I think about my former son-in-law and then I look at you, and I'm not surprised that my daughter became a lesbian. [laughs] I think your daughter was a lesbian before she met me. But thank you.
IN WHICH ─── Heeseung teaches you everything that your cheating boyfriend couldn’t. He’s been waiting for the day you would realize that he could do better and much more than his best friend.
𝐠𝐞𝐧𝐫𝐞 : smut (MDNI), porn with a bit of plot
𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭 : switch!heeseung, switch!reader, mention of alcohol, smoking, swearing, cheating, manhandling, heeseung is a gentleman despite his attitude, unprotected sex, p in v, fingering, praising, light degradation, oral sex (f. receiving), light edging, orgasm denial, use of nickname : baby, my pretty girl
𝐰𝐜 : 7.9k {7.977}
❕# pheeew I speed run that shii. I goon to the pic on top every night—WHO TFFFFF SAID THAAAT????? Guys I need this man to put me in my place like RIGHT NOW. This song represents him so well. Ugh he’s mister dadaman fr
INSPIRED BY : What You Need - The Weeknd
(+ Slow It Down - Ty Dolla $ign)
What could be worse than going to the restaurant with your boyfriend a week after you found out that he’s been cheating on you? Oh right, you don’t know. Ethan orders for himself without asking what you're having first, catches himself halfway through, and asks you anyway. You already know what you want because you always know what you want here.
His phone sits face up next to his water glass. It lights up twice in the first ten minutes. Both times he glances down, thumb hovering, before setting it back exactly where it was. "Sorry," he says, not looking up from the screen the third time. "Work thing."
You nod like that made sense. You've heard about Heeseung's terrible taste in restaurants, about his coworker’s dog, about traffic on the way here ; three separate stories he's started and abandoned mid-sentence because his attention keeps sliding sideways toward that phone.
"You could put it away," you say, tired enough that it comes out flat.
"I know. I will." He actually doesn't.
The waiter brings your food and Ethan eats fast, he’s already somewhere else in his mind. You ask about his sister's move to Daegu and get half an answer before his phone buzzes again and he actually picks it up this time, thumb moving across the screen, brow furrowed like the message requires real concentration.
You watch him read it. You watch his jaw do a small tightening, and you already know before he opens his mouth. "I have to go in," he says. "They need someone to cover a shift. I'm really sorry, I know we just got here."
Work doesn't call people in at 9:47 at night for office emergencies. You've known things like this for months now, small inconsistencies that don't line up if you actually stack them next to each other, which is why you stopped stacking them.
"Now?" you ask anyway, knowing how it will end up.
"I wouldn't if I didn't have to." He's already reaching for his wallet, already half out of his seat. "I'll make it up to you. Promise."
You tell him it's fine and to go, that you'll finish eating and head home. He kisses the top of your head, distracted, already checking his phone again as he walks toward the door, and you sit there with a plate you've lost interest in and a boyfriend-shaped absence across the table.
Your phone buzzes. Heeseung.
Heeseung [9:54 PM]
you good?
saw ethan's location just switched to "downtown" lol at 9pm
You stare at the message for a second too long before you type back.
Y/N [9:54 PM]
he had a work thing apparently
Heeseung [9:55 PM]
mhm. sure he did
You almost put the phone down.
Y/N [9:55 PM]
please don’t start
Heeseung [9:57 PM]
wasn't gonna say anything. i'm very good at not saying things
Y/N [9:57 PM]
you're the worst at not saying things btw
Heeseung [9:58 PM]
rude.
i've been holding back SO much tonight and this is the thanks i get
You find yourself smiling at your phone, alone at a table for two, food going cold in front of you. Even though you couldn’t care less.
The waiter comes by to clear Ethan's plate and asks if you need anything else, and you're halfway through saying no when your phone buzzes again.
Heeseung [10:05 PM]
where are you?
sending someone to get you before you sit there being sad and pathetic
Y/N [10:05 PM]
wdym I’m not sad and pathetic
Heeseung [10:06 PM]
you're eating alone at a restaurant your boyfriend just ditched. what else could it be?
address please.
You give him the name of the place mostly because arguing about whether you're pathetic or not would take more energy than you have left right now. Fifteen minutes later Heeseung walks in wearing a jacket you’ve seen plenty of times, scanning the room until he finds you, and drops into the seat across from you like he's been there the whole time.
"You didn't have to come, you know." you state.
"I know that very well. I wanted to see you sad and pathetic in person." He picks up the menu even though you're clearly done eating, flips through it without really looking. "Also I was bored."
"Comforting."
"I try." He waves the waiter over before you can stop him, orders a drink for himself, and when the bill comes a few minutes later he reaches over and takes it before you can even move your hand toward it.
"Heeseung."
"Yeah?"
"Give me that."
"No." He's already pulling out his card, not even glancing at the total.
"I can pay for my own food."
"Never said you couldn't." He hands the card to the waiter without looking at you, and it’s like how easy it is for him : he acts like it costs him nothing and like it’s a thing that he has to do but does it naturally. The inside of your stomach is tingling and obviously not because of the food you had earlier.
"I'm being serious, I don't need you to—"
"I know you don't need me to." He lifts his gaze and looks at you with less joking in it than a second ago. "I want to. Learn how it’s not the same."
"That's not the point."
"What's the point, then?"
You freezes, not an answer or a talk back could reach your mind, and he grins like he's won a price.
"Aw, look at that," he says. "I missed that face."
"I fucking hate you."
"You don't. You're just annoyed you can't win an argument about who gets to pay for your dinner, which, by the way, is a very weird thing to be stubborn about."
"It's called having self-respect."
"It's called being difficult for no reason, but sure, we can call it self-respect if that makes you feel better." The card comes back and he signs without checking the receipt, tucks it away, and stands up casually. "Come on. I'm parked badly and I will get towed."
"You fucking asshole."
"You keep saying that like it's news." He holds his hand out, not really an offer so much as an assumption you'll take it, and you do.
He gets in to start the car, and has a cigarette lit before you've even got your seatbelt on. The window cracks an inch, cold air floating with the smoke smell that's already filling the small space.
"You know those are terrible for you," you say.
"Groundbreaking information. Thank you." He takes a drag, one hand on the wheel, not pulling out of the spot yet.
"I'm dead serious. You should stop."
"I should do a lot of things." He glances at you sideways, smoke curling out the window. "You should stop pretending you don't know your boyfriend's cheating on you. We're both just walking around not doing things we should, I guess."
The car goes totally silent except for the engine idling. You look straight ahead at the brick wall of the restaurant, at nothing. "I don't know what you're talking about," you say in a breathy tone.
"Sure you don't." He's not looking at you now either, tapping ash out the window, voice even, done pretending along with you. "His location switches off every other night. He checks his phone at dinner like it's gonna bite him if he doesn't. Tonight he left you at a restaurant for a 'work thing' that doesn't exist, and you didn't even ask him to explain it properly. You just let him go."
"That's not—" You stop and start again. "It's complicated."
"It's really not." He finally pulls out of the spot, one hand on the wheel, cigarette still between two fingers. "You don't want to deal with it. Which, fine, your business. But don't sit there and tell me you don't know, because I’m aware for the phone thing tonight too, and you didn't look surprised. You looked like someone who's done the math already."
There isn't a version of an answer that isn't just agreeing with him. So silence is the best option you could have at this moment.
"I'm not trying to make it worse, okay?" he says, softer, some of the edge gone out of his voice. "I just don't really feel like watching you sit through dinners like that and pretend it's normal."
"Why do you even care?"
He takes another drag and lets it out slow.
"Good question," he says finally without elaborating further, yet you don’t want to know more of it, because you're not sure you want to hear the answer any more than he seems to want to give it.
He drives you around the city for a while then turns left instead of right at the light that would've led back toward your apartment. The road opens up eventually, streetlights getting sparser, and then there's the smell of salt before you see the water. He parks in a mostly empty lot facing the beach, cuts the engine, and the quiet that follows feels different from the quiet in the restaurant parking lot. It’s less loaded.
"Why are we here?" you ask.
"I needed air that doesn't smell like your ex's cologne." He's already pulling his jacket off, tossing it into the back seat. Underneath he's just in a black tank top, and it's warm enough out that it makes sense, summer nights here never really cooling off the way you'd expect. "Also I like it here. Don't make it a big deal."
"He's not my ex."
"Give it time." He says it lightly, already opening his door, not wanting to hear you argue back. "Come."
You get out as sitting in the car alone would feel worse than following him. The sand is cool yet the air isn't, and he walks ahead of you toward the water without checking if you're behind him, hands in his pockets and shoulders loose.
"You could've warned me we were going to the beach," you say, catching up. "I'm in the wrong shoes for this."
"You're in shoes. That's more preparation than I did."
"You're wearing actual sneakers."
"Correct. Preparation." He glances back at you, the corner of his mouth pulling up. "Take them off if you're gonna complain the whole time."
"I'm not complaining, it was just a statement."
"Same thing, coming from you."
You shove his shoulder, and he barely moves as he laughs, low and light, as your annoyance is the most entertaining thing that's happened to him all week. The water's dark ahead of you, waves you can hear more than see, you can feel the knot in your belly loosening up.
"So this is the fresh air you talked about," you say, kicking your heels off like he told you to, sand cold between your toes. "Very noble of you, considering your lungs are probably black at this point."
"They're totally fine."
"You just smoked an entire cigarette in a closed car ten minutes ago."
"The window was cracked."
"Barely an inch."
He stops walking. He turns to look at you, and there's a specific kind of offense on his face, you can see that’s it’s fake. "Okay, you don't get to smoke-shame me and then act like you weren't the one who wanted to eat a hundred tons of sugar last week."
"That has nothing to do with your lungs."
"It's about hypocrisy, Y/N." He's already crossing his arms, which should've been your first warning. "You wanna talk about people ruining their bodies, we can talk about those candies."
"That's not remotely the same thing, and you know it."
"I don't know anything. I'm just a guy with fucked up lungs, apparently, standing here, getting attacked—"
"I didn't attack you, I made a freaking statement—"
"—run," he says, it's not really a warning and it's already happening, he's moving toward you before the word's even fully out. You don't think and you just run, already laughing three steps away, sand slowing you down and you probably look embarrassing and isn't because he's not much faster, both of you stumbling across the beach. He's close behind you, close enough that you can hear him laughing too, breathless, yet you don't look back and just keep going toward nothing in particular, the water loud beside you and your own heartbeat louder, making you forget why you were sad in the first place.
"Slow down!" you yell back at him, though you're the one speeding up. "Your lungs can't take this!"
"They're taking it fine, actually—" He's gaining on you, voice rougher now from the running, the laughing, both. "Better than yours, probably, all that complaining you do about stairs—"
"I don't even complain about stairs—"
"You complained about stairs yesterday. To my face."
"That building has no elevator, that's a legitimate—" You don't get to finish, because his hand catches your arm, hard enough to throw your balance off, and you're laughing too much to fight it anyway.
"Got you—"
"You didn't—"
He did. Your feet tangle in the sand and his do too trying to compensate, and there's a second where it could've gone fine, where you both could've just stopped, but now you're both going down, and he twists at the last second so he hits the sand first and you land half on top of him, knocking whatever air he had left in those apparently terrible lungs straight out of him.
"Okay," he wheezes, staring up at the sky, chest moving fast under you. "Okay, that one's on me."
You're still laughing, you can't stop, face pressed near his shoulder, sand in your hair, in your clothes, everywhere. "You caught me on purpose."
"I caught you very badly on purpose."
"Your lungs are so fucked."
"Please stop talking about my lungs." He's laughing too, you can feel it more than hear it, his chest shaking under where you're braced against him, and neither of you moves to get up right away, and it takes a second before either of you remembers there's a reason you're supposed to pull away from this.
"Great," you say, still not moving off him. "Now I'm covered in sand. This was a bad idea."
"It was my favorite plan I've had all week."
"You've had bad judgment all week, then." You finally push yourself up, brushing sand off your arms, off your legs, a losing battle. He sits up slower, still catching his breath, watching you try to fix your hair with zero success.
"I'm also thirsty," you add.
"There's water in the car."
"Warm water in a car that smells like cigarettes doesn't count."
He stands, holds a hand out to pull you up, and doesn't let go right away once you're on your feet. He looks at you for a second, he seems like he's deciding something. "Come to mine. Shower, water, whatever you need. It’s better than dropping you off covered in sand at eleven at night."
"Heeseung, I don't need—"
"You keep saying that word like it changes anything about what I'm gonna do anyway." He's already walking back toward the car, keys spinning once around his finger. "Come on."
His apartment turns out to be nothing like you expected, which annoys you a little, because you'd built some idea of his place in your head ; messy, small ; and instead the elevator opens straight into something enormous, floor-to-ceiling windows facing the city, furniture that looks like it costs a hundred racks, which does.
"This is insane," you say, standing in the doorway, still not fully inside. "You live here? Alone?"
"Don't sound so betrayed about it."
"I pictured you in, like, a studio apartment with a mattress on the floor."
"Wow. Thank you for that image of me." He drops his keys on the counter, shrugging like the apartment doesn't warrant comment. "Bathroom's down the hall, second door. There's towels in there. I'll find you something to change into that isn't full of sand."
You still haven't moved from the doorway, taking in the size of it, the quietness of a place too clean to belong to someone who bickers the way he does. "How do you even afford this?"
"Very boring answer. Ask me another time." He's already disappearing down the hall, calling back over his shoulder. "Towels. Bathroom. Go before you track sand into my very expensive rug."
You linger by the counter instead of heading for the bathroom yet, arms crossed, sand still clinging to your ankles. "Okay, but—when am I getting home tonight? I have work in the morning."
He reappears from the hallway with a folded shirt and shorts in hand, tossing them onto the couch for you. "Never. You live here now. I've decided."
"Heeseung."
"It's already, what, eleven thirty? You're covered in sand, your options are a shower here or a shower at home in forty-five minutes of traffic smelling like a beach." He shrugs, entirely too pleased with his own logic. "I'll drive you back whenever. Or you sleep on the world's most comfortable couch and I take you home before work. Very generous offer, considering my lungs are apparently on their way out."
"That's not what I asked."
"Yeah, and I answered better questions in my life." He nods toward the hallway, unbothered. "Go shower. I'm not driving anywhere until you stop smelling like low tide."
You get out of the shower first, dressed in the shirt and shorts he left you, both too big, sleeves falling past your hands. When you find him in the kitchen he's just in sweatpants, no shirt, hair still wet, and you stop in the doorway far too long before catching yourself.
"What?" he says, not even looking up from the glass of water he's pouring.
"Nothing. Put a shirt on, it's weird."
"It's my apartment, and it's hot. I'm not putting a shirt on for you." He slides the glass across the counter toward you, finally glancing over, and whatever's on your face makes something shift in his. "Are you flustered right now?"
"No."
"You're a little flustered."
"I'm annoyed." You grab the glass just to have something to do with your hands, and drink half of it too fast. "Some warning would've been nice."
"A warning for what, my own kitchen?"
"For the— " you point directly at him, at the general fact of him, "—situation."
"There's no situation. This is just what I look like." A shit eating grin appears on his face, fully enjoying this, leaning against the counter. "You can look away if it's that distressing."
"I'm not even looking."
"You're looking right now."
"I'm looking at you to argue with you, and you look so dumb right now."
"Sure it is." He pushes off the counter, grabs a pack of cigarettes off the counter, and heads for the balcony door without the will to talk back. You follow, mostly out of spite, and the air outside is warm, the city spread out below, making the apartment's size make a little more sense. He lights up, leaning on the railing, and you stand a few feet away, arms crossed against a chill that isn't really there.
The smoke drifts toward you on the next breath of wind and you cough slightly, covering the lower half of you face with your hand.
His eyes stay on the city while a silent chuckle almost escapes him. He shifts slowly, moving to stand on your left instead, angling himself so the smoke pulls away from you and out over the railing. A quietness installs itself between you.
He flicks ash over the railing, and glances at you. "You want a drink or something? I've got wine, I think there's soju somewhere too."
"Wine would be good."
