“Souls Dont Meet By Accident”

Writer

[wntersdoe]

18+ mdni

cw: degrading, minor spanking, power dynamic, spitting, john being a bit of a bully, choking, soft!dom john

husband! john price whom told you not to leave the cabin but you never listen, do you?

You knew the second John found out about what you’d done, that he wouldn't let it go by scolding you with a few words. John had always thoroughly enjoyed physical punishment, which meant he would fuck you senseless until you’d listen. John also knew that you very much enjoyed defying his words just so he’d touch you.

And what’s fun if not being a bit of a brat from time to time?

John had explicitly told you ''Don't ever leave this cabin unless I'm right behind ya, got it?'' and yet you had defied his words. And John didn't take disobedience lightly.

That’s exactly what you'd done that day. Having decided to leave your shared cozy little cabin and sneak out to pick some berries.

You knew it was stupid; he’d make you feel it the second he caught onto your little adventure. But you wanted that and enjoyed going against what John said.

You long for the outcome just as much as John love giving it to you.

Giggling at the thought as you trekked further into the forest. It was beautiful here at this time of year, making you feel all warm and content. John had bought the cabin a few years back, wanting some place where the two of you could enjoy the scenery and the company of each other.

You hadn’t even been out for ten minutes before a branch nearby made a sharp crackling sound, and the sign alone let you know that John had discovered your absence from the cabin.

''Did you forget what I told you, love'?'' John’s voice echoed from somewhere in the distance, and your eyes averted to every direction, trying to spot him. But he was nowhere to be seen. Though it grew silent after that, like you had imagined his voice and the sound of him approaching altogether.

So you turned back around, bent down to gather a couple more ripe and juicy berries. Straightening up you feel it, that familiar scent rushing up your nose, pine, gun oil, and the distinct bodily smell that belonged solely to him.

You knew you hadn't imagined hearing him earlier. He was a military veteran after all. Years spent hunting down enemies who didn’t wanna be found, learning how to approach prey without making the slightest sound, unless he wanted you to know he was there. Lurking, waiting for the right moment to come up on you.

You stood frozen for what felt like an eternity until a hand snaked around your stomach, yanking you back against a solid and warm chest. ''I'll always find you.'' John's voice was calm, voice lowering ''You know that right?''

He nuzzled at the side of your neck, his beard scraping deliciously against your skin, his hand tightened around your stomach, trying to press himself even closer to you, if that was even possible. ''Are you... mad?'' The question was dumb, yet it came out of your mouth automatically.

He chuckled as he turned you around to face him, your eyes locking with his blue ones. ''Mad? Oh love... I'm furious. You know what happens to wives who don't listen.''

''They get punished.'' You answered, slotting your bottom lip between your teeth, hands tightening on the basket filled with berries.

He hummed in response, hand lifting to pull your bottom lip free, ''No biting. That's my job, love''

And later on, he'll have you right there on the forest floor, begging him to slow down his pace because it's just too much. His hips snap against yours as he slides the fat head of his cock in and out, as you're barely able to keep up with it.

Your knees are pushed up against your chest, giving John the perfect angle to hit that sweet spot. He’ll lift your hips up and pull almost all the way out and hold you there for a bit, before slamming right back in. Hands clutching and clawing at his back, as your cunt welcomed him back.

‘’Yeah that’s it. Sucking me right back in.’’

Because John doesn't do soft. This is always how it goes; he does rough and harsh. He wants to remind this pretty body that only he's allowed to be inside it, and use it whenever he damn pleases.

He is your husband after all.

As your husband, the thought of another man even breathing in the same direction as you would have John threaten to put a bullet right between the guy's eyes. Which is why there will never be another man, ever.

Till death do us part and all that.

Which is why he's so determined to go all the way in everything he does, especially related to you, his wife.

''John... please.. it's..mphf.. too much.'' You whine as your nails dig into the soil of the forest floor, head going numb from the overwhelming sensation of him moving inside you. He stretched you out so well every. single. time.

Everything about John was so big. Large hands and forearms to pick you up whenever he wanted. His weight pinning you down on any surface he could find. Manhandling and putting you in any position he’d like. There was absolutely nothing small about this hunk of a man.

''You asked for this the second you decided to step that pretty arse out the cabin door.'' He growled as his hand reached out to grasp your throat, constricting your airway just enough to show you who’s in control, whilst the other was occupied with feeling his cock hitting that sweet spot inside your tummy.

The pad of his finger smears the cherry-flavored gloss you had applied earlier that day, ''Now open that fuckin' mouth for me.''

You did as he said without much thought, opening your mouth for him.

His eyes darkened, and if his pupils weren't already blown out, they certainly were now, ''That's a good wife.'' He praised, then spat into your mouth at the same time as he delivered a harsh thrust, making your breath hitch before you swallowed.

''This pussy is so greedy for me, isn't that right, love?'' His eyes were locked on your face, watching the way your eyebrows scrunched up, the way your tits were bouncing and before you knew it, he was leaning down to drag his teeth over one just enough to sting before soothing it with his tongue.

''These tits, this cunt, that mouth, they belong to me all the same.'' He added as he moved to the other one, ravishing that one just the same. You could almost not hear what he was saying, your brain felt all floaty and numb, only able to reply back with a, ''Mhm...''

John snickered at your response, ''Going all dumb already. Pathetic little thing.'' He taunted as he slid his cock out of you, a trickle of pre cum dribbling down his shaft and onto your glistening cunt. You whimpered at the loss, already reaching out for him again.

He smacked at your hand, making a tsk sound before grabbing your waist to force you onto all fours. ''You don't make the calls here. Especially not after disobeying me.''

''John...'' You whined, eyes glassy and bottom lip pushing out into a pout.

You could barely register how rough the forest floor felt against your knees, brain dumbed down to a puddle, and the only thought swirling around in that little head of yours was his cock.

He delivers a smack to your left ass cheek, making you jolt forward and your eyes closing on a whimper. ''I told you not to leave the cabin without me, didn't I? But you just had to go and act like a brat. You did it just so I'd fuck you.''

He wasn't wrong, not in the slightest. You knew he'd correct you for your actions. John was protective by nature, and the rule of you not leaving the cabin without him was set simply to keep you safe.

John groans as he slips back in from behind, hands gripping your hips so harshly they'd be blue and purple by morning. He drove into you at a steady pace, your soft moans and his grunts mingling together. John grabs a fistful of your hair, twirling it in his hand and pulls your head back.

You met his eyes over your shoulder, ''You gonna start being a good little wife and behave, ay?'' You nodded, lips parting as you push back against him, meeting his rhythm. Your lack of verbal response has him swatting at your ass again.

''Words, love.'' He demands, the hold on your hair bordering on painful.

''Yes... yes.. I promise ah—'' You replied, hips twitching as you felt your orgasm inching closer. John notices and slips one of his hands down your front, finding your clit. The other letting go of your hair to grasp at your hip. Pleasure licks up your spine as John's cock drives into you, faster now, along with his digits rubbing at your swollen bud.

It was almost too good, almost too much.

''You say you promise, but I know you're going to do it again. I'm not an fuckin' muppet. You -thrust-know -thrust-that -thrust- don't you, wife?'' Every word punctuates with his cock kissing your cervix. You cry out as your head bows forward. Soft little sounds slipping out from your lips.

He was being a meanie.

''You gonna cum, hm?'' You bobbed your head in response, feeling too fucked out to give him a proper answer this time. Hoping that was enough for him.

John was nearing his own end, but he was holding himself back. Although you'd been bad, he always made sure you came first.

Soon enough your orgasm crashes over you like a wave, body shaking and twitching. Overwhelmed and starting to turn into jelly as you cry out. John wraps his arm around your waist to make sure you don't fall face-first right onto the ground. ''Easy there, love.''

He mouths at your shoulder blades as he delivers a few more thrusts into you before his own climax comes. John swears ''Fuck.. yeah that’s it, so fucking good....'' as ropes of cum paint the gummy walls of your cunt, his sweat-slicked front molding against your back.

For a moment, there was nothing but the sound of your breathing, the rush of your heartbeat in your ears. You both stay connected as the pleasure was slowly ebbing away, and exhaustion came. John pushes your damp hair to the side, leaning down to kiss your shoulder.

''You alright?'' He questions. Despite his roughness just moments ago, he’d still slip in with soft-spoken words.

''Uh huh...'' You lean back against him, trying to catch your breath.

John let out a gruff laugh, ''You’ll go against what I say next time, won’t you?'' You can't help but laugh, the sound light and breathless, tilting your head back to give him a chaste kiss on his jaw.

''I would never. I’m a good wife who listens to her husband.'' You try to sound serious, but you were never really good at hiding what you mean. John raises a brow, the look on your face betraying you as you hold back from smiling.

Because you both knew that it wouldn’t go long before you’d do something like that again.

‘’Cheeky little thing.’’

a/n: i tried a more present-tense style of writing, as it’s such a habit to switch between both in the same fic. hopefully it turned out enjoyable!!

[our-queer-experience]

ive been repeating this in my head all week. auntie likes wearing the strap…….

[repsfolkwhore]

just had a breakdown and I was crying so much. now I'm gonna read smut

[m1n-nie]

PT 2:; Hyperspermia on Sub!choso

(term—hyperspermia: a condition where the male has an abnormally large amount of semen; above 6ml)

an nsfwaudio of the inspo final part

"f- fuck me.." Choso whined—voice so high-pitched from how your hand's squeezing around him. "fuck m-me- ohh, p-please.. fuck me."

He didn't really expect for you to barge in the bathroom because of your worry on why he's so suddenly letting out loud noises in the room—nor did you expect him to be holding his semi-hard cock in hand with his cum splattered right down, making a large mess.

Annnnd, he also didn't expect for you to lock the bathroom door—make him a mess with your left hand whilst your right hand shoved your phone near his mouth to record his moans for 'later.'

And there he was—tired, you kept stroking the base of his dick, the tip becoming so red that it's redness is spreading to half the base from the many, many times you've edged him. Not to mention—the amount of pre-cum that's been coming out all over his dick and your hands, making it seem like he'd cum already multiple times though it's the opposite. The stickiness was so much—that he knew the recording would definitely hear those lewdly sounds.

He was tired—but fuck, did he just want your sweet pussy around him, fleshy walls tightening around his swollen cock.

"mommy—" he slipped, covering it with a following moan; "p- ppft- p- please.." Choso gasped, "fuck me.. p- please." His teary eyes widened as he looked up at you desperately, realizing his high is once again close—"s- sslow down.."

He begged—yet you continued your pace, stroking his cock up! And down, you held his chin as you pressed closer to him. You sighed his name; "Choso.. such a mess you're making." You teased, pulling his head closer to your's by his chin.

"haa- ha- haaa- fuck" he begs again—"Please.. I need- n- nneed your pretty pussy on me- p- please.." his sweaty hand desperately clinged on your wrist. "Fuck me.." he whispered. "I wanna feel like m' yours"

As his words spilled out his mouth—an abundance of his cum squirted out of his tip, white covering all over his cock and her hands—he squeaked; "t- too much"

"It's s- ssuch a waste, can you- can I have you n- now? Please? So- soo I can put it all inside you.."

Hello!! Finally, part 2.. though yes there's a part three, sorry, I cant freaking do a long ahh paged smut rn I'm busy but I hope this will feed you<3

Also, if you comment I'll tag you on the next part, thank you :c

Tags: @mythingsrhere @piixcelz @soozeu @psychobitchsyndrome @shinyfestmilkshake @namasaya

[polaroidsex]

★ . . situationship!toji making you cūm mid-argument.

the tv flickers with some random action movie neither of you are really paying attention to.

you’re tucked against your eight months situation ship (?) side on the couch, legs spread lazily over his thigh, his big hand shoved down the front of your loose shorts. two thick fingers are lazily circling your clit, slow and almost absent-minded, like he’s just playing with you out of boredom while he watches the screen.

you’re trying to stay focused on the argument you started five minutes ago.

“i’m serious, toji,” you snap, voice a little breathy despite yourself. “you can’t just disappear for days and then show up like nothing happened. i’m not your fucking doormat—”

“mm,” he hums, not even looking at you. his fingers keep rubbing lazy little circles over your swollen clit, slick sounds barely audible under the movie. “you done yelling yet?”

you clench your jaw, heat crawling up your neck. “no, i’m not done. you always do this shit. you think you can just—”

his middle finger presses harder, dragging slow and firm right over the sensitive bundle of nerves. your breath hitches mid-sentence. toji’s lips twitch like he’s fighting a smirk, eyes still glued to the tv like he’s barely invested in what his hand is doing between your legs.

“keep going,” he says calmly. “i’m listening.”

you try. you realllly do. but his touch is getting more deliberate now, fingers sliding down to spread your wetness before coming back up to rub tight, slick circles on your clit. your thighs twitch, one foot pressing into the couch cushion.

“you’re such an asshole,” you hiss, but your voice is losing its edge. “you disappear, you don’t text, you don’t—fuck—”

toji’s finger speeds up just a fraction, still lazy but consistent, perfect pressure that makes your hips start to roll into his hand without your permission. he finally glances over at you, eyes dark and amused.

“what was that?” he asks, voice low and smug. “i didn’t catch the last part, sweetheart.”

you grab his wrist, but you don’t pull him away. your breathing is getting faster, chest rising and falling as the pleasure builds against your will. “i said… you’re a selfish prick, toji—”

he chuckles, low and rough, and suddenly his fingers move faster, rubbing your clit with firm, relentless strokes. your shorts are soaked, the fabric sticking to you as his thick fingers work you open. your argument is crumbling, words turning into soft, broken gasps.

“yeah?” he murmurs, finally turning his full attention to you. “keep telling me how much you hate me while you’re dripping all over my hand.”

your head falls back against the couch, hips grinding desperately into his palm. the tv noise fades into background static. all you can focus on is the tight, aching heat building fast between your legs.

“toji— fuck, i’m— i’m still mad at you—”

“i know,” he says, almost sweetly, but his fingers don’t stop. he rubs your clit faster, harder, using the slick mess you’re making to glide perfectly over that sensitive spot. “cum anyway.”

it hits you mid-breath.

your back arches off the couch as the orgasm crashes through you, sudden and brutal. your thighs clamp around his hand, hips jerking, a broken moan ripping from your throat while he keeps rubbing you through it. toji watches your face the entire time, eyes half-lidded, that lazy smirk finally breaking across his mouth as you shake and whimper.

he doesn’t stop until you’re twitching, oversensitive and gasping, weakly pushing at his wrist. only then does he pull his hand out of your shorts, fingers shiny and dripping with you. he brings them to his mouth and licks them clean, slow and deliberate, while you try to catch your breath.

“you were saying?” he asks, voice thick with amusement.

you glare at him, still panting, thighs trembling.

“i still hate you,” you mutter weakly.

toji chuckles and leans in, pressing a rough kiss to your neck.

“yeah. sure you do.”

[lotuspetalss]

First post a little nervy

[remanence-of-love]

[everybodyhatesari]

Well yea duh

[plsdontfeedtherats]

"You gonna be good?" "Puppy need a treat?" "puppy feeling needy?" "Oh come on, be good for me" "is puppy in heat?" "Careful there, don't wanna be bad, do you?" "Aww puppy's waiting for me?" "Go lay down."

Actually creaming my pants rn.

[aidashakur]

[belimah]

Yakuza AU by Lilly

[houseofhyde]

manchild.

pairing. bucky barnes x fem!reader synopsis. bucky can’t help but wonder why they always come running to you,, or your living fossil of a roommate disapproves of your taste in men and its totally not because he wants a taste of you. manchild au masterlist. warnings. mdni! smut (pwp, service dom!bucky, unprotected piv, oral sex - f receiving, clothed sex for like a sec, fingering, creampie, tummy bulge, dirty talk, dry humping, possessiveness, dumbification, praise, temperature play, food play, nipple play, pussy pronouns, hair pulling - m receiving, multiple orgasms, consent kink, implied competency kink and cum eating, bucky barnes begs agenda 2025™, both bucky and reader spend the whole fic towing the fine line between horny and pervy), no use of y/n, angst, fluff, frenemies to lovers, roommate!bucky, cocky+flirty!bucky, also guard dog!bucky (if that even makes sense) (it doesn’t), jealousy, pining, so much bickering, attachment issues, miscommunication bc these two combined have the emotional intelligence of a chihuahua, bucky’s hobby is baking bc i said so. reader inclusivity. bucky can pick the reader up (but he’s literally a super soldier so 🧍‍♂️), one mention of bucky trying to grab the reader’s hair, reader has a nut allergy and does not speak russian (neither do i, so please forgive the very small amount of google translated russian) word count. 16.3k hyde’s input. god bless sabrina for saving the summer again. also don’t let this flop, it’s my birthday tomorrow and i’m not above crying over poorly-received erotica (i’m joking) (no i’m not)

Bucky Barnes is not someone you’d call a friend.

He’s more of a nuisance, really. A fossil, dropped off at your door by one Sam Wilson with a simple request: “Can he crash here for a few days?”

That was four months ago, and Bucky’s still living on your couch.

Which is exactly where he’s sat right now, head buried in a book you barely even remember owning. The pages, so full of neglect, give him hassle as he tries to turn them, catching on one another and refusing to be pried apart by vibranium fingers.

“How do I look?” You ask as you step out from your bedroom, hands fastening an earring into your right ear.

Unfazed by your appearance, he doesn’t bother glancing up from his book as he sardonically replies, “With your eyes, like the rest of us.”

You contemplate plucking one of your heels off and throwing it at his head. Knowing your luck, it will fly right past him and smash your coffee table into pieces. Just like your roommate, it’s vintage. Unlike your roommate, you willingly brought it into your home.

“Ha. Ha.” Rounding the couch, you swat his feet off the table before snapping his book closed. “Now if you’re done playing comedian, would you answer the fucking question?”

“That’s your generation's problem, you know? You swear more than you breathe.”

“Better than waging a world war every few years.”

“Considering the current state of the world, I wouldn’t rest too comfortably on that one,” Bucky rises from his seat and squeezes past you, irritatingly close in a way that makes sure you feel each defined muscle in his chest as it brushes against your shoulder. “Anyway, you look fine, as always.”

“I look fine?” You parrot his words and follow his footsteps over to the kitchen. “Careful Barnes, don’t get too excited, it’s not healthy for a senior citizen’s heart.”

“You know what I mean,” a heavy sigh slips out the soldier’s mouth as he busies himself filling the kettle, glancing back at you from over his shoulder as he continues speaking. “I don’t understand why you worry so much about all of… this.” He gestures at you, water splashing off the tips of his fingers.

“God forbid a woman cares about looking good on a date,” you’re becoming annoyingly aware of the pout on your lips and try your best to correct it, whilst prying open the fridge door and fishing out a bottle of beer. “Gee if only it were still the 40s, then I could slap some mercury on my lips and hit the town with a man ready to buy me off my daddy for the cheap, cheap price of two goats!”

The frustration within you only rises as you struggle with the bottle’s cap, the skin of your hand pinching as you put all your force behind removing it. Since when are twist-tops so damn hard to twist off?

Bucky’s by the kettle, pouring boiling hot water into a mug he’s wrongfully claimed as his and looking irritatingly fine surrounded by steam — which has your mind trailing back to a few weeks ago: an early morning, exiting your bedroom to find your lodger stepping out the bathroom with nothing but a towel around his waist and the remnant dew of a steaming hot shower trailing down his very naked, very defined biceps, and pectorals, and- He’s not even trying to mask the amusement on his face as he indulges in your failure.

“Don’t you think you’re being a little ridiculous?” He asks and pries the bottle out of your hold, effortlessly ripping the cap off with a twist of his left hand. A familiar warmth curls between your legs, awakening a response from you that you’ve sworn, under no circumstances, will happen due to Bucky Barnes. You barely want to exchange air with him, nevermind bodily fluids. “There’s no way you’re worth two goats.”

“Every day I wake up and resist the urge to smother you in your sleep.”

Your vitriol is met with a smirk taking over his lips. Watching as he brings the beer up to his mouth, you catch yourself forgetting to blink as the soldier engages you both in a staring contest, all the while he’s tilting the bottle up to steal the first sip. He presses the cold glass back into your hand. You try not to focus on his tongue, peeking out to swipe over his bottom lip and clean up a remnant drop of beer.

In a move that puts you even more on edge, Bucky shuffles closer to you. Delirium floods your mind as the smell of smoke, and musk, and a just a twinge of sweat floods your nose, a smell so masculine it has you debating setting feminism and your own self-preservation back hundreds of years by nuzzling your face into the pulse point of his neck, like you’re some damn animal being exposed to pheromones. Meanwhile, he appears none the wiser to the negative effect he’s having on you, too busy reaching his arm behind you and into the fridge.

“Those boys you entertain, do they ever pay you any compliments?” His voice is so gentle, you almost wonder if that’s how it would sound whispering in your ear. Luckily, you don’t actually wonder about that. Not at all, not even a little. “Or is that your job too, like the bill?”

As quickly as he caged you in against the fridge, he moves away and leaves the cool air to rush over your skin, dragging your mind back into reality and away from whatever thoughts it keeps trying to tempt you with. You track his movements towards the island counter as he sets down a glass bowl, marked by condensation and filled with a batter of some sorts.

It's becoming more and more common to catch Bucky pottering around in the kitchen, a recipe on his phone screen and a personalised ‘Kiss the Baker’ apron — which Sam bought as a joke for his birthday — tied around his waist. He’ll never admit it, but a part of you believes baking helps him relax, to shut off whatever thoughts are floating around in that disturbingly pretty head of his and let him focus solely on measuring, mixing, and making delicious sugary treats. You can hardly complain when he’s gifting you the privilege of an at-home bakery. Fortunately, he gives you plenty of other reasons to complain. 

“Boys I entertain? Way to make me sound like a stripper,” you huff, sneaking over to dunk a finger into the batter as he turns to grab his coffee. “And I’ll have you know, they do pay me compliments.”

Licking your finger clean, you can’t fight the humm of approval that creeps up your throat nor the way your eyes slip shut as you savour the cold, tangy sweetness of the cake mix. Something warm presses against your left side as Bucky returns to the island, setting down his mug and a cake tin.

“Really? What kinda things do they say?” Just as you go to double dip, he smacks the top of your hand with a wooden spoon, and you nearly freeze at the contact. For a few short seconds, the factory in your mind goes into lockdown as every single one of your brain cells scramble to not conjure up the image of him smacking that utensil on a very different part of you. “Hands off. It’s a lemon cake, not a lemon and your-dirty-fingers cake.”

You silence your thoughts with a swig of beer before putting a safety distance between Bucky and you, unsure whether to be relieved at his obliviousness to the less than ideal affect he’s having on you, or offended by his complete lack of reaction to being so close to you while you’re all dressed up and waiting for another man to take you out.

Not that you want him to be affected by that, or you in general, though.

Your phone lights up with a text from an unsaved number: im hear, r yu coming down or shuld i com up? You shut it off and stuff it into your purse, deciding it's best to keep a man waiting anyway; he’ll appreciate your presence even more once you finally give him it.

Besides, you’ve yet to answer Bucky’s question.

“I’d tell you but I’m too sober to stomach you yelling ‘Heaven to Betsy!’ and giving me a lecture on your medieval dating ethics.”

You earn a genuine laugh, in which his knees bend a little and his head is thrown back, while his vibranium hand winds up splayed across his midriff. The sun is setting beyond the window, lingering shades of orange warmth frame a heavenly glow around Bucky, highlighting a slight curl in his hair and the piercing blue of his eyes. The view is uncomfortably pleasant, so you bring the bottle back to your lips and turn your head away, suddenly utterly fascinated with the eggshell colouring of the kitchen cupboards.

“I think there’s a leak under the sink,” the comment is absentminded, a meager attempt at steering your mind away from the man and his mixing bowl.

Bucky ignores it and drags you right back to the actual topic at hand.

“That’s funny,” there’s a shuffle of tin behind you. You glance back around to find him smoothing batter into the cake mold, wooden spoon clasped in metal fingers spreading the mix evenly. You’ve never noticed how good Bucky is at spreading things. “Cause I swear I remember Sam mentioning something about the last guy moaning his own name in your ear.”

Beer shoots to the back of your throat.

In a spurt of coughing, amidst the burning pain of the carbonated liquid dripping out your nose, you hurry over to the sink. Mouth dropped open in a dry heave, you lean into the basin and try to minimize the mess you make in search of a breath. Heat envelops you from behind and a pair of sock-clad feet come into view next to your maroon heels. You briefly register the cool brush of metal against the back of your neck as he tries to tidy back your hair and, while you appreciate the action, you can’t help note how completely unnecessary it is. Too distracted to care, your attention shoots straight to the weight of his flesh hand pressing into your lower back. Heavy, warm, large, it pollutes your mind with the knowledge of how it feels to have him soothe your skin — even if there is a layer of silk in the way.

The moment air returns to your lungs, you shoot up straight and ache to step away from him and his wandering-to-all-the-wrong-places hands. The battle against his touch is mute, not even one percent of his strength is put behind the way he grips your forearms and turns you to face him.

