#(the first three are what i listened to on repeat when writing the fic)

[wttcsms]

angels like you can't fly down here with me (i'm everything they say i would be), megumi fushiguro ;

pairing megumi fushiguro x f!reader word count 11k  synopsis people like him don't get happy endings but megumi fushiguro (foolishly) considers himself to be the exception — after all, he has you. content contains yakuza au, childhood friends to lovers, mutual pining, breeding kink, slight daddy kink, attempted sa, minor violence & depictions of blood author's note if ur on my ao3, you know this is from 2021!!! my writing has changed up since then, but i'm going to be releasing a revised version of this which will be rewritten and feature more scenes, more worldbuilding, more plot, relationship and character development, etc!! i figured releasing this on tumblr would help me gauge how worthwhile revision of this fic will be, so lmk if u like this au & want to see it become even better <3

Don’t do it.

He repeats the command inside his head again, and then one more time for good measure. (And then another time, just to drive the point across.)

He won’t — can’t; isn’t really allowed to — get into (another!) fight.

(Well, there’s a part of Megumi that knows that despite Gojo’s sing-songy warning of “now, now, Megumi, I don’t need a frequent visitor’s card for the principal’s office”, he doesn’t actually care. All he’s really concerned about — if the mild interest the reckless teenager turned legal guardian shows can even be called that — is whether or not Megumi wins.

And he does.

Every. Single. Time.)

For the most part, Megumi Fushiguro is fairly stoic in general, but to a concerning degree when one accounts for the fact that he’s only ten years old. For the odd three or so years he’s been under Gojo’s wing, Megumi’s mask of disinterest stopped becoming a mask and started becoming a part of him.

(Try as he might, Gojo’s not nearly as funny as he thinks he is. Maybe the connection between them might have been stronger if Gojo was a bit more responsible and if he was actually present, but he’s got his own shit to deal with. Besides, Gojo’s under the impression that what he’s doing isn’t cruel, but rather a means to an end. Megumi’s never going to be able to get stronger if he doesn’t learn how to survive on his own.

After all, being alone and having to fight to survive is the life people like them live.)

The older preteens in the area have a bad habit of picking on the younger students. Because the elementary and middle schools are so close together, the younger students who have the misfortune of walking alone tend to be targets for bullies in need of pocket change or a good laugh. Most of the time, they get both.

As of late, everyone’s favorite target happens to be Megumi Fushiguro, the boy with the messy black hair and indifferent attitude, even when confronted by boys two years his senior and almost a whole entire head taller than him.

Last week, Megumi gave the three older boys dumb enough to harass him for money bloody noses, bruised egos, and a thirst for revenge. That was the first (and supposed to be the last) time he got into a fight (for this school year, at least — something Gojo had told him, while winking). So, even when the trio is back together again, taunting him and trying to get him to take the first swing, Megumi keeps walking forward with his perpetual look of disinterest, those cold blue eyes of his staring straight at the path ahead of him, never paying any mind to the gangly bodies of the middle school boys who keep trying to block him from moving.

Don’t do it.

He tells himself this once more. You don’t want to have to inconvenience Gojo. Then, you’ll be stuck listening to him pretend to lecture you. You don’t like spending too much time with Gojo. He’ll make weird jokes. 

The thought of having to deal with Gojo’s presence is enough to get Megumi to unclench his fists.

“Move.”

It’s the first thing he says to the group since they started following him after school. He tells the boy with the brown hair this. The brunet seems to be their ringleader of sorts, and even as nothing more than a ten year old child, Megumi knows that being twelve/thirteen and harassing little kids for sport is a sign of patheticness that will only grow and fester into something darker unless someone beats some sense into them. Obviously, they didn’t learn their lesson from last week.

“Huh? What the hell did ya just say, ya little brat?” The brown haired boy sneers, looking down at Megumi.

School has just let out, so there are dozens of kids of all ages walking down the sidewalk. They’re all aware of the situation happening, but everyone chooses to turn a blind eye to it. Partly because this is such a common occurrence that it just starts to become something that blends into the scenery, but also because there are some rumors surrounding the Fushiguro kid that’s enough to make anyone with a heart of gold reluctant to come to his rescue.

The main rumor circulating around the school is that Megumi Fushiguro has ties to the yakuza. Granted, most kids his age have no idea what the yakuza is, and even those who somewhat know only know through exaggerated definitions from their older siblings. Generally, everyone just accepts the fact that the yakuza is bad, and by default, Megumi Fushiguro must be bad too. Older siblings tell their younger siblings to avoid “that boy” at all costs, unless they want to end up with a finger cut off. Megumi’s classmates huddle together and conveniently choose to look everywhere else but at him when on the playground.

For anyone else, this might have been enough to cause some hurt feelings. Everyone thinks the boy must be some type of stupid to be so oblivious to the rumors centered around him, but the truth is this: Megumi is well aware of what people whisper about behind his back; he just doesn’t care enough to prove them wrong.

And they’re not wrong, anyway.

(For some parts of the rumors, at least.)