He disappears inside for a minute, comes back with two glasses and the bottle tucked under his arm, he sets everything down on the small table between the balcony chairs. You sit, and he drops into the chair across from you, pouring without measuring, more in yours than his.
"How did we even meet?" you say, mostly to fill the silence, turning the glass by its stem. "Like, before Ethan and I were even together. I feel like I always just knew you as his friend."
"You did. That's exactly what happened." He takes a sip to give himself time to recoil on the memory. "We met at that party his roommate threw, where it had the terrible speaker system. You spilled something on my shoes and apologized for like ten minutes straight."
"I did not apologize for ten minutes."
"You did. I still remember the shoes, they were new."
"You're exaggerating."
"I'm really not, I still have them." He leans back, glass balanced on his knee. "Then Ethan started talking about you nonstop for like a month before he actually got the balls to ask you out. It was unbearable. I heard about your laugh before I heard you laugh."
You laugh a little despite yourself. "That's embarrassing," you say.
"For him, mostly. I didn't say anything." He swirls the wine, not quite looking at you now. "You were different back then. I mean—Not different-different. I just think that you were, like, less careful about everything."
"Careful how?"
"You used to argue with me for fun. Now half the time you're arguing with me because you're arguing with something else and I'm just the nearest target." He says in a chuckle. "I liked the fun version better. Not that this version's bad, though."
You take your time before replying. Your fingers slowly roll the glass between your palms as you watch the wine reflect the light, letting the silence fill the space while you think.
"I didn't notice it happening," you say finally.
"Fair enough. That's usually how it goes."
He gives you time. He sits beside you in comfortable silence, his glass resting against his knee while the distant sounds of the city soften the moment.
"You know he doesn't deserve the amount of patience you're giving him, right?" he says eventually, not looking at you when he says it, trying to make it easier for both of you. "Whatever he's doing, wherever he's going at nine at night—you're sitting there making excuses for him. I watched you do it tonight."
"It's not that simple."
"It’s obviously not simple, we both know that. I'm saying you deserve someone who doesn't make you rehearse excuses for him in your head before he's even said anything." He looks over at you, his gaze serious. "You're smart. You're funny, when you're not exhausted, which lately is rare. You shouldn't be spending this much of yourself on someone who’s always checking his phone at a dinner with you."
"You don't know everything that's going on, so stop—"
"I don't need to know everything. I already know enough." He sets his glass down, leans forward slightly, elbows on his knees. "I'm not trying to convince you to do anything, okay? I just don't think you hear it enough, so I'm saying it. You deserve better than what he's giving you. That's it."
You look down at your glass instead of at him, throat tight from what you’ve been holding since you found out.
"Like it matters to you, anyway." you mumble quietly.
He lets the silence settle between you once more. Taking a deep breath, he seems to consider his next words carefully, revealing nothing before he's ready.
"It does," he declares finally. "I'm not gonna make it more complicated than that tonight."
You let the subject rest, and he doesn't volunteer anything more. Together, you sit quietly, listening to the muted sounds of the city while the wine slowly warms in your hands. Somehow, the silence says more than words you could find.
After some time, you both decided to watch a movie to ease everything out. Now, you’re curled up on the couch, the bottle of wine you two polished off leaving a soft warmth in your veins. The TV flickers with some late-night drama that you couldn't force yourself to be invested in even if you wanted to. Your head feels pleasantly light, and whatever usually fuels your arguments has faded, leaving behind nothing more than lazy teasing.
A new scene unfolds on screen : dark lighting, tangled sheets, the actors lost in a heated and sensual moment. The woman arches under her partner’s touch as his hands glide slowly over her body ; caressing, teasing, worshipping. The sounds are low and breathy, filling the room.
You feel the heat rise in your cheeks, and the wine makes you bold. You glance at Heeseung beside you. "I…I’ve never done that with Ethan," you murmur, voice coming out as a whisper. "Not like that, at least."
Heeseung’s head snaps toward you, eyes wide with real shock. "Wait—what? Never? Not even close?"
You shake your head, biting your lip as embarrassment and frustration mix with the alcohol. "No. It’s always been…rushed. He never wanted to explore things or try new things. Like he doesn’t have the patience for it." Your gaze lingers on the screen for another second before returning to him. "Do you…know how to do that? Like, really touch someone like that?"
Heeseung keeps his eyes on you, his usual smirk nowhere in sight. Something unspoken passes between you. "Y/N…" he starts, voice low and careful, a flicker of heat in his eyes.
You shift slightly, scooting an inch closer on the couch. "Show me? I want to know everything. Touch me the way he’s touching her. Please?"
He swallows, and finally slowly nods, setting his empty glass aside. "Alright. But tell me when it's too much, okay?" His voice has dropped, rougher now. He reaches out, starting gentle. His fingers brush along your arm, tracing slow lines from your wrist up to your shoulder. "Like this," he murmurs, eyes locked on yours. "Pay attention to how your skin feels under my hand." His palm flattens against your collarbone, sliding down your side in one smooth caress, mapping the curve of your waist through your shirt.
You shiver, the wine amplifying every touch. Emboldened, you lean into him, and he scoots closer too, until your thighs press together. His other hand joins in, fingertips grazing your neck, then trailing down your chest with feather-light pressure.
"Tell me what feels good," he instructs softly, his hand venturing lower, stroking along your hip and the top of your thigh. "Here?" He squeezes gently, then lets his palm glide back up, bolder now.
The space between you disappears as you both shift nearer, bodies turning toward each other. Your hand finds his chest, feeling the thrum of his heartbeat, and slide up to his neck. His breath grows heavier. His fingers slip under the hem of your shirt, caressing bare skin ; warm, exploratory, following the line of your ribs.
You look up at him, lips parted. He meets your gaze for half a second before closing the distance. Tongues meet, slow and deep at first, turning more insistent as your fingers thread into his hair. He pulls you closer, one hand firm on your lower back while the other continues its caress, sliding higher under your shirt.
His kisses grow fiercer, nipping at your lower lip before soothing it, bodies pressing together on the couch as the moment spirals deeper.
You automatically swing your leg over, straddling Heeseung’s lap as the kiss deepens. Your knees sink into the couch on either side of him, bodies aligning perfectly. He groans softly into your mouth, his hands finding your waist instantly, gripping you to steady the sudden movement. "Y/N…" he breathes against your lips, pulling you closer.
His fingers dig in a little too hard at first ; eager, hungry from the built-up tension ; and you yelp sharply against his mouth, a quick flash of pain cutting through the haze of wine and heat. He pulls back immediately, eyes wide with concern, his grip loosening right away. "Shit—sorry," he murmurs. One hand gently rubs the spot on your waist where he’d gripped too tightly. "Didn’t mean to. You okay?"
You nod quickly, still breathing hard, the sting already fading into the warmth. "Yeah…I’m fine. Don’t stop."
Relief flashes across his face, quickly renewed by that same heated look. He leans in again, capturing your lips in another urgent kiss. his time, there's a new caution in the way he touches you. His hands glide slowly along your sides, lingering as though giving you every chance to pull away before one drifts lower. He cups your ass firmly, squeezing with just the right pressure ; possessive, appreciative ; as he pulls you tighter against him.
You moan softly into the kiss, rolling your hips instinctively. His tongue slides against yours, deeper and more demanding now, while his fingers knead your ass, encouraging the movement. The kiss turns messy, breathless, both of you lost in the heat as his other hand stays anchored at your waist, guiding you closer. The undeniable spark between you push everything else away.
You’re both breathing heavily when Heeseung pulls back just enough to speak, his voice low and gentle against your ear. "Come off my lap for a second, baby," he murmurs, hands sliding soothingly along your thighs. "Turn around for me."
You nod, a little dazed from the wine and the intensity, and shift off him. He helps guide you, turning you so your back is to his chest. He settles back against the couch, spreading his legs and pulling you between them until you’re nestled against him, your back flush to his front. His arms wrap around you from behind, one hand resting on your stomach while the other strokes your thigh.
"Spread your legs for me," he says softly, lips brushing the shell of your ear. "As far as you can. Let me see you."
You obey, parting your thighs wider, heat flooding your face as the position leaves you open and exposed. Heeseung hums approvingly, his fingers teasing lightly along the inside of your thigh, drawing slow circles that inch higher but never quite touch where you’re starting to ache.
"My pretty girl," he whispers, the praise making you shiver. His hand keeps stroking closer and closer until you’re squirming. "Has he ever fingered you?" he asks almost hesitantly, he already suspects the answer.
You shake your head, voice small. "No…He never did. He only ever made me suck his dick and...he was so rushed to put it in."
Heeseung exhales sharply, a mix of disbelief and irritation flashing through him. "Fuck…alright. I’ve got you."
He’s careful ; painfully so. His fingers slide under your clothes, gently parting you before one fingertip circles your entrance, gathering wetness. "Tell me if it hurts or if you want me to stop," he murmurs, pressing a soft kiss to your neck.
Slowly, he eases one finger inside you, inch by inch, giving you time to adjust to the stretch. He moves gently, curling carefully, his other arm holding you against his chest. "Breathe, Y/N. I’ll make it good for you."
He adds a second finger only when you start rocking back against his hand, still cautious, focusing entirely on your reactions as he begins to pump them in a sluggish rhythm. His thumb finds your clit, teasing light circles while he fingers you with patient strokes.
You gasp sharply as Heeseung’s fingers suddenly hit harder, the angle shifting and sending a jolt of pain through you. Your body tenses, a small cry escaping your lips.
He freezes instantly, eyes widening in panic. "Shit—sorry, sorry," he blurts, quickly easing his fingers out of you. "I didn’t mean to—fuck, are you okay? I’m so sorry, Y/N." He repeats the apology under his breath, one hand gently rubbing your thigh while the other hovers uncertainly, clearly rattled.
You catch your breath, the sting fading fast in the haze of alcohol. A smirk slowly tugs at your lips as you look back at him over your shoulder. "Are you really sorry?"
"Yes," he says immediately, voice earnest. "Of course I am."
You turn around fully to face him, still sitting between his legs. "Then get on your knees in front of me."
He blinks, then lets out a short disbelieving scoff, assuming you’re joking. "What? Right now?"
Your expression stays serious, eyes locked on his. "I said get on your knees."
The smirk on his face fades when he realizes you mean it. After a beat of hesitation, he slides off the couch and drops to his knees on the floor in front of you, looking up at you with surprise and growing desire.
"Come closer," you order softly.
He shifts forward on his knees until he’s right between your spread legs, hands resting tentatively on your thighs as he waits for your next instruction, breath a little uneven.
You lean back slightly, looking down at him. "Lick it."
Heeseung’s eyes darken instantly. Without another word, he leans in, pressing his mouth to you. His tongue drags slowly through your folds at first ; warm and soaked ; before he settles into long hungry strokes, focusing on your clit with just the right pressure. His hands grip your thighs to hold you open as he licks you with focused intent, the earlier apology shifted by eager obedience.
You let the pleasure build for a few moments, your hand threading into his hair as his tongue works you over with growing confidence. But then you tug gently, pulling him back.
"Stop." you say, voice breathy yet firm.
Heeseung pulls away immediately, lips glistening, looking up at you with hooded eyes and a hint of confusion. His chest rises and falls quickly.
You smirk down at him, still holding his hair. "You’re not going to continue until you say sorry…while you’re eating me out."
He blinks once, processing the command, then an almost amused smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. "You’re serious?"
You raise an eyebrow, waiting.
He leans back in without further protest. His tongue returns to you before he murmurs the words right against your core, the vibrations sending sparks through you. "I’m sorry," he breathes, licking a long stripe up your folds. "Sorry for being too rough…" Another slow swirl around your clit. "I won’t hurt you again."
He keeps going, alternating between soft apologies and dedicated licks, his voice low and muffled as he eats you out. "Sorry, baby…fuck, you taste so good." His hands grip your thighs a little tighter as he buries his tongue deeper, still repeating quiet "sorry"s between every lick and suck, the blend of submission and hunger making the moment even more intense.
You lean back further, letting him worship you like that ; his apologies vibrating against you with every stroke of his tongue.
You slide your fingers deeper into his hair, gripping it firmly as you pull him closer against you. Heeseung’s eyes flutter half-closed ; sleepy and hazy with lust ; his ears flushed a pretty shade of pink from the heat and the wine. The sight makes something wicked twist in your lower belly.
"Well, would you look at yourself," you tease, voice breathy but filled with amusement. "On your knees, ears all pink, eyes looking half-asleep like a fucking loser."
He pulls back just enough to look up at you, lips shiny and swollen, a lazy smirk spreading across his face despite the grip you have on his hair. His sleepy eyes narrow playfully. "Loser?" he scoffs, breath hot against your skin. "Says the one who’s been missing out for months and is now dripping all over my face. If I’m such a loser, why are you pulling my hair like you never want me to stop?"
You tug his hair a little harder in response, and he lets out a low, amused chuckle, vibrating right where you need it.
"Keep talking shit and I might actually stop," you warn, though your hips roll forward, chasing his mouth.
Heeseung’s smirk only widens, pink ears burning brighter. "Yeah? Then I guess this loser better shut up and keep saying sorry…" He dives back in with renewed energy, tongue pressing flat and slow, murmuring one last muffled "Sorry, baby" against you before focusing entirely on making your teasing backfire.
You feel it building fast ; the tight coil of pleasure winding tighter and tighter in your core while his tongue works you relentlessly. His sleepy eyes stay locked on yours whenever he pulls back for air, pink ears still burning, that smug little smirk never fully leaving his face even while he’s buried between your thighs.
Your grip in his hair tightens, hips rolling against his mouth as your breathing turns ragged. "Heeseung—fuck, I’m—"
Right as the orgasm crests, right as you’re about to tip over the edge, he pulls back completely. His mouth leaves you with one last slow, teasing lick before he sits back on his heels, lips glistening, looking far too pleased with himself.
You let out a frustrated whine, thighs trembling. "What the hell—"
He chuckles lowly, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. His eyes are sleepy-lidded, but sparkling with mischief. "Not yet," he murmurs, voice rough. One finger lazily traces up your inner thigh, barely brushing where you need him. "You were talking so much shit earlier about me being a loser…thought you could handle a little teasing."
You glare down at him, still panting, the denied orgasm leaving you aching and frustrated. He leans in again, pressing the softest, almost innocent kiss right above your clit, then another on your thigh ; carefully avoiding where you’re throbbing.
"What is it?" he teases, voice low and amused. "All worked up and squirming. Were you really about to cum that fast on my tongue? Cute."
He blows a gentle stream of cool air against your wet folds, making you jolt, then gives you one torturously light lick before pulling away again.
"Beg a little nicer and maybe I’ll let you finish," he says with a smirk, pink ears still flushed as he watches your reaction, clearly enjoying edging you way too much.
Your hand tightens in his hair again, torn between wanting to pull him back in and wanting to throttle him for stopping.
You’re still catching your breath on the couch, legs shaky from the cruel edge, when Heeseung rises from his knees. He climbs over you, hovering above your body with his hands braced on either side of your head. His face is flushed, those sleepy eyes dark with want as he looks down at you.
You bite your lip, heart racing. Slowly, you lift one leg and slide your foot up between his thighs, pressing the sole against the obviously hard bulge straining through his sweatpants. You rub it teasingly with your toes, pressing on it with gentle pressure, feeling him twitch under your foot.
His breath hitches sharply, hips jerking forward into your touch. "Y/N," he warns, voice low and strained.
You look up at him with soft, fakely innocent eyes, a sweet little smile playing on your lips even as your foot continues its lazy; pressing, rubbing, tracing the outline of his cock through the soft fabric.
"What?" you murmur softly, batting your lashes. “You edged me…seems only fair I play with you a little."
He lets out a shaky laugh, forehead dropping to rest against your shoulder for a moment. His arms tremble slightly as he holds himself up, clearly fighting the urge to grind harder against your foot.
"Fuck, you’re evil," he breathes, with only affection and raw desire. His eyes flutter half-closed again as you keep rubbing him so gently, the contrast between your soft gaze and the teasing pressure of your foot making him groan quietly above you.
The air between you crackles, thick with tension as he hovers there, letting you toy with him.