Bucky’s eyes scan over you, studying your features. You swallow back whatever feeling brings salivation to your mouth. His thumb reaches towards his own and you watch, transfixed, as a pink tongue darts out to greet it, licking a stripe over the pad of it. A splash of cake batter stains his ring finger. You swallow back more saliva; confusingly, your mouth feels drier than ever. Only when he delicately presses his thumb beneath your eye and swipes over your waterline do you realise you’re teary-eyed.

“See how clumsy you are?” There’s a chastising lilt to his voice that sends blood rushing to your face, and then immediately back down to the overwhelmingly empty space between your legs. “Can’t even swallow properly without ruining your mascara.”

You need distance.

You need to move.

You need to leave.

“He’s here!” The words are almost a gasp as you turn out of his hold. The weight of his gaze trails over your legs as you rush around the kitchen island, fishing your keys out of your purse and rambling out the nerves he’s summoned. “Okay, there’s some leftover pasta in the fridge if you’re hungry, and you’re welcome to the beers if you get thirsty. Big remote turns on the TV, the little one changes the channel. Behave and take care of the place while I’m away, okay?”

“Quit talking to me like I’m some kind of guard dog,” he complains as you pull open the front door and cross one foot over the threshold to safety.

“Oh, I’m sorry!” You cheer back, trailing the door behind you as you go. “I wasn’t aware you were going to start contributing rent, I’ll send you my bank details.”

With that, the apartment door slams shut and you head out for a date in which three things will happen: you’ll flirt, you’ll fuck, and you won’t think about your roommate.

Only one of those things ends up happening.

It’s not from lack of an offer that you wind up taking a cab back to your apartment. Your date had been nice… enough. He complimented your outfit, took a sufficient amount of interest in you, and he even bought you flowers — of course, he’d accidentally left them in his parent’s home. Where he lived. In the basement.

And the thing is, you’re not shallow. Time’s are tough, the economy sucks, and the world is still adjusting to the sudden return to half its population post-Blip. So you were more than game to play sneak-me-into-your-bed-without-waking-your-parents, but, as the pair of you waited on a taxi to arrive, his hand found your waist and your treacherous mind noticed something it shouldn’t.

Bucky’s hand was larger. And warmer. And more welcomed against your skin.

Sick to your stomach by your own thoughts, your night ended with you tip-toeing past the familiar figure sleeping on your couch — definitely not pausing to take in the sheer width of his naked shoulders dangling half-off the cushion — and crawling into bed alone, belly full of Thai and mind full of Winter.

When morning comes, the bedroom door creaks as you pry it open, a fist rubbing sleep out your eye and a yawn announcing your arrival.

“Did you eat my ice cream?” Bucky calls out from somewhere, voice muffled and full of accusation.

Despite barely finishing a glass of wine the night before, there’s a throbbing pain beginning in your temples and souring your already bitter mood.

“Wow, good morning to you too,” you stumble more than walk over to the kitchen, in search of the salvation of ice cold water.

That’s where you find him: laid out on his back, grey sweatpants clinging to bent knees, with everything from his shoulders up inside the open cabinet beneath the sink. His arms are inside too, tinkering away at something above his face.

“Good morning. Did you eat my ice cream?” If ever a thing such as a verbal eyeroll were to exist, Bucky would be doing it. From the lack of seeing his eyes, there’s every chance he is literally rolling them.

Your journey toward the fridge is interrupted by the troubling sight of a glass full of water, a plate hosting a slice of lemon sponge cake, and two miscellaneous white pills that anyone who suffers the unusually cruel punishment of a menstrual cycle is likely familiar with. A post-it note with your name written neatly across it sits next to the unexpected care package.

“So what if I did?” The painkillers go down effortlessly, though there’s a lingering chemical taste that has you gulping down an extra sip of water. “What are you doing, anyway?”

“I paid for it!” For all his outrage, he doesn’t care enough to poke his head out as he chastises you. “You said there was a leak, so I’m checking your pipes. I’m quite good with my hands, you know.”

Is he dense, or is he saying this shit on purpose? The double entendre in his words is glaring, yet you haven’t the confidence nor the will-power to address it, to poke the proverbial bear out of fear. Fear of him scolding your dirty mind, or fear of him doubling down on his suggestive wordplay, you’re not quite sure.

You choose to steer clear of the topic and, more importantly, the unexpected twinge in your chest in response to Bucky’s unrequested help.

“And I paid for the freezer you left it in, the electricity that kept it frozen, and the apartment you live in,” you don’t intend to sound so snappy, like a sulking child fighting against their own self-confessed crimes. “So I think you can spare me some goddamn ice cream.”

You’ve taken to joining Bucky on the floor, sitting across from him, cross-legged and back pressed against the cabinets that surround the kitchen island. In your lap lies the slice of cake, a mouthful already missing and melting its tangy sweetness onto your tongue. You almost moan, but it’s unclear whether the sugary treat just tastes that good or the visual of the soldier laid out on his back and tinkering away beneath your sink is just so stimulating.

If you mention the strange noise your car’s engine has been making recently, would he fix that too? You can already picture him slicked in sweat and oil, hands on his hips as he stands over the opened hood and assesses whatever the damage is. You’d have to watch over the whole thing, of course — not out of your own self-interest but on the off chance something goes wrong and Bucky needs help taking off his oil-stained shirt, or pants, or-

“Your date was that good, huh?” You almost jump out of your skin when he speaks.

“He bragged to me about how he and his college roommates used to play pool,” the pause in your sentences seems to capture Bucky’s attention, coaxing him out from beneath the sink. “Using a shotgun instead of cues.”

As he sits up, elbows finding rest upon his knees, you can’t help but note the five-o’clock shadow he’s sporting. For reasons that have nothing to do with the fraying seams of your sanity, you need him to shave.

To Bucky’s credit, he doesn’t laugh. Yes, his lips glitch somewhere between a cheeky grin and a serious frown, but he does not outright laugh like you expect him to. Instead, he nods down at the half-eaten cake and tilts his head — an unspoken question, is it good?, that only weakens his argument about not being a guard-dog. Between the puppy-dog blue eyes and the yearning for approval, you half expect him to sprout a tail and start panting.

Scratch that last thought, actually. Bucky and panting should not coexist in a sentence together, nevermind in your imagination.

“Mind feeding me a bite?” Yes, actually, you would mind, but one glance at his fingertips stained in whatever-the-hell is going on with your sink leaves you no choice but to tear off a corner.

Bringing the piece of cake to meet his awaiting mouth, you brace yourself for the tentative scrape of teeth stealing it out of your hold. The delicate brush of his lips enveloping your fingers throws you off your axis, and the challenge in his eyes as they hold contact with your own has your thighs involuntarily squeezing themselves together.

For a moment, you swear you catch him glance down at your lips.

Then you remember the health insurance your job provides does not cover the cost of being institutionalised, so you stop hallucinating and come back to reality where Bucky Barnes is not so much a flirt as he is a pest, a stray animal abandoned at your doorstep by a friend who decided to take advantage of your good-natured heart.

“Can you give me the exact phrasing your date used to describe this shotgun-pool?” The soldier is gone in the blink of an eye, flat on his back again and continuing his attempt to seal the leak.

“Why?”

“I’m making this list,” he says, and he must shift his hands higher above his head because suddenly the soft cotton of his white shirt has ridden up his torso, presenting your eyes with a golden platter of sun-warmed skin. “I’m calling it ‘the manchild files’.”

“That’s not even funny,” neither is the way he inches deeper into the cabinet, exposing not only the glaringly white tan-line delineating where the band of his boxers should be resting but also the beginning dark curls of a happy trail. 

“Well ‘the stupid files’ sounds so simple, I was worried you’d try to jump into bed with it.”

“Are you seriously about to slut-shame me in my own fucking kitchen?” Whilst slutting yourself out on my floor like your name is Mike and you’re about to show me some magic? is the quiet part you don’t say aloud.

“I’m critical but I’m not hypocritical,” there he does again with that verbal eye-roll. “I wasn’t exactly the image of celibacy when I was your age-”

“Yay, more grandpa lore!” Your interruption earns you a nudge from his leg, but you know it made him laugh because his shoulders gently shake.

“I’m not slut-shaming you, I’m taste-shaming. I swear, being useless must be the precursor to having a chance with you.”

“It is not!” You gasp, yet you’re hardly surprised — Bucky’s not exactly subtle in his disapproval of the men you date.

If there is anything to be thankful for, it’s the alleviation that comes with Bucky shimmying out from the sink again, happy trail redressed and a hand diving into the pocket of his sweatpants. With a dramatic clearing of his throat, he brings his phone up to his face and starts reciting.

“After being told you have a nut allergy, Carter B. said Wait, like, you’re allergic to cum?” You’d always known showing him how to use the notes app would come back to bite you in the ass somehow. “Tommy L. walked into a lampost because he got distracted… watching a squirrel run up a tree. You almost got stood up by Steve K. because he accidentally locked himself inside his own car. Lee B. asked you-”

“Bucky B. is about to lose his other arm if he doesn’t shut up.”

“I rest my case,” and he still has the nerve to open his mouth, awaiting another bite of cake.

You cave with no fight and give it to him.

Because you’re a nice person, not because you want to feel his mouth on you again.

Something cool drips onto the bottom of your naked thighs after Bucky reaches over you and grabs at the glass of water, stealing an obnoxiously large gulp; or is it just exaggerated by your stare zeroing in on the way his Adam’s apple bobs as he drinks?

A thought pops into your mind.

“Did you leave these on the counter because you expected me to be hungover?” Your tone is inoffensive, and unoffended, a simple curiosity you need answered.

“You have a headache, right?”

“Uh-huh,” your eyes narrow skeptically.

“Yeah, I figured you would,” Bucky takes another sip, more condensation trickling down onto your legs. “You always have one after eating Thai food.”

Something inside of you stops.

Your heart, or your lungs, or your mind. Your goddamn liver, for all you know.

This is not supposed to be happening. Bucky is not supposed to fix things just because you mentioned it, once in passing and as a scapegoat from focusing too much on him. And he certainly isn’t supposed to notice things, useless little factoids that not even you know about yourself until he brings them to light. Hell, he’s not even supposed to still be here, sleeping on your couch and criticising your love life.

When the thing inside of you clicks back into place and starts again, a new weight rests atop your conscience.

Maybe it’s not so bad having a roommate, having Bucky be that roommate. Maybe you’re starting to get used to coming home to the smell of baked vanilla and the signature grouchy look he wears as he asks you about your day, about how your co-worker pissed you off, about why you’re home later than usual and not wearing a jacket out in the cold of winter.

“By the way,” he’s calling out from beneath the sink again. “You’ll be happy to know I’m touring an apartment next week.”

“Oh.” The bite you just took turns sour in your mouth. You struggle to swallow it down. “That’s great. Finally! You’re going, and I’m staying here, and I’ll have my apartment back to myself. That’s… Great. It’s great!”

No, really, it’s great.

“You’re joking,” a palm on your lower back guides you to the right, just in time to avoid being trampled beneath a cart.

“I wish,” you say, and saunter over to some colourful packaging that’s captured your eye.

After a moment of inspecting the product in hand from every angle, you put it back on the shelf.

“Let me get this straight,” Bucky pushes the cart along behind you, grabbing that same colourful packaging and dropping it in with the rest of the groceries. “You lean through his window, kiss him goodbye on the cheek and then he just… What, crashed his car?”

“Into a wall with street art of a cliff painted on it,” as you add the most important detail, laughter is already bubbling up your throat. “He literally crashed his car into a cliff without even getting to switch out of first gear!”

The pair of you make up quite the sight.

An entire morning of tiptoeing through the limbo of delirium, after an entire night spent trying to block out the relentless banging from the upstairs neighbours. The door to your bedroom crawled open some time past four and there was Bucky, head poking through the space and looking rather pleased to find you wide awake — despite his claims of just wanting to make sure you were asleep.

Seated on opposite ends of the couch, both of you found a quiet solace in the other’s inability to sleep. While a movie marathon played over the TV, the sex marathon above continued. When exhaustion took claim of your body, you drifted off with your arms resting on the armchair and your head resting on your arms. You awoke atop a pillow and beneath a blanket, legs stretched out over the couch and Bucky curled up on the floor by your feet — like any good guard dog would be.

After a botched attempt to sneak past the soldier, only to have him scare the living daylights out of you by grabbing your ankle as you tried to step over him, you both came to the shocking realisation that the fridge was void of any food.

Which brings you to here: standing in aisle 7, laughing an ache into your ribs over yet another one of your failed dates, with a half-filled cart and matching bags forming under your tired eyes.

“I think it’s time we had an intervention about where you’re finding these men,” Bucky says that last word like it's covered in poison, burning his tongue on the way out.

“They find me!” You say, as he reaches for the box of strawberries you just put down. “As generous as I am, do you want to maybe slow down on how much shit you load into our cart?”

His hand freezes, the box of red fruit clasped in a confusingly delicate grip of vibranium fingers

“You picked it up,” his tone is riddled with confusion. “Don’t you want them?”

“Contrary to popular belief, I’m not made of money.”

“Okay?” He replies, like it’s the most irrelevant piece of information you’ve ever given him — and you once spent an hour ranting to him about the inefficiency of the ink cartridges in your office’s printer. “I’m paying, so do you want it or not?”

“Since when do you have money? Did your pension finally come through? I mean… You are old enough. Also, aren’t you literally a vet?”

 “You managed to say all that in one breath, yet you failed to answer a yes or no question.”

A bubble of silence surrounds you both. Bucky blinks, slowly, exaggeratedly. It’s the perfect opportunity to stare at his face and notice the five o'clock shadow has grown. A gruff ‘excuse me’, followed by a man shoving between you both to grab some strawberries, pops the bubble.

Without a word, you snatch the box and place it in the cart.

Half-way up the fruit aisle, Bucky gets the genius idea to open his mouth again: “You wanna know what my theory is?”

“Nope,” you say, popping the p and glancing back at him over your shoulder. “But you’re going to tell me anyway.”

He looks vexingly domestic like this, wearing a sweater and pushing your shopping around. Thoughts betray you, wandering off into dangerous territory as they begin to question how others perceive you from the outside.

What do strangers see: two roommates that quarrel like it’s a biological need, or a couple doing their weekly shop? Two strangers forced together by a circumstance named Sam Wilson, or two lovers unwilling to voice that the metal container between them is too much distance?

“I think you date idiots because they’re idiots.”

“Gee whiz, grandpa, that’s so insightful. I sure do hope I’m as wise as you when I’m your age, but I’ll probably just be dead.” You feel the cart meet your back in a gentle bump, a non-verbal warning to cut the teasing.

“Dating those incompetent men, it’s like…” he pauses, searching for the right words, and plucks a bunch of bananas from your hand, dropping them in with your mounting pile of fruit. “Jumping out of a plane! You get the thrill of falling but, the moment something a little too real and solid appears on the horizon, you pull out the parachute and, that’s it, you’re safe. No danger of falling flat on your face and getting your feelings hurt.”

“I don’t know when you last jumped out of a plane-”

“Remember that Karli situation a few months ago?”

“But not ejecting your parachute leads to a little more than just falling flat on your face.”

“So my metaphor isn't perfect,” Bucky trails off, eyes staring past you and mind lost in thought. You follow his line of sight and find a couple at the end of the aisle, hands intertwined and smiling at each other like they’re the only two people in the world. An unnamed emotion tugs at the soldier’s lips, but he won’t let it take over his stoic features. “But you get my point. If you were actually looking for something serious, you’d date someone better than those men.”

Unprompted and unwarranted, his words spear your heart.

Memories replay in your head, a kaleidoscope of the featureless faces you let take you out, dine you, wine you, kiss you. A handful of immeasurables: how many times you’ve brushed off mispronounced versions of your name, how many excuses you’ve made for the way they talk to you, how many times you’ve lowered your own standards to help a man feel desired. In your wake lies a graveyard of failed relationships, with no proper funeral nor mourning.

You swallow back the lump in your throat.

“Okay, psychoanalysing me aside, what’s left on the list?” You ask, making your way round to Bucky’s side of the cart.

“Well, I still need to write down Jeff G.’s cliff accident.”

“The other list.” You watch as he struggles to fish out the scrap of paper from his pocket.

“Eggs, pasta, feta, toilet roll,” his brows are furled, his eyes are glaring, and with each item he lists off, his words grow more unsure. “Grapefruit? Your handwriting is shit.”

“I was in a rush!”

“And sitting on a jack-hammer?”

“Gimme that,” you snatch the list, he yields it with no protest. As you scan over the scribbled ink, a frustrating truth comes to light. Bucky’s right, your handwriting is shit. “Is grapefruit even in season?”

“Huh,” it’s the sound of hollow amusement.

“What?”

“Just…” His presence looms over you, infecting your senses with the woodsy smell of his cologne and the arduous heat that radiates off of him. When he nods his head to the right, scoffing out a laugh and poking his tongue into his cheek, you find yourself wrestling between temptations of slapping him or pulling him closer. “You really don’t notice what’s right in front of you, do you?”

Lo and behold, on the right side of the aisle, grapefruits.

You make it through the rest of the shopping list in relative silence, with the occasional side-comment from the super soldier that either rouses a grin onto your lips or has your eyes rolling in faux disagreement. Little by little, you peruse the aisles and fill the cart; and, when Bucky picks out the only ice cream flavour void of nuts, you bite your tongue and choose to say nothing.

“I forgot to ask,” you finally speak, standing in the self-checkout zone and struggling to find something to do with your fidgety hands as Bucky scans each item — you insisted on helping and he insisted he’d get it done quicker alone. “How did the apartment viewing go?”

“Oh. Fine,” you grimace as he says your least favourite f word. “The current lease isn’t up yet, so you’re stuck with me a little longer.”

Are you supposed to feel this relieved?

In theory, you were never supposed to feel anything in regards to Bucky Barnes. In practice, it’s a lot more complicated, a pendulum that seems to swing in constant motion between red hot aggravation and red hot something else you refuse to give a name.

All you know is there are times where you wonder if his back is okay sleeping on the couch, and you contemplate asking him to come meet you during your lunch breaks, and you crave to have the anxious shake in your leg quelled by his daily check-in calls whenever he and Sam go off on another misadventure. Whatever reason lies behind your behaviour, the familiarity of ignorant bliss tempts you away from seeking the answer.

Besides, Bucky will be leaving soon. He’ll no longer be your roommate and you’ll both fall out of whatever routine convenience has forced upon you both.

A series of beeps capture your attention.

At the epicentre of the noise stands an elderly woman, grey hair pristinely curled and an outfit that screams Sunday-bests, struggling with the check-out machine. With no employee in sight and no do-gooder fellow customer stepping out of their way to help, the woman’s distress grows with each beep the machine makes at her.

Knuckles brush down your arm, and there’s Bucky at your side, waiting for you to pay him any mind.

“You mind handling the rest?” He asks, in that softly-spoken tone of his that would make anyone feel like swooning. Maybe that’s why it takes you a few moments to notice the wallet he’s holding out to you. “Cash is in the back pocket. I’ll be a few minutes, okay? Just finish bagging everything, leave the carrying to me.”

There’s no time to get a single word out before you’re staring at the back of his head and watching as he makes his way over to the elderly woman.

For every item you scan, you sneak a glance. The butter beeps onto the screen, and you peek how Bucky has effortlessly become the woman’s personal helper. You pass the strawberries through and reward yourself with the sight of Bucky’s cheeky grin — with the way the elderly lady laughs and swats at his arm, you can only assume he’s made some flirtatious comment. Clicking on the option to pay cash, you nearly give yourself whiplash as you turn to watch them again, Bucky’s just about finishing bagging her groceries while the woman opens her shopping-trolley bag.

Waiting on the receipt to print, your reflection stares back at you on the self-checkout screen: a hue of endearment glowing off your features. The smile quickly melts off your face when you realise that he… Oh no.

Bucky is charming.

Part of you has always known he was handsome — you’re stubborn, not blind — yet the sight of him now, all dashing smiles and twinkling eyes playing rescuer to a woman who, despite the difference in their physical ageing, is closer to his own age than you, it troubles you. The acid burn in your throat is not a manifestation of jealousy, no; it’s the queasy feeling of knowing you’ve never looked across at a date, caught him in a moment of content, and felt the unyielding desire to be the reason behind it.

Someone clears their throat beside you, a man with a wrinkle in his forehead and an agitated look upon his face, so you quickly excuse yourself and, with plastic handles digging into your fingers, you approach Bucky and the elderly lady.

Upon noticing you, Bucky’s quick to tug the bags out your grip, a scolding already falling off his tongue: “I told you to leave these to me.”

“Yeah, well, Mr. Frowny-Magoo over there didn’t appreciate me hogging up the cashier,” the comment is meant as nothing more than a lighthearted joke, yet you swear you see something shift in the soldier’s stance, his shoulders tensing and his jaw clenching as he glances back at the stranger.

Fortunately, the elderly woman interrupts whatever he’s contemplating doing to him.

“Она твоя жена?(Is she your wife?)” She’s looking between you both expectantly, speaking words you don’t understand. “У нее лицо ангела. (She has the face of an angel.)”

Whatever she says, it clearly has an effect on Bucky. His head turns to the side, to you, and a visible softness overcomes his gaze as it traces over your face. His shoulders are relaxing, his jaw is unclenching, and he’s switching the bags over to his metal hand, renewing his grip and freeing up the hand that now hangs right by yours, knuckles gracing over your own in a way that feels like a dare, a challenge, a temptation to lace your fingers together.

You clench your fist shut.

“Я знаю. (I know.)” He says, eyes lingering on you a few moments longer than necessary, before he’s back to smiling at the elderly woman.

Halfway home and doubling your pace to keep up with his effortless stroll, curiosity finally gets the better of you.

“What did she say back there, that lady you helped?”

A stranger rushes past you both, phone glued to their ear and stressing down the speaker. Bucky takes grip of your arm and tugs you closer to him.

“Do you spend your time getting bumped into when I’m not around?” His fingers give your arm a squeeze before releasing you. “And, if you must know, she said I was the most handsome man she’s ever seen.”

Little force is put behind the shove you give his shoulder.

You’re too busy agonising over how much you agree with her.

Bucky leaves.

Not forever, but three weeks away on some stealth mission with Sam sure begins to feel like it.

It happens on a Friday. After the week from hell at work, a friend’s mid-week engagement party, and the unexpected downpour of rain during the journey home, you walk into an unlit apartment and a note stuck to the fridge.

Sam needs me. Be safe, don’t bring strangers home. B. 

The batch of freshly baked cinnamon rolls sweeten your night up, at least.

There’s a quiet that always seems to blanket the house whenever you lose Bucky to missions.

Before he was dumped on your front door, you’d been used to living alone and the peaceful silence that came with it. Independence, the ability to need no one and want nothing, a trait of yours that once brought pride, now brings you nothing but the static sound of a muted television and the hum of the microwave spinning a meal fit for one.

Mornings become a ritual of waking later yet leaving earlier, no one is there to distract you from drinking your coffee. Though the workload is the same, somehow the slow drag of hours still finds a way to pass quicker than ever, the revolving doors of the office building spit you back out onto the streets of New York before you’re fully ready. Your evenings waste away, starved of noise and company, while you run out of shows to watch and books to read, and count the hours down until all that silence becomes necessary for your eyes to close and your mind to rest.

It’s when darkness rules over the sky and the hour is a single digit that the phone finally rings. A blocked number, untraceable, pulling you out the hands of sleep and filling your room with the noise of your ringtone. He never speaks first, not until there’s an echo down the line of your own sleep stained ‘hello?’.

“You can go back to sleep now.”

You never stay on the line long enough to find out how quickly he hangs up after he speaks. Because it’s only ever meant to be a way to let you know he’s safe, alive, somewhere out there doing who-knows-what and stopping who-knows-who. It’s just an unrequested favour he’s granted you, after the incident in which both he and Sam fell-off the grid for five days and you were nearly rounding up a search party. He’s not missed a call since, once a day while he’s away.

So, when he doesn’t call, it’s only natural that you worry.

The alarm bell rings when you wake up to birds chirping, sun spilling through the crack between the curtains, and not a single missed call nor voicemail awaiting you.

It’s Saturday and there’s no work to occupy your mind, so you force down a bagel, toss a tote bag onto your shoulder, and head out to the local market. But there’s no joy in perusing fruit stands without a six foot soldier trailing your heels and muttering to himself about how exotic fruit has gotten, and how ‘back in my day you had your apples, your oranges, and your pears.’

You wind up home by noon, and the dwelling begins to grow, still no call.

There’s a weight on your chest, and a balloon of anxiety that grows in your throat, and an unwarranted agitation burning at your skin as you read over his note again, still very much stuck to the fridge and taunting you — Be safe, says a man who clearly can’t take his own advice. 

Then, why should you?

You agree to go on a date, one you’ve been dancing around agreeing to for a few weeks yet reach for it the moment you decide you’re not pleased with the way Bucky’s lack of a call is ruining your well-earned free time.

And, hey, the guy’s not a complete loser this time. On paper, at least. He’s handsome, tall, and an athlete — ex-athlete, really, but you don’t bother to point that out while he talks about the gymnastic studio he runs. Most importantly, he’s eager to call a cab and get you home, screw Bucky’s warning. If you want to bring a stranger into your home, you’ll do it. 