Because it’s true — Megumi does have ties to the yakuza. His father, who he can’t seem to attach neither a name nor a face to, must have done something bad. Something bad enough to have him cross paths with Satoru Gojo, the young head of the Gojo Clan, one of Tokyo’s most prominent crime families. It’s the same Gojo who decided to adopt both Megumi and his stepsister, Tsumiki, despite having nothing (so far) to gain from it. After all, why would a teenager willingly assign himself the responsibilities of caring for small children — one who resembles the man that tried to kill him and the other being an ill little girl confined to a hospital bed for who knows how long. All Gojo gets from this deal is a headache, bills, and more problems than necessary.

Megumi’s not really sure how the rumors started in the first place. He thinks it’s because kids his age are easily influenced and have a tendency to run wild with their imaginations. With the rising popularity of gangs from the high school students, this interest seems to have trickled all the way down to the elementary levels. Megumi certainly fits the description of their idea of someone from the yakuza: silent, secretive, scary.

(If they were a little bit older, maybe they would have just seen him as an introvert.)

No matter how ridiculous the rumors get, though, it doesn’t change the fact that the root of them is true: he is connected to the yakuza. After all, he’s being primed and prepped to be someone of value in the clan. Once you’re tied with the likes of them, you might as well just resign to the knot fate’s trapped you with. He’s learned quickly that the only thing harder than getting into the yakuza is getting out.

And because his sister’s and his life both depend on him doing as he’s told, getting out is a funny pipe dream at best and the Fushiguro siblings’ cause of death at worst.

“I told you to move. You’re blocking my way.” Megumi’s tone of voice betrays nothing. Annoyance, maybe, but he speaks flatly regardless of how he’s truly feeling. Gojo says it’s kinda creepy. Gojo also says that being a little creepy isn’t bad.

(Gojo should know; he’s a certified creep in Megumi’s eyes.)

“Oh — so the little boy can speak up.” The boy with blond hair laughs. It’s a nasally sound that grates Megumi’s ears.

He’s not an idiot. Megumi is well aware of the fact that no matter how much he feels like it isn’t true, he’s still just a little ten year old boy. He should be playing with the toy cars Gojo bought him, not worrying about the gritty future that lies ahead. But still, the phrase rubs him the wrong way.

Little boy.

He wasn’t so little when he kicked them down to his height before properly bashing their faces, now was he? Even now, he can feel the anger coming up. He clenches his fists, wondering if he’ll get suspended for fighting right next to school property.

“Leave him alone.”

Another voice appears, but not from any of the boys. No — this time, it’s coming from a little girl on the sidewalk across from theirs. Everyone involved turns to stare at the source of such a command and are greeted with the sight of you with a Hello Kitty backpack. You’ve got a frown on your face that doesn’t match the brightness of your pink outfit.

Megumi recognizes you instantly. You’re in the same class as him. You were in the same class as him last year, too. He tilts his head, trying to figure out what exactly it is you’re trying to accomplish here — and why.

He knows his social standing in the school. If he’s at the bottom, you’re right at the top. A beaming pillar of light, everyone flocks to you like moths after a flame. But you’re alone today, not surrounded by the usual crowd of boys and girls who are often vying for your attention. Seeing you alone enables him to see you more clearly, without all the distractions getting in his way.

You’re small. Shorter than him, and way shorter than the middle school boys. You’ve got a bow in your hair and brand new shoes on your feet. If anybody should be socially aware, it has to be you. Those at the top, Megumi knows, like to remind everyone of their placement. You shouldn’t be here. You should be ignoring him like he’s got the plague, just like everyone else.

All three of the boys start to laugh after sizing you up. The laughter only serves to make you even more irritated, but you can’t speak because one of them is already talking through his laughs.

“Don’t tell me. Is this your girlfriend?”

The group erupts into more laughter, and while Megumi’s expression remains the same as it’s been for the past few minutes, yours only shows your growing contempt.

“She’s no one.” Megumi throws you an odd look, one of neither annoyance nor gratitude for trying to help him out. He uses your presence as a distraction, and he manages to take a few more steps before one of the boys is yanking him back by his bookbag.

“Grab her.” One of the boys says, and the third boy, the one with the messy red hair, starts to cross the street.

Megumi watches as you stay right where you are. Are you stupid? Why won’t you run? The boy still has a solid grip on his bookbag, keeping him in place. He wonders if it’ll be a waste of his breath if he tells you to start running — you probably wouldn’t listen to him anyway.

But then Megumi figures out why you don’t look too frightened, because not even a second before the older boy manages to cross the street to your side of the sidewalk, a man in a suit is running towards you, a scowl on his face.

“You said you were going to the restroom, young lady!” The man scolds you while panting for breath. He surveys the scene, looking at you, and then the middle school boy by your side before turning his head and seeing Megumi in between the other two boys. “What’s going on? Is everything alright? Did they do anything to you?”