You’re still looking up at him with those soft eyes when he suddenly pulls back. He stands just long enough to shove his sweatpants and boxers down in one motion, kicking them aside. His cock springs free, hard and flushed. Before you can fully process, he’s back on the couch, gently turning you around again so your back is pressed to his chest ; just like earlier.
You blink in confusion, still wobbly. "Heeseung, what are you—?"
While staying silent, he wraps one arm around your waist, pulling you firmly against him. With his free hand, he guides his cock, rubbing the thick head slowly up and down your soaked core. The pressure is heavy and hot as he glides it between your folds, coating himself in your wetness, letting you feel every inch of his length sliding against your sensitive skin.
"Just feel it," he murmurs against your ear. "Gotta get you used to me first."
The grind makes you whimper, your body tensing as the blunt head nudges at your entrance. Then he pushes in ; slow and gentle. The stretch is intense. You yell out at the burn, your hands flying back to grip his thighs.
Heeseung stops instantly, burying his face in the crook of your neck. "I know, baby, I know," he whispers soothingly, voice dull and tender. "You’re doing so good." One of his hands slides down to caress your lower stomach in comforting circles, trying to ease the discomfort. "I’ve got you, Y/N. I’m right here."
He stays still inside you, whispering sweet nothings against your skin while his fingers keep gently rubbing your stomach. Gradually, the pain starts to melt into a deep ache. When your breathing evens out a little, he begins to move. His thrusts are slothful at first but quickly turn sloppy, messy and uncoordinated from the alcohol and the overwhelming heat of the moment. Wet sounds fill the room as he rocks into you from behind, one arm banded around your waist while the other continues caressing your lower belly.
"Fuck…sorry, it’s—shit, you feel too good," he groans, the pace erratic and desperate, hips snapping up into you with needy and imperfect strokes.
His thrusts are getting sloppier, hips stuttering as the dizziness makes his pace messy and desperate. Next, on one particularly eager push, his cock slips out completely with a wet pop, loud enough to be heard in the entire living room.
You squirm hard in his lap, a needy whimper escaping you at the sudden empty feeling. Your body instinctively rocks back, searching for him again.
Heeseung lets out a breathy chuckle against your neck. "Easy, baby…"
He grips the base of his cock and gives it a couple of lazy slaps against your soaked cunt; wet smacks making you jolt and moan. The head nudges your clit with each tap, fooling you until you’re trembling.
And without warning, he lines himself up and pushes back in with one thrust, burying himself deep into you cunt. You gasp at the sudden fullness, your back arching against his chest as he groans deeply.
"Shit…that sound," he mutters, voice rough. His arm tightens around your waist, holding you in place while his other hand returns to caress your lower stomach. He starts moving again, still sloppy and uncoordinated, but deeper now ; each thrust punctuated by the wet sounds of skin meeting skin.
He kisses along your shoulder, whispering hotly, "You’re so fucking wet…hear how you take me?"
His hips snap up messily, cock sliding in and out as he keeps you pressed tight against him, lost in the pleasure of it all. You’re lost in the flow of his cock sliding in and out of you, the filthy sounds of your pussy filling the room with every sloppy thrust, when your phone starts ringing on the coffee table. The screen lights up with Ethan’s name.
You notice that it doesn't stop Heeseung from doing his work. If anything, his hips snap up harder, driving deeper as he reaches over and grabs your phone. You try to protest through a moan, but he answers the call and puts it on speaker, setting it down nearby.
"Hey, man," he says casually, voice only slightly strained as he keeps fucking you tirelessly from behind. The squelching sounds are loud and clear.
Ethan’s voice comes through, sounding worried. "Heeseung? Where’s Y/N? She’s not home yet and she’s not answering her phone. Is she with you?"
"Yeah, she’s right here," Heeseung replies, one hand gripping your hip tighter as he thrusts up into you again, making you bite down on your lip to stifle a moan. "She’s a little busy though."
You squirm in his lap, embarrassed heat flooding your face even as pleasure keeps building. Heeseung leans closer to your ear and whispers, "Let him hear how wet you are," before picking up the pace.
The obscene, slick sounds of his cock plunging into your soaked pussy echo clearly through the speaker.
Ethan pauses. "What the fuck is that sound? Is she okay?"
Heeseung lets out a low chuckle, still thrusting deeper. "She’s more than okay. I’m fucking her right now, bro. That’s the sound of her pussy taking my cock."
You moan despite yourself as he hits a particularly good spot, unable to stay quiet.
"Can you hear that?" Heeseung asks tauntingly, angling his hips so the wet noises get even louder. "Hear how soaked she is? Those are her moans too. She’s been missing this for a long time."
Ethan’s voice cracks with shock and anger. "What the hell, Heeseung?! Y/N—!"
Before Ethan can finish, Heeseung cuts him off, still buried deep inside you, voice low and possessive as he speaks directly into the phone :
"You might be what she wants…but I’m clearly what she needs."
He hangs up quickly, tossing the phone aside. His arms wrap around you tighter as he resumes fucking you with intensity, mouth pressed to your neck.
"Focus on me, baby," he murmurs hotly. "Just feel how full you are."
The sounds continue as he drives into you, the interruption only making him more eager. You barely have time to process the call ending before your phone starts buzzing repeatedly on the table. Message after message from Ethan lights up the screen ; vibrating angrily one after another.
Heeseung glances at it but doesn’t stop. His hips keep rolling up into you in that same relentless pounding, cock stretching you open with every wet thrust.
"Damn…he’s blowing up your phone," he mutters with a dark chuckle. One arm stays banded around your waist, holding you firmly in place on his lap while his other hand reaches down to rub slow circles over your clit.
He keeps fucking you through the mess. Your phone vibrates again and again ; texts popping up rapidly.
You moan helplessly, eyes fluttering as pleasure overrides everything else. "Heeseung…he’s—"
"I don't fucking care," he whispers, nipping at your earlobe. "Let him text. You’re mine right now."
He angles his hips and thrusts up hard, making you cry out as the head of his cock hits that perfect spot over and over. The phone keeps buzzing but Heeseung only fucks you harder, the sounds of your bodies utterly drowning out the vibrations.
His hand on your lower stomach presses down gently, making you feel every inch of him sliding in and out. "Hear how loud your pussy is for me?" he groans, voice rough. "Keep taking it, baby. Just like that."
You’re a mess ; moaning, squirming, gripping his thighs as he continues pounding into you from behind, unbothered by the nonstop stream of notifications. The phone eventually goes silent for a few seconds only to start vibrating again. Both of you wouldn't care less. Heeseung’s only focus is the way your walls clench around him as he fucks you through it all.
So that's what you've been missing out all this time.
Simon's fingers are thick enough to make it burn at the stretch.
He rarely uses only one. Just at first, of course. Middle finger testing around before it finds a place to slot in and curl. He waves it inside, dancing back and forth with his wrist but never going in too deep, straying from bruising your cervix—knows it's not there that you like it.
Knows you inside out, actually.
Every bloody time you and Simon have sex, it turns into one hell of an anatomy lesson. The patience of the man is genuinely unmatched—perks of dating a sniper, you think.
No, not there. Bit to the left. Yeah, can you feel that? Should feel a bit rougher.
Slow. Slower. Nah. No. Lost it.
Fast. Oh God—yeah, like that. Touch my clit too, baby. Yeah—yes, oh my G—please, keep—no, no not—oh. Alright. Lost it.
Fucking hell, that man has put his whole blood and sweat into it. Fingers, tongue, cock, toys, hands, fists—nothing.
You're oddly alright with it. Frustrating as it is, of course. You're not immune; it's obvious that you want to come too. Alas, you've made peace with it.
You never had a good orgasm with someone else. Or a bad one either.
Pretty trustworthy of your fingers, or your vibe when it's your hand guiding it, your orgasms are usually mind-blowing when it's you coaxing them out of yourself.
When it comes to someone else, though, it's like your body immediately shuts off and doesn't know how to climb over that edge.
Simon once insisted on watching you get off as he did too (quite the hot experience), using that newly discovered kink to study what you did—but you didn't come, that night, even though you changed absolutely nothing of your usual masturbation routine.
It's a trust thing. An anxiety thing. A stress thing. So many things crammed into one big, cumbersome, unnamed feeling that sits heavy in your guts.
Simon's hurt, even if he doesn't show it. He trusts you wholly, and it took him a long damn time to reach this level of commitment, so why don't you do the same? It's not as simple as that, though—he knows it. However, it’s not easy on either of you.
Your relationship has faced its share of rough patches throughout all of this, largely due to this impediment of yours. But Simon... well, Simon loves you. He won't give up something so precious because of a few obstacles.
So, no matter how many times you tell him that it's okay if you don't come, he just doesn't let it go. And while you have to admire his stubbornness, it has put even more pressure on you.
Tonight, he's settled between your legs. Got his face in there right as you opened your thighs. You like it when he initiates it, though his expectations of you still tighten your stomach into knots.
It's been fifteen minutes. You’re sure of it, since the clock’s right above the door to your left. You looked at it when he went down, and you’ve been glancing back every five minutes, like usual. Now your eyes find it for the third time, so you can confidently say that Simon's been eating you out for the past fifteen minutes.
Mathematical. Precise.
And you still haven't come. Unsurprisingly.
You're taking too long. He must be getting bored. Once again, vitriolic thoughts rush through your head and make you feel like a dull, frigid monster who can’t even feel good.
Simon seems unbothered by the switch in your eyes, mostly because he’s paying little attention to them.
He sucks on your clit. Leaves kitten licks when he pulls back, unsheathing it with his thumb to have the most sensitive part of it at his mercy. God, it feels weirdly good when he does it—like you've been zapped out of the blue and your toes curl and your fingers fist the sheets.
And he never leaves any part of you empty. He sucks on your clit and fingers your hole. One finger at first, then two. He usually goes in with a third, and whenever you want to explore a bit of pain, he fits in four of them. His fingers are thick enough to make you exclude the possibility of a whole fist—you tried once and never again. It scarred you for life, you think.
He amps it up, usually. Starts soft and slow, and by the time you're precisely twenty minutes in, he's tried it all, and you stop him. Tell him it's enough. That you can't come and it's okay. And then you have sex, and he comes a bit after that. Pent up as he most certainly is, it doesn't take him long to reach his high.
However, it's been eighteen minutes now, and he's still slow and teasing: two fingers and a gentle mouth. He's not being methodical and precise. He's lazy and sloppy, drool trailing down his chin. Slurping noises here and there, your wetness coating his fingers and making his pads all pruny.
And like usual, there's this knot building at the base of your belly. Tightening and churning, melting liquid in pleasure, but still not enough to tip you over.
When the clock signals that it's been twenty minutes, you go for his hand on your thigh—like routine.
"Can't do it, baby," you whisper. Gently, you pat his knuckles like you're consoling him, giving him the reassurance that it's fine and he can stop this and fuck you so he can feel good too.
But instead of pulling back, Simon swats away your hand.
"Like it," he rumbles, mouth to your clit. He sounds... annoyed? Like you're interrupting something.
You cock your head. He's still licking down at you and hasn't even opened his eyes.
"But I can't come," you explain slowly.
His fingers curl upward inside you. Inadvertently, your hips meet his hand, shifting towards it to chase the feeling.
"And?" He asks. "Feels nice anyway don't it?"
You blink.
"I mean, yeah—"
"Then let me."
"But I thought—"
"Stop with tha'," he grumbles.
His eyes open, finally, and land on your face. With a slow lick on your clit that makes you shiver, he unlatches his mouth from your pussy.
"Stop with what?" You ask, feeling slightly lightheaded and breathless. Just because you can't come doesn't mean you can't feel what he does to you.
It's the most frustrating thing about the whole ordeal, honestly: you feel good, so good that you might just have one of those earth-shattering orgasms that change your life. One of those that seize up your legs and trap him between your thighs. One of those that ultimately never co—
"Stop bloody thinkin'," his voice interjects, quite effectively stopping your train of thought. "See it all over yer face. Knock it off."
You scoff. "You can see it?"
"I can, yeah," he drawls. "Now lemme get on with it. I wanna eat you out."
"But I won't come—"
"Said tha' already," he interrupts. Slowly, his eyes return to your cunt, glistening with his spit and your arousal. Simon licks his lips.
He pumps his fingers unhurriedly, watching enraptured at the flesh stretching around them and the wetness collected on his palm. He goes down, licking it from his own hand.
Jesus fucking Christ help you.
The crooked bridge of his nose nudges your clit, and he nuzzles it. You clench your teeth, eyes rolling back behind closed eyelids. When he returns his focus on you, he's wet from nose to chin; there's a heaviness to his eyes, blown dark and murky with hunger.
"I wanna eat—” and he slaps your clit. You gasp, wide-eyed and choking on a breath. “—this fuckin' pussy." Slap.
He’s crude and abrasive.
"Can I do it, or we on the clock?"
And with a healthy smattering of sarcasm, too.
It's embarrassing beyond belief that he's noticed your gaze flitting to the clock every time. Of course he has, always so attuned with you and with his eyes and ears perked. God forbid he turns off his senses for once.
You feel your cheeks grow hot and your chest bloom with sweat.
His hand unfurls from your thigh and snakes upward, landing flat on the valley of your breasts. Gently, he guides you down, letting your back meet the mattress.
"Lie back, yeah?" He rumbles, sounding suddenly softer. "Kill the lights, eyes shut, an’ quit the bloody thinkin’ for once."
He's got this pull on you that has your hands comply before your mind even registers it. They reach behind, testing blindly on the wall above the headboard—easily, your fingers find the switch, and the room goes dark.
“Stay here, focus,” he whispers against your thigh.
“Hear that?” He stops. Curls his pads inside you. “Fuckin' soaked. Jus' feel it, love. 'S all I want.”
You exhale shakily. Your eyes struggle to focus in the darkness, and the clock is out of sight. So, you do as he says: you close your eyes.
Simon's breath puffs on your pussy: warmth meeting even hotter skin. His stubble scratches the inside of your thigh. You can feel him shift his head, like he's caressing you with his cheek.
The moment your legs soften up on his shoulders, Simon sighs.
"Atta girl," he murmurs, kissing your clit ever so softly.
You jolt in his hold, and he keeps you still by tightening his hand around your thigh.
The press of his lips turns open. Wetter. Languid and soft, and completely selfish—a meal prepped for a feast. His tongue splits you open, tracing the seam of your pussy only to tip at your clit and draw sloppy circles around it. Then he flattens it, leaves it there as he bobs his head to increase the pressure more evenly. Fingers pumping you full, slow and unsteady—a rhythm that has no rhyme or reason.
A rhythm that, despite it all, you try and tune. Hips meeting his hand, lifting slightly off the bedsheets.
He grunts. Sounds pleased—you wonder what his eyes look like, whether they're trying to find you in the darkness, or if they're already accustomed to it. Whether he's looking at your face, or if he's decided to focus on your taste, on your smell, on your touch.
You screw your eyes shut and try to do the same.
You concentrate on the callouses of his palms brushing your ass and sliding up your knee in a soothing fashion. On the roughness of his tongue dragging against your clit as it swells and throbs for him. On the sting of his stubble, the sound of his breathing.
On the smell of sex, so pungent yet sweet.
With a quiet pop, Simon releases your clit. He's panting, close enough to your pussy for you to feel his lips moving when he speaks. Tickling, almost teasing—a mellow contrast compared to the two fingers pumping inside you, or to the way your hips meet his hand.
"Like this?" He asks softly. He sounds like another man entirely, not at all like the one who almost barked at you previously—frustrated and annoyed at your interruption.
You nod your head blindly. God you wish you could check how long it’s taking you to finish. Wish you could see his face, if he's bored or if he's enjoying it. Maybe meet his eyes—
"Words, pet," he whispers, leaving a fat kiss on your clit. He sucks and you arch into him. Pop. "Can't see ya—pitch black ‘ere."
You feel your throat close in. "Y-yeah, like that," you croak.
He hums appreciatively. Noses your clit as his hand follows a new rhythm—the one you set. Not the sloppy, uncoordinated mess from before—Simon instead follows your hips. It's good. Scratches you right, with the softness of his pads alternating with the rougher patches of skin marring his knuckles.