Brooding, uncalling soldier be damned!

After stumbling through the dark of your apartment into your bedroom, and fumbling with your bra long enough for you to grow tired and just take it off yourself, you and Mister Gymnast tumble into the sheets for a performance so lacklustre, it warrants taking all his medals away. At least your date seems to enjoy himself, spilling onto your stomach and falling asleep the minute his head hits the pillows.

“I finished,” last you checked, he hadn't even started.

You lie awake, staring at the ceiling, and try to will the phone to ring. Encased by a stranger’s snoring and a guilty feeling, you let Lady Sleep whisk you away. When your eyes open next, morning has broken and you’re alone in bed with a remnant trace of warmth on the sheets. But the silence is finally gone.

Beyond your door you hear the faint thud of footsteps, the ding of the fridge being opened, the whistle of the kettle. You almost trip in your rush to get dressed, and nearly rip the hinges off the door as you tear it open. Then the smile falls from your face.

“You’re up!” Everyone’s favourite gymnast is there to greet you, a mug in hand as he goes to pull you in for a kiss. The way you swerve is automatic, unplanned, leaving his lips to land on your cheek. “Uhh, I was hoping you’d sleep a little longer, I wanted to bring you breakfast in bed but-”

“He couldn’t figure out how to boil the kettle.”

And there’s Bucky, leaning back against the kitchen counter with his arms crossed over his chest and a smug look on his face. Aside from the butterfly stitches above his left brow, he looks unharmed. Fine, even. Dressed in all black, with a t-shirt that’s hugging his frame a little too tightly for your liking, the double-combo of his dog-tags and vibranium arm on display. Perfectly safe for a man who couldn’t call.

Your date laughs and sheepishly scratches the back of his head before you get the chance to speak.

“Your brother was kind enough to help me.” It’s unclear who laughs first: Bucky or you. “What’s so funny?”

“Oh, nothing, nothing, just…” Bucky says, shaking the laughter away with a nod of his head. “In what world do me and her look related?”

“Wait, if you’re not her brother then, are you-” Fifty shades of horror spill over the gymnast’s face, his head darting between looking over at Bucky and back at you. “Holy shit, is he your boyfriend?”

“Husband, actually,” the soldier’s all too quick-witted, pushing off the counter and reaching for a mug of brewing coffee. “But don’t worry, we’re open. What do you think of our kitchen lights, by the way? My wife here likes them dim.”

Dumb as he is, your date tilts his head up to inspect the light fixtures.

“Oh, they’re nice!”

That does it for you.

“Bucky, shut up!” You snap, finger pointed over at the menace who’s biting back a smirk and stirring away at his mug, face as innocent as sin. Is this some twisted version of revenge, a punishment for bringing a stranger home? You’d prefer the punishment to be a little more… hands on. Preferably in the form of your slapping that twinkle out of his eyes. “He is not my boyfriend, or my husband. He is the bum that lives on my couch.”

“You see how she treats me, Vince?”

“It’s Lance,” the gymna- Lance corrects him.

Moving towards the kitchen, your eyes check over your roommate once more, as though they expect some previously unseen injury to make an appearance on his skin. Come the end of your search, you’re left looking into a face that is sporting a split brow and a cruel level of entertainment from the situation at hand.

There’s a relief to having him back, and it’s wrestling with the exasperating emotions a single missed call conjured up.

“What are you doing here, anyway? Aren’t you and Sam still meant to be… I don’t know, on a homoerotic getaway, fighting crime?” The questions fire out of you as you slip into one of the island’s stools.

“We finished early,” Bucky appears by your side as though from thin air, hand clasping the back of your seat and pushing you in closer to the counter top.

“Aww, don’t worry, big boy, it happens to the best of you,” you tease, an empathetic pat against his shoulder.

The mockery backfires when you notice his brows shoot up and his stare shifts towards your date, who’s too busy trying to open the sugar jar to notice the dig at his own sexual inabilities.

Wait, when exactly did Bucky get home?

“How do you take your coffee?” One-Thrust-Lance asks you over his shoulder.

Before you can answer, a cup is nudged into your grasp and Bucky looks over you with triumph, metal fingers reaching out to drag over a plate of freshly-baked cookies. The smell of warm vanilla pairs well with the soft musk of his cologne, your eyes nearly roll back inhaling it.

“Mmm,” one sip of your coffee is all you need to know it’s perfect, made exactly to your taste. “Coffee and baked goods… I knew I kept you around for a reason.”

In lieu of any verbal response, the soldier takes to dunking one of the cookies into your mug before stealing a bite out of it. You watch as he chews on the sweet treat, head nodding in approval at his own skills. After he dips a second time, you expect him to take another bite, only to find him offering the chocolate chip goodness up to your mouth. Two eyes, blue as any winter, stare encouragingly while you sink your teeth into the cookie.

Heaven couldn’t taste any sweeter, you think, as the perfect blend of coffee stained dough and the sharpness of the dark chips flood your tastebuds. 

“So messy,” Bucky tuts quietly, his right hand grabbing a steady hold of your chin while his thumb swipes away the crumbs dusting the corner of your mouth.

That thing inside of you stops again as you watch him bring his hand up to his own mouth, a pink tongue poking out to lick his thumb clean.

Arousal thrums through your blood, a pulsing rhythm that spreads straight to your clit. A squeeze of your thighs brings momentary reprieve, yet the ache fights back with renewed force, drying up your throat and knocking the sense right out of you.

Squirming where you sit, your legs switch position until one foot finds itself tucked beneath the opposite thigh, the heel of it sitting perfectly against your clothed core. You find no mercy, no chance to roll your hips forward in search of the balm only friction will bring to your burning skin. Instead there’s simply Bucky, eyes trailing down the length of you and settling on your short-clad legs. As though his behaviour is not cruel enough, he wets his bottom lip with his tongue

“You like that?” More than you’ll ever know, you almost scream until the logical side of your brain takes the wheel again and you notice him pointing down at the half-eaten cookie. Of course he’s enquiring about his baking skills, what else would this scrambled-egg-for-brains senior citizen be talking about? “Are you gonna make me wait all day for an answer?”

Something smashes behind Bucky, just in time to startle away the racy thoughts from your mind.

“My bad!” Your date — who you damn near forgot was even here — is apologising, bending at the waist and trying his best to collect the fractured pieces of a mug off the floor. “Where do you guys keep your dustpan?” 

Bucky pushes away from the island counter, taking the smell of his cologne with him; if you weren’t fully back to your rational senses, you’d miss it.

“I’ll get it, Vince, you just stand there and look pretty.”

“Okay!” Lance, it seems, is just as eager to please the ex-assassin as you almost were a moment ago.

You decide you need to move, to stand up, to stretch your legs. This has nothing to do with the lingering effect of Bucky’s antics, nor the damp patch gathering against your panties.

Slipping off the kitchen stool, you work on chugging down gulps of coffee with every intention of dumping the empty mug into the sink, dashing to your bedroom, and conjuring up the best plan you can come up with to get not only yourself, but also the trash you brought in with you last night out of the apartment and away from an infuriating roommate.

Something on the floor derails you, however, dragging you away from the path to sanctuary. The tiniest red petal, lonesome and neglected upon the cold tile. Three steps over, and there’s another petal. One step until the next petal. You follow the breadcrumb trail all the way over to the garbage can where, with one gentle push of a button, the lid opens up to reveal the unexpected, thrown away like a dirty secret.

A crumpled bouquet of roses.

Everywhere you turn, there’s tension.

In your neck, from sleeping at an unfavourable angle. Within your stomach, where a queasy feeling keeps threatening to spew your guts out onto the bathroom floor. Between you and Bucky, a foreign energy that’s grown over the course of this last week, during which you’ve been avoiding eye contact and his stare is full of accusation.

Retracing your steps, they take you back to the moment Lance left the apartment and you found yourself drowning in Bucky’s company for the first time in weeks. He was barely half-way through poking fun at the choices you made in his absence — most of his focus being on the blubbering fool you brought into your bed — when your patience ran thin and snapped.

Now here you are, bearing the consequence of your own short temper, wiping lipstick off your teeth whilst mentally preparing yourself to go on a second date, planned sheerly out of spite and the need to prove a point.

Poor Lance is none the wiser to his role as pawn in your game of ‘Screw You, Barnes!’.

“Everything okay in there?” Think of the devil and he shall knock on the bathroom door, apparently. “Thought you had your big date at seven.”

The gymnast’s text thread stares back at you, a wall of grey bubbles. You have to swallow down the lump in your throat to speak, “He’s not answering my calls.”

“You’ve been stood up? By that loser?” There’s every chance your storm of emotions is impeding you from thinking straight, but you swear you almost hear a hint of disbelief in Bucky’s voice. Disgust, even.

There’s no point dwelling on the thought.

After a quick wash of your hands, you pry the door open and watch as the soldier leaning against it nearly topples forward before catching himself against the frame. He’s entirely too close for comfort, close enough for you to notice the different shades of blue in his eyes.

“Maybe he broke his phone?” The lack of assurance in your voice has you cringing, the fear of being called out suddenly doubling.

Bucky scoffs, arms crossing over his chest.

“More likely he forgot to charge it.”

Is that what happened to him? Is that why he left you to dwell in the dark over his whereabouts and wellbeing, rendering the usual distraction of a night-time companion useless? Only for you to find him the following morning, right as rain and as annoying as ever, standing in the kitchen and casting judgement-filled glances at your overnight guest?

Thinking about it, about him, brings on an onslaught of anger you’re not willing to address. Not right now.

“Shut up!” It comes across as less independent girlboss and more petulant child, but you’re too busy noticing how firm his chest feels under your palms as you push past him out of the bathroom to care.

Prying open the freezer, you hear the soft click of the toilet door closing. Good, you think, he’s gone away. Out of sight, out of mind. Even if it is only for the short time it takes him to do his business.

That time ends up being even shorter than expected, for only minutes after you’ve dug your spoon into the creamy, frozen goodness of vanilla fudge, the object of both your fascination and your torture is making his way towards the kitchen.

“Didn’t I tell you to stop eating my ice cream?”

“Didn’t I tell you to move out?” Mouth full of vanilla, you shoot him a toothy grin and relish in the grimace it earns you.

Satisfaction melts away when Bucky invades your personal space, metal arm reaching over head and pulling open a cupboard.

“Don’t do that,” you swat at the vibranium bicep, a futile fight that simply makes you all too aware of how smooth it feels beneath your fingertips.

“Do what?” Brain of a caveman, Bucky continues his rustling through the cabinet behind you, features as stoic as a rock as though he’s none the wiser to how your chests brush against one another with each exhale.

“That,” another swat at his arm, though this time he yields. The space between you doesn’t grow, however. It worsens, his attention fully falling onto you now. “Reaching over me like you can’t just ask me to move.”

“Fine, if it really bothers you that much,” are the last words you hear before you’re airborne, two hands squeezing at your hips and moving you two steps over and out of the way.

The soldier doesn’t struggle, not even for a moment, the serum that’s altered his DNA leaving him primed and ready to manoeuvre the most steadfast of objects. Manhandle them, too. Pick them up, turn them over, pin them down, make them scream… Objects, of course, or those big, bad guys he and Sam are always chasing after.

The anger in you is renewed, burning brighter than a star ready to die. You shove his hands off of you and secure another step of distance between you.

“Well aren’t you a ray of sunshine today.” With the rate he’s going at, one would think the soldier makes a living out of deepening the frown on your face. “Is this princess’ first time being stood up?”

You’d slap him, right here and now, if it didn’t mean moving closer and touching his skin; the current top two of your ‘Things To Not Do’ list.

Luckily, the tub of ice cream sits just within reach and your eager fingers take grip of it, sliding it over the counter towards yourself. A mouthful of coolness precedes the burning question on your tongue, “Why didn’t you call?”

“Are you serious?” Now he’s the one scowling and taking a step closer.

“Deadly,” you dig the spoon back into the carton. “Now answer the question.”

“You’re pissy with me for not calling, meanwhile I’m the one who came home to some asshole in your bed?”

He’s moving closer. You try to step backwards.

“Yeah, well, if you’d called like you were supposed to, I wouldn’t have ended up with said asshole.”

Bucky’s eyes narrow, “Oh, so now it’s my fault that you date degenerates?”

The cackle that escapes you could break the soundbarrier.

“Wow! Everybody, give it up for another original dig at my love-life from James Buchanan Barnes!” Voice dripping with seven layers of venomous sarcasm, you give three slow claps of your hands. The cynical smile that overcomes your face feels borderline deranged, something plucked right out of a horror movie. “Okay, yeah, I date losers! Happy? Jesus Christ, Bucky, what do you expect me to do? It’s not exactly like there’s anyone else lining up to date me.”

“I am!” His voice is raised, his eyes are wide, his chest is heaving. “Maybe I’m the biggest idiot, rushing home last week to surprise you. Even brought you flowers.  I just… Fuck!”

You don’t move, don’t blink, don’t breathe.

Bucky runs a hand through his hair, knuckles going white as he pulls on the tresses.

There it is again in his eyes, the accusation.

Even though he’s shaking his head, he steps closer.

The kitchen counter is right behind you, there’s nowhere for you to run.

The heels on your feet almost give out beneath you, you try to steady yourself with your hands.

Bucky has other plans and grips both your forearms.

“I am,” he repeats, softer. Slower. The icy exterior of accusation melts away to reveal vulnerability.

A hand meets your cheek and holds you like you are glass, breakable beneath his touch. Your heart’s in your throat, and there’s a current of electricity running down to your toes, and that neglected hunger in your loins creeps in again. His eyes search your face, while his thumb gently swipes over your bottom lip, prying it out an involuntary capture from your teeth.

It’s unclear who reaches for who first, whether he dips and takes possession of your mouth, or you grab him by the collar of his shirt and lay your claim over him. In a matter of seconds, a tentative press of lips against lips divulges into loss of breath, tongues in mouths, and fevered kisses.

The soldier kisses with starvation, like he has walked through the desert of loneliness and at last stumbled upon an oasis, like a bee seeking every last drop of nectar from a flower dying off with the spring, like a body clings to sleep in the throes of exhaustion. It’s a necessity, a human need, a matter of survival to keep your lips interlocked.

The hand on your face holds you steady as he tilts himself deeper into the kiss. Noses brush against the swells of cheeks, eyelids rest close, feet shuffle closer in search of eradicating the crevice of distance between you two. Metal fingers curl around the nape of your neck, a gesture you reciprocate while your spare hand lays flat-palmed against his beating chest. One of his legs winds up between yours and, as he shifts weight from one foot to another, there’s the faintest relief of friction against your cunt and a whine gets caught between your throat and Bucky’s eager mouth.

Despite how you chase his lips, he pulls back and grants you the sight of pure endearment.

“Look at you, whining already. Where’s all that fire gone?” It’s practically a whisper, spoken with fascination. “Or were you just needing Old Bucky to touch you, huh?”

Second-hand embarrassment burns the tips of your ears, while your own unspoken agreement to his question has your stomach twisting up. Survival instincts, that have never been much of a friend, scream at you to flee this feeling, to throw away Pandora’s box before you risk fully opening it and having it consume you.

Bucky intercepts your attempt to push out of his arms.

“Ah, ah, get back here. Not done kissing you,” his words divulge into a barely coherent mumble as he reconnects your lips.

Beneath the heat of his kiss, the discomfort in your chest turns to ashes. Because, while instinct tells you to run from danger, this is Bucky.

Bucky who fixes cupboard hinges, and sleeps with both eyes on the door. Bucky who carries all the shopping, and holds every door. Bucky who calls to hear your voice while he’s away endangering his life, and brings home the silliest trinkets he finds on missions. Bucky who wakes you when you miss your alarm, and knows if you’ve had a bad day simply from looking at your face.

How could you possibly be in danger when it comes to him?

While you’re overcome with epiphany, he’s taken to tracing his lips over the slope of your jaw and mouthing at the skin of your neck. It’s when he lifts you up onto the kitchen counter that your wandering mind is reeled back in, to the physical present where your legs rest on either side of the soldier and the prized possession of vanilla fudge once again sits within reaching distance.

“Are you stealing my ice cream right now?” His lips tickle your collarbone as he speaks, barely  a moment after you’ve scooped the spoon into your mouth.

“I’m warm, and it's melting,” his head pops up just in time to accept the spoonful of vanilla you deliver. There’s a glow in his eyes, one that has you questioning if it's been there all along or if it's a consequence of touching your skin. “Don’t want it to go to waste.”

His mouth is on yours again, a rush of three chaste kisses seared against you before he replies, “Then let’s cool you down.”

At a teasingly slow pace, you feel his fingers tug down your dress’ straps, leaving the silky fabric to slip down your frame and pool around your hips. Under the golden hue of the kitchen lights, his gaze studies your bare skin like it's a work of art, an eighth wonder of the world, the greatest poem never written woven into it. Yet it still manages to pale against the face that overcomes him as he removes a final layer of lace.

Unlike Vince, he has no trouble removing your bra.

“So responsive,” he talks as though only his ears are meant to hear it, his vibranium palm gently taking hold of your left breast and rolling the hardening nipple between two fingers. 

He’s studying your reaction, bewildered by the goosebumps spreading over your flesh.

When was the last time he truly touched another person? Weeks, months, years, decades? The thought of his hands on a faceless shape makes you sick. First with envy, and then with hypocrisy, an amalgamation of all the men you’ve taken to bed flashing before your eyes. But none of them ever touched you like you were porcelain, and none of them looked at you like you held the key to eternal pleasure. None of them were Bucky.

A chill runs down your spine and a gasp rips out your chest as Bucky swipes the spoon over your skin, leaving a trail of ice cream atop your right breast for his tongue to follow. He plants a garden of kisses along the swell of your chest before pulling away to give the left side equal treatment, another creamy river along your skin for him to clean up.

Moving at their own volition, your hips grind gently against his steady figure as Bucky coats your nipple in vanilla, moaning into your chest as he lays claim over you with his mouth. Spoiling you in his kisses, the soldier begins to yearn for friction, meeting the careful roll of your hips with his own.

Your hand finds his hair and his stare meets yours, intense and all-consuming as he releases your nipple with a scrape of his teeth. You want to soothe his kiss-swollen lips but they’re already wrapping themselves around your other breast, not even patient enough to lather you in the vanilla goodness this time.

Instead, the coldness on your skin stems from metal fingers, perched on your thigh and creeping up the length of it, inch by tormenting inch. A hesitant hand wraps around a vibranium wrist, tightening its grip before you begin guiding his touch inwards, upwards, to where you need it most. Bucky's stronger, more resistant, and holds off your interceptance, left hand continuing its intended path beneath the skirt of your dress and grabbing hold of your naked waist.

He’s everywhere, all over you. Mouthing at your chest, gripping at your hip, rutting into your pussy. The sweet drag of his bulge over your clothed core sires a wet patch against your thong and has your fingers tugging on the roots of his hair, winning you the hair-raising hum of a groan against your breast.

Desperate to feel more, you renew your efforts to lead his hand to the space between your legs and are met with a shake of his head.

“No,” he mutters, and robs you of a hand beneath your dress, using it instead to cradle your jaw while his lips skim over the shell of your ear. “Wanna feel you.”

The warmth of flesh brands your thigh, Bucky’s right arm now leading the charge beneath the silky fabric. With bated breath, you brace yourself against his strong chest and try not to squirm in anticipation of his touch. With one final squeeze at your inner thigh, the soldier’s hand engulfs your clothed cunt and his breath cracks in your ear, a strangled out, feral noise that has your toes curling.

“She’s so wet, darling,” his voice has you delirious, breathy against your ear. His fingers flex against your pussy and a moan catches in your throat. “You gonna let me touch her?”

Something about the way he’s speaking to you, the words he’s choosing, makes you want to fall apart. Your sex-life has always been liberal, you know what it is to have a man’s hands all over you, trying to take ownership of parts of you he thinks belong to him. Men who take, and take, and take, until there is nothing left of you to give, and not once do they care to win your favour, to plead for permission. But Bucky…

“Please, say I can touch her, wanna give her what she needs,” he’s pleading for it, begging for you — wrecked and desperate, breath run ragged from no more than the relief of rolling his groin against your thigh. “Promise I’ll be real sweat, make you feel good.”

Too caught up in his own head, he doesn’t notice you nodding, until you’re granting him salvation verbally, “Touch me, Bucky.”

He doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t waste time on taking off your underwear, just moves it to the side and drags the tip of his fingers down the inseam of your pussy. You hear it, more than you feel it, the moment he touches your opening, a sharp inhale at your ear telling you he’s exactly where he wants to be.

As his middle finger slips in, it’s hard to tell which of you reacts louder, both a mess of guttural moans. Once it's fully sheathed within you, he curls it and presses against your soaked walls, grinning against your skin at the reaction it coaxes out of you.

“Don’t hold back,” he chastises you as you bite back another pathetic whimper, a second finger slipping into you. “Let me hear what I’m doing to you.”

He must have a magic touch, you’re sure of it. Thick fingers that fuck into you at a steady pace, curling and teasing at that world-bending spot inside you, while his thumb makes itself useful against your clit, a firm force for your bucking hips to grind up into while you chase the pleasure he’s unleashing on you. In a matter of minutes, the room is alive with your melodic moans, Bucky’s endless hums of approval, and the damn-right embarrassingly loud squelch of him fingering your drooling cunt.

You make the mistake of letting your eyes slip shut, relinquishing yourself to the way he touches you with the rough hands of a soldier yet the delicate stroke of a musician playing his favourite instrument. He must feel the shift in you, for he’s instantly prying his face away from your neck and tightening the metal grip on your jaw, fingertips digging into squished cheeks.

“Look at me,” his words are both a command and a plea. An order you follow and a prayer you answer, eyelashes fluttering open to find his face in front of your own. His lips are a hard line, his brows furrowed in disapproval, and there’s a vein threatening to split down the middle of his forehead, but his eyes. His eyes are affection incarnate, two pools of lust and worship that pose no threat of drowning. “Do you want to cum?”

Never has a more needless question been asked. 

You nod into the force of his vibranium hand, but that’s not what he wants, frown deepening.

“Say it,” needy, helpless, spoken like he’s the one on the brink of ecstasy. “Please.”

“Bucky,” it feels good to say his name like this, brain melting into mush and heart racing in your chest. “I want you to let me cum.”

“Let you?” He’s offended by the word, fingers burying impossibly deeper inside of you while he continues to stare you down. “I beg of you.”

No warning precedes the coil in you snapping. The muscles in your core tense, your back arches into his broad figure, your pussy squeezes at Bucky’s fingers with a death grip. He guides you through it, ignoring the cramp in his wrist in favour of continuing to fuck his hand into you, a smile finally cracking over his face as he watches you fall apart atop the counter, nothing but Bucky, Bucky, Bucky surrounding you.

He tries to give you reprieve, a moment to breathe and savour the buzz in your veins, the hand around your jaw shifting to stroke at your cheek while the hand between your legs soothes you with featherlight touches.

You don’t let him, hand pawing down his torso and gripping at the belt of his jeans, delighting in the familiar clang of a buckle being undone, nimble digits that tear leather out its loop and tug down his zipper. Bucky’s bringing his lips back against yours just as you palm at his bulge, his tongue licking into your mouth when you finally release him from the confines of his boxers.

Fingers coated in your own slick grip at your thigh while the soldier makes it his mission to steal your breath, rendering you blind to the sight of his cock. But you can feel it. The weight of it in your hand, the burn of want ingrained in his skin. The width of it, and the length of it, and the perfectly mushroomed tip that has him keening into your touch as your pointer finger drags over the head.

“Is this what I do to you?” Still lost in the maze of your orgasm, you manage to gain back crumbs of your usual confidence watching Bucky fall mute. When he merely nods, you play him at his own game, fingers back in his hair and forcing him to look you in the eye. “Say it.”

He doesn’t.

He says something much better.

“D’you even realise how many nights I’ve laid on that fucking couch, hard as a rock and willing you to come out your room?”

“That’s your generation's problem, you know?” You whisper teasingly, incapable of fighting off your own laughter. “You swear more than you breathe.”

“C’mere,” he’s rolling his eyes and pulling you in, kissing you like it’s been a milenia and not a minute, hand nudging yours out the way to take a hold of himself.

Your teeth graze over his tongue as he drags the head of his cock through your folds, and he groans into your mouth before pulling back. Resting his forehead against yours, he’s teasing you both as his tip brushes over your hole before continuing its rutt up, bumping against your sensitive clit.

A wicked voice takes control of your mouth.

“Lance would have fucked me by now.”

“Vince would have cum by now, too,” he’s still rocking his hips, no sense of urgency behind the way he soaks himself in you.

Meanwhile, you’re a handful of seconds away from screaming at him to just stick it in already.

“You- Oh!” Prayers answered, hallelujah, his cock finally sinks into you. It’s a shallow thrust, barely more than the tip before he’s retreating, yet it's enough to mess with your head. “You heard us?”

“Unfortunately,” and he means it, the most subtle of pouts forming on his lips before he feeds himself a little deeper into your pussy. “I’m not great when it comes to timing.”

“I only slept with Lance because you-” Right on cue, he fucks into you even deeper and your words dissappear before they can reach your tongue.