“No, Mr. Higashi. B-but—“ Your bottom lip starts to tremble, and even though Higashi is certain that the tears about to fall are fake, the situation itself looks serious enough to the point where he doesn’t call you out on it. “Th-these boys are being really mean.” You let out a high pitched wail that makes the boy let go of Megumi’s bookbag. “They just threatened to attack me and my friend out of nowhere.”

“Your father will be informed.” Higashi frowns, eyeing the guilty boys who look confused and a little shocked at this turn of events. “Mr. [Surname] certainly won’t be pleased to hear about this.”

The middle school boys pale when they hear the man name drop your family’s surname.

After all, it’s the same last name that’s engraved on plaques all over the school, thanking your family for the many donations they’ve received.

You enter into Megumi’s life that way: unexpectedly. He never thanked you for intervening, but it’s not like you did it for the thanks anyway. You did it, you tell him, because you figured he needed some help.

“I had it handled.” He tells you flatly. “Why are you even sitting here? Your friends keep staring at us.”

It’s true. Stories of what happened are already circulating around both schools, and while all your friends spent the whole entire day pestering you for the full story, you chose to keep quiet about the situation. And now, here you are, choosing to sit and eat lunch with Megumi, someone who also knows the true story of what went down but the only one people aren't brave enough to ask.

Your whole entire table of friends keep their heads huddled together as they go back and forth with each other, every one of them sparing glances at Megumi’s table. It makes the rice in his mouth taste stale. He should have just stayed in the classroom to eat, especially if he knew you would be bothering him.

“Gee, is that any way to treat a friend?” You huff, not at all actually annoyed with him.

“We’re not friends.”

“Too late. I told my dad we were.”

There has been one question on his mind ever since that incident. Just who exactly is your father? He’s not stupid; he knows that you must come from a wealthy family. If the buildings and auditorium named after your family isn’t enough proof, the fact that you always have the latest toys, the nicest shoes, the cutest stationery sets — that’s material proof of a spoiled princess.

You continue speaking, and as if you can read his mind, you’re already answering his question. “My daddy’s called a CEO. But the man you saw is Mr. Higashi. He takes care of me when dad’s away at work, and everything I do gets typed up in a report that dad sees every day. He wasn’t happy about what happened, so he says the boys will get in trouble. He told us not to worry, though.” You have a pleased smile on your face, waiting for Megumi to say something in reply.

“Okay.” He says, after a while. He only spoke because it seemed like you were waiting for him to. “It doesn’t mean we’re friends.”

“What’s so wrong about being friends with me?” You tilt your head. Everyone wants to be friends with you. And that’s before they even figure out that you live in a real life mansion with actual servants, and that sometimes you’re allowed to eat dessert for dinner. Even without the wealth, you still draw people in, whether it be with your bright smile or cheery attitude.

“Don’t you already have enough friends?” He can’t figure out what you could possibly want with him. Even though Gojo’s got the backing of the clan and enough funds to run the Tokyo underground with cash to spare, it’s not like Megumi is in a position to take advantage of it. Gojo hands him a thick wad of cash every week with a tip to “spend wisely, hehehehe”, and Megumi takes the tip to heart. A majority of the money sits saved in his bedroom, underneath a floorboard he spent a week trying to figure out how to loosen without anyone catching on. (Which was actually easy whenever he realized that nobody seems to really watch him to begin with.) So, he doesn’t look like he has money, and isn’t that what all rich kids want? To surround themselves with equally rich kids?

“I guess.” Your bubbly mood seems to dampen a bit at the mention of the other kids. They like you, sure. But they like each other a lot more. The gap between you and the other kids isn’t noticeable at first, but the novelty of having an endless supply of company has lost its luster. Meanwhile, the glamor of your life only keeps the hoards of “friends” to grow as the days go by. It’s always “let’s have a sleepover at [Names]’s!” or “[Name], we have to go to your house because you have the best toys!”. You wonder if they like you, or the shiny things that they get when they’re with you. “But, it’s not like youhave any friends.”

“I don’t need any.” The response is quick — instinctual. Gojo, even if not the greatest guardian by any parental standards, still presses Megumi to have a proper (or, as proper as it can be) childhood.

(“You know, I don’t care if you bring any friends over. Just make sure no one ends up accidentally getting shot, okay, Megumi?”

Yeah, because that’s definitely gonna push him towards throwing as many parties as he wants.)

People in his position don’t have many friends. It’s hard to, he assumes, because of all the killings and betrayals and power plays.

(And, he’ll soon learn that it hurts a lot less to lose an enemy than it does a friend.)

“Hmm. Okay.”

But you don’t get up from your seat, and he doesn’t tell you to move.

The next day, you’re carrying two bento boxes. The lunches are prepared for you by world class chefs and everything is done in a rather cutesy manner to entice you into not wasting your food. The fruit is cut into pretty shapes, the food has picks with animals on them, and everything is colorful and to your own personal tastes.

You take a seat next to him once again. He looks up for a second, sees that it’s you, and returns back to his meal that looks pitiful in comparison. Leftover rice and some cold meat. You think it’s the same thing he had last time.

“For you.” You slide the second bento you had requested towards him before opening up your own.