You clutch his forearm, the one wrapped around your thigh, and dig your fingernails in.
Once again, Simon kisses your clit. "Show me," he murmurs.
"Just try—"
A light slap on your thigh. Your legs seize in anticipation.
"Said show me, not tell me," he admonishes. "Go on."
On instinct, you heed him. Your hand slides from his forearm to the top of his hair, clutching short strands in a tight fist. Simon grunts, and it's lost in a chuckle so deep and dark that you feel it vibrate against your pussy, where you guide his mouth.
This time, your hips drive forward to meet his tongue and not his hand, though somehow he doesn't lose that rhythm you showed him before. Not too deep, not too shallow: just there, just past your entrance, on top. A constant and deliberate curl of his fingers, hitting upwards and then retreating—slow, controlled, delicious.
God this feels the closest you’ve ever been to an orgasm. You might even believe it will happen, and if he keeps following that pace, you might just—
Quit the bloody thinkin' for once.
You exhale. Inhale. Deep, feel your chest swell with air.
Stay here, focus.
His palm brushes your leg, his fingers curl inside you. His tongue is perfect, guided by your hand fisting his hair. Slowly he draws deep sighs from your lungs, fills your belly with molten pleasure, liquid lust.
Hear that? Fuckin' soaked.
Squelches echo each time he pushes in. Muted slurps when he sucks on your clit, thick grunts spilling freely from his lips.
Jus' feel it, love. 'S all I want.
And that tightness that builds around his fingers. The soreness of the muscles in your legs, cramping as your heels dig into his back.
The shortness of breath. The darkness around you—tangible, warm like a hug and yet constricting your throat like a vise. Your mouth opens wide to gulp in air, but all that comes out is a groan that shocks your bones, an orgasm so innerly loud that your ears ring.
You don’t feel your hands, what they clutch or how hard, nor the movement of your limbs. All you know is that you're cumming in Simon's mouth, around his thick fingers. And it's wave, after wave, after wave that crashes at the shore of your neck. Blooms rapidly to your cheeks, steals your breath away.
Simon keeps the rhythm you set, head soft under your hold, allowing you to pull it in or push it away. A puppet to your strings, surrendering entirely to your control.
You breathe, finally. In, out. Tingles run up your arms, tickle the sides of your neck. His tongue softens but keeps lavishing your clit—and the tide retreats, still brushing up your navel every time the tip of his tongue touches where you're now overly sensitive.
It's awfully hot and Simon's a walking furnace, so the feeling is tenfold stronger—and yet it's more of a hug than a restraint.
Gently, you leave the grip on his hair and caress his cheek. Fingers dance to the nape of his neck, and you tug him to you. Upwards he follows, hands landing on either side of your face.
You pull him in, but it's dark, so his mouth initially lands on the corner of yours. Still he kisses you there, and then travels to your lips where his tongue delves in.
You taste yourself. You feel the wetness of his fingers when he comes to cradle your cheek. His smile cracking his face. Simple at first, until you feel his teeth smooth against your skin.
A bit of pride, a ton of thankfulness.
"Oh my God," you breathe, airy giggles riddled with disbelief.
"I know," he whispers fondly. "I know."
You smile too, threading your fingers through his hair, and you kiss him again, and again. Kisses that taste of love and breathy chuckles, of happiness and relief and searing hot lust. Sparse grunts and moans that rumble like a hungry stomach, famished still.
Your limbs shake. They feel gooey, falling off the bone. You wrap them around his waist, feeling the heaviness of his cock pressed between your belly and his—sandwiched hot and wet.
"Fuck me," you breathe.
Simon groans. He slides in seamlessly and fucks you thoroughly, biting your shoulder to stave off his orgasm because—
"Never been this wet—fuckin’ hell, pet—"
Each thrust is punctuated by a heavy grunt. Sometimes it breaks, crackles in your ear like a freshly lit fire. A wheeze, a thick breath drawn in. Fingers grasping greedy handfuls of your ass. Teeth biting your lip, traveling downwards to suck marks on your neck. His voice raucous and scratching your brain—
"Perfect girl. Wish I’d seen ya—maybe 'nother time, yeah?"
A promise with no expiration date. No matter how long it takes—maybe, not surely. No pressure, just your pace.
You don't come. But you feel it all. When he spills inside you and plugs you full, and some of his cum trickles down the curve of your ass. When he whispers sweet nothings in your ear as his chest sticks with sweat, flattened against yours. His heart in a frantic search for your own.
You kill the lights. Close your eyes. Stop thinking—for once.
↪ Obviously very NSFW, so view at your own discretion
↪ Must be logged into X
↪ WARNINGS: mostly AFAB bottom!reader and top!Kurt; fingering; p in v; pegging; face sitting; restrains; some dom!reader action; sweet and intimate; all videos are amateur
✷ When you admitted to him you'd barely known pleasure on your own, Kurt offered to teach you. He sat you before the mirror — your nakedness laid bare, unfamiliar in its raw honesty — and made you watch as his clever, nimble fingers worked you wet, swollen, and aching in a way you'd never felt before ✷
✷ Living in a mansion full of kids and nosy floor neighbors basically puts a veto on having loud sex, so when you two finally get paired for a mission out of New York, Kurt is determined to make you sing for him. Nobody will mind if you get back a day or two later than planned, right? ✷
✷ It was surprising how easily Kurt agreed to this little experiment of yours. A confident lady-killer, someone with his charm and class — and yet he submitted almost readily. But when he moaned in delight, his tail taut with spasming pleasure, and spread his legs wider almost instinctively, you got the suspicion that there are some things you're yet to learn about your sweetheart ✷
✷ There is only one thing on Earth that could make Kurt miss the morning alarm, and it's the weight of you on his face. Sleep still blurs the edges of his consciousness, yet his mouth is relentless — every movement of his tongue driven not by purpose honed with experience, but by pure instinct, by the single-minded need to have you as close as humanly possible ✷
✷ Such bindings could never contain Nightcrawler, and you both know it. However it is fun to switch things up from time to time — he doesn't mind playing along while you revel in that illusory power. Quite the opossite, actually ✷
✷ Once you buy yourself a bigger bed, Kurt's visitations to your room get twice as frequent. Impudent as a cat that believes it owns the place, he comes and goes as he pleases — plopping onto the mattress, nuzzling into the pillows, and leaving dark hairs all over your fresh white linen. You can hardly get cross with him, though. Not when he fucks you nice and full on that very bed, making sure you have no strength left to chide him ✷
✷ Seeing him again after weeks apart always ends up like this: with you on top of him, every seam of your bodies melting together, and lips sharing all the feelings no words can convey. Oh, darling, how he missed you ✷
the kinktober prompt: cockwarming · hickeys · lingerie (it's a hattrick!)
as a one-year anniversary gift, you propose that you and your husband divorce. he decides to teach you a lesson: that the king of new york doesn’t give anything up, least of all his darling wife.
⚜️ WARNINGS/TAGS: SMUT 18+ MDNI, mafia!au, angst, porn with plot, childhood best friends to arranged marriage to lovers, repressed feelings, noncon mention (does not happen), allusions to age gap but no direct reference, dom!bucky (soft and mean), fingering, oral, unprotected piv, dirty talk, creampie, breeding kink
🔑 READER WARNINGS/TAGS: afab!reader, reader has hair (described to tumble down at one point) and is able-bodied
🔱 AUTHOR'S NOTE: it's not a fic by unificsation if uni doesn't crash out a little when writing it lol. this is my first bwa collab and i worked hard to live up to the talent in the room—i just hope it shows in the story! please be patient when you read this, i beg!
the jewelry aspect in this is inspired by @flockoff-featherface's rendition of mob!bucky in the previous collab! there are some bwa references here, too, though not of everyone because i couldn't fit it naturally and didn't have time to rework things 😭 please know that i love you all, ardently and equally!!
The mahogany door to the suite swings open. Even at night, New York shines beyond floor-to-ceiling penthouse windows, busy streets twinkling like rivers of stars. A switch turns on. Warmth floods the space with its velvet finishes and Canaletto walnut counters, the lights beamed through brushed bronze sconces on the walls.
Two figures slip inside. A laugh rings true—yours.
“I can’t believe you got them to make Mom’s tiramisu! Did you have to ask Dad for the recipe?”
Bucky smiles at your back, watches the tumble of your hair from that updo like he didn’t spend the whole night staring at you. Here in your shared home, he’s free to monopolize. No secret audience in the public eye, just twin flames on the top floor of one of the many buildings he owns.
“Your dad wouldn’t write it down. Said they’d steal it,” he taking off his suit jacket to drape it on an armchair, then drops metal cufflinks on a terrazzo tray. “The people at the Chateau were nice enough to follow his instructions through the phone.”
You giggle, mostly at the image—his father-in-law speaking into a brick phone with glasses all the way down his nose—but also a little bit from the wine.
It was vintage. Older than your husband, but certainly not smoother than he is. He was charming all throughout dinner. Got you blushing from compliments even before they poured you the burgundy Bordelaise.
You catch him rolling his sleeves up in your periphery.
And the Chateau was an excellent place. Great service, equally amazing food. The restaurant was efficient without sacrificing intimacy: tables spaced out and sleek, lights dimmed, carpeted floors dampening the sound of delicate cutlery. Bucky didn’t have to say much to get what he wanted, only needed to spare a glance for the maître d’s full attention.
But maybe that’s more because of who he is, though you don’t doubt the restaurant’s hospitality.
No business in their right mind would leave the king of New York wanting.
What you don’t know is that mob boss James Buchanan Barnes spent a good couple of hours worrying about where to take his wife to dinner.
But he made the right choice, like he always did. It charmed you inside and out: lush interiors, a decadent five-course meal with garnishes as pretty as garlands, powder rooms bigger than some people’s apartments. You passed each second marveling like you yourself weren’t accustomed to a life of luxury. Like you weren’t born in it.
And then there was your soft moan when you bit into the food. He didn’t know if he should be jealous or proud, but he can’t complain.
Not when you’re celebrating your first anniversary as a married couple.
“Can’t believe it’s been a year,” you sigh as limbs drag themselves towards the suede settee. He watches as silk ebbs and flows on your skin, soft dangerous ripples lit by hazy highlights from the floor lamp. The dress is one he hasn’t seen before. He’s a stupid man for not taking you out more often.
“Time flies when you’re having fun,” he sits next to you. You press a smile against his cheek, the peck chaste, thumb brushing against his ringed knuckles.
How you break him with the easiest of touches is beyond him.
The orange dim of the room reflects a look in your eyes that he hasn’t seen in a while. A trace of mischief. Or is it amusement? Either way, it reminds him of bygone eras spent with you: trampolines, tree-houses, and twenty questions. Back when you were young and stupid and free, a foxy daughter and the bloodhound of an old family.
“Bucky?”
“Yes, princess?”
“Close your eyes for me?” you smile. “I got you a gift.”
He shakes his head with an acquiescing chuckle. He’s never said no to you.
Blue eyes close.
“You’re beating me to it.”
“To what?”
“The presents.”
“Ladies first, as you like to say,” your reply is playful, and he hears movement. Shuffles all paper-like. “Anyway, I thought dinner was your gift.”
“Dinner’s not enough, doll.”
Then the couch sinks next to him and his skin holds your warmth even without touch. Something light falls on his lap.
“Open.”
Blue eyes land on an ivory folder sitting innocently across his thighs. Embossed at the front is an ornate B—his family insignia. The one you made yours, too.
His blank face meets a smile that can only mean excitement. You tilt your head to the piece of stationery, a small ‘go ahead’ that nudges his curiosity past the precipice. He flips the cover open.
Inside is a neat stack of papers. The black ink at the very top of the first page screams at him, all capital letters and antipathy:
REQUEST FOR DISSOLUTION OF MARRIAGE
Eyes snap to yours. You bite back a pleased grin.
“Happy anniversary, Bucky.”
The first time you left him so dumbfounded was on his fifteenth birthday.
Yes, Bucky Barnes was once fifteen. Not as tall or muscular. Lighter in both the color of his hair and the weight on his shoulders, compared to the man he is now.
But even a conqueror like him had a childhood: days when his biggest woes were bad weather or Becca’s unending boy problems that he somehow had to hear about.
On his fifteenth birthday, his biggest woe was you not attending the party.
It was a rather big thing. They prepared favors. Balloons, too—despite his insistence on not having them. Indulgent food for the children and an open bar for the chaperoning adults.
All of his family was there and so were his friends, but sweet little you somehow became the best of them despite having nearly nothing in common with him other than interest in each other’s company.
He was older, you were younger. He was a Yankees fan, you thought the baseball diamond was the prize for winning a game. He laughed when he told you that was what they called the field, and then you were laughing too.
It was the most delightful sound he’d ever heard.
Something clicked then, except ‘click’ was too inconsequential a word. Shifted, more like. Fatal like tectonic plates, fated like a story.
At that fifteenth birthday party, Matthew got too into catechism for Bucky to have a conversation with. It was also the year relations with the Starks got slightly tense due to suspected swipes at each other’s assets, which meant he and Tony barely met, let alone spoke. The Romanoffs and their eldest daughter Natasha were away for overseas business.
Sure, Bucky always had Steven Grant Rogers by his side. But you and Steve were the best in his books for entirely different reasons.
Even with Steve there, it hurt when you weren’t.
But it wasn’t your fault. You’d been sick all week, down with a nasty bug he wished were a real one instead of a mere turn of phrase—that way he could actually crush it for you.
That way he wouldn’t be sad because the girl he liked couldn’t make it to his special day.
When his mother asked what cake he wanted for the party, he said your favorite flavor instead of his.
What was the point of that if you weren’t here at all?
Then, just before he was supposed to blow the candles out, you showed up. Pretty dress, pretty hair, even prettier face. For a split second, he thought his wish was granted before he even got to make it. Year-on-year myth made material.
“I got all better for you,” you grinned. A little tired, sure, but happy to see him.
He hugged you as tight as the twinge in his chest. You giggled into his shoulder. The adults melted with a chorus of awwws—only made worse when you parted to kiss his cheek.
Just like that, his birthday was made.
You gave him a gift. The one in the wrapped box was great—but your presence is the better present.
Because that was everything he ever wanted: you next to him.
When he started carving order out of underground chaos with his own two hands, you made him understand why the work was necessary. He wanted to protect you. To keep you safe, even before he was old enough to receive his first Glock.
Before he became king.
He blew on your skinned knee when you fell off your bike. Pulled stray twigs out of your hair. Let you steal the heart of his family dog—then his in the process. The two of you grew taller, and still he took care of you: hid you from the guards while he snuck you out to play, then took the brunt of the scolding when you got found out.
For all his easy smiles, you’d always look at him like it was your fault. Doe-eyed. Guilty.
He’d pull you in, pat your head, say it’s okay. Keep the little thank you, Bucky you murmur into his chest like it was buried treasure.
And then college called.
The Barnes’ had history with Princeton, so that was where he went. But the distance from New York to Jersey had nothing against where your parents decided you’d go.
Europe. You told him about it while he was interning.
He said he was excited for you. He lied.
The night before your flight, you cried in his arms. Not the kind of cry that wrenched guts in its wails—the kind that was hushed. Compliant. You cried like he wouldn’t fly across the ocean every weekend just to see you. Like you were in the final stage of grief. Acceptance.
He held you through it. Stroked your hair. Said it’s okay. Promised to call.
What he didn’t do was tell the truth. Declare feelings. How he realized he’d only ever thought of you when he sat across a revolving door of women that fought to be near him. How he replaced the sound of their laugh with yours, only to be disappointed when the self-afflicted spell broke.
How he’d be so much happier be if you were the one he held at night.
Those thoughts festered over the years. Then they’re locked for at least a few more, because tomorrow, it’d take a seven-hour flight to touch your fingertips. Tomorrow, you’d be a name on his phone, a voice on the line, a specter in the corner of every room.
He wasn’t sure he’d keep the secret if he visited. So he didn’t.
Better for you to be a continent away loving him as a friend than shunning him as a foe.
Better for you to shun him as a foe than forget about him entirely.
Time passed. He changed. His feelings didn’t.