“New rule,” a hand rests on your knee and encourages you to spread your legs wider. “No speaking another man’s name when you’re in bed with me.”

“Technically, this is the kitchen counter-” The bastard does it again, cuts you off with his dick — if it didn’t feel so damn good, you’d slap him.

He’s bottomed out at last, buried himself fully in your cunt. Hands snake around your waist, one palm flattening against your lower back while the other rests a little further up and guides your spine to arch into him, closer, like there’s anymore space left between you to devour.

His pace is still slow, teasing. A toe-curling drag of his cock out of you, letting you feel every ridge and vein before his hips promptly snap back into you and send your eyes rolling back, your head falling back — and smacking loudly against the cupboard door behind you.

Bucky freezes, one hand quick to cradle the back of your skull while his eyes scan over you.

“Jesus, doll, you okay?” 

“Please don’t stop,” you plead, ridiculously unfazed by the faint ache when you’ve got him inside of you.

Even though he rolls his eyes, he complies.

“Might have just given you a concussion and all you care about is getting fucked?” He asks, like you could possibly care about anything else when his arms are hooking themselves under your knees and rucking you up off the counter, away from any rogue cupboard that means you harm.

If anything, you’ll gladly shoulder the burden of any possible injury, if it means being granted the sight of his biceps tensing as he effortlessly stands there and fucks you down onto him. Were you in any sane state of mind, you wouldn’t think it, but god bless that super soldier serum.

“You can give me a cockcussion for all I care,” head perched on his shoulder, you watch your nails sink into the fabric of his shirt and wish it would disappear and gift you the naked view of his back.

“Adding that to the list,” he whispers against your forehead, pressing a kiss against it.

Legs bent at the knee, you watch how, with one particularly deep thrust, they bounce at either side of him and one of your heels clatters to the floor.

The room pivots as Bucky turns, you still in his arms and your ankles locked behind his back. At first, you believe he’s aiming to move things into the bedroom, where the only thing your head will be hitting is the mattress when he lays you down. He proves you wrong, however, the cold press of marble against you once more as he settles you down onto the kitchen island.

Much to your chagrin, he slips out of you, cock now sitting pretty against his clothed abdomen and glistening with the sheen of your essence. In the blink of an eye, the soldier is sinking to his knees, metal finger reaching back for your fallen shoe.

The scene plays out like something stripped right out of a morally dubious, low quality pornography retelling of Cinderella, in which Prince Charming has his dick out, Cinderella’s gown is half-way off, and the infamous glass slipper is just a pair of heels you bought on sale.

Bucky is delicate and slow, mouth tickling at your inner knee as he secures the shoe in place. He rests back on his haunches and fully takes in the sight of you, perched upon the counter, hands splayed out on marble, a tangle of silk around your waist, lips parted in search of steady breathing.

There’s an intensity to his gaze, burrowing itself beneath your skin and becoming part of your bloodstream, spreading throughout your body. It makes you want to hide, flee like you do best, but Bucky has other plans.

“The shoes stay on, but this,” Bucky’s fingertips tug lightly on the hem of your dress, exposing a sliver of new skin. “I need this gone. Am I allowed to take it off?”

There he goes again, face the model of innocence while he asks for permission to your body. If you weren’t already dripping against your panties, you would be now. Luckily, he doesn’t push you to verbalise your agreement this time, more than eager to comply the moment you nod your head.

You wiggle your hips as he pulls the fabric out from beneath you, his grip snagging on the waistband of your thong and dragging it away alongside the dress. When your ass cheeks press back down onto the cool of the counter, reality hits you like a freight-train: you’re completely nude, with Bucky on his knees before you, in the middle of the kitchen.

“Buck,” the y of his nickname disappears as you feel him peppering kisses of your leg, inching that little bit higher each press of his mouth. Squeezing your eyes shut, you try to remember where your rational thoughts are stored, conjuring up images of friends, of Sam sitting at this very surface. “I don’t think we should… I mean, people eat off this counter!”

“Don’t worry,” reaching the threshold of your thigh, his kisses seem to speed up, that sauve and composed exterior chipping away to reveal a man who no longer wants to take his time with you. “I intend to eat.”

No sooner than the words reach your ears, Bucky swipes his tongue up your pussy and any fight left in you melts away as you turn to putty beneath his touch, soft and malleable, willing to sit there and take whatever he wants to give.

Give, he most certainly does. Lips latch onto your clit, hands hold your squirming hips in place, tongue dances over your most delicate areas before dipping into your entrance. He drinks from you like you’re the sweetest honey, the richest of red wines, the Holy Grail promising an eternal youth to a man whose time was stolen from him.

“You should see her, doll,” there’s a rasp in Bucky’s voice, a feral undertone to the growl that rests in the back of his throat. One hand tugs his shirt off while the other snakes between your legs, two fingers spreading your lips open in an obscene gesture that has you clamping down on your bottom lip. “She’s drooling for me, all pretty and wet.”

Dropping both your legs over his shoulders, he tugs you right to the edge of the counter and dives back in. You feel his nose bump against your clit and your hand grabs onto your thigh, nails piercing into flesh as your mouth sings a whined symphony.

Vibranium curls around your wrist, prying harm away from your own skin and silently imploring you to hurt him instead, nestling your fingers back into his hair. He’s renewing his effort, a touch that’s more determined than ever to make you fall apart, on his knees and worshipping the altar of your body — fealty and devotion seared into each lap of his tongue, each brush of his lips, each stroke of his fingers.

Who are you to reject his piety? You welcome it, with closed fist and glassy eyes. The soldier shudders — a full-body shiver that shakes down his spine — as the point of your heel digs into his back and your fingers squeeze at his scalp, no mercy shown as you lose yourself in the throes of lust.

When you cum, a silent scream rips through your chest and a burning-too-bright white light turns you blind. He doesn’t let up, tongue still buried in your convulsing walls as your thighs clamp around his head and your feet kick at his back, shoes flying elsewhere into the kitchen. He pays none of it any mind, content to prolong your orgasm for as long as you’ll allow him, slowly rising off his knees with two hands pinning you back against the counter while he continues to feast on your pleasure.

“Ja-mes,” a fractured call of his name is all it takes for him to stop, pupils more black than blue as they stare down at the picture you paint atop the counter: teary-eyes, swollen lips, heaving chest.

He’s hardly the image of composure either, red lines along the expanse of his back, hair a tousled mess, the scruff on his face covered in a sheen of your juices. And, yet, never have you wanted to kiss him so bad.

All you manage, after minutes of floating atop the cloud of your peak, is a cheeky grin and a comment that makes him roll his eyes: “For a fossil, you’re pretty kinky.”

“War camps aren’t exactly known for being fun,” as he speaks, he slowly lowers your legs off his shoulder. “You find ways to keep yourself entertained.”

“Bet you were quite the pleaser, huh?” Trying your best to play it cool, you lay your head fully back on the counter and stare up  at the ceiling, praying he doesn’t notice the hypocritical pit forming in your stomach as you listen to your own words. “Probably had all the prettiest nurses fighting over who gets to tend to your poor, aching, throbbing co-”

“Jealousy looks cute on you,” he interrupts, amused, as his hands soothe over your hips.

“I’m not jealous!” You exclaim, barely believing yourself.

One hand reaching out for him, you watch your fingers intertwine with the prosthetic digits and let him tug you back up, chest to chest when his hand finds your cheek.

“I was,” his confession is crooned whilst staring right into your eyes, the tiniest up-turn to his mouth. “Everytime you walked out the door to go date a new loser.”

“Who knew,” your voice is as gentle as his own, nonchalant as a finger dances down the well-defined muscles of his abdomen and elicits a groan out of him. “All along I had my own loser at home.”

Bucky opts for silence as your hand reaches his groin and pays no mind to his cock, red-tipped and leaking, flushed against his stomach. You’re more interested in his jeans — in removing them, to be exact. It doesn’t take much, a sharp tug at the hem before they’re slipping off, meeting restraint as they cling to his muscled thighs and implore him to finish the job on your behalf, shucking them off blindly to where the rest of your clothes lie.

You must have saved a village in a past life to be rewarded with the view of a completely nude Bucky Barnes, skin stained by lust and laced with gold beneath the kitchen light. You must have saved the rest of the world, too, to watch how his eyes roll back and his mouth falls slack when you take his length in hand and give one slow pump of your wrist, releasing it just to watch it slap back against his abdomen.

As you reach for his dick again, his hand secures itself around your own and guides it up and down the length of it. Once, twice, thrice, till he’s breathing heavily and dripping in pre-cum.

“You must be close,” a statement you make with his own bodily reaction as evidence to back it up, yet there’s still room for doubt — to what extent does that soldier serum interfere with him?

“Put me back down on my knees and I’ll cum to the taste of you,” the soldier certainly makes a tempting offer, one that it almost pains you to refuse.

Almost, if you hadn’t already felt the sweet stretch of him inside you.

“Pretty sure putting you back down on your knees might be considered elder abuse, ole buddy.”

“My age may be a hundred and six but-”

“Exactly my point.”

“But my body isn’t,” he’s using that stare of his, the one Sam always warns you about, while  you’re full-on cheesing, a rush of adrenaline shooting through your veins as you wind him up.

“Remind me, who threw their back out a few weeks ago pulling a tray of muffins out the oven?”

His flesh hand grips behind one of your knees and tugs you right to the edge of the counter, while his left one, still clasped over your own, drags his tip over your folds.

“I don’t remember hearing you complain when you drunkenly ate half the tray and then threw up over the rest,” admittedly, not one of your proudest moments.

“Shut up and fuck me, Barnes.”

“Yes ma’am.”

Just like that, you’re drowning in him again, gasping for breath as you lose yourself in a flood of lust. Bottomed out, stuffing you full, Bucky barely graces your pussy with the chance to adjust to his stretch once more before he’s moving, the sweet graze of every inch being dragged along your sensitive walls.

Your nerves are still reeling from his mouth, a quiet hum of electric pleasure reawakened by his throbbing cock and his vulgar mouth.

“She fits me like a fucking glove,” his hands are pawing at your waist, your breast, your face, never in one place for too long as he begins to settle into a rhythm of thrusts. “Doing so good for me, darling.”

The softness put into his term of endearment births an ache in your chest, one that will accept no medicine other than your arms around his neck and his lips on yours. Mouths tangled in kisses and sweat dripping down your skin, Bucky halts — your hips pressed together, the swell of his balls resting right against your swollen cunt, the head of his cock resting right against your sweet spot — and grinds.

Slow, deliberate, delicious. You whine into his mouth and feel how he swallows it, feasts on your ecstasy with a willing tongue, and a smiling mouth, and possessive teeth that tug at your lip as he pulls back. He stretches out the feeling, grinding a second time as your noses bump against one another.

“Bucky,” his name is an anchor, a paperweight, something to ground you amidst the floaty feeling of being two orgasms deep with a third approaching any time now.

“I know,” he says, and you believe him. Believe that he knows, that he’s known, that he always knows when it comes to you.

You lay your head to rest upon on his left shoulder when he returns to chasing a high between your thighs, a renewed vigor behind each thrust that has your hips rolling to meet his and your nails raking over the straining muscles of his back.

“I lied,” an unprompted confession stumbles out his mouth, fingers flexing into their grip on your waist. “About the apartment viewing. I didn’t go.”

“Bucky,” is all you can manage, branded into his skin with a kiss along his neck.

“Is that all you can say? Huh?” His voice carries a teasing lilt, paired to perfection with the pad of his thumb rubbing at your clit. “I’m giving pivotal revelations here, and you’re just gonna reply with that?”

Another echo of his name, walls fluttering around his dick.

“Bucky, Bucky,” he’s mocking you, a torturer’s laugh as he moans his name into your ear. “Keep going, you sound so pathetic it’s almost cute.”

Beyond words and beyond sense, you give in to the weight of his palm splaying against your stomach and guiding your back down onto the island. The soldier hooks your legs over his elbows, deepening the angle that his cock fucks into you, and you swear you see stars dance along the kitchen ceiling.

A hand smooths over your gut and you look back at Bucky to find adoration in his eyes.

“You see that?” You almost want to cry when his movement switches back to a slow drag — innnnn and outtttt — until you notice it: the smallest hint of movement beneath your flesh, a subtle visual of the outline of his tip bulging against your skin from inside you. “See how full she is, how good I’m making her feel?”

Pressing your hand against it, you can’t help but giggle as you feel him poke at your palm, only to fall back into a puddle of incoherent noises when he keeps pushing at that sweet spot, over and over. Harder and faster with each draw back of his hips, you feel rivulets of your own arousal roll down your ass and onto the marble, tainting the counter forevermore in the sins the soldier commits against you, the sins you welcome with open legs.

You’re near the edge again, and he feels it, pushing you closer and closer as he slowly spirals into a mess of phrases that barely begin before he’s cutting them off with something new.

“Don’t deserve this-” He catches himself, rips the insecurity in his voice out by the roots. “C’mon, let me see it one more time. Need to see you fall apart.”

“Want you to fall apart too,” you manage to beg, unwilling to watch him hold back or pull out before he finishes. “Please!”

Like any good soldier, he obeys.

Crashing over you like a wave, he’s doubled-over by the waist and sandwiching you between the counter and him. You feel him spill into you, hot ropes of cum painting your walls white as a third crescendo washes over your body.

Both of you seek out the other as his thrusts grow languid and your walls spasm, milking him for every last drop he’s got. When your mouths meet, it’s less of a kiss and more of you simply breathing into the other, exchanging air and body heat.

“So,” you croak eventually, exhausted and spent atop the counter yet completely unwilling to relinquish him from blanketing you. “Are you gonna do that every time I steal your ice cream?”

Somewhere between jello-ed legs and cold compresses, you wind up in bed.

Skin clammy, lips swollen, lust satiated, you practically melt into the buttery softness of your bed sheets as Bucky lays you down. Despite how you’re still basking in the glow of your third and final orgasm, the soldier seems to think, for a second, you can handle another.

With gentle hands prying open your thighs and a curious tongue diving in for a second helping, licking up the dribble of his own cum spilling out your hole, he’s quick to be corrected when you roll away from his touch with a whine and a plea, “think I might actually die if you make me cum again, Buck.”

He’s unbothered by the rejection, wholly embracing it as he curls up behind you and snakes his arms over your naked skin. It’s you who drags the sheet up and over you both, turning in his arms to plant your head on his chest. His heart races beneath it, but you hold off on teasing — your own isn't any better.

“Sam’s going to kill me,” you whisper out into the room, when moonlight is peeking through your curtains and both of your heartbeats have calmed down.

“I’m sorry,” you feel him shift beneath your head and, though you can’t fully see him, you feel that blue gaze land on you. “Have I not made it clear enough what name you should be saying in bed?”

“There’s a serious chance I’ll die and you’re thinking with your dick,” he squirms as you pinch at his nipple. “You’re no better than the men on your list, Barnes.”

Silence floats back in between you for a moment, peaceful as the slow stroke of his fingers dancing up your spine.

“Why would Sam kill you?” He pauses, hand pressing a little harder down against a knot in your shoulder.  “He knows you have a crazy guard dog.”

Your crazy guard dog just pressed a kiss against your forehead, how frightening.

“He made me swear I wouldn’t get involved with you. He said you weren’t in the headspace for a relationship, that you needed to focus on inner peace first.”

“Turns out inner peace is being inside of you,” you pinch at his nipple again. This time, he doesn’t run from it. This time, you almost swear you hear a little moan creep up his throat. “So, Wilson’s to blame? I can get behind that.”

“To blame for what?”

His hand’s now running up and down the back of your arm, leaving goosebumps wherever its tender touch goes. 

“Why it took you so long to jump my bones.”

“You think I jumped your-” Your head rises off his chest and you stare into the navy darkness of the room, trying to make a concrete shape out where you see shadows of his face. “Wait, so these past few weeks, I’ve not been hallucinating? You’ve been… flirting?”

“It’s been more than a couple weeks, sweetheart,” Bucky seems to have no problem finding you in the dark, hand cupping your cheek and dragging you up to press a chaste kiss against your mouth. “You don’t seriously think I waited until morning to check that sink without hoping to be caught, do you?”

“So you were slutting yourself out on the kitchen floor!”

“Think the kitchen’s seen worse,” worse might be the understatement of the century.

Clothes still lay discarded, counters unwiped, ice cream completely melted. Cleaning you up had been the soldier’s only priority, and you weren’t in the mood or the mindstate to argue with him on that.

A fingertip tickles down the slope of your nose.

“Stop fighting it, you’re tired,” you hear him whisper.

“I want to hear more about your desperate efforts to get my attention,” it’s nothing but a weak protest.

“We have all the time in the world for that. Sleep,” you don’t hesitate to comply when Bucky’s hand presses you back down against the warmth of his chest. “You’re going to need it. Our upstairs neighbours still need a taste of their own medicine.”

+ extra hyde !

· 70% of this fic is just dialogue, these two losers would not stfu! · writing banter + sexual tension feels more exposing than writing literal porn. · lore accurate photo of me whenever bucky barnes exists:

click here to join my taglist.

[piixsuke]

+𝟏𝟖 ᢉ𐭩 'old money, even older men' !! ⋮ ⋮ DBF!Higuruma ⊹ ࣪ ˖ DBF!Aizawa

cw: age-gap (20s — early 40s), jealousy and possessiveness, phone sex, oral sex (reader receiving)

he wasn't supposed to stay - actually, he wasn't even supposed to step foot into your house. not today, at least. it was aizawa's turn to check up on you.

but, regardless of useless semantics: higuruma, your dad'd best friend, was now standing in front of you.

complying nodding in your direction. accepting your, ever so sweet, offer to: 'fix him something to eat'. allusive, lying domesticity clings to your body - hugging your exquisite form, in front of his weakening gaze. making him suffer, making him dream; worst of all, making him crave, hope in a uncertain future, he'll never have - not with you, at least.

it's not what you expect.

heavenly nourishments drips down his face. messy stripes of your syrupy supper glide past his lips. marking the harsh flesh of his chin. caressing the arched outline of his neck - making his skin tingle, beneath the precise march of your utter need over his body.

it's not what he expects.

the muscles in his back fervently flicker to life, as he shamelessly runs towards you - obediently following your every quiver, every faint movement, every eager buck of your hips. his massive arms slither over your body - caging you in, like a snake circling the helpless figure of his next meal. "I can take it," higuruma suddenly speaks - his words shadowed, hushed by his desperation to keep you close. "make me work for you — fuuuck, — it's all right, I'll do it all" he laughs in you. the vibrations making your head as light as a feather. "keep running', c'mon. I'll chase you — 'sluuurp!' I'll never stop"

"hiro . . . !" you breathlessly mewl in the air.

his tongue spreads your lips apart. slowly exploring every inch of your sex - letting your drippy, crystal need guide his route. he hums, trapped within your weeping folds. "here," one of his arms gently rises up your body. his hand softly pressed against the quivering flesh of your rib cage. he moans, sucking your already hard bundle of nerves, into his mouth as his thumb, almost like a ghost of a touch, traces the plump, round flesh of your under boob. "'m here. 'm not going anywhere" higuruma guides your hand downwards - urging your pretty, little fingers to tightly tangle within the darkness of his hair.

your whole body tenses - trembling and barbarically drifting away from his touch. "yeah?" he asks, viciously tightening his grip over your misbehaving body. "I feel you —shit, there's no need baby, no need to tense away from me now, is it?" he smirks. his cock desperately sobbing inside its textured cage, as he watches your pretty head bob up and down - vigorously nodding, just for him. "thaaat's it. I've got you. c'mere, I'll keep you close to me"

a soft, innocent kiss lands on your puffy clit, making your orgasm roar like a wild beast inside your weakening body. heat pools, like the heaviest of floods, in your lower tummy. your back arching away from the sheets, only leaving behind the dampness of your past pleasure. "f-fuck — oh my god! I'm gonna —"

your phone rings.

"you should take that," he speaks. your phone already caged in between his slender fingers. "here" higurma adds, a stern look heavily plastered on his sculpted face as he hands you your phone. his jaw firmly ticking, locking in place as he observes your pretty cheeks enflame, assuming a deeper shade of red as your eyes dart over the screen.

you unconsciously sigh. uncertainty washing over your every sense. "no need to worry, sweetheart" he grinds his big, moonlit arch of his nose against your inner thigh - leaving a faint, invisible trail of kisses as he speaks. "I'll be as good as he is"

'fuck it' you think, siding your thumb across the dim lit screen - finally, answering his call.

faint statics sound crackle over the phone, slowly guiding his voice closer to your ears. "hey kiddo," aizawa rasps out. his voice deep, enchanting, dripping with every filthy fantasy you ever envisioned. your eyes gently roll in the back of your skull, as your hips mindlessly grind, in slow heavy circles against higuruma's chin. "you okay? fuck, sorry for not showing up today"

you gasp, throwing your back against the soft surface of the pillow, as higuruma's skilled tongue spreads your pussy open, once again.

"work has been a fucking pain in the ass and . . . " aizawa's words get lost in translation, as your body regains control over your lost orgasm. the older man's hands wildly running all over your body. exposing your youthfulness to him. his eyes never leaving yours as his tongue utterly ruins you for everyone else but him. fucking you so incredibly hard, unexplainably deep.

". . . mh, can you forgive me, kid?" aizawa's words finally reach you. his tone leaving you completely speechless - imprisoning you under his spell.

"yeah!" you nod. moaning, out loud, without even thinking.

"yeah?" he asks, now weary of your, never heard of, tone. "you good, baby? 'm not interrupting something, am I?"

higuruma harshly sinks his teeth into your thumping, little bundle of nerves - urging your attention right back to him. taking control of the situation for you. his tongue draws delicate, intricate shapes over your dripping folds. his darkening eyes like famelic predators, as they look up at you. his wet muscle moves again over your sex, this time with more force - more precision. you whine, covering your mouth beneath your palm, as the real meaning of his actions hits you like the sweetest of slaps. he's telling you - no, he's instructing you on what to do, what to say next. using your pussy as his own words.

"n-no" you repeat what he's spelling out for you.

the lawyer smiles at your obedience. gifting you with a slow, sensual drag of his tongue all over your sopping slit.

aizawa bitterly laughs at your pathetic attempts to disguise your pleasure. for fucks sake, he's a grown ass man, he knows. he's been around. he knows those sounds - he greets them like old friends. "no?" he brushes a hefty hand over his face. "fuck, c'mon now. you don't sound nearly as convincing as you wish, kiddo. you know your dad's gonna kill him — hell! I'm gonna fuckin' kill him" jealousy spreads like wild fire under his skin.

higuruma laughs at his best friend's desperation. burying and sucking your pleasure button deeper into the depth of his eager mouth.

"ah — 'sho . . . !" you pant, in a desperate search for air.

the older man grunts in you. spitting his frustration out on your cunt. watching as his saliva slips and slide deeper into your folds - merging and horrendously blending with your liquid, pearly arousal. "don't," he warns, in a almost voiceless growl. guiding his drool to gently glide past the tight circumference of your entrance. "he's not here. his name doesn't mean anything — 'm here, fuck 'm here. call out to me, just me"

aizawa furiously fists his shirt in his hand. grinding his teeth together as the wild sounds of the bed sheets rustling beneath your body reaches his consciousness. "that's it," he spats out. his thumb already hovering above the imposing camera button. "pick up," he adds - venom sipping out his every word. "let me see you"

"shouta!" high-pitch little sounds escape past your parted lips, as the unexpected reflection of your pleasure greets you through the screen. you feel, almost caged by your own gaze - utterly incapable to look away, as everything higuruma was doing to you perfectly reflects over your tensed features.

"answer me, baby" he urges. abusing his lips with his own teeth. "lemme catch you in your little lie — mh, fuck it's either this, or me coming to you right now. is that really what you want?"

higuruma grinds his nose in you. tracing your entrance with his tongue, as he anchors your trembling legs over his shoulders. his heavy hands seemingly soothe all of your worries away - caressing and gently painting silly little figures over your flesh. "everything's fine, sweetheart" your legs crawl deeper over his back. your ankles tightly locking with one another, as you hold his head in place. "let him see, answer him"

the image of aizawa, now holding your phone hostage, almost pushes you over the edge. his long, messy black hair loosely tied behind his head - allowing fugitive strands of his locks to dangle at his sides, perfectly framing his rugged face. his stubble is heavy, almost out of control, as it descends over his face. pornographically caressing his lips, almost, forcefully pushing them into focus. his muscular arms are free - deliberately on display. like a dream come true as they flexed and moved beneath the dim, tender light of his apartment.

"shit," he growls. shaking his head at your fucked out expression. "can't even hide it for a second, huh baby?" he cups his chin in his hand. watching as your hungry eyes freely roam over his veins. tracing, creating patterns he shouldn't even allow you to see. "look at you — fuuck, — eyes rolling back, mouth fuckin' agape. shit you look like a goddam dream" aizawa leans back into his chair. inching an arm behind his head, as his eyes dawdle over your figure.

your eyelids slowly flutter shut at his praise. your cunt eagerly throbbing around the dampness of higuruma's tongue.

