convinced.”

He grins against your hair. “Oh, doll, you already are.”

Outside, the snow keeps falling. Inside, Bucky Barnes—beefy, bearded, beautiful—wraps his arms around you like the mountain itself.

And you decide maybe getting snowed in isn’t so bad after all.

[aventurineswife]

aventurine “flirting” with another girl and you get jealous so ur mad at him all night and everything but then he proves to you that you’re the one for him with makeup sexxx….

please!!!! i luvvvv ur writing

Jealousy Is a Game

Summary: In a glamorous lounge steeped in charm and deceit, you’re hit by a wave of jealousy as you watch Aventurine—your Aventurine—flirt effortlessly with another woman. Though you don’t make a scene, the resentment simmers beneath the surface until he returns to your shared suite. When he confronts your silence with teasing confidence, the tension ignites. A heated argument quickly spirals into a passionate, emotionally raw encounter where Aventurine strips away his mask, revealing just how much you mean to him. The night ends in tangled sheets, soft aftercare, and a promise—he’s yours, and no one else even comes close.

Tags: Aventurine x Reader, Enemies to Lovers (???), Angst with a Happy Ending, Jealousy, Makeup Sex (not explicit) Emotional Vulnerability, Dom!Aventurine, Flirty Banter, Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Power Dynamics, Soft Aftercare.

Warnings: Mild language, Emotional manipulation, Mentions of possessiveness/jealousy, Dom/sub dynamics (consensual), Slight angst.

A/N: I'm not really great with smuts... So, I kept it suggestive, hope you enjoy it! :DD

The golden lounge glowed with low light and warm lies. Velvet laughter rippled through the air, mingling with the clink of glasses and the hum of a roulette wheel spinning somewhere nearby. But none of it mattered.

Because he was there—leaning too close, speaking too low, laughing too easily.

Aventurine.

Your Aventurine.

And yet, there he was, with some woman on his arm, her perfectly manicured fingers tracing lazy circles on his sleeve while he poured charm like it was aged whiskey—smooth, intoxicating, and just sharp enough to burn.

You weren’t the jealous type. Not usually.

But tonight?

Tonight it hit like venom.

You didn’t storm out. You didn’t make a scene. You simply turned away, biting down your fury, letting it simmer under your skin until it ached. When he finally returned to your shared suite—far too late—you were perched on the windowsill, back to him, bathed in moonlight and silence.

He stepped inside, closing the door with a soft click. The pause was intentional.

"You're mad," he said, voice teasing but laced with knowing.

Silence.

"Jealousy," he drawled, slipping off his coat, "doesn't suit you. But I'll admit, it's thrilling to see it."

You turned slowly, eyes cold. “She couldn’t stop touching you.”

He smirked. “Neither can you. Usually.”

That did it.

You shoved past him toward the bed, but he caught your wrist—not roughly, but with that practiced, elegant precision he used in every gamble.

“Darling,” he whispered, pulling you back, “do you really think I see anyone else when I already own the jackpot?”

Your breath caught. His other hand rose, thumb brushing your jaw with maddening tenderness.

“I flirt because I can,” he murmured against your ear, voice like silk and smoke, “but I burn for you.”

And then he kissed you.

Not the soft, apologetic kind. No. This was urgent—possessive. His lips crushed yours, breath warm and tasting faintly of wine and sin. His hands were on your waist, in your hair, everywhere—gripping like he could anchor himself to your anger, to you.

He pressed you to the wall, his mouth trailing fire down your neck. “I know what you need,” he whispered. “Let me prove it.”

Clothes were discarded like losing hands in a desperate game. Every touch was calculated, every sigh he drew from you a win. He worshiped every inch of you—slow, then fast, then slow again, teasing you like a bet he’d already rigged in his favor.

You gasped his real name—Kakavasha—in the heat of it, and something broke in him. The smirk dropped. The eyes softened. And for a moment, just a moment, he looked at you like a man unraveling.

“I’m yours,” he whispered hoarsely. “You’re not just the gamble—I’d burn down the table for you.”

You didn’t respond with words.

You pulled him closer, and together, you chased the edge of that fire until it consumed you both—fast, wild, and unstoppable.

Later, as your head rested on his chest, you heard the faint sound of a chip being flicked between his fingers.

"Still mad?" he asked.

You didn’t answer right away.

Then: “Only if you flirt with someone else again.”

He chuckled, lazy and satisfied. “Never again.”

Pause.

“Unless it makes you jealous enough to fuck me like that.”

You smacked his chest.

He just smiled—mischievous, devoted, yours.

[a-dorin]

so we have segsy bane but what about some soft aftercare hc?

okay so:

i feel like bane would just be super cautious.

not like walking on eggshells but making sure he didn’t hurt you

massaging any sore areas

pressing light kisses everywhere

giving you so much praise

“you did so well for me baby”

“i’m so glad you’re mine”

he’d also askquestions

making sure you were all content and satisfied

“where does it hurt? tell me and i’ll rub it for ya”

“are you doin’ okay?”

“when do ya wanna sleep? say the word and i’ll be holding ya all night.”

lots & lots of cuddles

i feel like this is a rare moment of affection

but it happens every time after