“What’s this for?”

“For you to eat, silly.”

“...How much?”

“Huh? All of it, I guess? If you don’t like something, tell me, and I’ll request something different tomorrow.” You don’t quite understand what he’s asking you.

“No. How much does it cost? I'll bring you the money tomorrow.”

“Why would it cost you?” Now you’re really confused.

Didn’t anyone ever teach you that everything comes attached with a price? If it’s not money you want, it must be something else. At least, if Megumi’s judgments are right. (And they usually are.)

“Fushiguro, I brought you this because I want you to eat well and grow strong.”

He wonders what rice shaped like Hello Kitty has to do with his strength.

“Also, so the next time people give you or me trouble, you can fight them, okay?”

Oh. So it’s protection you want. He contemplates what he thinks your request is before popping a piece of food into his mouth. A meal made with care — he can taste the thought that’s been put into it. Shoving his old lunch to the side, he quickly starts eating at the one you brought him.

Okay. So maybe he does accept your offer.

“Meguuuumi.” You whine out his name, messing up the navy sheets of his bed while he sits at his desk, trying to finish his application for university. “I’m bored.”

“Good. Go to your own house then, and leave me alone.”

“You’re so mean to me.” You sigh, turning your head so that half of your face is pressed against his pillow. The scent of his shampoo still sticks to the fabric, and you subconsciously inhale the scent some more. It’s familiar and reminds you of him, your favorite person in the world.

No one believes you when you tell them that Megumi is your best friend. No one wants to believe that it’s true. After all, the two of you look more like a shoujo manga trope than an actual pair of best friends. The cold, inexpressive dark haired male lead with a secretive past he doesn’t want anyone to know about and the bright, bubbly, ball of energy that is constantly clinging to his side. It’s like looking at night and day with you two.

“And yet, you’re still always here.”

You’re still by his side, even when the two of you reached middle school and high school together, and he spent a majority of his time starting (and finishing) fights.

(“Get off of him!” You screamed, yanking on the collar of one of the boys who happened to be trying to grab Megumi from behind. You don’t have the same amount of strength as them, but everyone at this point knows who you are and who exactly your father is. No matter what the origin of the fight is won’t matter; all that matters is that the precious daughter of one of Tokyo’s richest CEOs got caught in it, and that’s enough to get everyone involved into some deep shit.

Immediately, the boy scampers off, and the other boy Megumi was punching into the squeaky clean floors of the hallway begins to thrash around wildly, eyes wide at the sudden sight of you. Seeing you coming from behind Megumi is like watching the sun peek through a dozen storm clouds.

Megumi gives him one last punch, not nearly as satisfied as he thought he would be. Honestly, getting into fights with low level delinquents is beneath him. It’s not just his knuckles and clothes that are getting dirty; by feeding into the school’s image that he’s this young, violent yakuza heir, he’s dirtying the prestige Gojo claims is oh so important.

“Megumi.” He straightens up at the sound of your voice, which usually sounds so sweet, especially when it’s directed towards him. Instead, you have an uncharacteristic frown on your face and you sound… mad. “Let’s go.”

You’ve got a hand wrapped around his wrist, and people part when they spot the two of you making a hasty exit. The teachers aren’t bold enough to cause a scene with you, and the students know both you and Megumi are practically untouchable — one being the spoiled brat daughter of a rich and powerful businessman, the other, a ticking time bomb with ties to the yakuza.

You don’t stop walking until the two of you are in a secluded courtyard at the school. No one goes here, mainly because it’s in such an inconvenient location and there’s nothing but trees and weeds over growing it. The two of you found it within your first week of being here, and ever since then, it’s become your designated spot to avoid prying eyes.

“I thought you were over stupid fights. You told me yourself that they weren’t the type of people worth beating up.” You scold him, forcing him to take a seat on the bench that creaks under his weight. You make a noise as you inspect the drying blood on his knuckles.

If an outsider were to look at the scene before them, they would gape at the unbecoming sight of you on your knees, in between his legs, too close for a duo who claims to be “just good friends”. But there’s nothing inherently dirty in your thoughts. Instead, you’re staring thoughtfully at his hands, inspecting the minor damage done to them.

Megumi swallows hard as he looks down on you. He shouldn’t be feeling like this — you’re his best friend, his only friend. The only person who’s by his side. If you could read in his mind, there’s no doubt that you would be recoiling away from him in disgust…)

You’re still by his side, even when he told you the truth about himself after waiting years to see if you were truly his friend or not.

(“The rumors—” He starts to say, but you shush him, rolling over on your side to face him. The two of you are lying on the grass in your massive backyard, trying to spot a shooting star that’s supposed to be passing by at any second now.

“I don’t care about that.” You tell him. Middle school was a bitch to deal with, mainly because as everyone was in the process of growing up and “maturing”, so did the rumors they spread. Now, the two of you are halfway through your first week of high school. A new school, a couple of new classmates, and new rumors surrounding the odd pair.