"you're close" the lawyer whispers, caressing the quivering flesh of your legs with his fingers. the pads of his digits faintly pressing over your muscles, making your thighs jerk closer to his face. "there you go — fuck, you were so good to me" his tongue works faster over you. keeping his focus on your sensitive clit, as his mouth latches onto every inch of you, available within his reach. "you need to let go? yeah? oh, it's okay, baby — you can do it, mh, yeah do it f'me, c'mon — but," thrusting the prominent arch of his nose into your pussy, he guides your lips to drift apart. keeping his beautiful eyes on you as he plays with your pleasure. "don't let him see"

higuruma guides your arm over your body. letting it gently rest over your trembling tummy. his fingers deft, moving swiftly as they angle your phone to him.

"shit," aizawa laughs. the vibrations of his amusement landing right onto your flesh, forcing little, lustful sounds to faintly glide past your lips. "you fucking traitor," they both smile. "I could punch you right now"

higuruma swirls his tongue around your little pleasure button. slowly sucking your lips in his mouth, as he keeps his eyes plastered over your phone screen. "oh, yeah," he moans, as wet, nasty squelching sounds linger in the air. "I bet you do"

your curse. throwing your head back, as your hands wildly tremble under the weight of your phone. your body tensing, jerking away from the sheets, as your impelling orgasm bullies its way through your system.

"she's cumming," the lawyer warns both himself and his best friend. "she's fuckin' cumming for me" he spits out, putting a little too much emphasis on the last part of his filthy remark.

the tight knot in your tummy, finally comes undone. freeing with a dangerous force the rough edges of your soul-shattering orgasm. fat, pearly white tears roll down your eyes, as your body falls victim of the unmerciful after shock waves of the peak of your utter pleasure.

higuruma kisses your pussy better, making your hips swiftly jolts away from his loving touches. "pity," he speaks. his free hand already clutching the faint edges of your phone. "real pity, shouta. you should've seen her — fuck, prettiest little thing I've ever had the honour to please"

"fuck off, hiromi"

"so grumpy," the layer mocks him, still pampering your flesh in soft, chaste kisses. "fuck old man, you should know by now: first come," his eyes drifts to you - keeping you in place as he toys with his best friend. "first served" he winks at you. once again, sucking your clit in between his lips.

© 𝐚𝐱𝐫𝐢𝐢𝐚𝐚

a/n: not proof read, just horny thoughts of this heavenly duo

[tw1sters]

Guess Who?

You’ve mercilessly teased Clark and Scott for how identical they are. Now they’ve turned it around on you and you need to learn to tell who's who.

▸ PAIRING & WC: Scott Miller x F!Reader x Clark Kent — 2.8K ▸ WARNINGS: NSFW 18+, filthy filthy filthy pwp, edging?, mean!scott but that's nothing new, double creampie, oral (m!receiving), taking turns fucking you basically ▸ A/N: brainrot started two weeks ago (half written in the home depot parking lot) and finally completed. this is for @theworstwolvie for always encouraging my messed up ideas, @thceseus for being on the same wavelength of cock guessing, and @kryptidfiles for always triggering me with your david corenswet reblogs <3

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You never intended for it to go this far. You’ve always teased the two of them for being practically twins — best friends separated at birth. Clark is all broad shoulders, thick arms with veins running along his biceps like winding rivers, and sweet, shy smiles. Scott is marginally leaner, but you’ve seen the taut muscles of his forearms when he’s at the gym, and he’s got the sharp tongue and mean mouth to make up for it.

Somehow, the two of them have made their friendship work — and you were lucky enough to be brought into the loop.

It started with a comment about how they looked so much alike. Scott adamantly denies this and Clark only gets flustered when you insist that they’re both equally handsome. For some reason, it ends up with your face pressed against the bed and your hips raised to meet them.

Scott pushes you down into the sheets, your face mushed into his mattress, where you’re suddenly breathing in his scent. It’s a heady, masculine cologne that engulfs your senses, intoxicating in a way that only Scott could be. Your heart nearly beats out of your ribcage because you can’t see them. The only way you know that it’s Scott’s hands on your hips, positioning you in front of him, is because Clark is whispering in mild irritation, “This isn’t right, Scott. This is so disrespectful to her.”

“You gonna stop me, Kent? You’re telling me you haven’t been imagining what this pretty pussy looks like all this time?” Scott chuckles, tracing a finger up your bare thighs beneath your skirt. He flips the flimsy fabric up over your ass. “And a thong too — Christ, you’re such a slut, sweetheart.”

“Scott,” Clark chides again and you can imagine the disappointed frown marring his face.

Scott chooses to ignore him, instead focusing on how your pussy’s started leaking already. You can feel your slick folds, even more so when Scott digs his thumb in, pushing the thin string into your moist cunt. “She’s so wet already,” he groans, “you’ve been waiting for this, you little minx. Always fucking pushing our buttons when all you wanted was our cocks, is that it?”

Your denial is muffled even as you turn your face to catch a glimpse of them, a peek at Clark’s guilty face tainted with the greedy way he drinks in your pussy, a look at Scott licking his lips as he pushes his thumb just slightly deeper.

“Why don’t we play a little game?” Scott hums, hooking his finger on your panties as he drags it down your thighs. He doesn’t even bother removing it completely, lets it hang off your right ankle as if to say, you asked for this by wearing this.

“W-what game?” You manage to rasp.

“We’re going to have you figure out who’s who.” Scott murmurs, brushing your hair away from your shoulder as he presses his palm between your shoulder blades again. “We’re both going to fuck you, take turns sinking our cocks into this pretty pussy of yours, and you have to guess whose cock it is.”

Your heart lurches into your throat.

“And if you can get it right five times in a row, you’ll get to cum. How does that sound?”

Like heaven, you traitorous pussy says. Your brain and heart are in a losing battle when you can feel the warm pulse between your legs.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” Scott chuckles. “You ready?”

You quickly learn that their similarities extend to the length between their legs. The first time one of them pushes their cock inside, all you can focus on is the burn. They’re big, bigger than anyone else you’ve ever had. This person doesn’t do shallow thrusts, they bury themselves completely inside you until you can feel their hips against your ass. 

“I don’t—” you choke when they pull out and thrust back in, hard. “How am I supposed to know? I’ve never been with either of you,” you whine pathetically, words crumbling into moans as your pussy stretches around the girth. 

“You know us, should know our cocks too.” Scott’s voice is a little breathless.

“Fuck, this is Scott. You’re fucking me,” you whimper. 

“Good girl, but I made it too easy for you. That one doesn’t count.”

“But I guessed correctly!” 

The cock slips out of you with a lewd pop, your own juices leaking down the back of your thighs as you shakily prop yourself up on all fours. You try to turn but the squeezing hand on your hip stops you. 

Then you feel them — two fingers tentatively dragging up the slick down your legs, a subtle little moan, as they spread the sticky mess back up to your pussy. The fingers trace your pussy lips, the carefulness in the movements signal awe, as if you’re being observed like a specimen. 

The fingers ease into you, thick, wiggling until you feel their knuckles against your folds.

“Now whose fingers are these, sweetheart?”

Long, long fingers. They brush up against that spongy part deep inside you that has you twitching. A shudder wracks through your body as they spread said fingers, stretching you out to see inside of your pussy.

“Scott…?” You guess meekly. This has to be a trick question. 

Smack! You jolt forward, more so from the shock of the slap on your ass. The area where the hand landed throbs dully with the sting. “Wrong.”

God, fuck. Tears prick your eyes. Whether it’s from the intensity of the situation or the fact that the people pleaser in you has failed, you can’t tell. 

“Clark,” you moan as he slowly pushes his fingers in and out of you. 

“Good girl,” Clark coos sweetly, “doing so good for me, honey. You’re dripping all over my fingers. Making such a mess, it’s going down to my wrist.”

Your heart beats against your ribs, guilt gnawing at your bones. “‘M sorry, didn’t mean to.”

Clark shushes you with another deep push of his fingers into your quivering cunt. “It’s okay, no need to be sorry. You’re so pretty for us, leaking all over like this. Just means you like us too much.”

“I do, I do,” you agree numbly. 

“We’re going to, um, put—”

“We’re going to fuck you again now,” Scott interrupts, you imagine the roll of his eyes at Clark who would just press his lips together. “Try and focus.”

The cock that slides into you next… feels exactly the same. Same length, same girth, same fucking burn. Your frustration builds in your chest into a vexed whine that slips past your lips. 

Another slap on your ass that catches you off guard. “Focus,” Scott barks, but you can hear the smirk in his voice. 

You do, you’re trying. The cock fucks deep inside you moved in a slow, steady rhythm to the beat of your heart. All you can think about is the delicious stretch that fuels the spark that’s been lit between your legs. 

It feels damn good. Whoever this is knows how to find those little spots inside of you, your trigger points that hurtle you forward into a delirium of pleasure. Every thrust feels intentional. Every thrust is specially made for you.

“C-Clark,” you breathlessly whimper.

The cock stutters inside you, an interruption to the tempo. Your heart drops to your gut with fear.

“There you go,” Scott grunts, “see, you’re getting the good hang of it. Now we’re really ready to play.”

Ready to play— “Haven’t you been counting?” You snap, a little more irritated than you intended. 

“You have to get it right five times in a row. If you mess up, we’re restarting the count.”

We. Scott’s twisted little game and he’s dragging poor, sweet Clark into this.

They take turns soaking their cocks with your cunt. Every time one of them enters you, the burn starts all over again. You’re stretching around their cocks, pussy molding to the shape of them, loosening slowly until you’re moaning with each dip into your little hole. You have bruises in the size of their fingertips on your hips, rough grips on you every time they fuck deep inside of you. 

But Scott doesn’t relent on his game, no matter how close you get. They drive into you like men starved, moans bouncing off the walls like a symphony. The pleasure builds and nearly crests, each time you even come close to guessing five, you always somehow manage to get the last one wrong.

“A-are you doing this on purpose?” You pant, hair a tangled sweaty mess on your face. 

“Dunno what you’re talking about,” Scott says coolly.

A gasp wrenches out of your throat. “Have you just been telling me I’ve been getting it wrong to keep going?”

“You calling us liars, sweetheart?” Scott slaps your ass again, his handprint tingling in the spots he’s been hitting you. “You cum when we want you to cum.”

“M-maybe we should let her, Scott,” Clark groans and you know it’s his cock pushing deep inside you again. He’s gentler between the two of them, but you can feel his self-control faltering when he fucks you a little deeper, a little harder each time. “This isn’t right. She doesn’t want this.”

“Your mouth’s been saying no, Clark, but god, sweetheart, you should see him right now. He’s enjoying this premium pussy if yours. Trying so hard not to moan. Doesn’t she feel so nice and tight? Perfect little toy.” 

A moan climbs out of Clark’s chest, deep and guttural. “Perfect. Perfect toy,” he echoes dumbly. Your cunt clenches around him and he whimpers. “You’re squeezing me so tight, honey. Feels so good. You’re so good to me.” 

“And you—” Scott starts with a pinch of your ass, “you want this as much as we do. Pussy’s gaping now, ready for our cocks. We stretched you out so good, didn’t we? Tighten up that cunt for us. I want to feel it squeeze around my cock when I fuck you next.”

You’re nothing if not obedient, ready to please him — them — because Clark’s fingers sink deeper into your waist as he feels you clamp down around him. 

“You’re so tight,” Clark rasps, “she feels so good.”

“‘Course she feels good,” Scott huffs as he circles you and lifts you to prop up on all fours. He taps the head of his cock, leaking with both his and your arousal, against your lips. “She was made for us.”

Your jaw instinctively drops open and Scott slides him along your tongue. 

“Just like that,” he hisses, “you taste us, sweetheart?” You can only groan in response. 

Scott uses your throat for a while, fucking your mouth by grabbing your head. Your tongue drags along the underside of his cock, eliciting a shudder out of him before he yanks you off again.

“Too close,” he gasps, “I want to cum inside your cunt instead.”

You don’t know how long you stay there, game nearly long forgotten if it weren’t for Scott taunting you over again, laughing when you get it “wrong.” At this point you don’t know the difference, answers tumbling from your lips in a garbled mess.

Every time you get close, whoever it is drags their cock out of you. They bring you to the edge, so close to the peak, only to drag you under again. You’re crying and babbling, begging them to put you out of this misery. 

It’s like being trapped in a maze with no exit, each dead end another point of pleasure that you can’t seem to reach. 

Scott shows no mercy, only coos, “Come on, sweetheart, whose cock is in you right now? Why don’t you use that pretty little head of yours to guess?”

You sputter incoherently, thighs shaking with the weight of your desire. You’re so close, the burning between your legs intensifying to a point where you can practically taste your orgasm. But it may just be delirium — it’s like your climax now feels unfamiliar on your tongue. 

“Let me finish her, Scott, she's crying. I can finish her,” Clark tries to plea on your behalf. 

The cock that’s driving hard and fast abusing your pussy abruptly disappears as Clark stumbles backward, Scott pushing him out of the way. “No, pretty baby can't use her head to figure out who's fucking her, she needs to learn her lesson. We’re gonna keep testing her until she gets it right.”

“Scott, please.” 

“Use your head, you can do it.” 

Through your cockdrunk haze, you only begin to decipher the difference.

It’s not the shape, nor the size, because they’re too close. Too similar. But the way they move, how hard they’re holding you.

Scott is quick and dirty, chasing quick satisfaction for himself in a way that bullies your cunt into submission. Each thrust of his hips is about pace and a test of self-control for him. 

But Clark listens to how you whine and moan, drives himself deep in a slow burn that drags out the pleasure in your core. His hands on your body are firm, but not enough to harm. 

Scott guides the game and gets you close, but it’s Clark who delivers the final blow.

“Clark. It’s Clark!”

“Fuck, she got it right, Kent. She can finally cum now, do you want her to cum?” 

Clark’s face is flushed a deep red, veins on his neck pulsing with his resistance. His jaw is clenched tight, teeth kissing as he hisses when you squeeze around him to Scott’s words. 

“Yes, please, gosh — feels so good. Wanna cum. Wanna see her cum.”

“Flip her over.” 

He doesn’t miss a beat, pulling out of you for barely a second only to turn you on your back and plunge his cock back inside you. He folds your knees into your body as he fucks into you with another needy moan. 

“Feels even better like this,” Clark rasps, “I can see everything. You look so pretty, honey.”

“Clark’s so sweet on you, isn’t he?” Scott chuckles, his fist finding his cock. “Pretty girl deserves some pretty treats. Why don’t you give it to her, Clark? Cream inside her. Look at her, she wants it.”

Clark’s eyes find yours but you can barely keep them open. Not with how good Clark’s giving it to you, his fat cock stretching out every inch of your pussy as he leans down and presses you in deeper into the mattress. You can see the vein on his forehead pulse, control fighting against his need to devour. 

“Can I, honey? Can I cum inside you?” He asks you. So soft, so sweet. So desperate to give you what you need that it makes you whine as you arch off the bed. 

All you can manage is a nod before Clark is shooting his cum inside you, landing warm and sticky, clinging onto your walls. Your pussy squeezes around him, pulsing like a second heartbeat as you tumble down your own pleasure. 

His breaths are hot against your neck as his hips jerk with the last spills into your pussy. You can feel it beginning to leak out from where the two of you are joined, dribbling down your ass and onto the sheets. 

“Alright, Kent, gonna need you to move,” Scott mutters, using his own body to shoulder Clark out of the way. 

Clark’s legs can barely hold himself up, the weight of his climax still hanging off his shoulders. His chest heaves with labored breaths as he watches Scott position himself in front of you, sandwiching himself between your parted legs. 

His thumb pries your pussy open from the lips to see Clark’s cum seeping out. With a hiss, he uses the head of his own cock to nudge that cum back into your cunt and fucks it back into you. “Shit, you feel so good, sweetheart. Clark’s cum is so warm inside you, the perfect lube to fuck you.”

“S-so sore, Scott,” you whimper, the ache between your legs throbbing. 

“I know, baby, but I need to cum too. I won’t take long.”

And he delivers — it only takes him a few more thrusts, every time he enters, he punctuates it with a praise. Fucking beautiful. Look at you. Gorgeous tits. Then he’s finishing inside you and you feel as if you’re about to burst with how much the two have filled you up. Your entire body feels like jell-o, not a single bone or muscle to move you. 

Clark swipes the sweaty strands of hair from your face and presses a kiss to your forehead. Scott drags his cock out of you with a heavy groan. 

The two of them watch in sick, rapt fascination as both their cums leak onto the bed. By this time, Scott’s mattress is a mess of stains — your arousal drenching the sheets and the cum that’s slowly pooling at the edge. 

Even so, Scott only grins, “Think you can tell which cum is whose?” 

clark is saving (taglist): @houseofhyde @phoenix-in-writing @averyhotchner @hailmary-yramliah @catclaw1 @pinksplace @lunexiax @esunarint @nikkitabarnes @lunaryoongie @sergeantsebastian @avgdestitute @natskisses @parker-barnes-af @kelbrave @steviebbboi @onecojg @clarknsun @/kryptidfiles @wildflowersandvibranium @stegosaurussims @angelryex @mollymal @evelynstanmarvel @lokisgirlie @lynnidc @winnichu173 @zhaixiaowen @macbaetwo @rach2602 @garfieldhollander @my-drvidess @deeninadream @lillilam @fruitypebsworld @vivshome @ella-rowen @reenielane @smorgasbrods @jbennsquared @royaljewellerycurator @ruptureedspleen @yelanare @take-it-on-the-run @ghostgirlwrites @hellooiosworld @anon-188 @a-very-fictional-girl @misswhiddless @femmewithmommyissues2001 @stanmarvelous

+ add yourself to my taglists!

[kamiflix]

▶︎︎︎︎ AITA for fucking both of the Gojo twins?

synopsis . In which you get fed up with Sato (fratjo) for playing around with you and unintentionally get involved with his identical twin brother Toru (nerdjo), not knowing they’re simply two sides of the same coin. content . afab!reader, porn with decent plot, messy relationship(s), fratjo’s an asshole in the beginning, bluntness, pervy!nerdjo, eventual threesome, degrading, oral sex, first time squirting & then doing it multiple times, getting caught, surprising dynamics, praise, pussy slapping, getting put in a headlock, confessions, filthy dirty talk, jealousy, marathon sex (gulp), spit, slightly bimbo!reader, choking, nerdjo is feral, full nelson, edging, getting passed around, frajo’s a voyeur, filth, slight angst, cum eating/swallowing, some cuckholding(?), masturbation, a silly ending, etc.

word count . 11.4k | author's note: this ended up being wayyyy longer than i initially thought it would be and it’s overly freaked the fuck out. hope you enjoy!! banner art by Rororogi Mogera. (not proofread—sorry in advance, truly)

In your defense, you didn't think he would care.

Sato Gojo—esteemed member of Sigma Chi, infamously known for his commitment issues, and noted to be the campus playboy—was the last person you thought would care about you sleeping with his twin brother.

Hell, he's also the last person who expected that same brother to be able to get this far with you. Toru is the shyest, dorkiest, and nerdiest part of the Gojo family, what could he possibly have done to catch your eye?

Sato had done his best to keep you away from and unaware of his six-second-younger brother's existence too. Yet somehow, here he is walking in on the two of you fucking in his bed.

Less upset at the sight and more confused, the only thing he wants to know is... what the fuck led up to this pairing?

——

For months and months prior to that, it'd been the same thing between you and Sato.

“She doesn’t mean anything to me, baby. You know you’re my favorite,” He’d say, cooing you with that manipulatively charming voice of his after you’d asked him about yet another woman he was talking to.

You weren't sure why you kept going back to him. He never told you how he felt about you unless he was inside you—and even then you’re certain those feelings were all sex-based and moderately untrue.

Yet something about him kept drawing you back in.

And if you had to guess what exactly it was...

“Fuuck, y’like that don’t you?” He’d groan, having one big hand clasped around your throat as he plowed you into the mattress. Sato rarely ever took his time during sex, too eager to make sure you cum & keep up his reputation of being a good fuck. “Like the way my cock kisses that sweet spot, huh?”

The rhythmic sound of his pelvis smack smack smacking! against your ass echoes throughout the room at a pitch almost louder than your sapped moans. “Mhmm,” You'd hummed in response, fingernails dug into the bedsheets below.

You couldn't bring yourself to think about all the other women that's been in this same exact position before you when his cock was far too busy gliding in and out of your soaking pussy. The same sheets your fingers are clawing at is also clasped in between your teeth tightly, drool wetting up the fabric pathetically due to how good you felt.

Only to be rudely interrupted by his hand gripping at your neck tighter and then tugging the upper half of your body allll the way up—his chest pressing into your back while his dick massages the gushiest spot inside you. “Don’t do that,” Sato huffs with that shit-eating grin on his face, “Speak up, pretty girl. I couldn't hear you.”

“Uhuhh, yes,” You pant, tongue beginning to dangle out of your mouth all whorishly, “I love it, Sato.”

Cocky like always, he'd let off that amused scoff and then nip at your ear playfully, “Yeahh, I know you do. Jus’ can’t get enough of me.”

Thinking back again, he had the biggest ego you’d ever seen.

Sato was tenderly humping the rest of his thick cock into you while you were nice and close, just to realize after the first few thrusts that you were trying to inch yourself away from him—your moans getting airier by the second.

His smile widened, “Hah, where’re you goin’?” He'd only made you cum three times since the two of you got here. Surely that wasn't enough to have you acting like this already. “Look at you, trying to run from me now," Sato scoffed with faux bitterness.

You barely got a moment to process what he was doing before you choked.

Warm lips pressing against your ear, “C’mon, I jus’ want one more outta’ you,” He purred, his arm slow to wrap around your neck while his bulking muscles pressed into the center of your throat. Whatever oxygen was on its way to your head all but died out as the man put you into a bullying chokehold and then flexed.

Your cunt squeaked juicily around him and his cockhead nudged in deeper because of the hold he had on you, otherwise rendering your body unable to escape.

That was one of many reasons why you always ran back to him. If Sato Gojo didn't know how to do anything else right, he damn sure knew how to fuck.

“Mhmm, that’s it, baby." His voice was huskier against your eardrums now and you felt your body shuddering with a sense of numbness as something slicker oozed around his shaft. "Take that fuckin’ cock—juuust like that.”

His thrust became slower while he held you in place and you'd never felt so full in your life. It wasn't until he suddenly snapped up into you that all air left your lungs and your eyes crossed.

Whatever sound you let out was beyond pathetic and only followed by a desperate, “S’too much,” that he could barely hear.

Rolling his eyes, he repeated the motion a few more times at a steady pace, letting you adjust to being arched and folded up how he wants you. “My dramatic girl, acting like you haven't been taking it just fine," He reminded you.

You almost believed him for a moment there until his free hand came snaking around your torso to press against your lower abdomen—right over the bulge his fat cock had created against your skin—and applying an egregious amount of pressure.

“M’gonna cum, Sato,” You cried out as his fingers slithered down to nudge against your clit. Never a firm rub or anything like that since he felt like his cock alone was enough to work what he wanted out of you.

He’d smile all victoriously and whisper, “That's it? Don't tell me you're still too scared to squirt on me?”

Truth be told, that was the one thing he couldn’t do for some reason.

He never said anything but he thinks maybe you’re just one of those women who need a little more effort put into in order to make you squirt. More effort of which he damn sure doesn’t feel like putting in.

Four orgasms in a row? That’s fine, he can do that no problem. Making you squirt? As badly as he wants to deep down inside, he just can’t.

You ended up leaving a creamy mess around his cock but it's not the spurting stream of wetness he was hoping for. After letting you tremble out of your high, he's slow with the way he unwraps his arms from around you.

You fall forward onto the bed and let out a heavy breath before smiling wearily in relief. No other guy on campus ever managed to make you cum even once so of course you didn't think much of the fact that Sato couldn't make you squirt.

Hell, you were unknowingly on the same page with him—thinking you might've needed extra effort put in for that kinda release. Which was fine, you didn't need that much from him. The fact that he could make you cum back to back was more than enough in your book.

Not his though.

Sato hated it. He hated how he couldn't make you squirt—the fact burned at his ego and wounded his pride greatly. He's made other women do it so he doesn't understand what the problem is. There were some nights where he wondered if maybe he was doing something wrong with you. Or maybe you'd found someone else who could—

He unknowingly scoffs at his thoughts, shuffling out of the bed and swiping up the nearest clean sweats to slip into. Who was he kidding? There isn't one other person on campus you'd go to over him.

And if he couldn't make you squirt, he knows there's no one else that could.

Amid his deep thoughts, you happen to look over and catch the way those white brows of his are neatly knitting together. He didn't even realize how his true feelings on the matter were written all over his face.

Your eyes had ran over him a couple times, pondering on all the scratch marks in various places. Places that your hands haven't touched.

And that's how the routine was with the two of you; high tension all throughout the day, let him fuck you 'til all your senses went numb, and then fade into quietness with little to talk about since Sato doesn't deem it necessary to get close with you in that way.

When you catch the way he's dragging his feet around the room, trying to clean the mess of clothes you two made prior to getting in the bed, your brows lifts with curiosity. Asking gently, "Hey, are you alright?"

Sato hums without turning around to you, running his a hand through his hair as if stressed out. "Yeah, m'fine." He grunts, glancing over at you after and adding a slightly comforting, "Are you?"