Then a few years later, you returned: smarter and stronger and more beautiful, standing just a little taller. Like you’d come into yourself while he wasn’t watching. But even then, you were still you. The girl with twigs in her hair, who now understands ‘three strikes and you’re out’ and batting orders, just with a degree and acquired confidence. Still laughed that same laugh when he picked you up at the airport.
Neither of you wanted to part from that first hug in years, just hands on each other’s backs. You buried your face in his wool. He memorized the smell of your hair.
Your families must’ve put two and two together after seeing that reunion. Or maybe they’ve noticed for a while, bode their time like the good criminals they are.
The arranged marriage didn’t feel like the punishment many of his cohort purported it to be. But then again, he had it good.
For one, he knew who he was marrying. Didn’t have to go through polished profiles and fake first dates. The Barnes family was prestigious enough to attract posers on the regular—they didn’t need any more. Your folk had things greater than reputation: connections, controlled resources, and you.
For two, he loves you.
He never said so out loud.
And he didn’t dare ask you how you feel, but you never said no to the deal, either, even when the two of you agreed how egocentrically strategic it was. Both your parents wanted a power consolidation. They used affection to get it. Yours.
He lingered with you by the balcony of his summer home where the decision was announced, sipping the night air. Come morning, it wouldn’t taste the same.
“Why didn’t you fight it?” he asked.
“Because it was you,” you answered.
He didn’t push. Not when it could capsize him into saying something he might regret.
“Not like I’d know what to do without you, anyway,” you smiled wryly, voice quiet above the breeze and cricketsong.
“I promise I’ll take care of you,” he murmured back. Eyes looked into yours.
You looked back, then rested your head on his shoulder.
“I know. You always do.”
That was how it happened. Like an avalanche: the late afternoon fittings, lilies, and diamond rings. He didn’t know there were so many types of papers he had to consider for the embossed invitations.
But amidst the flurry, it still didn’t feel like punishment. Never like punishment, but a reward. As if being born in blood and brutality didn’t stop some force of benevolence from acknowledging his patience and deciding he deserved mercy.
That mercy was you in a white dress. An angel before the altar. A kiss followed by church bells.
Matthew Murdock blessed the marriage—Father Matthew Murdock, pardon him. Bastard went from boxing prodigy to priest.
Bucky was ready then, that first night. Ready to spill his guts on the honeymoon suite floor, heart close to bursting with held-back hurt. All the things he felt throughout the years. Things you made him feel, dream, do in the dark. A matrimonial confession that would lead to either crushed ribs or open arms.
Hell or heaven. Nothing in between.
But then he saw you sit in bed with your pajamas—the one with tiny daisies on it—and you beckoned him, patting a spot on the king-sized bed.
Every sentence he scripted was lost in an exhale. What remained was a conviction so cold, it kept him quiet for a year.
He couldn’t lose you.
That night, you ended up cuddling like you were children again. Traded stories about what transpired during the grand reception.
“Your kiss was very convincing,” you smiled conspiratorially.
He didn’t tell you he meant it. The kiss. The vow. The till death do us part.
It’s been a year of that—wedded bliss that you treated like a sleepover.
Touches remained innocent. Gazes remained guileless. You told him his kiss was convincing, but he didn’t know yours would be, too. The soft brushes of lips against his in public dinners. The way your fingers tangled with his.
It was so easy to believe that you married not by circumstance, but for love.
But behind closed doors, it was like the two of you never grew up—or at least you acted that way. Talked about your long day and his dirty work. Fell asleep in innocuous hugs that settled his soul. Took turns being big spoon and little spoon on a whim.
He prefers being little spoon. That way, he feels your breath on his back, and you’re left oblivious to the malady in his sweatpants. Easier for him to escape to the ensuite and touch himself at the thought of you.
Specifically, the thought of you looking at him like a man and not your childhood best friend.
It was a barren purgatory, and he went through like it was all milk and honey.
But now you’ve gone and done it.
He stares at the printed text, slowly crawling back to the present. Your name under petitioner, his name under respondent. He swore to never say no to your wishes, but he never thought you’d wish for this.
Divorce.
The question slips out of him, reeling barely restrained.
“What the fuck is this?”
You tense.
His baritone dips the way it does on his worst days, only now it pulls you under with it. It’s enough to drain the smile on your face until you’re left with a blank look. A canvas for confusion. For turbulence.
Then horror floods the thrum of your veins, making blood run cold.
It reminds you of fear that follows a grave mistake: like the time you accidentally broke an heirloom vase, except the weight in your stomach is a hundred-fold now, and so is the mess on the floor.
You’re glued to your seat by the sensation, instinct to move replaced by ice.
“What do you mean?” you ask, hiding a tremble.
Blue eyes snap to yours. There’s no joking twinkle. No affectionate narrow of them—not when his jaw is as locked as a steel vault. Though you can’t read his expression, it definitely isn’t one you expected him to wear.
He should be happy. This should be what he wanted. But instead he stares at the folder like he’s wondering if this is a dream.
You might be watching a nightmare unfold.
Then he throws it across the room, sending papers and your heartbeat scattering.
“That was my question, princess,” he murmurs, a flash of a storm in his eyes. “Explain.”
Shadow looms over you while he rises to his feet. The movement tears the truth out of you, nervous eyes darting everywhere except his face.
“Well, since the merger’s stabilized, I thought…” you breathe, “I thought that we don’t have to keep this up anymore.”
“Keep what up?” He chases like a dagger: quick, incisive.
“The marriage,” your eyes finally meet his, hoping you’ll witness him see sense. Hoping for awareness to wash over him, that he’ll melt into a kind smile and say: right, I get it now, thank you for absolving us of this thing our parents put onto our shoulders.
That balm doesn’t arrive, and anxiety continues to burn. You stammer.
“Bucky, I’m saying you don’t have to sacrifice your happiness anymore—”
But he scoffs instead, grin devoid of humor. A hand runs through his hair.
“That’s what this marriage is to you then? A burden?”
The turnabout scathes more than his previous silence. Maybe because you never expected this outcome. It is also deeply unjust: why he’s pinning this on you is beyond any logic, especially knowing what he did.
Your eyebrows knot as you stand, a reflection of rising temper more than conscious choice.
“How could you ask me that when you’ve made it clear how much of a burden this is to you?”
“What the hell are you talking about? We just had a great time at dinner!”
You let out a laugh. It’s funny how he thinks you don’t know.
“I’m talking about you smelling like ten different perfumes every night for the past month, Bucky.”
He must think you’re sound asleep each time he slips under the sheets, but the truth you don’t want to admit is that your body stirs at his presence. Even half-conscious, you feel time tick by: one in the morning becomes two, and then three, which is when he comes home most nights.
There in the dark, you breathe him in, wanting comfort, only to find a bouquet of betrayal.
Jasmines and the sea. Camellias, cocoa, and citrus.
They spin like a carousel, switching, erasing his forest green scent only to replace it with the shade of jealousy—one you struggle to school into submission.
You have no right to that feeling. He was never yours to begin with.
And now you watch as his face falls. It fuels your step and the fire beneath your voice.
“I’m not stupid. I noticed. You don’t talk to me about your day anymore, we barely eat together, you come home smelling like women. A great time at dinner doesn’t exactly erase that.”
There’s a pang in your heart. You will it to pass.
“This marriage might have been arranged, and we might not really be husband and wife, but you sleeping around behind my back is still disgraceful. Not just for me. For the both of us.”
Bucky stares back. You speak before he can—he’ll ruin you otherwise, with or without words.
“You could’ve told me, Buck,” you soften. “You know I won’t blame you. You deserve company.”
Company. The kind he won’t look for in you because he’s your good friend—your very best, even.
Expecting him to want to sleep with you is wishful thinking. Expecting him to stay celibate is like muzzling a dog you don’t even own.
“Let’s not pretend this is what we wanted. What you wanted.” There’s nothing interesting about the rug, but you stare at it anyway.
Maybe its modern pattern will rewrite the ancient ones woven in your head. A tangle of old afflictions—expectations, comparisons, the value you brought to the table dictating the love you begged to receive.
A quiet voice prickles in the back of your mind. It tells you it’s not that he doesn’t want an arranged marriage; he just doesn’t want you.
Scheming parents made you a coincidental casualty that landed on his lap, and now you’ve become a problem he’d be better off without. So much that he’d rather distance himself from you than talk about it like you used to.
Even though you’d let him fuck other women if it meant he’d stay.
A greater woman would have cut ties and run. Next to her, you feel like a little girl with a broken sense of self-esteem.
Maybe this divorce is your attempt to prove something. Anything.
Your gaze is blank at the scattered papers on the floor. The only thing you’ve proven so far is your lack of conviction—running away at every shadow of something real.
How did it come to this?
“I just want us to be friends again,” you whisper.
Something crackles against your skin. The air turns into an emotional minefield. An invisible string tugs your gaze, pulling it back to his with the force of nature. The way he looks at you crushes your faith.
It looks like he’s falling apart, too.
You can tell through the clench of his jaws and fists. Through the flicker in his eyes. In the breath you barely remember to take above a tyrannical tension. Tightrope over bear traps.
“Yeah?” he rasps. “Well, I don’t want that.”
Pain and embarrassment punch you with monosyllabic words. He might as well change that last one to ‘you’.
I don’t want you.
But then he steps forward. You look up at him, trying to hold your ground. It doesn’t work. His steadiness knocks you back, feet moving away from him like repelling magnets.
“We can’t be friends anymore,” he says. Your back hits the wall.
“I don’t understand—”
His smile is mirthless.
“‘Course you don’t.”
Bucky stands tall in front of you, silhouette casting a shadow with no escape routes. The hand on your face is the final nail to an uncovered coffin—it holds the hinge of your jaw, the last rites of a relationship. Blue blade-like eyes cut your defenses and drive you into a corner.
His face hovers over yours.
At this distance, he’ll see the sadness past your irises, so you look away. His hand tilts you back to face him.
Then he speaks, soft, and whatever troubling thought you have shatters into a million shards—the second time tonight.
“You don’t know what it’s like to share a bed with the woman you love and not touch her.”
A thumb smooths over your cheekbone, as if to placate the shock. His gaze drops to your lips, then back up.
“And I’ve loved her since she practiced cursive with my name.”
Your missing breath fuels memories, your mind plays a reel. It shows what he’s talking about: a movie, with scenes that slipped between cracks of life lived and fractured.
You’re wearing your favorite skirt. The weather is so nice outside. There’s clumsy handwriting on ruled paper. He smiles when you show its loops and curls:
James Buchanan Barnes is my best friend
The words ‘best friend’ are now overshadowed by a single one with four letters.
Time stands still. Gravity swallows your feet into the ground.
He tips your chin up. A taunt.
You can’t run, the gesture says, now that I’ve said it.
And you can’t because he’s pressing up against you, trapping your body between cold wall and warm chest. As if mocking your speechlessness, his finger swipes at your bottom lip, parting them more.
“Sweet girl doesn’t understand what she does to me,” he hums, tracing the perfect edges of your lipstick, “doesn’t even know she gets me hard just by kissing me good morning and good night on my damn cheek. Why d’you think I wake up first and go to bed last, hm?”
Hot breath fans your ear. Hands move to his torso in a bid to steady yourself.
“I tried to be good, honey, I really did.”
Mouth brushes your jaw. Your head lolls to one side in response: are you running, or are you giving him room to take more of you?
“Tried to take my greed out elsewhere, except it didn’t work. They don’t have your body. Your voice. Your face,” he growls.
“They’re not you.”
He’s nipping at your ear, licking the shell as he murmurs.
“Couldn’t even fucking touch them.”
The confession sinks in the way ink does in water: slow, pulsating, before it grows and takes over.
He loves you.
“I thought you hated me,” you whisper.
He scoffs. “Hated you?”
The look on his face clogs your throat. Eyes dark, lips parted—no sign of focus brought by contempt, though you certainly are the object of his perturbation.
He’s lost. The crack in his voice brings the point home.
“How can I hate you when you’re all I ever wanted?”
“Buck—”
Whatever you wanted to say is cut off by a stern shove of your shoulder against ivory wall. The syllables melt into a single whimper.
“I’m your husband, sweetheart,” he breathes across your mouth. “And if you can’t understand that, I’ll drill it into your pretty little head.”
The first kiss he ever gives you is a devouring.
Lips slot. You gasp. For a second you think the Bucky you know is gone: the man who kneels to fix the strap of your high heels, the boy who held you through thunderstorms. There’s nothing gentle in the way he moves. He takes as if you’re his right, voracious like the jowls of a beast. Tongue and teeth further condemns you to his cause—to collapse your walls.
You crumble headfirst.
But he’s still James Buchanan Barnes, the only constant you’ve ever had in your life, so you hold on to him.
A ragged groan slips past when he feels your fingers in his hair. The touch lights up his nerve endings in a bright, loud yes, God, finally—satiated but already screaming for more. His hand slides to the back of your neck, the other gripping your waist: both of them strong like shackles in a cage.
“Fuck, I went beyond insane over you,” he mouths, “came so close to just taking you in our goddamn bed.”
The thought sends a chill down your spine. It’s not fear, it’s desire and thrill. You moan.
“You wouldn’t,” you pant, “you’d never.”
“Don’t be so sure,” exhales grow heavy as he paws at your flesh, saliva-slicked lips sucking at your neck. “I’m not a good man, honey. You’ve seen my ledger—our ledger.”
You have. It’s red, just like the lipstick he’s smudging right now as he crashes into you with another violent kiss. You clutch the front of his white shirt, crumpling it. He pulls away to survey the wreck he made.
He smiles at the sight.
“I know the first anniversary’s supposed to be paper, but divorce papers?” he hums. “You’re one hell of a gifter.”
“Bucky, I—”
“Sssh,” lips meet yours again. This time the kiss is languid, almost lazy. In his leisure you find vexation.
“Your turn for your present.”
After leading you to the bedroom, the first thing he gives you comes in an unwrapped box. Its contents are designed to wrap you instead. And they do wrap you: beautiful and bridal, deadly and dangerous in one set. White lace, ribbons, garters that lead to sheer tights—a thing like this should make bridesmaids giggle and say ‘he won’t be able to let go of you if you put this on!’
They’d be right.
Because Bucky is already ruining you.
“Bought this for our wedding last year,” he tugs the balconette bra down, letting your tits spill free like he didn’t make you wear it. “Never got the chance to see you in it.”
The warmth of his mouth captures a nipple. You whine when he delivers a mean suck, spine arching off the bed, a tentative coolness of air before you melt into the sheets again. They’re damp with sweat the moment he crowded you onto your shared bed.
“But we’re celebrating our anniversary tonight. The perfect occasion, yeah?”
Fingers hook at the gusset of your pretty underwear, pulling it aside to reveal slick folds. He touches you there and you stir at the coordinated pleasure that catches you unaware. He hums around your chest. The vibrations send sparks in your veins.
Squirming only sets off clinks of metal.
Bracelets of all kinds knock into each other: some charmed, some bangled. Long necklaces tangle with crystal body chains that flow down your skin like sparkling rivers. The weight of diamond drop earrings sink against the pillow.
The lingerie you’re wearing might be from last year, but these? The glimmering riches he took his time to put on you, save for the princess-cut rock on your ring finger? These are all new, their branded boxes forgotten on the floor.
His gift for a year of marriage.
A marriage you’re only consummating now.
“Look at you,” he moans, “so fucking pretty, you should be illegal.”
He lets go of your chest with a loud pop. Your breath shakes.
“Tell me,” he looks down at your pleasure-twisted face, “who helped you get those papers, baby?”
A finger prods at your slick hole, teasing. You surrender with a sob, except you don’t fight him at all.
“J-John.”
Your voice around another man’s name tips him over to villainy.
He adds another finger at your entrance, circling before pushing both of them deep into you.
You let out a cry, walls clenching around him—wet, tight, a vice he’s already devoted the rest of his life to. Love before first touch.
Manicured nails claw at his shoulders, but they soon relax as he waits. You pulse around his fingers while your lungs relearn how to breathe.
God, you’re soaked. Pliant. Warm.
“Yeah? ‘Cause Steve wouldn’t?”
That gets your attention. You blink up, eyes hazy.
“How’d you know…?”