“If I told you the rumors about me being someone you should avoid were true, would you be mad?” He’s lying on his back, still staring up at the night sky. He’s not turning to face you, almost as if he’s scared to look at you.

“Yes.” You answer without any hesitation. “At the person who’s spreading that around.” You clarify, poking him on his side to lighten the somber mood he’s setting. “You’re the only real friend I’ve had in forever, Megumi. I don’t think what anyone says about you would change that.”

“What if I did something bad?” Like kill a person. What then? What would you think of him if he told you the full truth: that Gojo told him that he can’t shield Megumi from the dirtier aspects of this type of life. That he’s spent hours after school, hours after hanging out with you and pretending to be a normal teenager, learning how to assemble, disassemble, and then reassemble a gun. That his target practice isn’t glass bottles lined up in a row or sheets printed out with human bodies. What happens if he told you that his target practice was low level scum from rival yakuza clans that Gojo couldn’t be bothered to kill himself?

“Mmm. How bad are we talking? Like, lied to me when you said my Christmas outfit looked good but half my ass was practically exposed bad or committing a felony bad?”

“What if I told you… that I really was a yakuza heir.”

The silence is palpable and especially soul crushing to Megumi as he waits for your reply.

“It wouldn’t matter to me, Megumi.” You say. You know that this isn’t just some type of hypothetical question he’s asking for fun. From his odd living situation to the intense nature of him in general to the fact that he knows practically everything about you, but you barely know the full extent of his childhood traumas despite growing up alongside him, you know deep in your heart that there has to be something going on with him. Something dark enough to harbor stories about him.

“Are you sure about that?”

You reach for his hand in the dark, finding it without really needing to look. He’s not one that’s prone to initiating physical contact, but you found out that he doesn’t really mind when you reach for him first.

“You can’t get rid of me, no matter how crazy or fucked up you think your life is.” You squeeze his hand, still staring at him.

You don’t notice the shooting star flying past the night sky, but Megumi is looking right at it. He knows what he’s wishing for.

For your words to be true.)

You’re still by his side, even when he brought you to his sister’s bedside. She’s sick, afflicted with something no one knows, not even the private doctors that Gojo’s spent millions on. She was still conscious, albeit confined to her bed when the two of you first met, but she’s been in a coma ever since the last year of middle school. You were by his side as he broke down about the news. It was the first time you’ve ever seen him cry.

So, no matter how much it may seem like he’s pushing you away, you don’t budge. For someone smaller than him and definitely weaker, you’re awfully resilient. And while people make the occasional joke, telling you to “blink twice if you need help”, you don’t pay any attention to them. If only they knew the truth: that you’ve got Megumi Fushiguro, heir to a massive yakuza clan, wrapped around your dainty finger.

He’s so whipped that he found himself asking Gojo for a rare favor.

(“College?” Gojo rubs the back of his neck, staring at Megumi. “I mean, I guess it’ll be good for you. Meet a wild party girl, take her to your dorm room, tame her—”

“An education is the whole point of attending, you know.” Megumi interrupts him before Gojo can jump into a story highlighting all of his sexual endeavors with college girls back in the day.

“Eh. I guess.” But then a grin lights up the feature of the man who [kind of/by definition] raised him. “But y’know what I know for a fact.” He wiggles his eyebrows, his glasses slipping down his nose as he tilts his head downwards. “You wanna follow [Name].”)

It doesn’t really matter if he’s not good enough to get into the university you’ve already received an early acceptance for. Because Gojo tries to make up for being an absent father figure, he fills in those empty spaces with cold, hard cash. All it takes is one nice donation, and Megumi’s wherever he wants to be.

Where he wants to be, he realizes, is to be by your side. Wherever you go, he’ll gladly follow. Funnily enough, despite the two vastly different backgrounds the both of you come from, you both have similar means of getting what you want.

Your father had already looked over the list of universities you had in mind, and all you could do was excitedly squeal and start rambling the moment the acceptance letters came in the mail. Despite the fact that your father’s physically absent from your life most of the time, he still tries to show he cares in the things he does for you. If paying off over half a dozen major universities in order to make you happy is something he has to do, he’ll do it without batting an eye.

It’s the same thing on Megumi’s end. Granted, Gojo’s means are more along the lines of using money as a lubricant and then death as an inevitable. Money talks, a gunshot to the head silences. Nobody can accuse anyone of taking bribes if said accused person is in a grave six feet under.

Sometimes, Megumi wonders how you’re just so oblivious to the fortunate circumstances in your life. You chalk up a lot of your father’s wishes as just “good luck”. In school, you’re placed on a pedestal, revered as some goddess-like, otherworldly being. People are practically tripping over themselves, running towards you for a crumb of your attention. Anyone sane would gladly wield this power and use it for all its worth. Not you, though. Not you, who’s kind and considerate and completely clean from the corruptness that plagues everyone else.