You nod in response to him and he stares for a moment longer than necessary, still deep in his thoughts about something he surely wasn't sharing with you anytime soon.

Why would he? You didn’t need to know that he was beating himself up over something so stupid. He’s well aware that he’s the best guy to ever sleep with you so, opening up to you about something so trivial wasn’t in his character.

There’d been jokes and banter between the two of you before—obviously—but it never went any further than that. The moment things threatened to dip into something real, something more tender or honest, Sato would shut it down with quick precision.

Which is exactly why you didn't try pressing for more of this dry conversation. Instead, you silently watched him tug a shirt over his head and then head over to the nightstand for his phone.

He's busy texting someone for a bit before he releases a huff and turns his head to see the way you've been quietly watching him, "Did you want me to run you a bath or—"

"No, no, I told you, I'm fine," You unintentionally cut off.

You weren't sure where the awkwardness had come from but it wasn't completely unwelcome since there was clearly something he wasn't telling you. You saw it in the way he pouted all grumpily just before looking at you.

Whatever was on his mind had to be eating him up on the inside.

Not that the frown pushed you to ask him anything else though. You ended up turning over and rolling off is bed a few minutes later to gather your things and leave, to which he'd peacefully helped you with.

Then Sato escorted you all the way out of his maze-like home and was "kind" enough to give you a kiss on the forehead before sending you off.

Little things like that always caught you off guard. Your heart would do that weird thing in your chest as you wondered if there was a possibility of experiencing more than just hook-ups with the man.

Though, reality is quick to slap you back to your senses when you see him with his arm around some other woman the next day while on your way to class.

You knew better than to get emotionally attached to Sato Gojo. Everyone did.

——

Some days later is when shit decides to hit the fan between you two.

It happens so randomly that you almost feel as though you dreamt the whole thing up. The day starting with him texting you to come over that night and somehow ending with you in thwarted tears.

In all the time you spent with Sato, there'd never been a moment where he was blatantly selfish. Something of which surprised you in the beginning of your relationship since he was known to be a fuckboy.

Yet, ending up in his bedroom for the nth time, as his thumb rubbed at your clit with unsteady, jerky motions, appearing otherwise annoyed about something—Sato had been selfish for the first time with you.

Foreplay was skipped entirely and you should've known something was up from that alone.

The most you got out of him prior to being stripped of your clothing was a messy kiss and a barely audible, "Need somethin' from you, baby," grunted into your mouth.

Then you were being carried all the way up to his bedroom, handled frustratedly down into the mattress, and soon fucked at a rate you weren't used to.

His thrusts were sloppy and needy, voice quiet since he didn't bother talking you through it or saying anything at all, and the only thing with a sense of normalcy to it was the way his thumb nudged over your clit as his cock dove in and out of you.

Midway through, you assumed he just had a bad day or something. Figured he wanted to take some of that stress out on you.

And that wasn't out of the ordinary for him, it's happened more often than not.

But as his thumb drew desperate circles around your twitching bud, Sato's cock twitched and he pulled out the moment you were about to cum. You were too dazed by his abrupt action that you nearly missed the way he stroked himself into finishing on your stomach and then scoffed. Bitterly.

Your eyes were glossed over since the taste of your own orgasm had been right there on the tip of your nerves, stripped away from you faster than you could blink.

Whatever had been bothering him about having sex with you was felt before it was understood.

He was already turning away by the time you pushed yourself to sit up, the sheets gliding down your arms as you watched him with wide, teary eyes. The room felt ten times quieter than it normally did. You saw how he crossed the room as if nothing had happened—as if this was just another unremarkable moment to be shrugged off.

"Sato," You say, his name tripping in your throat on the way out.

Only then did he pause, fingers curled around his drawer handle. Not sparing you a glance back, "What." he breathed out.

It was hardly even a response, more of a wall you'd audibly stumbled into. You'd never heard his voice so dull and flat with you.

Swallowing down whatever confusing emotions were building up in your throat, "Did I, um... did I do something wrong?"

Somehow that gets his attention. He glances back over his shoulder then, expression insipid and eyes casting over you all bored-like. "Don't start that," He said, irritation weaving into his voice, "You're overthinking shit already."

Your mouth opens to say something but it's like you'd been slapped in the face, leading your lips to seal shut for a second. His words were too heavy for you, coming off with weighted dismissiveness.

After a few beats, your words trail out slowly, "Sorry I'm a little confused, Sato. You asked me to come over for that..?"

He exhaled sharply, like the question itself had tired him, "What else do I ever call you over for?"

Something shrewd twisted in your chest, "Certainly not whatever the fuck that was just now."

Sato finally turned more fully and leaned back against his dresser, crossing his arms and letting his eyes meet yours firmly. "You sound upset."

"I feel used," You'd snapped back immediately.

His brow twitched, "'Cause I didn't make you cum?"

Again, the words came off blunt and careless.

Leading you to flinch internally, "I mean—yeah," You said as a humorless breath tiptoed out, "You normally do."

"Well, I didn't feel like it today. M'spent." He scoffed out.

It was almost as if that was supposed to be an explanation for everything.

You stared at him and felt the way your disbelief began to fade into something of anger, "You could've told me that."

"Would that have made you feel any better?" Every response came out of him like he'd rehearsed the entire conversation beforehand.

"We could've done something different," Your hands began to curl into the sheets a little, trying to steady yourself. "I could've-"

"I didn't want anything different." Sato cut off crisply.

You'd never been so utterly confused in your life. Everything was fine before this—for the most part—so what had come over him all of a sudden? Why was he acting like this?

The finality in his statement only made your stomach drop, your head shaking slowly in disbelief, "...So you wanted to use m-"

"No, sweetheart," The pet name sounds empty on his tongue, lacking its usual affection. "I wanted you to see how it feels to get into something thinking things are going to go like they always do, just to feel disappointed by the end."

The next sound that spreads throughout the room is your laughter as it exits you in incredulous fashion, "Sato, what the fuck are you talking about?"

He dragged a hand through the white tuffs of his hair, pacing only once before coming to a stop. "You..." Letting his words trail off, he released a long and stressed-out sigh, "Every woman I've been with has never had the problem you do."

That hits you square in the chest.

Head cocking back as you frown with immediate offense flaring over, "Excuse me? Are you... are you talking about squirting, Sato? You can't be serious."

"I am," He said without hesitation. "If it's just something you can't do, I'd rather you tell me than making me look like an idiot when we fuck."

"What?" Your eyes narrowed as your anger bled into something strictly hurt. "I... I'm sure I can. Maybe we're just doing something wro-"

"We?" Sato cuts you off instantly. Then his tone seemed firmer and you knew he didn't think things through when he said, "No, no, you've got shit backwards here. I can assure you I'm not doing anything wrong, that's all you."

Something inside you finally boiled over.

"All me?" You scoffed, pushing yourself out of the bed. The cold air wrapping itself around you felt like even more of a wake-up call than what he'd just said. "Oh, sorry for not being like all the other twenty girls you sleep with."

Grabbing your clothes with uncoordinated and janky movements after wiping away any lingering trace of what had happened, you subconsciously wished you could've erased the moment entirely from start to finish. Your hands trembled as you got dressed, seemingly more from the heated emotions waving through you than the embarrassment.

Sato stiffened upon hearing your words. For the first time—probably in his life—his confidence had cracked. "Shit—wait," He rushed out, trying to step towards you and stop you from leaving.

It was almost like he himself wasn't aware of how severely fucked up his actions and words were.

His hand reached out for your arm, "I-I didn't mean it like that, c'mon. I just—"

"Save it, asshole." You spat back at him, shoving his hand out the way and storming out his room before giving him a chance to say anything else.

He'd said more than enough to have your vision blurry and heart pounding in your chest as if pained.

The hallway was dim, your footsteps quickened to carry you as far away from him as possible, and your emotions buzzed all too loudly in your ears for you to think straight. You think you hear something clash against the wall back in Sato's room but you ignore it.

You're so wrapped up in your feelings that you're not even paying attention to where you're going. You only made it a few steps down the hall before you collided with something solid.

Someone solid.

Gasping as you stumble back, a pair of hands come up to steady you. "Ah, sorry," a voice hums out to you. The sound is soft as it reverberates throughout the hallway but your chest feels as though it's caving inwards since the guy in front of you sounded exactly like Sato.

There was a pitch of unfamiliarity in it, though. One that made you look up.

For a moment, you thought maybe you'd fallen off the bed earlier and that everything thus far had been some type of hallucination because surely Sato wasn't standing right in front of you right now.

...Except, with glasses? And a dorkier look in his eyes?

With the same snowy white hair, the same perfectly sharp jawline—that's somehow a tad softer—and the same dazzling blue eyes, he stared at you all longingly as if an angel had fallen right into his arms or something. The only difference between him and his brother being the black glasses sitting center on the bridge of his nose.

Despite the hallway's lack of lighting, you swear you see his cheeks flush with red as the moment of exchanged staring passes.

Prior to this, you'd only ever heard rumors of Sato having a twin brother but you never once imagined those would turn out to be true. The man's eyes widen slightly as he really looks at you, confusion flickering across his face whilst he takes in your flushed skin, the way your clothes are hanging off of you as though you'd rushed to put them all, and how your eyes are somberly glossed over.

"I-," You try to blink that wetness out of your gaze and then clear your throat. "Sorry, I wasn't watching where I was going."

"It's fine," He replies as he thoughtlessly continues to hold onto your arms. Then, uncertainly, "You're... Sato's, uh—"

"Sato's what?" You cut off harsher than you meant to.

There was no way he was about to refer to you as that asshole's girlfriend or anything like that, right?

His mouth visibly goes taut, realizing he was about to step into something fragile. Instead of responding, he just stands there awkwardly enough to piss you off even more.

Groaning, you push past him and continue storming down the hall. You didn't have time for whatever that was about to turn into.

Unbeknownst to you, he'd stood there and watched as you walked away—cursing himself out for letting his opportunity to talk to you pass him by like that. He'd known who you were for months prior to this. Out of all the women Sato brought over, you were the only one Toru took a genuine interest in.

It's unfortunate for him that Sato's a stingy asshole who doesn't care to introduce the two of you. Because of that, Toru had to go out of his way just to get glimpses of your personality.

He was always home when Sato brought you over, always in his room that's just one wall over while the two of you fucked—listening and secretly getting off to those gorgeous moans you let off. Toru knew it was perverted of him to do so, but he truly couldn't help himself.

Now here he is with sagging shoulders at the fact that he totally fucked up his first interaction with you.

He heard the whole argument between you and his brother and came out into the hallway hoping to come to your rescue or at least cheer you up, even if only for a second. Yet, all he managed to do was piss you off with his awkwardness and lack of confident social skills.

After a few minutes, Toru straightens up and settles his jaw in a way that says he'd made some type of silent decision. That wasn't going to be the last time he interacted with you—no matter how badly his brother fucked up—he knew you'd be back eventually.

As he turns back to his room, he promises to himself that next time he sees you, he won't hesitate or fumble things with you.

——

A few weeks pass before anything else noteworthy occurs.

In that time, things between you and Sato remain rocky, to say the utmost least. Conversations between the two of you were more careful, apologies came far slower than they should've, and some semblance of trust had been rebuilt in uneven steps.

Sometimes he was sweet and more attentive than he had been before that big argument, kinda like he was afraid it'd happen again. Other times he'd slip up and those old habits would seep through, any excuse he gave you dressed up charmingly enough for you to ultimately end up forgiving him again.

The fact that you both were trying had to be enough to count for something, otherwise the two of you were better off calling it quits months ago.

Somewhere in the middle of that relationship, Toru became familiar to you. You went out of your way to see him whenever you visited the Gojo estate, even if you were only there for Sato.

He was almost always cooped up in his room, drowning himself in his studies—textbooks stacked neatly on his desk, handwritten notes color-coded and meticulously organized.

It wasn't long before you realized he and his brother were complete opposites. Where Sato excelled in partying and socializing, Toru peaked in academics and hobbies that were far more niche.

You remember poking your head into his room one time to say hi and catching him lost in Digimon reruns with strategy guides pulled up on his nearby laptop. He was so engrossed in it that he hadn't even heard you saying something to him.

Situations like that are what got the two of you to be something close to friends.

Though, you still didn't know him any more than you knew Sato. You were still kept at an arm's length from either of their personalities beyond what was noticeable. Sato made sure of that where both he and his twin were concerned.

While he did soften up with you, he still wasn't interested in keeping you that close—not close enough to know him. And he damn sure wouldn't let you go off and try to find that in Toru.

Anytime you and the nerdier Gojo sibling were alone, Sato was intruding minutes later. Always interrupting.

Even when you ran into Toru on campus.

One time when you found him outside the library, standing near a vending machine and ran up to talk to him, Sato seemed to spawn out of thin air with his arm around you is if to silently tell his brother to fuck off.

You weren't sure what had gotten into him as far as that was concerned. He didn't care when you talked to anyone else.

This was but another unfortunate thing for you since you were quite fond of Toru. He remembered little things about you; your major, your favorite cafe, and even your preferred place to sit in lecture halls.

If you asked Sato questions about any of those things, he'd probably shrug and ask you why any of it matters in the first place.

But you bet that dick for brains could tell you which position makes you cum the fastest...

It's regrettably because of that as to why you're currently standing at the large front doors to his home, having rung the bell only a few seconds ago due to an earlier text requesting you come over.

In said text, Sato promised that he only wanted to talk to you and you chose to believe him.

Just for Toru to swing the door open with a surprised look on his face.

"Oh, hey." He began, pushing his glasses further up on his face so that he could get a proper look at you. "If you're looking for Sato, he's not here. I actually think he's been gone for the past three hours or so."

Disappointment settles into you and you roll your eyes, already annoyed. "Of course he has," You sigh.

Toru offers you a half-comforting grin before stepping back a bit and opening the door wider for you, "He'll probably be back soon though, if you wanna come in?"

You debated leaving but the prospect of being able to spend some alone time with Toru is what swayed you into staying.

Which is how you ended up in their living room.

The rest of the house was quieter than Sato ever allowed it to be. There was no music blaring, none of his restless pacing or constant yammering about fuck knows what. The only thing heard was the low hum of the TV ahead of you and Toru.

He'd put on a movie a few minutes ago and although you'd agreed to watch it with him, you kept glancing towards the front door hoping to see Sato walk in any moment now.

It never happens.

Sitting on the opposite ends of the couch, you and Toru are steady to find comfort in one another's presence. You eventually let yourself focus on what he'd put on, snorting whenever he laughed at the unfunniest bits of it and finding yourself mused by the easiness of it all.

You noticed how Toru also tried to sneak his eyes onto you here and there, lacking that smoothness his slightly older brother had and always catching your attention when he did it.

The two of you even shared those warm moments where you'd catch him staring and then whisper, "What, is something on my face?"

To which he'd swallow thickly and shake his head, "No, not at all. Sorry..."

His shyness is probably what drew you in the most about him. You loved how often he avoided eye contact with you, how gentle his voice always came out, and the way he'd begin to adjust himself against the couch due to the smallest of things.

The night was going well enough for you to forget all about—

Your phone rang and Sato's name was lighting up your screen.

At the sight, your shoulders went tense and you were unsure if you should answer it or not. Toru looked over at you but he didn't say anything.

The movie continued to play ahead as you picked up the phone and quietly spoke to Sato, "What?"

Whatever was said to you on the other end made your jaw clench—something of which Toru noted instantly. He didn't mean to be nosy but it was hard not to when minutes passed and you were clearly getting frustrated about your conversation.

"You sound drunk," You're heard muttering, making Toru's ears perk up and then strain to hear more.

Sato is just barely heard grumbling in response, "M'not drunk, baby."

Your shoulders slump, "Did you even mean to text me?"

There's a long pause. Toru tenses up and Sato's heard burping.

"I texted you?" The man on the phone asks, making your entire mood sink. "Hahhh, fuck. I don' remember doing that.. What uh, what'd I say?"

"You said you needed to talk." You reply rigidly.

He nods even though you can't see him, "Ah... I mean, I do need to talk to you but," Pausing to grumble, "Don't see why I didn't jus' call.. Anyway, s-so yesterday I was with this girl 'n she said m'not doin' anything wrong."

His early attempt at trying to convince you he wasn't drunk fell flat in that instant. You stare into space for a moment, "What?"

"Remember how we got into it about your squirting problem?" Sato blurts out in response.

You could feel yourself getting irritated with him all over again. You hated the way he said that like it was truly an issue on your end alone, even though the two of you have talked about it after the argument.

"My squirting problem? You mean the fact that you can't get me there?" You snapped back, matching his energy for just a second and unintentionally gaining the dull attention of his nosy brother.

At this point, you don't think you cared whether or not he overheard.

"No, no, I cannnn..." Sato drags out drunkenly. Then you hear this giggle in the background before he adds, "This girl told me it really is you 'n not me. Because like-"

You hang up the phone before he can continue.

The last thing you wanted to do was entertain whatever the fuck he was about to tell you for any longer than you had to. Your phone falls down into your lap and you feel it buzzing a few seconds later but you only swipe it back up to silence it entirely.

After which, the room falls into a thick quietness that swallows up both you and Toru. Even the movie playing ahead had switched to a soundless scene that only added to the shift in moods.

A few minutes of this stillness pass before you feel the weight on the other side of the couch shifting. Your eyes flick over and you see him readjusting himself in his seat.

You don't question it nor say anything but his sudden movements do manage to pull you out of your funk for a second. Ignoring it, you pick your phone back up to see that Sato had texted you a bunch of gibberish—the only sensible message you can make out being one of him begging you to text or call back.

As soon as you start typing, his twin decides to clear his throat again.

“I mean, it can’t be that hard.” Toru says all timidly, his words catching enough to snag your attention away from your phone.

Your thumb goes idle against the screen and you look up at him to see his cheeks colored over with bright red. He was looking off to his left and you could tell by the rapid rise and fall of his chest that his breathing had gone off-track.

Clearly, he hadn’t meant to say that out loud.

You chuckle as if intrigued by his words, humming, “Your brother said the same thing."

Toru scoffs and then speaks without thinking again, “He doesn’t care enough.”

Cocking a brow, “Doesn’t care enough to make me squirt?” You ask.

The sound of the man’s breath hitching was clearer than the dense tension between you both. “Obviously not,” Toru continues, lifting two slim fingers up to the center of his glasses to adjust them against his nose. “If he did, he would’ve made sure you… uh, did that.”

Never would you have expected to have this kind of conversation with the same man who can barely look you in the eye. But it was clear something had changed. Even in his body language, you saw how he'd sat up a bit straighter against the couch and let his legs sprawl out wider—almost invitingly so.

He was still avoiding your gaze but the sturdiness in his voice is what intrigued you the most.

“Did what, Toru? Say it,” You pressed, putting your phone down and turning on the couch to face him fully.

You watched as his Adam’s apple bobbed in his throat with the way he gulped thickly. “He would’ve uhm..." Toru pauses to take a deep breath—mentally reminding himself that he swore not to embarrass himself in front of you again—and then clears his throat one more time, "He would've made sure you squirted.”

Too shy to look at you just yet, he misses how the look in your eyes changes entirely. It was like seeing him in a new light.

Not that you hadn't thought about it before. He does look exactly like Sato and there's been a few times where you've wondered what it'd be like to be the cause of his glasses going crooked 'n foggy.

Biting back a smile, “Well, he makes me cum a lot.” You explain to him casually. Certainly Toru wouldn't have started talking to you about this if he didn't at least have some advice for you, “Like, back to back.”

He nods, nimble fingers fidgeting over one another in his lap, “Then, he just doesn’t know what he’s doing.”

You bat your lashes at him all cluelessly, “But—“

“As I said the first time,” Toru looks at you all of a sudden, his eyes mildly terrified behind his frames despite the attempt of confidence spreading over his face. There was a devilishly sexy blend of sureness and hesitancy plastered all over his features, “It can’t be that hard.”

The direct eye contact and few inches of space between where you two were sitting made everything feel hot all of a sudden. Blush melts itself into his skin again and it was clear that this initiated flirting of his was a first time thing.

You knew Toru found you intimidating and that subconsciously accepted fact only made you want to see more. More of your affect on him.

Sliding closer to him on the couch, your voice slyly dips into something more taunting, “You sound like you wanna try.”

Watching the way his jaw flexes, teeth tightly gritted within his mouth, and throat struggling to conceal the high-pitched sound that threatened to jump out of him—your affect on the man was as clear as day.

Somehow, Toru manages to maintain his confident facade, “Would you let me if I did?”

“Do you?” You ask quicker than he expects you to.

His head felt like it was spinning already. Is this what it's like to do drugs? Does his brother get to experience this all the time?

Toru gulps again, “Do I.. what?”

Now he was playing dumb on purpose, as if he wasn't the one who commenced this whole thing with his earlier statement.

Which makes you giggle, “You’re the smartest guy I know, Toru." Your compliment makes his heart skip a few beats. Then your head tilts and your tone softens, "Don’t start acting dumb just to appeal to me.”

He bats those pretty white lashes at you with his eyes all doe-like on you for a moment before he looks down, “I just… I wanted to hear you say it.”

You stand up from the couch all of a sudden and he freezes up. Then you walk over and stand right in between his legs, moving a hand to his chin and forcing his head up. “Do you wanna try making me squirt?”

Toru shakes his head and your brows furrow. His face nuzzles into your hand, forcing it to spread open as his cheek presses into your palm, “It’s not something to be tried, it’s just something I can do for you.” He explains.

Your thumb brushes against his cheek and his glasses slip down his nose a bit. Smiling, “Someone's confident.”

He merely whispers, “‘Can’t be that hard.”

——

Ten minutes later and you're wondering why he wasn't the first Gojo twin you met.

Loong fingers stretching your pussy out crudely, hot tongue attacking your clit like he wanted to lick you into numbness, and eyes still doe-like as they remain glued up on your face—Toru was nothing like his slightly older brother.

No, no, he aimed not only to please but to learn how you like to be pleased.

Whereas Sato would just sleep with you the same way he did with anyone else—beyond confident in his own abilities to bring a woman pleasure—Toru was the kinda man who took his time to work you up specifically.

“Taste s’good,” He praised in a tone deeper than you knew to be capable from him. You were laying across the couch now and he was stuffed neatly in between your legs. Whining, “More,” as he tugged at your thighs, his jaw going slack, and his mouth smearing against your cunt. “Gimme’ more—mmpfh. Please?"

You weren't sure what more he could be referring to when his fingertips were already twirling something sinful against your g-spot. You had a hand buried into his hair, your other behind you as you held onto the couch to steady yourself with the way he feasted on you as if your pussy was the best thing to wet up his tongue.

“Ah, T-Toru, fuck!” You cried out, unconsciously pulling away from him when his fingers focused in deep against that soppy spot—addicted to the way your slick gushed out around his hand and left a sweet mess against the couch.

His fingers leave your insides for only a second and a half before he's shoving them into his mouth to suck the taste off. Toru's eyes rolled back for a moment before he let both of his hands redirect to your inner thighs and then spread you out wider just so nothing was obstructing your view of the way he sloppily kissed your cunt.

Small strings of aroused filth would hang in between his mouth and your puffy pussylips, all of which would get licked off by his eager tongue before he dove back in for more.

Before you'd let him make his way down there, you recall the way he oh-so-awkwardly kissed you. He hardly had a clue what to do with his tongue when it was against yours but now that he was in between your legs, he became an entirely different person.

Suckling the dewy tastes into his mouth and guzzling it down his throat just to let it linger, Toru was nothing short of desperate to make you feel good. So much so that his brain practically turns off as he moves his hands to grip your hips and then lifts the lower half of your body up against his face.

His mouth nuzzled harder against you and you felt the wiggling tip of his tongue slap against your clenching walls. He softly humped the couch as he ate you out, letting the sounds of your moans coax him into giving you everything he could.

Toru only pulled away from your cunt when his glasses fogged up too much for him to see your face. And before you could offer to wipe them off or anything, you met his gaze with the way his head angled for you to do so.

His voice deep and aching, “Sit on my face,” He requested before whining again. “Pleasepleaseplease,” the man panted almost puppy-like and then seared his next words right into your clit with the edge of his tongue, “Need it s’bad.”

You don't think you had it anywhere in you to deny him when he was asking so nicely like that.

But by the time the two of you had flipped over and you were left hovering over his pleasantly flushed face—his shaky hands tight against your hips—you were a little too nervous to sit down.

Toru had caught his breath by now but nothing about his starved appetite had changed. Those previously soft blue eyes of his seemed to pierce straight through you in a way that Sato's sometimes would. You know they're twins and all but fuck, it was nerve-wracking to experience that hungry look from the alleged "shy" twin.

“Ride it," Toru husked out all of a sudden, giving your body the faintest pull.

Your eyes went all wide, “…Your mouth?”

Instead of clarifying things or being patient with you, he snatches your frame down with a strength you didn't know he possessed. Moaning before your core even reaches his lips again, “Want you to feed your pussy to me.”

Then he was practically suctioned to you again, eyes rolling back far enough for the whites to be visible beneath the foggy frames of his glasses.