He kisses your forehead, pulls his fingers out, and thrusts them back in.
“A-ah—”
“He asked if we were doing okay,” Bucky pants, watching your lashes flutter at the languid pace his hand sets. “Thought he was talking about me going out to the supper club again.”
His other hand pushes the hair out of your face while you pant, chasing each pump, crystals clinking above the wet sounds.
“Didn’t think he meant this.”
His thumb flicks your clit, punishment and reward in one touch. Tricks of an unfair trade. Your head thrashes.
“Bucky—!”
Your body rocks with his fingers, a byproduct of drawn-out desperation. It’s an awakening, a cryptic hunger yawning at the bottom of your gut. Now that he’s feeding that emptiness, it demands more.
“Walker must be so goddamn ecstatic his queen came to him for help.”
The crystals chains on your skin jingle alongside rolling hips. Bucky traces the sight with drunken abandon, dead set on destroying you first.
Call it payback for the many times he fisted himself at the thought of this, and call it occupational hazard how he’s already planning methodologies: fingers first, mouth second, cock third.
Then again, and again, and again… until you’re too spent to tell him to stop.
“You made him feel important, honey. Made him think we were gonna split,” he chides condescendingly. Fingers hit a spot in you that form stars at the edge of your vision. He watches you squirm. Transcribes every whimper in his brain.
“Gotta pay for that—c’mon, cum for me.”
Your lips part in a silent scream.
If it weren’t for his hand on your face, your cheek would be pressed against the pillow, but one broad grip has you looking straight at him as he pushes you over the edge.
The last thrust squelches as it sinks, lewd sound crystal clear in the empty room. He watches as you spasm like a live wire. Thighs twitch, eyes screw shut. Then his name on your mouth.
“There we go. Good girl. Good fucking girl.”
He doesn’t partake in the family’s merchandise, but this has to be what a drug high feels like.
Because he’s already addicted while your breath reconstructs itself. Already begging for another taste of you when he takes his fingers into his mouth, licking them clean.
“You know I see the way he looks at you?” Bucky murmurs, caressing your face with the same hand that broke you. “Swear he wants me dead just so he can have a chance with you.”
Two seconds pass before your ecstasy-addled brain catches up to the fact that your husband is still talking about John Walker. But any further thought is halted by the heat huffed on your neck.
“Let’s show him who you really belong to, yeah?”
It starts off slow with kisses on the column of your throat, almost kind compared to the rapture of release. His nose traces the slope that leads to your shoulder and he breathes, cataloging your scent: sweat and something floral that you wore to dinner. It pools in his stomach, makes him feral.
You’re prey on a pedestal.
He bares his tongue for the feast. Then teeth.
You sigh, feeling them drag oh so gently across skin. There’s no rush, but when he sinks down, it’s with intent. Purpose. Authority.
Muscles ripple over your lipstick and lace as he latches onto the side of your neck—you hold onto his arms even though there’s nowhere to fall with the mattress against your back. His warmth clings to you in return.
“Oh,” the airy sound slips out when he lets go. Flesh stings with stimulation. That spot will darken tomorrow.
Blue eyes map a path of ruin where he’ll bite next. A plan of attack to spell his name on your neck. The wedding ring isn’t enough of a claim, he reasons to himself.
Minutes later, you’re shaking beneath him wearing a new necklace of his making.
Pinks and reds dot collar to chest in what looks like a botched J-A-M-E-S. In a few hours, they’ll turn into a sunset purple. He marvels at the work of his mouth, stares down at you.
“Walker will learn his lesson. But now it’s time for yours.”
Wide eyes stare up at him.
“You see how the divorce is so uncalled for, honey? You don’t really want me to leave you, do you?”
You shake your head. It hurts, the thought of him leaving, even if it’s for his own good.
Hips pin yours. You feel the hard ridge under his slacks press against damp lace. Blood rushes south, makes you throb.
“Tell me you’re sorry,” he says, but he slips a thumb in your mouth. It presses on your tongue and forces your heartbeat into a stutter.
You say it anyway, stifled, vowels warped.
“I’m sorry.”
“Tell me you’re sorry for making me think of fucking other women instead of you.”
Tears blur your vision. You’re not sure why—maybe from the thought of wasted time, or from the image of him almot rutting into a warm body just to run away from yours. He said he didn’t—couldn’t—but your brain is an errant thing. The space between your ribs tighten.
He’s here to make it right. Are you that transparent? Because the finger in your mouth is still mean, but his other hand strokes your cheek in a manner so opposite you think it might have a mind on his own.
Bucky kisses your temple. Then cheek. Then ear, where his voice rumbles deep.
“C’mon, honey. Say it.”
“I’m sorry for—” drool escapes from the side of your open mouth, “for making you think of f-fucking other women…”
“Instead of?”
“…instead of me.”
“Good girl.”
He grinds down against you harder, the friction catching your clit just right. You keen.
The thumb dislodges, drawing a spit-slick line down your chin, then collarbone, then sternum. He toys with your nipple. The wet touch makes you jolt. Beneath shimmers and gem-studded strings, your skin is smeared with pigment from smudged lipstick.
“Tell me you’re sorry for not giving yourself to me sooner.”
A tear slides down your cheek. He kisses it away.
“I’m sorry for not giving myself to you sooner,” you hiccup.
He leans down to mouth at your nipple again. Spine curling like a big cat above you, hips rolling against yours.
“Now tell me you’ll let me do what I want to you,” he murmurs against you.
The new commandment shepherds silence—not in fear, also not quite submission. You linger at an open doorway while everything about him beckons you to enter, where all the pleasure he’s given you may multiply.
But once you go there, you can’t go back.
He sucks at your chest in a manner so selfish it breaks your reverie. Blue eyes snap to your face when he lets go.
Then he says those words: the exact same ones he said to you the night your fates were sealed.
“I promise I’ll take care of you.”
He rises, face above yours, breathing your air. “I know I was stupid. Stubborn. A damn coward.”
Then, after an inhale:
“I just didn’t want to lose you.”
It’s enough to make you lean up to kiss him, the antithesis of how he started.
Soft, almost solemn. He kisses back like he’s kissed you a thousand times before—and maybe he has in his dreams. It tastes like sticky succumbence, as sweet and as cloying as honey. The more it drips in your mouth, the more you hunger. Your fingers grip his arms, still clothed in that damn white shirt.
The way the both of you are dressed, you can almost pretend this is your wedding night.
He parts first.
“Give me words, sweet girl.”
With instructions so clear, how could you not?
“I’ll let you,” you whisper.
He watches. Waits. It takes every bit of you in your dizziness, but you finally continue.
“...do what you want to me.”
The breath that escapes him is ragged, wanting—like an animal desperate for nourishment. He wastes no time in diving between your legs. Spreads thighs with strong hands, pulling your panties over to one side. You gasp at his breath caressing the apex of your thighs.
“Good,” he rumbles, “gonna make you cum on my tongue.”
Your body becomes his to control. Greedy hands use garters as handles, tugging them to haul your legs over his shoulders as he eats. One of them moves to torment your chest, the other your clit.
He really is a rotten liar, because he makes you cum on his tongue twice. It’s motivated by self-justification: this is what he wanted for so long, surely he’s allowed to take more? He’s been so good, holding back all this time…
The first orgasm rips a loud moan out of you, thighs bracketing his head. He doesn’t stop after that. Eats you like it’s his pleasure. Your stomach twists with the beginnings of overstimulation until the curl of his tongue in your cunt pushes you past that precipice again.
The second time you crest is devastating. You sob under your breath while a strong arm presses both your legs to meet your chest, opening your core up for him like you’re a right and a privilege in one reality.
Seeing you folded in half like that—slick, clenching around nothing—is enough to sever him from sanity.
Or maybe he’s never sane to start with. Not when it comes to you.
“She looks so empty, sweetheart. Let’s fix that.”
A hand takes both of yours overhead, pinning them into pliancy. You’re too weak to even writhe.
Then he feeds his inches into your hole and you cry.
“Bucky—!”
The stretch of his cock is far from comprehensible. It’s excruciating, but each vein inspires addiction. Then there’s the heat, the intoxicating way he pulses inside of you as he pushes ever deeper, nudging places you didn’t know existed, claiming them for himself.
His blunt tip finally sinks all the way in and you feel him in your stomach. In your lungs, your throat.
“Christ, you’re unreal,” he pants against your ear, smokescreens in the form of saccharine things distracting from the dull pain.
“Think she might be made for me, honey. Tight fucking pussy swallowing my cock—”
You moan, walls unwittingly clutching him. He groans.
“Fuck, not gonna last if she’s grippin’ me like that.”
“Bucky,” you murmur.
“Yeah, princess?”
“‘s too much,” is all you can muster, gaze falling to the sight between your bodies. Blue eyes and blown-out pupils follow, and he grins. The grip he has on your wrists tightens.
“Yeah?” he pants in bliss, still buried in you, “This is what I think about every morning. Every night.”
Then he thrusts once, shallow at first. Two strangled voices echo in the room.
“Fuck—wasted my time dreaming of you... could’ve had this all along.”
Your hands don’t know what to do: fingers stretch and claw at air while his hand keeps you where he wants you. He splits you open, hips steadily sawing into yours. It leaves you at a loss, coherence deleted with each rock of him until only three words loop: ‘please’, ‘Bucky’, and ‘more’—because you’re a paradox like that.
A symphony worth waiting years for.
And because he can never deny you, he gives.
Makes you cum on his cock just like that, pounding mercilessly into your sensitive spots. Your hair forms a halo on the pillow while plump lips part, crying out his name again and again. He drives into you just the same, eyes never straying from your face, just to convince himself this isn’t a dream.
The way you clench around your cock tells him it isn’t. Dreams can never feel this good—he knows because he’s had plenty.
“Fuck,” he grunts, cock buried so far up in you that you almost cum again when he does.
You mewl at the hot spurts of him inside. For a second the fever breaks, satisfied with release, but as you’re flooded with his spend, the appetite rises. The ravening isn’t over. His eyes say as much.
A dark intention takes over him, affection corrupted by avarice. What other expressions will you show him? What secrets sounds can he steal from you?
How far can he make you fall?
Minutes melt into hours.
Here you are now, a picture of ruined grace draped across his lap. Lingerie ripped, chains and jewelry in knots, sparkling diamonds in the dark illuminating the blotches around your throat.
He keeps you sat on his cock for god knows how long already. Tears blur your vision, and the feeling in your chest is the same as your poor, plugged up cunt.
Full.
God, you’re stuffed with him—his cock, his cum. A mess in both body and mind, slick with his spend and yours sluicing down your ass and the sheets, overflowing. The drip of it is warm. So is his naked chest against yours.
There are thin pink lines on his skin—your nails dragged down there when he sinks you down onto his length, weak and wanting even after how many orgasms, you don’t know. You lost count. The same scratches must exist on his back from when he fucked you on yours.
Through all this, somehow your husband is still hard as he holds you in his lap. He lets you sob into his neck, big hands caging your hips.
The same hands that dusted dirt off your knee the first time you fell from your bike.
You’re compelled by the cardinal sins. Greed, lust, and gluttony order your hips to roll, to shift, to do anything just to feel something.
He coos, resting his forehead against yours.
“Sssh, you can’t,” and he’s right, because his fingers are bruising stillness into you. “You need to wait, sweetheart.”
You sound like you’re past pathetic. He really meant it when he said he’d drill it into your head: the pace, the pleasure, him.
“Bucky, please—”
“Made me wait all this time, think it’s only fair you should, too.”
Large hands adjust you on him. You gasp, feeling driblets of him escape your cunt before he sits you all the way down his cock again.
“Now, how ‘bout you tell me a story while you learn to be patient?” he breathes. “Something from when you were a kid. About us.”
You want to scream. How are you supposed to speak, let alone think? All you want is to rut into him again, to feel him throb, to drink the friction—
The corner of his lips twitch up.
“Maybe I’ll let you move if you do.”
Either your husband is a telepath, or you’re so wonderfully obvious.
Bucky sees your throat swallow, the gears turning in your mind. His blood sings, and maybe he’s the worst man alive for enjoying this a little too much: watching you work through a haze. His pretty girl, too drunk oncock to function.
One of his hands stroke your cheek, almost coaxing the words out of you, then he coos like he’s not the cause of your misery.
“You can do it, sweetheart. Tell me a story.”
It’s the softness in his voice that damns you.
“I—” you begin, unsure, lungs still clawing for air, “remember that time… after summer break?”
He resists the urge to tease: which summer break? You spent so many together.
“You came back and your voice c-changed.”
“Uh-huh,” he nods, teasing your nipple with a thumb. He remembers. You whimper, the sound pitiful, but you’re being so good for him, staying still even when one of his hands went astray.
“What about it, honey?”
“It was… I was so confused,” your voice hitches.
He doesn’t stop touching you.
“You looked the same, but—ah—you sounded like—”
His hand moves from your chest back to your ass. Fingers sink into the flesh, grip you closer to him, as if there was any room between your bodies in the first place.
“Like?”
Your head drops into the crook of his neck.
“Like a man,” you admit, muffled.
He breathes near your ear.
“Look at you now, finally treating me like one,” you can feel him grin, taking your earlobe between his teeth. “Letting me fuck you like one, ‘s that right?”
The nod you give him is slow, like you’re drugged. He lifts you up just enough to sink you down. A temporary relief that makes you mewl.
“So? Do you still want to be just friends?” he grits.
You shake your head, eyes blank and wet. That one thrust is enough to vaporize your vocabulary.
The tears at your lashes makes his cock twitch. He used to hate seeing you cry. Felt helpless with every cartoon band-aid he smooths over your skin. Reminded him of the time you had to fly halfway across the world for a fucking degree, the damp pillowcase you slept on, the way he couldn’t stop you from leaving.
Now? Crying is all he wants to make you do.
“What am I to you now, hm?”
Your breath breaks.
“H-husband,” you croak, “you’re my husband—”
“That’s right. Smart girl.”
As if to reward you, he bounces you on top of him again. You almost collapse onto his shoulder, a ragdoll to pleasure.
“Please, Bucky, I want—”
“Want what, baby? Wanna stop?”
You whimper, shaking your head again in the crook of his neck, arms around his back. He almost laughs, but the spasm of your cunt around his cock, full with his cum and yours, strangles the sound into a guttural groan.
“Tell me.”
“Want more,” you whine shamelessly. He gladly exploits it.
“Let’s see if you’ve learned your lesson first.” A hand grabs your face, forcing you to peel away from his body to look at him.
You stare back. He’s sweaty, eyes dark, lips swollen. You’re probably about thrice as wrecked.
“Who do you belong to?”
“Yours—I’m yours.”
“You’re my what? Finish that sentence.”
You nearly choke. “I’m your wife.”
“Attagirl. What else have you learned?” His tone is cruel. Cold. But you know better. Blue irises drown you with devotion in a single look. In them, you find your answer.
“You—ah—take care of me. Make me feel good.”
“There you go, sweet thing.” His lips latches onto yours, a thief to your breath as if you had any left to spare. “D’you want me to take care of you now? Wanna feel good on your husband’s cock again?”
“Yes. Please.”
You feel his cock twitch inside of you.
“Still want a divorce?”
“No—” your hips begin to sway, the hunger clawing at you, but his hands are steel restraints, fingers sinking into flesh.
“What do you want, then?”
“You,” you sob, “please, Bucky, want you—”
He watches your face contort, desperation and desire mingling into the most delicious expression he’s ever seen on you.
One day, he’ll take a picture.
“Y’know, I told you I love you earlier, but you never said it back,” a thumb holds your chin in place. “Think you can do that for me? Say it real sweet for your husband.”
Your chest cracks open with feeling. The night tumbles through you like a tidal wave, where everything comes crashing: his confession, the papers thrown on the ground, all the way to your mother’s tiramisu he got the restaurant to make for you.
Still, the wave builds. It sweeps up old memories to the forefront.t
The two of you on the balcony the night you got engaged. You crying in his arms hours before boarding a plane. A birthday party where the cake was your favorite flavor instead of his.
The surge summits at the memory of awkward pencil scratches.
James Buchanan Barnes is my best friend.