Megumi knows good and well that he’s not a hero — couldn’t be farther from it, if he’s being honest. He doesn’t feel a moral obligation to go out and rid the world of all evil. (It’d be hypocritical, he thinks, considering the fact that he’s most likely belonging under the evil category himself.) From a young age, he’s already known and come to terms with his fate. He’s going to train and learn from the best, and eventually, he will succeed as head of the clan. That is his purpose. That right there is the reason why he’s still alive today. That is why he can find himself sitting at his desk, submitting an application that’s already guaranteed to be followed up with an acceptance letter, ready to pretend for four more years that he’s normal.

“D’you think college will be fun?” You ask him, making yourself comfortable in his bed.

“No.”

You laugh at that. You like Megumi for a lot of reasons, and his honesty is one of them. Despite the fact that he likes to keep most of the darker details of his life to himself, you know that he would never lie to you. In a world full of people who are constantly lying, it gets tiring trying to figure out who’s real and who’s fake. It doesn’t help that you want to believe in everyone either. If you didn’t have Megumi loyally staying by your side all this time, you doubt you would have made it this far in your life without anyone taking advantage of you and your kindness.

“My dad said I can finally get a boyfriend when I go to college.” You say this fact so casually that Megumi almost — almost — gets fooled into believing that this is not a cause for concern. Almost.

“Oh.” He’s at a loss for words. He knows that it’s inevitable; that one day, you’ll find a guy you like and want to get closer to him. He knows that you’re not always going to be by his side, and he knows that it’s going to happen because he’ll have to push you away eventually. The older he gets, the deeper he’s burying himself into his grave. He doesn’t want you to get caught in the crossfire.

It’s not like boys have never tried approaching you before. People have spent years thinking that you and Megumi were a couple, and then after finding out from you that the two of you are nothing more than “best friends”, boys were still hesitant to talk to you. The glare Megumi would give them from behind your shoulder acted as a strong enough deterrent.

“I know. Now the only problem is finding a guy who’ll actually wanna date me.”

“They all will.” The words leave his mouth faster than he can even think about them. He’s not wrong, though. Every time the two of you are out in public together, he sees people shooting quick glances at you, at your ass, at your bright smile. The looks they give are predatory, dangerous, even. If it’s not your looks, it’s your shining personality that draws them all in. And if that’s not good enough, there’s always the enormous wealth attached to your last name. That’s the key to getting them to stay.

“You can be so sweet sometimes, you know that?” You giggle, glad that he’s still typing away on his laptop. If he were to look at you right now, he would see that you’re reacting way too positively to such a lackluster compliment. It’s not like he listed reasons on why anyone would ever want to date you, so he probably could just be complimenting you to make you happy.

(That’s just the excuse you’re going with. You know your best friend — that means you know that he would never say something he doesn’t truly think or believe.)

There’s a secret you’ve been keeping from him. A secret so big that you think you might’ve been keeping it from yourself, too. Something so big that your body simply can’t contain it any longer.

You like Megumi. 

Of course you do. You keep telling the whole world what great friends the two of you are. You talk to him about your dad all the time (which must mean he’s important, because you rarely get to speak to your dad, so you have to choose your topics of conversation wiseley). You trust him more than you trust yourself. Ever since middle school, you’ve been telling yourself that you liking Megumi isn’t anything to be ashamed or confused about. You like him because he’s your friend, and you’re supposed to like your friends.

And then you came to terms with the fact that you like Megumi beyond the borders of friendship.

It starts with you seeing him the way other girls must see him. You’re not blind, you know. It’s obvious that Megumi is far from ugly. If he wasn’t so intimidating, you’re sure he would have had his fair share of confessions, too. Megumi’s pretty, although calling him a pretty boy wouldn’t do his character justice. He’s got lashes people pay extensions for theirs to look like, and the prettiest dark blue eyes you’ve ever seen, and his hair, which he doesn’t put forth any type of effort in, always looks good whereas the same hairstyle would look messy on anyone else.

It’s not just his looks, though. Even if you look like the type of person who would judge others based on such shallow standards, you didn’t approach Megumi simply because he’s attractive. He’s… interesting. He’s got this reputation for being a delinquent, and maybe all the fights on his school record prove it, but he’s surprisingly respectful. He’s the type of guy who gets up from his seat to let an eldery woman have it. He loves animals. He’s honest and sweet despite his seemingly stoic nature, and he’s so oblivious to just how good he is.

Maybe it’s because he’s so blinded by the light that is you. You, with your cutesy bento boxes that used to be made by your team of personal chefs but are now made with your own manicured hands. You, with that bright smile of yours that he wants to always see because god — he thinks he would be willing to destroy the whole world if something were to ever make you so upset. You’re kind and beautiful and everything people write love songs about. You’re so good, and he’s nothing like you.

He’s nothing like you, because he highly doubts that you spend your time fantasizing about him like he does with you. It’s wrong, he thinks. And dirty, and disgusting, and vile. You’d hate him, he’s sure of it, if you knew what he thinks about late at night. That he sits on his bed with his cock pulled out from his shorts, leaking with precum as he strokes himself to the thought of you. Do you not see him as any other guy? Despite your lack of experience, surely you know just how dirty boys’ minds can be? You’ve got to be conscious of the fact that he’s any other guy, right? So, why — why — do you always roll around in his sheets, letting your sweet perfume stick to his sheets. Your tiny tops and skirts are always clinging tight to your body, and you never feel the need to readjust your clothing when it rides up. Do you not see him trying his hardest to look you in the eyes when the two of you are talking, despite the tantalizing sight of your skirt bunching up, exposing the smooth skin of your thighs?