“Ohfuck,” You cry out, the upper half of your body slumping forward a bit as your thighs squeeze around his head.

You felt the way Toru smiled at the feeling, almost like he was exactly where he'd wanted to be. His tongue skated up into you with a vigor you'd never felt before.

The man ate pussy like he wanted the results of your release plastered all over those pretty glasses of his, leaving him with sogged vision and a numbed tongue. It was yet another thing that made him so much different than his brother because although that man had stamina like no other and knew how to use his cock, he never once ate you out.

Meanwhile Toru couldn’t seem to get enough.

He even left a needy smack to your ass, encouraging you to do as he initially asked of you and ride his face. It wasn’t until his tongue was constantly plunging past your glissading folds that you unconsciously rolled your hips forward and earned a whimper from him in response.

Then the hands on your hips began to tug at you again, not even begging you for more but demanding it now.

You could no longer focus on the way he looked with splashes of your slick spread out on his glasses in nasty droplets since the tip of his nose had bumped up against your clit, and his jaw went slack just to adhere to your drooling nerves.

The sensation made your entire body flinch, but he wouldn’t let you pull up. For the nth time, you were stunned by Toru’s strength.

His tongue was thick and gathering against your pussy, not letting a singular drop of your taste escape his mouth until something light ghosted out of you.

“S-Something feels-, nngh,” Your struggles were just the cutest thing. “Different.” You tried to warn him.

His head tilted slightly and you felt his lips curve against you again as he smiled knowingly. Plucking his mouth away from you for the first time in forever with a wet pop!, Toru let his warm breath pat your quivering hole as he whispered, “It’s supposed to feel different, sweet girl. That’s what happens when you come to the right twin.”

Cocky. You never knew Toru had that in him—must be a trait that runs into family.

Except, it’s not like he was wrong. Once he lathered his tongue back in and sucked on your cunt like it was the only thing keeping him sane, you felt that coiling burn building up inside you. You knew you were gonna squirt despite never experiencing it before.

But it felt like too much, made you feel dirty as you neared that shattering edge. So much so that you tried so hard to snatch yourself away from Toru, whining excessively only for each sound to fall on completely deaf ears.

Your legs had clamped around his head so tight that he was getting lightheaded from his lack of oxygen—not that he cared. He had one singular goal and nothing was gonna stop him from reaching it.

It wasn’t long before it happened as his complimenting moans turned into graveling groans. The sounds vibrated against your pussy and you were tongue-fucked right into something blissful. Bleary white streaks coated your vision and you think you would’ve fallen over if not for the mean grasp he had on you.

Toru had done it, he managed to make you squirt.

By the time your brain feels like it’s functioning enough to hold a conversation, you let your vision come back to you and look down to see his soaked face.

His eyes are dazed whilst they peer up at you, appreciation swirling through his pupils. Those same glasses you’ve managed to squirt over are now crooked and you wonder if that’s from the way you unconsciously started rutting your hips forward just a few minutes ago.

Toru didn’t do anything but pant heavily—his breath stuttering here and there due to how long he went without breathing properly. When he finds the energy to send you another boyish grin, you feel a wave of embarrassment flutter over.

“Shit,” You huff, slowly moving from over his face and then grabbing his glasses.

With his face revealed, you saw how unfairly pretty he was with content written into his skin.

Then he chuckles softly, “You don’t have t’clean those.” Toru tells you, tone mumbled.

You were trying to wipe his glasses off with your shirt but he’d moved his hand to your wrist to stop you.

“I like the mess,” he added.

After which you’re stuck staring at him while he takes the wet glasses out of your hand and puts them back on his face. Surely there’s some hygienic concerns to take into consideration here but he’s not at all worrying about that right now.

Not with the painfully hard cock he’s got twitching in between his legs.

He wasn’t gonna tell you out of fear you’d assume he was some kinda loser (he is) but, not only did he cum half-way through eating you out, he also got hard again when that messy stream came pouring out of you.

Toru’s never made a woman squirt before but he did study enough videos to—clearly—figure out how it’s done. He didn’t think it would work so easily with you since all he had to use was his tongue but considering the way you just-

“Can you do that again?” Your voice hits his ears all of a sudden and his eyes widen.

“W-What?” Toru chokes, “You uh, you want me to make you squirt again?”

You nod and then move to sit back a little, not exactly in his lap but still close enough for your body heat to mingle. Your finger trails down the center of his torso slowly as you speak, “It felt really good. I wanna do it again,” You requested almost innocently. “But, on your cock this time.”

He doesn’t know how he managed not to cum at the sound of that.

Toru knew you were bold, he knew you could be a bit of a ditz at time, but fuck—did you have any idea of the things you were asking for sometimes?

Mustering up that faux confidence from before, he leans up and hums. “Alright, yeah… I can do that.” He thinks. Not that he’ll admit his lack of assuredness to you though. His hands simply move against your body and you hardly realize what’s going on until he’s swooped you up in his arms. “But not here.”

You blink dumbfoundedly, “Why not?”

“I have a better idea.”

——

When he said that, you didn’t think the better idea in question would be having sex in his brother’s room.

You recognized the path there as Toru carried you, felt the familiarity when he laid you down on the bed, and smelled the same scent of Sato lingering around even as Toru tried to distract you with kisses.

It seemed to be surprise after surprise with this man.

“I think after all the times I’ve had to hear the two of you fuck,” Toru’s hands were running down your body—his touch smoother than his brother’s ever were. “It’s only fair that I make you squirt in the same place he never could, right?”

Too many thoughts of sin swirled in your head for you to answer that properly so all you did was nod your head again. Which was yet another thing he found cute.

It’s no wonder Sato kept you to himself all this time.

That realization becomes even clearer by the time Toru’s got his cock freed from his clothing, his pinkish tip dribbling precum down onto your cunt while he gapes at the sight.

With his clothes all gone, you realized that he’d been hiding a ripped body under all those baggy, nerdy-branded tees he wore. His muscles would flex without him even trying and he didn’t even notice how badly you were drooling over him until he stopped looking at your weeping hole and remembered to redirect his gaze up.

Seeing how you’re staring at his abs like you wanted to take a bite out of him, he leaned all the way up and allowed himself to be on full display for you. His cock bobbed with its hardness due to the way you admired him.

He was only reminded again that his brother got this time and time again and was too selfish to share.

What an asshole.

Toru scoffed and let his head cock to the left, peaking down at his length still hanging over your lower abdomen. “Hm,” His hand moved and he began to measure himself in comparison to how deep inside you he’d be within the next few minutes—hand stopping only a few inches short of your belly button. “Does he reach this far?”

You flinched out of your gawking thoughts and moved your attention to where his hand was, gasping at the debauched sight in between your legs.

Truth be told, the fact that they were twins clearly applied to every inch of their bodies. But if you looked hard enough, you could notice that Sato’s is a bit longer while Toru’s has that veining thickness.

To avoid making the man jealous, you shrug and make eye contact with him again, “Put it in and find out.”

Toru laughs dryly and you throb. Something had changed from before. His shyness seemed like it hid itself away considering there was nothing shy about how he wrapped his hand around his cock and then let it slap slap slap! against your swollen folds.

Your body twitched at each slap but what caught his attention most is how your cunt salivated with each one.

“Huh. I think I figured it out,” Toru breathed, his glasses slipping a bit.

Then he guides his dick up to swab around your clit for a couple seconds just to see the way your hips instantly squirm up for more. The smile that drags out across his face is chillingly close to the one Sato wears while he fucks you.

“There it is,” Toru whispers, hauling his cock down and letting his plump tip poke against your hole to feel you clench, and then slide back. “That’s what you like. You like being teased.”

You were so needy that you felt your slick wetly sliding down your skin to pool beneath you, “N-No, I just—“

“Shhh, focus on how this feels, pretty girl.” He instructs. All the shakiness you normally heard in his speech was gone and replaced with something sinfully commanding—yearning only to teach you true pleasure. “See how my cock keeps slipping out? Mmgh,” He repeated his action from before and your hips bucked for more this time, making him huff. “Don’t you want it inside you sooo badly?”

Your hand reached down for him, trying your damndest to angle him into you, “I do. Toru please,” You pleaded delightfully.

His naturally submissive nature leads him to slip an inch in but the dewy warmth of your pussy makes him let out a stuttered gasp. Then he lets his cock slop right out of you with another ringing sound of filth spurring out into the air. His deft cockhead thwacks at your quivering hole again and your eyes roll back.

"Say that again." Toru grunts, slapping your parted folds with his cock again to emphasize his words, "Beg me for it."

Your back arches up off the bed this time and you’ve got the prettiest look of desperation on your face, "Mnh, please?"

Fuck. He was not strong enough to drag this out any longer.

Nor was he ready for how welcoming your cunt is for him. Swallowing him in inch by stretching inch, Toru’s left with a slacked jaw as he finally slides into you. Choking on his own breath, “O-Ohh… Oh fuck.” he pants, “You’re so wet. F-Fuck, were you always this wet? Shit..”

You let off a pleasant string of moans that make his cock twitch wildly inside you before he even makes it halfway in.

Managing a short breath, you smile up at him, “Didn’t know you could curse s’much, Toru.”

He knew right then and there he was fucked.

“G-Gonna cum,” He whimpers as he drops his face down into your neck. The singular utterance of his name is what did it for him.

You thought he was just being dramatic but when you feel velvety ropes of creamy cum flooding into you followed by his throaty grunts against the crook of your neck, you realize he was being everything but.

The man could barely move his hips and all he had to offer you was thick loads in sporadic spurts and whiny groans.

By the time you feel his cum escaping where the two of you are still connected, you’re slow to snort, “…Toru?”

“Shit,” He gasps immediately, “Shitshitshit, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I-I didn’t mean to cum,” His head flies up, white hairs sticking to his forehead from sweat and eyes all wide and apologetic on yours, “I just-, you felt so good. I couldn’t-, fuck. I’m—“

“It’s okay,” You giggle, moving your hands to cup his face, “Just keep goin’.”

“But-,” His eyes travel back and forth between your own as he continues to stare. It takes Toru a long moment to realize he’s… still hard.

With a breathless oh tumbling out of his kiss-bitten lips, he rolls his hips forward and pushes his cum deeper into you as a creamy squelch rings out. “O-Ohh, fuck. That sounds s’nasty...” He murmurs, arousal decorating his expression from the sound.

“Mhm,” You whir, tugging him down to kiss you.

If Sato had good stamina then, as twins, Toru should too, right?

A very intimate mess of his hips rocking down into you carries on with your lips sliding over one another. Unlike his older sibling who typically fucked like his every thrust guaranteed pleasure (it did), Toru moved inside you in the same way his mouth moved over yours—awkward but careful.

The streeeetch from his cock definitely made up for his lack of hurried strokes since his steady pace forced you to feel every prodding inch.

He may not have lasted long inside you without cumming but he was able to bring you to an orgasm of your own, whispering things into your mouth about how perfect you were—how his brother never deserved any of this.

It made your heart feel heavy and your cunt sloppily sang around his cock up until the sound of something dropping made you both gasp.

“What the fuck.” Sato’s voice was heard seething, having dropped the bag he had hanging off of his shoulder.

When Toru pulls away from you and glances back, you manage to move your head enough to catch a glimpse of how Sato stuck was staring at the way his twin was steadily fucking you to gentle tears.

“S-Sato,” You sputtered out, suddenly feeling Toru’s hand move to press down your lower abdomen—tightening the pressure around his cock and making him feel impossibly bigger inside you. “Ohmygod-,” Both men heard the way you choked, “M’gonna cum.”

Only to be interrupted by Toru scoffing, "Not yet. Someone has to teach this guy how to make you squirt, right?"

“No one has to teach me shit,” Sato argued as he fully entered his bedroom.

What a sight—his own brother fucking his favorite girl. Sato never thought he’d see the day, honestly.

Hell, he didn’t even know what to say. The sight of you two wasn’t the worst thing in the world. Toru had his face so it was like seeing himself fuck you. But, y’know, with glasses…

“Clearly someone does,” Toru’s delayed response came after he’d tugged his cock out of you, watching his cum sap out and soil his brother’s bedsheets. “Especially if I was able to do it.”

Rolling his eyes, “Bullshit.” Sato spat without letting his brother’s words register properly. When they finally do, an appalled expression colors over him, “Wait, what? No way, show me.”

Toru moves a hand to scratch the back of his neck, looking off to the side dorkishly, “Uh, we didn’t record it or anything–”

“No, I mean do it again, four eyes.” His older brother clarifies rudely.

You sit up at that. Glancing back and forth between the two for a moment and then settling your eyes onto Sato, “What?”

“I don’t believe him,” Sato huffs as comes to sit on the edge of his bed. Throwing his eyes onto you, “So, if he really made you squirt then surely he has no issue doing it again.”

You blink. “You want him to do that in front of you?”

“I want to see you squirt, period,” He admits, “I don’t care who gets it outta’ you at this point.”

You and Toru then exchange glances before looking at him.

“Well?” Sato scoffs. “If you’re gonna go out of your way to fuck in my bed, don’t stop now that I’m here. Put on a fuckin’ show for me.”

Ever so demanding he was…

——

Not that you or Toru seemed to care.

The next position you end up in is rather… precarious, to say the least.

You thought you were left stretched before but that feeling was utterly pale in comparison to what you felt now. Toru had you bouncing up and down his heavy cock, letting it talk you through every pummeling thrust by leaving sweltering smooches against the deepest crevices of your cunt.

Your maw was left to dangle open and you looked like a true slut in the eyes of the Gojo twins. As one fucked you beyond dumb, the other was sat in front of you with his hands wrapped around his shaft, his palm running up and down that wildly long cock of his as sticky precum glistened out from his tip.

Drool and spit trickled all down your jaw and fell onto the floor below and you couldn’t move in any way to escape Toru’s desperate thrusts.

The sound of sweaty skin slacking and clashing against one another echoed through Sato’s large bedroom whilst he watched and got off to the sight.

Your arms and legs were locked firmly in Toru’s grip and he was just using your pussy to satisfy that swollen ache he’d been dealing with for fuck knows how long now.

The remnants of his cum sobbed downwards and left a messy ring around his base, the pearly color nearly mocking the white happy trail of hair he had.

"Tighter-, hahh.. squeeze around me tighter, please." Toru muttered into your ear, having found himself pussydrunk and slopped. The walls of your pussy narrowed around him and his hips snapped up a little faster, "Good girl, just like that. F-Fuuck... you're gonna make me c-cum." Toru whimpered.

A singular gasp of, "Inside.” from your horribly sore throat makes both him and his brother groan.

"Again? Shiit," Toru sent a bragging smile ahead before bucking his hips up into you faster as if to prove a point. Still talking into your ear, "Y'want me to breed you in front of Sato? Damn, you're sluttier than I thought you'd be."

You feel his weighty balls pounding up against your skin as his cock bullied in deeper, your pussy stretched into the prettiest shape and molded perfectly around him.

Sato couldn’t take his eyes off the errotic sight and his hand moved faster, his own hips thrusting up as he reminisced on that feeling of positioning into you. The man swears he could feel you wrapped around him just from watching his brother handle you.

It was so different to see things from this perspective but fuck was it sexy. Your tits bounced as Toru dragged you up up upp and then let his hips meet you halfway with a needy thrust as he let your body come back down.

"Mmngh, Toru!" You moaned softly.

To which his teeth nipped at your ear, "It's so cute when you say my name like that," He huffs, "Do you like me that much? Hm? Like the way Toru treats this pussy?"

You weakly moved your head in agreement, tears running down your cheeks, "Uhuhh… f-fuuuck, Toru. M’cummin.”

His movements grew faster then, ruder. The plump crown of his cock mashed into that sweet spot of yours over and over and over as if to make the spot his new home—imprint himself there permanently.

Breathing all heavy against you, “S’okay, let it out, sweetheart. Show him what he should be making you do, yeah?”

Sato cums a split second before it actually happens, based on the fact that it was about to happen. Thank god you were too drunk to see it because he’s watching with teary eyes as you squirt all over Toru—his dick slipping out of you because of it and the mess spraying ahead filthily.

Your pussy quivers from the release and you’re whining all through it, the cooing sound of Toru whispering you through your high prominence in your ear. You could barely think, barely breathe because of the intensity of it all.

When you calm down from it, Toru’s still got you in his arms and all you’re left to focus on is Sato’s pouty face as he continues to stroke himself.

“Well, fuck. Look at you,” He spoke hoarsely the moment he noticed your attention on him, his head resting back against his headboard, “Just a whore for some Gojo cock, huh?”

Your head barely bobs in response—far too dazed to answer that with a properly functioning brain.

Sato’s hand squeezes around his tip and his brows furrow, “Yeahhh? Y’liked watching me jerk off like some pathetic loser while I let my brother fuck you?” He hardly waited for another answer out of you before nodding his chin, “Bet you do. Look at that pussy, so fuckin’ wet from this.”

Toru’s easing you down on the bed in between the both of them, puffing, “Unfair of you to keep her all to yourself, Sato.”

Keeping things simple, “I’m willing to share now.”

…

Things should have ended there. Seriously.

But, allas, the hold these two have over you appeared to be much stronger than you thought.

“Wrap those lips around me, baby.” Sato had requested, watching your shaky limbs move in between his legs.

Toru was somewhere behind you, diving his face back into your cunt to… clean the mess he left in there, apparently.

Out of both of them, Toru was definitely the more perverted one—currently eating his own cum out of your cunt after giving you some bullshit excuse about wanting to keep you clean.

All he wanted was to stick his tongue inside you again. You weren’t that dumb.

While you gathered Sato’s cock into your palm and let your lips press into his tip, he hissed as his face twisted up due to sensitivity. Easing a hand onto your head, “Atta girl. Choke on this dick while he cleans you up. Wanna see every inch down that throat.”

His words never failed to leave your cunt soused, a physical reaction of which met Toru’s compliant tongue.

Sato’s bed was a mess of all sorts of fluids—overly due for a washing after all that had taken place thus far. His cock was somewhere in the back of your throat and he felt your moans tremble against him whenever Toru slurped against you just right.

The three of you were lazy with everything by now and the only thing that made the Gojo siblings perk up was when you ended up gifting Toru’s mouth with another raining mess.

Oh, Sato was in awe at the sight all over again. So much so that it’s what caused his next orgasm. He was so dazed by your squirting that he didn’t even bother to ask you to swallow what he’d just unconsciously thrusted into your throat.

Normally that’s his favorite part; watching or asking you to swallow his seed. Yet, he’d missed all of that because seeing his brother’s face smothered in your wetness left him shocked.

“Ohhh, shit. That was more than the first time.” Toru said as he finally pulled himself from in between your legs.

Sato’s ears twitch and he cocks a brow. Daze broke completely, “First time?” he asked. It was clear he still didn’t believe that his geeky, clumsy, and overall awkward sibling made that happen before he walked in.

Toru looks at his brother, “Yeah… More than the first time she squirted.”

Sato stares. “You… You made her squirt before I got here?” Disbelief was evident in his tone.

He chuckles, “You asked me that like it’s hard or something, of course I did.”

You pull yourself up from Sato’s softening cock just in time and give the two slow blinks while transferring your gaze back and forth. Sleepiness wasn’t slow to overcome you.

Sato met your eyes with his pointed ones and puffed all brat-like, “Soooo… you’re gonna do that for only me next time, right?”

There’s not a singular thought inside your head as you blatantly ignore him. Then, you turn over and plop onto the bed to lay down—back facing the two of them.

“Hello?” Sato taps your shoulder and then jokingly adds a comedic, “Chat, am I muted…?”

Toru snorts with a shake of his head, getting out the bed to start cleaning up the mess you three collectively made within the past few hours.

Then, you’re wondering if the roles had reversed for a second when he grumbles, “Fuckin’ loser…”

part two here!! || perm gojo tags (1/2);

@imyourightnow @cupidstrace @billiondollarworth @navyllll @aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa444 @sugo-jo @etsuniiru @not-a-glad-gladiator @2kool4skoolll @yulissacastillo11

@daxphoriax @gorouenjoyer @oookore @blubearxy @wonderfullymickey @iaintblockinnobody @anothergojostan @kitassecretgf @nanasukii28 @iam-souless

@nanamitiddiechomper @ohreallyfriend @kunababy @withersworld @suguphile @megottheswaskikacooooke @kvsqkiii @forest-nymph666 @yourlocalcatscammer @viiennie

@1stmagnoila @moonmilk102 @v33326 @lucy-lulu @sukubusss @sweetieelilii @lisabelhyhn @serenadesvt @bloxdhawks @riameriash

@arminseas2 @palanggaaa @makingtimemine @theodoresvalentine @salmon-ella @miss-f0rtun3 @jinjen @blcknebula @babblybebe @iluvatsumuuuui

(if u wanna be tagged for future gojo works pls lmk here—it is almost full though!)

additional tags: @uhnosav @jaibunni @blkkizzat <3

[kissmatz]

Viewer #7451- S. Mingi

[REUPLOAD]

✮ Pairing: Camboy!Mingi x Viewer!fem reader

✮ Synopsis: Y/n stumbles upon a camboy named Mingi late one night and becomes obsessed. Watching silently, never logging in, never speaking. But Mingi sees her anyway. He knows she’s there.

✮ Words: 4.3K

✮ Genre: Smut

✮ Warnings: 18+, dark praise, breeding kink, creampie, possessiveness, obsessive behavior, voyerurism, exhibitionism, cockwarming, overstimulation, orgasm control/denial, control kink, emotional manipulation, stalking behavior, choking

✮ A/N: Hi! I'm currently reuploading everything that got deleted, so if this seems familiar, that's why! I hope you all enjoy..(again)

Taglist *ೃ༄ @cherrygirlexi @linovvsss (If you would like to be added, send an ask!)

You never really meant to get addicted.

Your curiosity got the best of you one late night. A random link, a friend’s offhanded comment about a site that was “like OnlyFans but better.” You clicked. Browsed. Laughed. Got bored.

And then you saw him.

His preview was cleaner than the others. Dim lighting, professional setup. A single tattooed hand adjusting a camera, then retreating. And then his face appeared.

Song Mingi.

Tan skin, nice lips, and wide shoulders. His expression unreadable, eyes low-lidded and smug like he already knew you were watching. You clicked “join stream” before thinking twice.

That was six weeks ago though. Now, you were viewer number 7451 and you hadn’t missed a single stream. Mingi didn’t know you. That was part of the thrill. You never tipped. Never commented. Never interacted.

You just watched.

And he was good. Too good. A natural performer, cocky in the way only someone who genuinely knew he was hot could be. The first time he moaned into the camera, chest heaving, lips parted, you’d cum so fast you’d barely remembered your own name.

He looked like sin on screen. Slow, teasing strokes, soft growls when he was edging himself, lazy tongue flicks when he licked his fingers before using them. He had no shame. No rush. No mercy.

You watched him in bed. On the couch. In the shower once. He’d worn a harness in one stream. A collar in another. Once, he’d come untouched just from grinding the sheets, fists clenched in the blankets, hips stuttering. You’d cried that night. Quietly. From how badly you wanted him.

But tonight… something felt different.

The stream started like always. Music low, lights dim, Mingi lounging shirtless in bed. Hair messy. Lips swollen like he’d been biting them. Your heart started pounding. You slipped under the blanket and adjusted your laptop on your thighs, biting your lip as he stared into the lens.

“Alright, chat,” he murmured, voice deep and calm. “I’ve been thinking about one of you.”

Your breath caught.

“I don’t know who you are,” he continued, reaching for a bottle of lube offscreen, “but you’re always here. I see the viewer count. It’s always one higher before I even log in. Every night.”

You froze.

“I can’t see your name, so I’ll just call you… 7451.” He smirked, slicking his fingers and lazily stroking his already half-hard cock. “If you’re watching right now… this one’s for you.”

Your mouth dropped open.

He knew.

Your hands trembled as you reached down between your legs. Your panties were soaked already, your thighs twitching from just the way his voice wrapped around the words. He was slow tonight. Teasing. Breathy moans and heavy eye contact as he leaned into the camera, voice dropping into that deep rasp that made you lose control.

“You like watching me, don’t you?” he whispered, his hand working slowly along his thick shaft. “Always hiding in the corner. Never saying a word. Just… watching.”

You whimpered, helpless. The way he looked directly into the camera felt too intimate, like he was in your room, speaking into your neck.

“You wanna know something, 7451?” Mingi exhaled, chest rising with a shaky breath. “I think about you when I fuck my hand.”

You gasped.

“I don’t even know your name, but I dream about you. Imagining you sitting there, legs spread, watching me ruin myself just for your attention. You don’t even tip. Don’t even talk. But I feel you.”

His voice darkened.

“You make me desperate.”

Your body jerked, fingers moving faster, thighs shaking.

“You gonna come for me tonight, baby?” he growled, voice slurring just a little as his pace increased. “Right there, in the dark, like a good girl?”

You whimpered his name.

“And when you do,” he panted, “I want you to say thank you. Even if I can’t hear it.”

Your orgasm hit so hard your vision blurred. You came with a broken cry, hand clamped over your mouth, shaking violently beneath the blanket. And on screen, Mingi groaned. Loud, rough, and needy cumming hard across his chest, eyes locked to the lens like he felt it.