Every feeling known to you is suspended like they’re encased in floating water. The nostalgia of youth, unabated longing, dark desires, and a kinship brought about by fate—
—then gravity pulls them down, and they break.
So do you.
“I love you,” you rasp, voice hoarse with timeworn truth. “I love you so much, Bucky, I love you, I love you, I love you—”
He swallows your confession in a kiss, tongues tangled, fingers buried in hair. You grind down once.
He lets you.
So you do it again. And again.
“I love you too, baby, so fucking much,” he murmurs into your mouth. You move with the opposite of inhibition.
“My good girl. My best girl—”
He rips a scream out of you when he stills you again, only to thrust up. You’re already so close, it drives him out of his mind more than he already is.
“Gonna fill my wife up with my cum,” he grits, “make it take. Wanna see you round with me.”
The promise nearly ends you. He senses its impact, feels his own need grow.
“Yeah? You’re gonna leak for days when I’m done with you,” a growl as he mauls your neck more than he already has, “let ‘em see who you belong to.”
“Fuck—Bucky!”
“You’re mine, honey. All mine.”
He triggers your ruin like that. Smiles as he watches you shake in his lap, breathless while he relentlessly ruts into you even as spurts of viscous white oozes down your thigh. He uses his cock to push it back in.
A hint of humor tickles the back of his mind: that after all these years, it took a near-divorce to bring the two of you together.
“Remind me to burn those papers tomorrow,” he rasps against your mouth.
When he pushes you back onto the bed, he’s already making time in his schedule for a renewal of vows.
warnings: 18+ (mdni). he comes on a cupcake and you eat the cupcake. literallllly don't like, don't read. don't hate on me pls if this is not your thing, you've been warned. cum eating, making out, prone bone, idk just disgusting nasty stuff. oh and reader gets called mami like twice i'm sorry. i only speak textbook spanish but it seemed fitting, if anyone doesn't like it, i'll remove it. switch-ish jaafar?
a/n: apparently tumblr writers get dragged on mj/jaafar twitter for their crazy ideas, so pls if my name gets around on twitter protect me bc i'm not on there 😭
jaafar truly doesn’t know how he ended up in this situation. the articifial, sweet smell of vanilla frosting teases his nose as the slippery sounds of his hand working over his cock fill the room.
because here you are, hopefully yet sensually looking at your boyfriend with a cupcake in your hands. when you suggested it needed a little more frosting, jaafar didn’t know what came over him.
all he knows is that he wants to please you. make you happy. and if that means finishing on a cupcake, he would do it in a heartbeat for you.
“baby, i can’t—” he whines, sweat coating his neck as the skin of his arm chaves over the rough denim of his jeans with rough strokes of his hand. “shit, you’re so nasty, mami.”
you hum in agreement, watching how jaafar’s tip reddens, swells up, how the vein meandering over his length twitches and his stomach tenses up.
“i know, j,” you admit proudly, planting your knees on either side of his thighs, the paper wrapper of the cupcake clammy and greasy in your hands. “you’re doing s’good for me, though.”
“nghh— fuck,” jaafar sighs, his entire cock wet and sticky with precum. “please— please—” his voice sounds so pitchy and tiny, it’s almost funny.
your free hand clasps around jaafar’s moving hand, squeezing tighter and tighter to drag him closer to the finish line. your hands together make a sucky, balmy sound, mingled with jaafar’s whines and your heavy breaths. “let go for me, honey. ‘s okay,” you say.
you feel the wet patch blossoming in your panties, heat pooling in your stomach when the first spurts of his cum land on the white frosting of the cupcake. it looks fucking delicious already.
the thing is, you love jaafar’s cum. so much, you’d literally eat it. with anything. off his dick, his fingers, and even a cupcake.
your boyfriend comes undone with a loud moan, his eyes squeezed shut as he heaves through his orgasm. totally unaware of how thick his load is. literal draps of cum slathered all over the hardened factory vanilla frosting, dripping down your fingers, obscenely slow.
“oh my—” jaafar breathes out, dick still hard and twitchy, trying to come to his senses. but you can’t wait. seriously.
you cup your boyfriend’s chin between your fingers, tilting his head toward you. “look at me, baby.”
jaafar is hesitant to do so. his eyes are a little watery when they settle on you. despite being untouched, you look weirdly affected: your hair messy, your breathing heavy, the heat in your stare.
“baby, n-no—” he crumbles. he watches you plant your teeth in the cummed up cupcake like it’s the sweetest treat you’ve ever tasted. “that’s so fucking disgusting.” jaafar mewls once more, breath hitching in his throat as he watches you lick off lost drops of his release off your fingers like his cum is a culinary masterpiece.
you moan dramatically at his taste. his cum is warm in contrast to the cold vanilla frosting. mixed with the colourful sprinkles and the sweet cake itself, it ends up being a gooey, sticky substance in your mouth. slight tinges of jaafar’s bitterness whirls around in your mouth, the taste of his musk complimenting the sugary vanilla.
“it’s s’good,” you moan, taking a lick of vanilla frosting topped off with his cum. “i fucking love your cum, baby. could eat it every day.”
jaafar is slowly losing his mind. the pretty sight of you eating him up — literally — has blood rushing to his dick all over again. “don’t say those things, mami—” he mutters, his hand instinctively rubbing over himself again. “look at you, eating a fucking cummed up cupcake, hm? love me that much?”
you nod happily, indulging in the salty tang balanced out with the sweetness of the cupcake. “love you so much, j,” you tell him in between bites, white frosting sticking to your lips. “wan’to be filled up with you.”
the last bite of the special cupcake disappears in your mouth, and jaafar doesn’t hesitate one second to pull you in, tasting himself on your tongue, his own tongue sliding over your teeth, playing with your tongue to garner as much of the cupcake flavour as possible.
the kiss is so sticky and messy, drool dripping down both of your mouths as you lose yourself in each other. jaafar’s cock spasms between your bodies like a constant reminder.
without a word, jaafar deattaches himself from you, lips all swollen and wet. he leans you back gently, grabbing another cupcake from the plastic container from the nightstand.
a mischievous, teasing glint shines in his brown eyes. “my turn, princess.”
that night, jaafar makes all of your dreams come true. he fucks your tits, finishing all over your stomach. he turns you around, and does you from behind as he comes all over your back, writing down his initials on your cummed up back, branding you as his.
he closes off the night by giving you deep strokes prone bone, his larger body pinning you down into the mattress as he keeps taunting you about how you “just need to be dicked down, all the time.”
you’ve lost the ability to distinguish between his cum and your cum, mixing together and wetting the sheets like a constant faucet leaking on the duvet.
all of that, because of a cupcake.
normally i write the html-codes myself but for some reason i can't get my title to be the pale pink colour to match the dividers. can someone pls let me know if the title is in the pale pink colour or if my own laptop is tweaking?
a/n: hi loveys!!! i am SO SORRY for not posting as much or being inactive, even if it’s just for a few days 😭 this might not even seem like a big deal or something to apologize over, but i really want to be on my blog every day and either post something or at least answer asks, though as i am moving to another country in less than 3 days, my days have been FILLED and my schedule has been BOOKED with prep, seeing loved ones one more time, and writing thank you cards 🙏🏻 so thank you for understanding and being so patient with me 🥹
to make up for my recent absences, i’m going to change up my default characters list to include 5 more boys we love!!! (chigiri, barou, yukimiya, bunny, and hugo)
additionally, inspo for this post was from the fact that i think one of the most attractive things a man can do is listen (because he’s scared of his woman in a good way, he just loves your confidence) 😍
isagi is usually pretty composed, especially in public, but you have discovered the one devastating weakness in his entire tactical arsenal: you saying his full name.
doesn't matter where you are. if you say “yoichi isagi.”
he’ll perk up like “yeah?”
“come here.”
he is already moving.
there isn't even a question. no “why?” or a “what happened?” because his brain has classified your voice as a tactical command and automatically switched into execution mode.
his teammates have noticed. in fact, they picked up on this very quickly.
one time, after a match, isagi was talking with bachira when you called from across the room. “yoichi, your jacket.”
he immediately stopped talking, turned around, walked over, took the jacket you were holding, and put it on.
bachira stared. “... did you just get domesticated?”
“shut up.”
“she said ‘jacket’ and you obeyed.”
“she was reminding me because i forgot it.”
“dude, you OBEYED.”
the internet gets even worse when someone uploads a clip of you two leaving an event. you're walking slightly ahead, chatting with someone, while isagi follows behind carrying your bag, his jacket, and two shopping bags.
the caption reads: “isagi yoichi, world's best striker, domestic employee.”
isagi sees it. “why are they making fun of me?”
you glance at him. “because you're carrying my stuff.”
“... you asked me to.”
“... and?”
he looks at you for a second. “... and i wanted to.”
the comments lose their minds. because that's the thing: isagi isn't actually scared of you. he just genuinely respects your confidence, and when you take charge, there's something about watching you confidently make decisions that makes him incredibly happy.
he is absolutely the type to let you grab his wrist and pull him along through a crowded place while he follows without complaint.
someone once asked him why he never tells you where he wants to go.
isagi looked genuinely confused. “she usually knows where we're going.”
“DO YOU EVER SAY NO?”
“... if i don't want to go?”
you turn around. “yoichi.”
“i'll go.”
“BRO.”
itoshi rin
rin is the funniest case because he thinks he is immune to being bossed around. he is not.
you can literally look at him and say, “rin, sit down.” and he'll stare at you. you'll stare back. he'll sigh. then he'll sit.
“you're annoying.”
“yet you're sitting.”
“because i'm tired.”
“sure, whatever you say.”
“don't start.”
the funniest part is that he gets progressively more embarrassed whenever someone catches him doing it.
one time, you two were out with the team and rin had gotten into one of his usual arguments with someone.
you looked over. “rin.”
“what?”
“leave it.”
he immediately stopped.
the entire table went silent. isagi slowly looked over. bachira's mouth dropped open. karasu looked like he'd just witnessed a scientific breakthrough.
“... did you just tell rin what to do?”
you shrugged. “yeah.”
rin picked up his drink. “she's right.”
THE TABLE ERUPTS.
“SHE'S RIGHT?!”
“rin, are you okay?”
“did you by chance hit your head?”
“someone call a doctor.”
rin is glaring at everyone while you casually pat his shoulder. he doesn’t even argue back, which he normally does (with everyone else but you).
and the internet LOVES clips of this dynamic because rin's public persona is basically “i hate everyone and everything.” but then, you say, “rin, we're leaving,” and he grabs his bag right away.
the comments are like:
“HE'S A WELL-TRAINED EMPLOYEE.” “SHE SAID COME HERE AND THE WORLD'S MOST DIFFICULT MAN LISTENED.” “rin itoshi found the one person who can turn him into a normal boyfriend.”
he complains constantly, too, like “you boss me around.”
“you listen.”
“that's different.”
“how?”
“... i don't know.”
“exactly. see what i mean?”
he hates that you're right. he loves that you're right even more.
itoshi sae
sae is the final boss of this trope because he has the confidence, talent, reputation, and sheer audacity to make most people too intimidated to tell him anything. but you? 100% fearless.
“sae, we're leaving.”
“okay.”
that's it. no argument, attitude, or hesitation. he simply gets up and follows you.
his teammates have watched this happen so many times that they've stopped being surprised and started treating it like free entertainment.
one time, sae was sitting comfortably on a sofa during an interview while you were standing nearby. you looked at him. “sae.”
he looked up. “hm?”
“you're sitting in my seat.”
he stood up IMMEDIATELY.
the interviewer blinked. “you just... moved?”
sae looked confused. “she said it was her seat.”
“you didn't argue?”
“why would i?”
the interviewer slowly looks at you. then back at sae. “does she usually tell you what to do?”
sae gives the most casual answer imaginable: “sometimes.”
you smile. “most times.”
sae pauses. “... most times.”
the internet would have an absolute field day: “REAL MADRID STAR SAE ITOSHI DEFEATED BY A WOMAN WHO WANTS HER SEAT BACK.”
and the best part is that sae doesn't even mind. he finds your confidence attractive because you're one of the only people who doesn't treat him like some untouchable celebrity.
if he’s being difficult, you tell him. if he's forgetting something, you remind him. if he's being unnecessarily stubborn, you give him the look.
and then the great sae itoshi is going: “fine.”
you don't even have to raise your voice. “sae. let's go.”
nagi doesn't even pretend to resist. this man has the energy of a house cat being relocated from one couch to another.
“sei, we're leaving.”
“don't wanna.”
“get up.”
“too lazy.”
“seishiro.”
“okay.” he immediately stands.
reo has witnessed this enough times that he is more than personally offended. “i've been trying to get you to leave for 20 minutes.”
nagi shrugs. “she asked.”
“I ASKED.”
“yeah.”
“AND YOU SAID NO.”
“yeah.”
“WHY DOES SHE GET SPECIAL TREATMENT???”
nagi looks at you. then at reo. “she's scarier.”
“I'M STANDING RIGHT HERE.”
and you're not even mean to him! that's what makes it funnier. you're just confident.
“sei, put your shoes on.”
“okay.”
“sei, stop playing and eat.”
“okay.”
“sei, you left your phone upstairs.”
“oh.” he turns around.
eventually, the internet catches a clip of you walking through an airport with nagi trailing behind you, holding your bag and looking half-asleep. the caption: “seishiro nagi has mastered the art of being a passenger princess.”
nagi sees the post. “they think i'm scared of you or something.”
you glance over. “are you?”
he thinks for a second. “a little.”
“why?”
“because when you're serious, i know i'm supposed to listen.”
“good.”
“see? that.”
“what?”
“that voice.” he pulls his hood over his head. “scary.”
but despite that, he’s smiling. because he likes it. so much.
mikage reo
reo is probably the one who gets teased the most because he is normally such a competent, polished, capable person. he's rich, confident, socially intelligent. he can handle business meetings, negotiations, interviews, and entire rooms full of important people.
but you say: “reo, we're going.”
and he goes: “yes, ma'am.”
MA'AM. you didn't even ask him to say that. it just came out.
nagi nearly falls over laughing the first time he hears it. “reo, bro.”
“what?”
“did you just call your girlfriend ma'am?”
“shut up.”
“YES, MA'AM.”
“nagi.”
“YES, MA'AM.”
you are trying so hard not to laugh. your boyfriend realizes what he said and covers his face.
additionally, reo genuinely loves that you take the lead sometimes because he's constantly expected to be the responsible one. with you, he can actually relax and let someone else make the decision.
you walk into a restaurant. “reo, sit here.”
“okay.”
“reo, you want this?”
“whatever you want, love.”
nagi looks between the two of you. “you literally let her drag you around by your sleeve.”
and because reo is so openly proud of you, he doesn't actually mind the public teasing. if anything, he secretly finds it funny.
someone asks him during an interview, “who usually makes the decisions in your relationship?”
reo smiles. “she does.”
“really?”
“yeah.”
“does that bother you?”
he looks toward you off-camera, sees you watching him with an amused smile, and immediately shakes his head. “why would it?”
then you mouth, “good answer.”
reo laughs.
the interviewer notices. “what did she say?”
reo looks directly into the camera. “uh, nothing.”
you raise an eyebrow.
“... she said good answer.”
that’s when the internet declares you the actual captain of the relationship.
and reo doesn't even defend himself. because honestly speaking? he likes having a girlfriend who can put him in his place while still making him feel completely adored.
bachira meguru
bachira is absolutely delighted that you're the boss.
this man is already naturally energetic and impulsive, so having a girlfriend who can grab his hand and go, “okay, we're doing this now,” is basically his favorite thing in the world.
you don't even have to be particularly stern. “meguru, come here.”
“okay!” he’s already running toward you.
his teammates have genuinely started using you as a remote control for him. they’ll say: “bachira, stop bothering kunigami.”
“but–”
you look at him. “meguru.”
“okayyyyy.”
kunigami just stares. “how did you do that?”
“i don't know.”
bachira grins. “she has the girlfriend privilege!”
the funny thing is that bachira will actively expose himself. he'll be sitting with the guys, someone will make a joke about you being the one who wears the pants, and bachira will happily nod. “yeah! she does!”
“bro, you don't have to admit it.”