Little does Megumi know (and if you have your way, he’ll never find out), you spend nights in your room, whining and trying to stuff your cunt with the same fingers that painstakingly made him his lunch. He’s your best friend since childhood. He looks at you like you’re an angel, and you don’t want to destroy that image by revealing just how dirty you really are. How every time he gets so close to you, you subconsciously bring your thighs together, trying to rub them together in a poor attempt to relieve some tension. He’d be disgusted with you, you’re sure of it. Maybe even betrayed.

Besides, it would never work out. Megumi doesn’t see you the way you see him. He might look at you with a soft look you’ve never seen him give anyone else, but that’s because you’re his only friend. It’s not like he’s harboring any hidden feelings for you, and just because you’re so convinced that there’s no one better than Megumi around, it doesn’t exactly mean that you won’t feel this way about anyone else.

Megumi’s got a rather monotone cadence with his voice, so you’re not too surprised by his seemingly unethusiatic response to you saying you’re now allowed to date. Still — there’s a slight pang of disappointment when you realize that he doesn’t sound jealous at the prospect of you dating someone else.

You decide right then and there that the healthiest thing to do now is to just bury your feelings for him deep inside your heart, to tightly pack in all those pesky feelings and store them away so you can make room to allow others to fill in his space.

gumi <3: where are you? gumi <3: i’m feeling tired and i have an assignment due tomorrow. i’m going home. gumi <3: you know i wouldn’t leave without you. cmon [name]. let’s leave now

Megumi frowns at his phone. He can clearly see that all his messages are being delivered, not to mention that he’s already called you twice and has been sent to voicemail twice. He can be patient when he wants to be, but right now, he’s getting a little pissed.

You know that he doesn’t like parties, and you know that he doesn’t hang out with the same people you do. He also knows that you don’t even really like most of the people you surround yourself with, so whyyou suddenly decided to do a 180 and reestablish your throne as the head of the social pyramid, he doesn’t know.

Lately, things between the two of you have been a little… weird. Sometimes he catches you staring at him with a sad smile on your face; one that you immediately replace with your usual one when you realize he’s looking right at you. Despite him asking you if everything’s okay, you vehemently deny that there’s anything wrong, and you’re quick to change the subject.

He thinks he’s losing his best friend, his only friend. And maybe it only hurts because he’s grown used to your presence in his life. Maybe it hurts because you’re his friend. But he knows the truth. It hurts because he’s losing you.

Did he do something wrong? Did he accidentally somehow reveal the extent of his feelings for you? Did you suddenly decide that maybe associating with someone like him isn’t something you’re meant for? Do you…

Do you hate him now?

It doesn’t matter. Maybe it does, but not right now. Right now, he’s more focused on getting the hell out of this stuffy ass living room, filled to the brim with drunken young adults and people he couldn’t care less about. The only person that matters right now is you, and he’s on a mission to find your location.

He’s got this ominous feeling in his gut, like something bad is about to happen. He’s Megumi Fushiguro, for fuck’s sake, so bad things have a habit of following him wherever he goes. But still, he’s made a personal promise to himself that no matter how bad things get, you’ll never get caught in the crossfire. He’s willing to die to keep that vow.

If you don’t reply to him, you most likely have a good reason. He doesn’t want to be clingy, is pretty damn certain he doesn’t even have a right to be, but he’s still worried about you. He’s pushing past the wall of sweaty bodies, trying to catch a glimpse of your hair color, the waft of your perfume, the familiarity of your laugh, but he can’t catch a single crumb of you anywhere.

You’re nowhere in sight, and he’s immediately filled with dread.

He yanks a guy who’s coming from upstairs.

“Ow, man, what the fuc—”

“Is anyone else up there?” Most of the time, the parties are restricted to just the first floor, with the unspoken rule being that only the upstairs should be used for people trying to fuck or to use the bathroom (or, people trying to use the bathroom to fuck). You’re not anywhere downstairs, and if you were simply using the restroom, you would have been back down here by now.

“Shit, I don’t fucking know.” The guy squints at Megumi, as if trying to see if he knows him or not. With the way his expression pales, Megumi comes to the conclusion that the guy might not really know him, but he knows ofhim. Gojo says that with the right reputation, the two concepts are practically synonymous. “But I heard a guy ‘n a girl, I think, walk past the bathroom. I don’t know who, though!”

Megumi lets go of the boy’s shirt, and he’s quick to run off before Megumi can give him any more wrinkles in his shirt — or do something much worse.

He’s thinking. Odds are, it’s probably not even you. With so many people roaming around this house, it’s likely that he just missed your presence. Your phone could have died, so that explains why he can’t reach you.

He finds himself heading up the stairs anyway.