When it was over, he leaned forward, chest rising and falling, and whispered:

“Good girl.”

The stream ended five seconds later.

You didn’t sleep that night.

Your body was still trembling hours after the stream ended, the image of Mingi panting into the camera for you was burned into your mind. It was like he’d crawled through the screen. Like he knew you. And that terrified you more than it thrilled you. Because now? You weren’t just watching.

You were seen.

The next stream didn’t help.

It was two days later. Your pulse skipped as you refreshed the page. His stream title was different this time. It wasn’t a generic “Live Now” or “Play With Me.”

It said: “7451. Come Back.”

You stared. Blinked. Clicked.

The second the screen loaded, Mingi looked up. Right into the camera. Into you.

“There you are,” he said softly. “I was hoping you didn’t get scared.”

Your stomach twisted.

He was sitting cross-legged on his bed, shirtless again, but softer this time. No teasing smile. Just steady eye contact and something deeper and warmer. Hungrier even.

“I can feel when you’re here,” he whispered, dragging his lip between his teeth. “I don’t know how, but I do.”

Your breath caught.

“Everyone in the chat wants attention. But not you. You just watch. You make me feel like I belong to you.”

His hand moved down again. Slower this time. Almost reverent.

“I honestly think I’d let you do anything to me.”

You didn’t touch yourself. Not yet. You just watched him stroke his cock with slow, aching pressure, hips twitching as he breathed through his nose, desperate to keep eye contact even while falling apart.

“Come back tomorrow night,” he panted. “I wanna try something new.”

The stream ended with his cum on his stomach and a half-smile on his lips.

You didn’t even hesitate.

The next night, the title read: “For Her Eyes Only.”

The chat was disabled.

Your whole body locked up.

He appeared again, hair slicked back this time, eyes heavy-lidded. He was wearing gray sweats, no shirt, no underwear and he was already hard. He didn’t say anything at first. Just stared.

And then said

“Take off your panties.”

You nearly stopped breathing.

“Yeah. You,” he murmured. “7451. You think I don’t know when you’re here? You make my fucking skin tingle.”

He fisted his cock roughly once, groaning as his head fell back.

“You don’t get to hide anymore. I don’t want your tips. I don’t want your name. I want your fucking attention.”

You were soaked in seconds. One hand pulling your panties to the side, the other trembling between your legs.

“You watching me touch myself makes me insane,” he growled, faster now. “I close my eyes and imagine you’re here. Knees pressed to your chest. Whimpering. Begging me to slow down. You’d let me break you, wouldn’t you?”

You moaned loudly. Too loud, covering your mouth instantly.

He smirked.

“Shh. Don’t want anyone to hear what you are for me.”

Your climax slammed into you with dizzying force. You couldn’t even breathe. Just clenched around nothing, twitching, thighs soaked and mouth open in silent shock. On screen, Mingi came at the same time. It was rougher this time. Louder, messier, like he was unraveling just as fast.

He leaned in close after, voice low and possessive.

“I need to see you.”

Click. The stream ended.

Two hours later, you got a notification: You’ve received a private message from: “fixon8_”

You stared at the screen. Heart in your throat.

The message said:

“I’m gonna find you.”

You didn’t respond to his message. But you didn’t stop watching, either. Three days passed. Three streams. All private. All for you. Each time, Mingi got a little darker. He didn’t ask anymore. He spoke like he already owned you.

“I know you’re still here, baby.”

“Your thighs shaking for me yet?”

“Next time you cum, leave your window open.”

And when you didn’t respond, not once, not even a tip, he sent one final message.

“Be home tomorrow night. I’ll knock twice.”

You didn’t tell him where you lived. You didn’t have to. When the knock came, soft and deliberate, just past midnight, your body reacted before your brain did. You opened the door slowly, heart slamming.

And there he was. Real. Broad. Bigger than you expected.

Mingi.

He didn’t speak. Just looked you up and down, eyes moving from your bare legs to the oversized shirt barely covering your thighs.

“You’re real,” he murmured. “Fuck.”

Your breath caught.

“You shouldn’t be here. How'd you even find me?”

He stepped inside anyway.

“I mean I told you I’d find you.”

The silence that followed was thick. Heated. He stared at you like he’d never seen a woman before.

“Take off the shirt.”

You hesitated.

“I said-” he stepped closer, lowering his voice “take it off.”

You obeyed.

The second it hit the floor, his hands were on you. Hot, rough palms sliding over your waist and hips, mouth dragging down your neck, licking, biting, claiming.

“You’ve been making me fucking crazy.”

He shoved you back against the wall, one hand sliding between your legs, fingers immediately coated.

“Of course you’re wet,” he growled. “You’re always wet for me, aren’t you?”

You whimpered, head tipping back.

“You thought you could just watch forever?” His breath was hot against your ear. “You made me cum so hard I blacked out. And you didn’t say a word.”

Two fingers pushed in with no warning. Deep, curling, pumping hard as his teeth grazed your jaw.

“You gonna stay quiet now, baby? Or you gonna let me hear you?”

You moaned loud, filthy, broken.

He smiled.

“There she is.”

He pulled you onto your knees.

“You owe me,” he said, stroking himself slowly as he leaned back on your couch. “Put that pretty mouth to work.”

You didn’t hesitate. You devoured him. Messy and loud. Tongue heavy and eager. He tangled a hand in your hair and hissed, hips jerking with every drag of your lips around his cock.

“Shit- yes. Just like that. You’re even better than I imagined.”

He didn’t last long. He really couldn’t. The second your fingers massaged the base and you moaned around him, he fell apart with a groan so guttural it vibrated in your chest.

“Fuck, baby—look at me. Look at me while I cum down your throat.”

You did. And you swallowed everything.

When it was over, he didn’t leave. He sat on the couch, chest heaving, hand still in your hair.

“I’m not going back to the camera.”

You blinked up at him, lips still swollen.

“What? Why?”

He smiled lazily. Possessively.

“Why would I stream,” he said, “when I’ve got the only viewer I care about right here?”

You didn’t get a chance to respond. Mingi was already crawling off the couch, already dragging you down with him. Your back pressed into the cushions, his weight heavy and warm above you.

“I waited long enough,” he muttered against your skin. “No more shows. No more cameras. No more pretending you don’t want this too.”

His hand gripped your throat, not tight, just enough to hold you there and his eyes locked on yours like he was trying to memorize the shape of your fear. Or lust. Or both.

“You belong to me now, don’t you?”

You nodded, dazed.

“Say it.”

Your voice cracked.

“I- I belong to you.”

His smile was dark. Like he’d won.

“Good girl.”

He fucked you rough deep. No teasing. No warm-up. You were already dripping wet from just the weight of him, from the way he looked at you like you were something he made.

“So fucking tight,” he growled, pushing in slow but heavy. “You’ve been playing with that pussy every night for me, huh? Getting yourself ready without even knowing it.”

You moaned like he owned your throat.

And maybe he did.

His pace built fast—rough, unrelenting, fucking you into the couch like he was making up for every stream you watched in silence. His hands never stopped moving, gripping your hips, your breasts, your face. Every part of you. All his.

“You’re gonna take everything I give you,” he panted. “I know that’s why you let me in. You want me to fill you up, don’t you?”

You whimpered, nails digging into his back.

“Want me to cum in you, baby? Make it stick? Fuck it in so deep your body doesn’t even have a choice?”

Your legs wrapped around his waist automatically. Instinctive. Desperate.

“You’re fucking mine.”

He grabbed your jaw and held it firm, still moving inside you, slow and deep strokes that made your walls flutter around him.

“Say it. Say you want my cum.”

You choked.

“I want it- I want you to fill me, Mingi, please”

His eyes burned.

“Beg for it.”

“Please cum in me. Please make me yours. I want it. I want all of it—”

He slammed back in with a groan, loud and broken, hips snapping hard until your moans turned to gasps. You could feel it—his cock twitching, the heat spilling inside as he pressed his full weight down and held you in place.

“That’s it,” he growled. “Take it. Take my fucking cum like you were made for it.”

Your head tipped back in ecstasy.

“I’m not done.”

You blinked up at him, breathless.

“You think I’m gonna let you walk around leaking my cum without making sure it takes?”

His hips rolled again, slow and filthy. You whimpered.

“I’m gonna fuck you full until your body begs me to stop.”

And he did.

Later, you lay tangled in his arms, your thighs still trembling. His lips pressed to your temple. His voice soft.

“I won’t let you go.”

You didn’t want him to, but this felt a little wrong.

“You’re not just some viewer anymore, baby. You’re mine.”

Mingi stayed the night.

He didn’t ask. Just fell asleep with one arm around your waist and the other slung possessively over your stomach like he was guarding you. And when you woke up the next morning, his face was still buried in your neck, breathing you in.

He didn’t leave for three days.

By the time he did, you had handprints on your thighs and bruises on your hips. Your body was sore, marked, and claimed in every way imaginable. And he wasn’t done.

“No streaming. No pictures. No fucking friends,” he said as he zipped up his bag before leaving. “I see anyone else touch you, I’ll lose it.”

You should’ve felt afraid.

Instead, you said:

“Okay.” with a small giggle.

He smiled like a predator. And he meant it.

He started small. Your phone buzzed with messages every hour.

Fixon8: Where are you? Fixon8: Who are you with? Fixon8: Why didn’t you answer in 7 minutes?

Then he showed up unannounced. Two nights in a row. One time with takeout. One time with handcuffs.

“Don’t make me ask to see you, baby. Just be here.”

And when you tried to tease him, mentioning an old hookup in from a couple of months ago, his entire mood shifted.

“You let someone else touch this pussy?”

You blinked.

“It was months ago, Mingi-”

“Did he fuck you raw?”

You swallowed.

He grabbed your face—tight. Not hard enough to hurt, but enough to stop you from lying.

“You gave my mouth to someone else?”

You whimpered, breath catching as he dragged you down to the floor.

“Guess I’ll just have to remind you what mine feels like.

That night, he didn’t fuck you. He devoured you. Tongue flat and filthy, hands locking your thighs down, holding you open like you belonged under him. Mouth on your clit until you sobbed, until you screamed his name, until your legs gave out and your throat was raw.

And he still didn’t stop.

“No one else gets to hear you like this,” he growled between your thighs. “No one else gets to see how messy you get just from my fucking mouth.”

You came again. And again. And again. By the time he finally slid into you, he didn’t even fuck you hard, just deep, controlled strokes, hands on either side of your face as he whispered:

“I want to cum inside you every day until your body forgets anyone else ever existed.”

You looked up at him through wet lashes and whispered

“You already ruined me.”

He groaned, head tipping forward until your foreheads touched.

“Then let me ruin you completely.”

Afterward, he opened your drawer and slipped one of your panties in his hoodie pocket.

“Mine.”

He pulled your phone from your charger and typed his name into your contact list, with a lock emoji, and nothing else.

“No one else calls you this late.”

And when he finally left, he kissed your cheek and said:

“I’m coming back tomorrow.

It was your fault. You left your laptop open, half-buried under the sheets after a lazy afternoon nap. Mingi had wandered in shirtless and grinning, talking about ordering food, until he saw the glowing screen.

His voice stopped mid-sentence.

You rolled over, hair stuck to your cheek, blinking in confusion.

“Mingi?”

He didn’t answer.

His eyes were locked on the screen. On your bookmarks bar.

Your stomach dropped.

Because there it was, clear as day: -Private Folder — ‘M<3’ -Favorites: Mingi moaning.mp4 -Replay: Tongue & Toy — 57min

You shot up, panicked.

“Wait-wait, don’t-”

But he’d already clicked.

The video opened. His video. From months ago. The one where he came untouched just from grinding against the sheets. The one where he whispered, “I feel like someone’s watching me harder than the rest.” You watched his expression shift in real-time. First confusion, then realization, then something darker.

Something primal.

He closed the laptop slowly. Turned to you.

“You saved them huh.”

You sat frozen.

“I- yeah, I…” you swallowed, trying to smile, “I didn’t think you’d care. That was before we even—”

“You fucking labeled them.”

He stepped closer. You didn’t move.

“You made folders. Organized clips. You watched me cum over and over while pretending you were just some quiet little viewer, but you're just a nasty little slut.”

His tone wasn’t angry. It was low. Careful. Controlled.

“How long?”

Your throat dried up.

“Mingi—”

“How long did you watch me like that?”

You breathed, barely.

“Since the first week. I saw you by accident, and I… I couldn’t stop.”

He stood above you now, staring down at your flushed, guilty face.

“So all that time, you were already mine.”

He sat on the edge of the bed, hands gripping your thighs, forcing them open so he could settle between.

“I used to wonder why I came so hard when I said your name on stream. Now I know.”

You moaned when he dragged your panties down, spreading your legs until your slick thighs trembled.

“You were already touching yourself to me. Like a good little pervert. My perfect fucking girl.”

He buried his face between your legs like he missed it. Tongue flat and messy, groaning like your taste was the cure to something inside him. He licked through you like he was starving, hands gripping your thighs so tight they’d bruise.

“That folder should’ve had a password,” he murmured against your pussy. “But I’m glad it didn’t.”

Your hips bucked. He sucked your clit until your back arched and your legs jerked.

“Say it,” he panted. “Say you were mine even before I touched you.”

You gasped, hands gripping his hair.

“I was yours. I was already yours. I wanted you so bad-”

You came hard against his mouth, crying his name out.

He didn’t stop. Not even when you shook. Not even when your eyes rolled back. When he finally pulled away, your legs were still twitching. He stood over you, cock hard and leaking against his stomach.

“You want the real thing now, baby?”

You nodded helplessly.

He slid into you with one smooth, hard thrust. Deep and full, like he wanted to wipe every fake memory clean and replace it with this. He fucked you like he was memorizing the way you felt. Slow at first. Then deeper. Hips grinding as he filled you again and again, praising you between every thrust.

“You were mine even when you didn’t say a word.”

“You made those clips for me, didn’t you? Touched yourself while you named my files.”

“No one’s ever gonna know you like I do.”

You moaned with every word, helpless beneath him.

And when he came, deep inside you, groaning into your neck, he didn’t pull out.

“Keep it in,” he whispered, kissing your jaw. “Don’t waste a drop.”

You were quiet for a moment, blinking up at the ceiling, full of his cum and full of… something bigger.

Then he reached for the laptop again.

You panicked.

“Wait—!”

But he just opened a blank folder, titled it: ‘Real Life: Mingi + 7451’

“Guess it’s time to start a new one.”

You felt your phone buzz next to you. It was a message from Mingi saying:

Mingi<3: “Set an alarm. 7:45 AM. No panties. Call me after you wake up.”

You stared at it.

A week ago, he’d been fucking you into the mattress while calling you his favorite little pervert. Now he was setting your schedule like he owned your time too.

Which, honestly… he kind of did. You followed every instruction.

No panties. A cropped hoodie and nothing else. Face flushed when your alarm went off and you sat up, already soaked. Already thinking about him.

Your phone rang at 7:46.

“Good girl,” he said. “Let me hear your voice."

By the end of the week, he was managing more than just your mornings.

“Wear that black dress today.

“No touching yourself after 10PM unless I say so.”

“Drink water. Three bottles. I’m serious.”

It kind of scared you at first, but you actually liked it. You liked the sound of his voice cracking through your speakers. You liked that he kept track of your cycle, your work schedule, your moods.

“You’re mine,” he said one night, whispering in your ear as you lay in bed. “So I get to make the rules.”

You broke a rule once. You touched yourself past midnight. Just one night. You were desperate and needy from his teasing, throbbing from his last message.

He found out. You didn’t even know how. But the next time you opened your door, Mingi was already inside, hood up, expression unreadable.

“What did I tell you about breaking rules?.”

You froze.

“Mingi—”

“Don’t speak.”

He grabbed your wrist, pulled you into the bedroom, and stripped you in seconds. Then he tied you down. No ropes. Just his shirt and his hoodie. His hand pressing firm into your belly.

He made you cum five times.

“You wanna cum without permission?” “You’ll cum when I say. Over and over. Until you cry for me.”

He used his mouth, his fingers, a toy you didn’t know he’d brought. He didn’t even let you catch your breath.

“No running, baby. This is what you wanted, right?”

By the end, you were shaking, twitching, tears streaming down your face as you begged him to stop. And he did, but not before licking his fingers and whispering:

“You taste so good.”

Later, wrapped in his arms, your body trembling with aftershocks, you heard the softest thing you’d ever hear him say.

“You don’t need to control anything anymore.”

You blinked up at him, sleepy and ruined.

“Why?”

He kissed your cheek.

“Because I’ve got you.”

He just showed up one afternoon with a duffel bag and threw it on your couch like it had always been his.

You blinked at him, wide-eyed.

“You’re moving in?”

Mingi smirked.

“You really thought I’d let you live alone after everything?”

He kissed you before you could respond. Slow, dirty, final. The kind of kiss that didn’t ask for space or permission. Just took.

The first night he stayed, it was quiet. No toys. No games. No control. Just his arms wrapped around your back as he pulled you onto his lap, your thighs bare, the stretch of him inside you slow and sweet as you cockwarmed in his lap.

“This-,” he whispered against your shoulder, “is all I’ve wanted.”

You shifted slightly, your walls clenched, and he hissed.

“Keep doing that and I’ll fuck a baby into you.”

You froze.

“You’d let me,” he said, trailing a hand down your spine. “You’d take it. You’d be perfect.”

You whimpered, burying your face in his neck.

“Do it, then. I’m yours.”

The shift was quiet, but final. Your fridge had his energy drinks. Your bathroom had his cologne. Your nights ended with his hands under your shirt, your body already open for him, your moans soft and easy like they belonged in the background of his new life.

The final stream on his channel uploaded two days after the move.

A black screen with one sentence:

“Logged out. I found her.”

No comments. No replies. The account vanished hours later.

That night, he fucked you like he was recording with his whole body.

No camera. Just memory.

Slow strokes, heavy breathing, his thumb rubbing soft circles over your clit while he whispered:

“I used to jerk off to the idea of your voice. Now I get to hear you beg for real.”

He came inside you multiple times before the sun came up.

And in the morning, you found your laptop open.

A new file was on your desktop.

"Viewer Number 7451 – Complete."

©joongxhwa 2025 | Do not steal, plagiarize, translate, or repost any of my work|

[kamitv]

★ Tattooing Sukuna’s thighs but he has a major pain kink he can barely control & a bit of a crush on you. (inspired by this post)

Sukuna can't help but get hard the moment you start working. You're the same woman that did the markings on his back, arms, face, chest, shoulders, wrists-, everywhere, and now it was time to do the same thing on his thighs.

Except, unlike the other areas you've tatted, the position in which you have to ink him is rather suggestive. It was one thing when you did his chest and those markings that trail down his abdomen, he'd already struggled not to think about how close you were to what would soon be a problem...

Now you were doing his thighs. He was okay for the most part while you worked the tattoo-gun over the outsides out his legs but the moment you asked him to manspread wide enough so that you had room to work on the inner side? Oh, he was fucked.

Your gloved hands went to his inner knees to help guide those muscular legs of his farther open so that you could work comfortably, and Sukuna really should've known he wouldn't last too long. The moment you brought the tip of the tool to his skin, off first contact with his inner thigh—your face so close to his skin he could feel your softened breaths—his head flew back.

Thank fuck you're a professional and don't seem to notice it at first but, his hips are immediately shifting against his seat while you're working ever so casually. The gun stabbing into his inner thigh over and over and over again with those tiny needles was so painful and yet... the thick tip of his cock is poking up against his bundled black shorts, quickly soaking through the fabric enough to be noticeable.

"Ohh, fuck. Just like that..." He groans all of a sudden, the sound rather sensual and making your ears perk up.

You chuckle at his suggestive words but pay no mind to it, eyes still fixated on the gun in your hands, "Sukuna, can you please stop groaning like that. It's kinda distracting." You scold harmlessly.

His voice is a bit deeper and huskier than you know it to be, "But it feels so fucking good."

Sukuna’s heavy arm drapes over his mouth to conceal the moan that threatens to escape him and alert you of his aroused state. He hopes you think all his shifting and bratty huffing is from the pain and not the fact that he's so ridiculously turned on right now.

"Someone could walk in and think I'm in here giving you a blowjob or something,” You snort before lifting the machinery away from his skin for a moment to check your work, "Should've warned me about your pain kink before setting up this appointment with me."

Sukuna moves his arm and smirks down at you, hand snaking down to his crotch just to cup his current issue in hopes of hiding it from you. The pain felt way too good this session.

Then your gun dives into a specific bundle of nerves that cause a moan to finally leave him. You weren't new to this line of work, you were used to some of your clients having that kind of reaction but... Sukuna had never been the vocal type, especially when he breathes out a whorish, "Ah, h-harder…”

The man just couldn't help himself.

Which is exactly why you stop for a second and look up at him, trying to see if you really heard what the hell you just heard. Scoffing, "What?"

His adam's apple is bobbing in his throat and you could see how tense his jaw was from the pain, eyes hazy and glaring down on yours. You weren't gonna say anything else until you just so happen to drag your gaze downwards and-

Oh.

That plump outline of his hard cock was not hidden well under his big hand. He couldn’t hide that thing no matter how hard he tried. Well, that and the way he was literally palming his shaft to provide himself some sort of relief like you weren’t sitting a few centimeters away.

As if this was supposed to be normal, he merely cocks his chin at you and where you’ve got your tool pointing, grunting, "Right there, press-,” The tattoo-gun sinks into his skin before he gets to finish and you watch his cheeks flush with red and his lashes flutter in pleasure, “Fuck, harder..."

Now, this is not how you normally handle these kinds of situations but then again, not many of your clients sit here and talk you through the tattooing process all sexually like he was currently. So, you press the needle into him with a little more pressure, not enough to cause significant damage or anything but, y’know, just to satisfy the guy a little. "Like that?" You chuckle, finding this whole thing funny above anything else.

Sukuna’s eyes widen before rolling back, hips bucking up into his palm as he throws his head back again and groans out, "I'm gonna cum.."

Caught off guard by the fact that he’s being so deadass right now, you blink. "Sukuna, what?" He angles his head to look down at you again and his mind blanks.

You’ve pulled your tool away from his leg and you’re fully facing him now, sitting one head-pull away from his aching cock and… looking down at it. Jaw slacking and hand tensing around his bulging erection, "S-Shiiit..." He nearly whines, trying to squeeze his dick a bit tighter to stop himself from cumming. There’s no way he was about to blow his load just from one measly look from you-

"Are you serious right now?" You scoff, annoyance coating your tone in a way that has his cockhead drooling even more.

Sukuna chuckles, "Uhuh, keep lookin at me like that,” He says boldly before fully stroking his length through the slicked of his shorts, “M’almost there..."

"Gross.." You say harmlessly before you place your gun down and then push up on your knees. His brows furrow as he watched the way you force his hand out of the way to replace with your own, gorgeous fingers wrapping around the bobbing outline of his cock.

He sits straight up and moans way too loudly for his own liking. "Fuck, wait-, I’m—“

He doesn’t even get to finish before you feel him twitching profusely underneath your palm, having hardly been touched. You giggle and then lift your hand to watch the wet spot on his shorts spread—indicating that he just came from a single touch.

To which you snicker, “Yikesss, that’s embarrassing. Only took one touch to get you there?”

Sweating slightly and gulping down a thick swallow of nerves, “What are you talking about?” He asks with this blank stare like he didn’t just blow his load against your palm and wasn’t currently panting from his recent orgasm.

You cock a brow and then cross your arms, “Did you not just cum in my hand?”

Sukuna looks left, then right, then back at you before lifting his shoulders to shrug, “…No?”

“Then—“

He suddenly nods down at you and then hums, “Look down ‘n pay attention, brat. M’still hard.”

You follow his little order and look down to see that his dick is definitely still curving up all needily against his clothing. Face twisting up with confusion—as if that was supposed to prove his point or something, “That doesn’t mean you didn’t just cum from one touch like some loser.” You argue.

“Well, if you have such a problem with it, put that mouth on my cock next time so I don’t make the same mistake.” He suggests way too casually for your liking.

“Y’know what, fine,” You accept, hands moving to peel those shorts of his down in an unprofessional manner—though, that line had been crossed a while ago. His cock comes springing free with a meaty thud against his lower abdomen, completely smothered in his release, and earning a widening of your eyes. Then you take his shaft into your hand, thumb flicking under one of his throbbing veins as you whisper, “And if you last longer than five minutes, I’ll give you a discount for the tatt’.”

Sukuna rolls his eyes, hand quickly and naturally moving to weave through your hair and urge you on, “That’s all I get? A little discount?”

You smile knowingly and your lips decorate his blushing tip of creamy cum with soft taps, “You’re cute but,” Your tongue swipes out to taste the mess coating your lips now, “If you want anything free, you gotta make me cum too.”

As if you’d just uttered some kinda magical words, Sukuna’s thighs spread impossibly wider as he slumps further back and rolls his hips upward, “Yeah? Well, get up here and use this cock until you're a mess too if that’s the case."

Gulp.

A/N: not proofread. thank you @crude-saint for thrusting sum inspo into me, this was for u bby. & I’m just gonna tag sum people who showed sum interest in the idea; @blkkizzat @cupidstrace @storiesbyparadise