“why not?”
“have some dignity.”
bachira looks genuinely confused. “i have dignity. i just also have a girlfriend who's really cool. i can’t help but worship the ground she walks on.”
once, you're walking through an airport with him when you notice he's wandered toward a shop.
“meguru.”
he stops. turns around. “yeah?”
“we're going. we’re gonna be late for our flight.”
“okie!” and he immediately jogs back to you.
someone catches the entire interaction on video and titles it: “meguru bachira getting recalled by his girlfriend like a golden retriever 😭”
bachira sees the post and thinks it's hilarious. “look! they compared me to a friendly dog!”
“because you act like one.”
“do i get treats?”
“if you behave.”
“I'LL BEHAVE.”
no one has ever recovered from this.
shidou ryusei
shidou is dangerously entertained by your confidence.
this man is not intimidated by much, but he absolutely loves when you look him dead in the eyes and tell him what he's going to do. you can say: “ryusei, we're leaving.”
and he’ll go: “make me.”
but the second you hold your hand out, like “come here”?
he takes it right away. “yes, ma'am.”
the silence from everyone around you is immaculate. karasu is staring. otoya is trying not to laugh. rin looks exhausted.
shidou just grins like he has won something. “what?”
“you just listened.”
“yeah.”
“without arguing.”
“she's hot when she's bossy.”
you give him the look. “watch your mouth.”
he straightens immediately. “yes, i’m sorry, ma'am.”
karasu has to step away.
shidou actually loves being able to switch off around you. he's loud, chaotic, and constantly running at a million miles per hour, so when you take his wrist and guide him somewhere, he'll follow without hesitation. he'll even deliberately test you sometimes just because he enjoys seeing you stand your ground.
“nuh uh.”
“ryusei.”
“nope.”
“come here.”
“...”
“now.”
he gets up. “you are SO scary.”
“you're smiling.”
“oh, did i say scary? i meant sexy, haha–” he gets slapped in the arm for that.
someone catches him following you around after you've told him to stop causing trouble. the caption: “ryusei shidou after his girlfriend says ‘enough’: 🧍♂️”
shidou reposts it with: “she's the boss unfortunately 😔” then five minutes later: “sorry i meant *fortunately.”
karasu tabito
karasu is probably the smoothest about it.
he knows you're confident. he knows you know you're confident. so naturally, he finds the whole thing ridiculously attractive. but the thing is, karasu is naturally observant, so he catches onto your little habits very quickly.
he knows exactly what your “come here” means. he knows the difference between your “tabito” when you're teasing him and your “tabito” when he's about to get told off. and he knows that little eyebrow raise means he should probably stop whatever he's doing.
one time, he's teasing you in front of the team. “what're ya gonna do about it, princess?”
you point toward the door. “go.”
he blinks. “... go where?”
“outside.”
“why?”
“because you're irritating me.”
karasu laughs. “heard.” and walks out.
everyone is silent.
hiori looks at the doorway. “did he just–”
“yep,” otoya says. “he just got kicked out. put in timeout.”
karasu comes back five minutes later with a drink for you. “peace offering.”
“thank you.”
“yer welcome.”
you smile. he is so cooked.
and the internet LOVES him because he's still a menace everywhere else. he'll casually talk trash to opponents, outsmart defenders, provoke his teammates, and generally act like he owns the room.
then you appear. “tabito, we're going.”
“aight.” he walks out the exit all giddy.
someone once comments: “karasu has never been defeated on the pitch, but his girlfriend has a 100% win rate.”
karasu likes the comment.
kaiser michael
kaiser is an interesting one because he doesn't exactly look like someone who would willingly let anybody boss him around. so it makes it approximately 10x funnier when he does.
you don't even need to raise your voice. “mihya.”
“hm?”
“come here.”
he walks over. “what?”
“your collar is crooked.” so you fix it.
he stands completely still while you adjust it, looking down at you with that little amused expression. “better?”
“yes.”
“good.”
ness is watching from across the room like he's witnessing something forbidden.
kaiser does not let people fuss over him. but with you? apparently, different rules apply.
one time, you tell him to hand you his phone. he does.
ness nearly chokes. “kaiser?”
“what?”
“you just gave her your phone.”
“yes.”
“without asking why?”
kaiser looks at him. “why would i ask?”
“because–”
“she asked.”
ness looks like his worldview has been shattered.
kaiser isn't actually frightened of you. he just finds your confidence deeply attractive, and there's something almost calming about letting you take charge when you're together.
if you say, “we're leaving,” he'll finish whatever he's doing and follow. if you say, “sit,” he'll raise an eyebrow before sitting. if you say, “stop,” he'll stop. and if someone teases him? he doesn't even bother defending himself.
“kaiser, aren't you supposed to be the one giving orders?”
he glances toward you. “not today.”
“you've been domesticated.”
“and?”
“that's all you have to say?”
“i'm happy.”
THE INTERNET GOES BALLISTIC: “MICHAEL KAISER JUST ADMITTED HE LIKES BEING DOMESTICATED. PACK IT UP.”
kaiser’s reading the comments and articles while sitting beside you completely unbothered, ignoring the fact that you’re stealing food from his plate.
“you don't mind?”
“no.”
“why?”
“because it's you.”
and now everyone is quiet because, underneath all the teasing, they realize he genuinely doesn't mind giving you control.
ness alexis
ness is finished.
you don't even have to tell him what to do most of the time because he's so eager to make your life easier that he anticipates everything.
“nessie, can you–”
“already done.”
“i didn't even finish.”
“i know.”
his teammates start calling him your personal assistant.
one day, you walk into the training facility and say: “lex, can you hold this?”
he takes it. “yeah.”
“and this?”
“sure.”
“and my jacket?”
“of course.”
five minutes later, he's carrying approximately half your belongings.
kaiser looks at him. “bro.”
“yes?”
“are you aware you're carrying everything she owns?”
ness looks down at the pile. “... yeah.”
“and you're okay with that?”
“she asked.”
kaiser sighs. “hopeless.”
the internet catches a clip of you walking ahead while ness follows behind carrying your bag, jacket, shopping bags, and a drink. the caption: “ness alexis has become his girlfriend's sidekick 😭”
ness sees it and quickly gets defensive. “i'm not her sidekick.”
you turn around. “ness.”
“yes?”
“get over here, lovey.”
he immediately walks over.
the person filming starts laughing. “YOU JUST PROVED THEIR POINT.”
ness's face goes red. “i was already gonna walk over to her anyway!”
“you were several meters away.”
“she called me!”
truthfully, ness doesn't even mind being teased about it. he likes that you're confident enough to take the lead, especially because he tends to overthink things himself.
you can literally put your hand out and say: “give me that.”
“okay.”
or “come with me.”
“okay.”
or “we're leaving. now.”
“okay.”
one day, someone asks: “does he know the word no?”
you look at ness. “nessie?”
“yes?”
“do you know the word no?”
he thinks about it. “... i think so.”
the funniest part is that ness isn't even embarrassed about being wrapped around your finger. he'll happily admit it. “she's confident. i like that.”
“so she tells you what to do?”
“sometimes.”
you look at him. “you mean most of the time.”
ness smiles sheepishly. “most of the time.”
kaiser, standing behind him, mutters “pathetic.”
and ness GIGGLES.
that’s when the entire team realizes there is ONE man in this building being walked around on a metaphorical leash. and it’s him.
chigiri hyoma
chigiri is probably the most elegant about it because he doesn't make a big production out of following your lead. he's simply very comfortable with the fact that you are a woman who knows what she wants, and if your decision makes sense, he's going with it.
you're walking through a crowded shopping district together when you suddenly grab his hand. “this way.”
“okay.” he follows. that's it.
but a teammate who happens to be walking behind you two watches this happen and goes: “wait.”
you keep walking.
“chigiri.”
“hm?”
“did i just see you let her drag you away without asking where you're going?”
chigiri looks over his shoulder. “she knows where she's going.”
“AND YOU DON'T?”
“uh… no.”
he genuinely finds your confidence attractive, too. there's something he likes about watching you walk into a room like you already belong there, because he knows you aren't waiting around for someone else to make decisions for you.
but he's also got a little bit of a “yes, dear” boyfriend streak that comes out when you're particularly determined.
“hyoma, we're leaving.”
“five minutes.”
“now.”
“... okay.”
he can be incredibly stubborn with everyone else. like his teammates will go: “chigiri, come over here.”
“no.”
and his coaches will go: “chigiri, we need–”
“i'm busy.”
but all you have to say is: “hyoma.”
“coming.”
the team collectively loses it every single time.
one reporter once asks him whether he's the one who makes decisions in your relationship.
chigiri thinks about it. “we both do.”
you nod. “mostly me.”
he gives you a look. “don't expose me.”
“you just agreed.”
“i was being polite.”
“sure.”
he sighs. “see what i mean?”
the clip gets posted online with the caption: “chigiri hyoma negotiating with his girlfriend like she's his manager.”
chigiri comments: “she's more demanding.”
you reply: “but you’re still my bf tho.”
his response: “unfortunately.”
then three seconds later, he pulls a shidou and edits it to: “fortunately.”
barou shoei
barou is in absolute denial.
this man will spend his entire life insisting that he is the one running the relationship while simultaneously obeying your instructions with military precision.
you could literally say: “sho, sit.”
and he'd sit. but then he'd glare at you. “don't talk to me like i'm a dog.”
“you sat.”
“because i was going to sit anyway.”
his teammates have started keeping a mental record of these incidents.
one time, you two are at a restaurant with several of the guys, and barou starts reorganizing the table because somebody put their utensils in the wrong place.
you watch him for a moment. “shouei.”
“what?”
“leave it.”
he freezes. “... they're doing it wrong.”
“i know.”
“it's bothering me.”
“i know.”
“...”
you hold out your hand. “it’s fine.”
barou grumbles under his breath, walks over, and sits beside you.
the entire table is silent.
isagi finally goes: “did you just–”
“don't.”
“but you–”
“i said don't.”
you pat barou's shoulder. “good. this is progress.”
barou's ears turn red. “don't.”
“what?”
“don't do that.”
“do what?”
“that.”
“you're going to have to be more specific, sho.”
“you know what you're doing.”
karasu is practically dying.
the internet would have a field day with him because barou's entire public image is built around being the king, yet everyone has footage of his girlfriend pointing at a chair and watching him sit down.
“the king has been overthrown.”
“barou shouei found his queen and immediately lost the throne.”
“bro runs the kitchen and she runs bro.”
and barou will, without hesitation, fight the allegations. “i'm not scared of her.”
you look at him. “shouei.”
“what?”
“we're leaving.”
he stands. “fine.”
“weren't you saying something?”
“no.”
the corner of your lips tilt upward into that knowing smile and he catches it.
“stop looking at me like that.”
“like what?”
“like you won.”
“you did this to yourself, king.”
he hates how much he loves you.
yukimiya kenyu
yukimiya is the boyfriend who makes your leadership look like the most natural thing in the world.
he isn't submissive about it, and he isn't particularly intimidated either. he just has this incredibly calm attitude of: “my girlfriend knows what she wants, so why would i make this difficult?”
you're walking through an event when you notice people crowding around him. “ken, we're going.”
“okie dokie.” he gives everyone a polite smile, takes your hand, and leaves.
one of the reporters calls after him: “yukimiya! your girlfriend just pulled you away!”
he turns around. “yeah?”
“does she always do that?”
yukimiya smiles. “when she wants to.”
“and you just listen?”
“when she's right.”
you look at him. “so always?”
he laughs. “i didn't say that.”
the internet quickly starts shipping him with his own common sense.
but yukimiya absolutely enjoys your confidence. he loves watching you handle situations that would make other people hesitate, especially when you're advocating for yourself or standing your ground with someone.
sometimes he'll intentionally let you take over because he likes seeing you in your element. he’ll ask, “where are we going?”
“i decided.”
“oh?”
“yes.”
“should i be concerned?”
“no.”
“then lead the way.” and he'll follow behind you with this amused little smile that makes it extremely obvious he's enjoying himself.
one teammate eventually asks: “do you ever tell her no?”
yukimiya looks genuinely thoughtful. “of course.”
“when?”
“when i disagree.”
“and how often is that?”
he pauses. “... rarely. she's usually right.”
you glance over after hearing their entire conversation. “usually?”
“don't push your luck.”
“come here.”
“yes, ma'am.”
he realizes what he just said.
you start laughing. “did you just–”
“forget it.” but he’s smiling so hard that his cheeks hurt.
iglesias bunny
bunny is absolutely shameless about being your boyfriend. this man does not care if the entire world knows that you're the one who can get him to behave. in fact, he thinks it's hilarious.
you're at an event and bunny is talking to a group of people when you call: “bunny!”
he immediately looks over. “yeah?”
“come here.”
“oookay!” he jogs over.
one of his teammates looks at him. “you didn't even ask why.”
bunny shrugs. “she said come here.”
“that's it?”
“yeah.”
he gets there and you fix his collar. “this part was folded.”
“oh. thanks.”
“you're welcome.”
bunny smiles. “anything else, boss?”
“don't start with that.”
“yes, boss.”
he is absolutely the type to make jokes about himself before anyone else can.
if someone says, “bunny, your girlfriend runs you,” he'll laugh and go, “yeah, and?”
“aren't you embarrassed, bro?”
“why would i be?”
“she's bossing you around like you’re her employee.”
bunny points at you. “look at her. would you argue with a woman like that?”
bunny actually likes when you take charge because he's naturally playful and spontaneous. he'll make 15 ridiculous suggestions. you'll listen to all 15. then: “we're doing number seven.”
“YES.” he's so easy.
someone once asks him on camera: “who's the leader in your relationship?”
bunny immediately points off-camera at you. “her.”
“without hesitation?”
“bro, have you met her?”
the interviewer laughs. “are you scared of her?”
bunny grins. “terrified.”
you yell from across the room: “bunny!”
“COMING!” he runs off.
the interviewer just stares into the camera. “i think that answers the question…”
hugo vivian
hugo is probably the most quietly whipped out of everybody. he isn't dramatic about it, nor does he make jokes about it. he doesn't even really acknowledge that you're bossing him around. he simply does what you ask. and because he's so composed, people don't notice at first… until they do.
you're all leaving a restaurant after a team dinner when you look at him. “vivi, we're going.”
“alright.” he gets up.
“bring your jacket.”
“okay.”
“and your phone.”
“got it.”
“and stop walking so far ahead.”
he slows down. “sorry, cherie.”
loki watches this entire sequence. “hugo.”
“hm?”
“you realize she's basically controlling your entire operating system, right?”
hugo looks at you. “she's organized.”
“that's not what i said.”
“i heard you the first time.”
he has absolutely no shame about it, either. if you're more decisive about something, he'll happily defer to you. “where do you want to eat?”
“there.”
“okay.”
“what do you want?”
“whatever you're having.”
“what time should we leave?”
“you decide.”
“hugo.”
“what?”
“do you have opinions?”
“yes.”
“then tell me.”
he smiles. “i like watching you decide.”
oh. the teasing has to stop because that's actually incredibly sweet.
but naturally, his teammates ruin the moment. “BRO IS IN LOVE.” “leave him alone.” “she's got you on a leash.”
hugo looks completely unfazed. “if you say so.”
you reach for his hand. “come on.”
he takes it. “alright.”
someone behind you mutters: “he didn't even look back.”
hugo turns his head. “i heard that.”
later, a reporter asks him about your relationship. “who's more stubborn?”
hugo immediately says: “me.”
you look at him. “really?”
he pauses. “... you.”
the reporter laughs. “that was a quick change.”
hugo smiles. “i like being alive.”
the internet adores him for this matter because that's the running joke with hugo: he's not afraid of you because you're harsh or because he can't stand up to you. he's “afraid” of you because he knows the second you give him that look, he's going to cave anyway, and he'd rather skip the performance and go straight to doing whatever you asked.
you’ll be walking beside him holding his hand while he carries your bag and someone will comment: “vivian hugo could probably bench press his girlfriend, but lets her boss him around anyway.”
hugo likes the comment.
you see it. “you liked that?”
“yeah.”
“why?”
he looks down at you with a little smile. “because it's true.”