It’s fine. He tells himself. You’re fine. You’re okay. Nobody would dare to touch a single hair on your head unless they want to suffer directly at the hands of Megumi. People around campus call him your guard dog, and it’s not necessarily a nickname he hates.

The atmosphere upstairs is vastly different from the one downstairs. There are no lights turned on, and all the doors to the rooms are closed. He hears a flush coming from one end, and out walks a tipsy girl who’s staggering a bit. There are only so many doors to choose from, and he doesn’t really want to accidentally walk in on two people trying to have sex, but the need to confirm your safety outweighs any possible embarrassment he may suffer from, so he continues on his mission.

The first two rooms are revealed to be empty, leaving just one more. Megumi takes a deep breath before trying to turn the handle.

It’s locked. 

His gut is telling him something isn’t right, but he’s forcing himself to chalk it all up to paranoia. He curses under his breath, wondering why he even let you out of his sights for a single second.

Because he didn’t want to seem clingy. Because he didn’t want you to have any more reasons to keep on pushing him away. 

He decides to call you one more time, and as he’s listening to the dial tone, he hears a faint sound coming from the other side of the locked door.

It’s a phone ringing.

He presses his ear against the door, trying to make out any more sounds he possibly can. Is it still a coincidence when the phone stops ringing right as Megumi is greeted with your voicemail message of “sorry, I can’t come to the phone right now, but you probably should’ve just texted me!”

Without the annoying dial tone distracting him, Megumi can listen a little more clearly to what’s going on. There’s… there’s someone crying.

The voices are muffled, but he can make out bits and pieces of what’s being said.

“—fuck up… crying like a damn bitch… want this.”

He’s heard enough before he’s banging his shoulder against the door.

“OPEN THE FUCKING DOOR!” He’s screaming, hitting it again. There’s a chance, the voice of reason inside of him is saying, that it’s not you that’s crying behind that door. Even if it wasn’t, Megumi still wouldn’t have stood by idly. But instinct is telling him that it is you, and that’s enough cause for him to bang his shoulder against the door once again. He hears a scream, and a male voice cursing.

The force of his body banding against it is enough to have the door really test the strength of its lock. Megumi’s never been the bulkiest person in the world, but he’s still got some defined muscle to him. The door is creaking, almost bending to his will, but he fumbles in the dark for the gun safely tucked away by his side.

It’s a gift from Gojo. To speed up the process when something needs to be done quick is what Gojo said it was for. He’s never used it in such close proximity to you, but desperate times call for desperate measures.

No silencer. He forgot the fucking silencer. With the deep bass rumbling from the speakers, he doubts anyone would be able to hear the gun go off anyway. He aims for the handle, pulling back the safety, and fires once, then twice. With a foot aimed at the door, he kicks at it, pleased to see the way the abused door finally bends to his will.

The open door reveals a scene that makes Megumi see red: you, with tear stained cheeks and your clothes bunched up and strewn across the floor with a guy Megumi vaguely recognizes as someone sharing the same Econ class as the two of you — Mahito.

“You fucking bastard.” Megumi practically lunges forward, tossing his gun to the side. He doesn’t see reason, is numb to common sense at this moment. All he feels is the need to hurt this fucker. To make him bleed, to have him on the brink of death, to see the light of life leave his dark eyes.

Mahito is fast, but even he couldn’t imagine the speed that Megumi would possess when pushed to the edge. This is different from the fights you’ve witnessed during school. This is something entirelydifferent.

The first punch has Mahito wincing in pain. The second, third, and fourth ones are thrown back to back, and there’s no time given to recover, no chance to gain the upper hand. He’s falling down, and Megumi’s on top of him, drawing back his fist only to slam it against him again and againand again.

Megumi knows he’s got something fucked up inside of his head — what other explanation is there to reason with why he finds this bloody violence so satisfying? His knuckles are bloody, and he can’t tell where Mahito’s blood starts and where his own ends. There’s a wild grin on his face, one that you’ve never seen before. You’re not sure if it’s a trick of the shadows, but the feral expression on Megumi’s face transforms him from your loyal best friend to something monstrous.

“‘Gumi, st-stop.” The words stumble out of your mouth as hiccups, but you don’t miss the way Megumi’s raised arm freezes in its higher position before he slowly brings it back down to his side. He’s breathing deeply, and all is silent in the room.

As if the sound of your cries is enough to snap him out of his daze, it’s almost scary how fast his mood shifts. Just a second ago, he was hellbent on beating Mahito to a bloody pulp, and now the darkness drowning those blue eyes of his is practically gone. He makes his way to the bed, each step hurried but still hesitant. Do you even want to be near him right now? 

You answer his question with some more small sobs. “‘Gumi, I—”

“Shh, it’s okay, [Name].” He’s picking up your clothes from the floor, ready to help you get dressed. “Everything’s going to be okay.”

“Megumi.” His name seems to be the only thing you’re capable of saying right now. After he helps you get dressed, he’s thrown off guard when you cling to him, with your arms wrapped around his neck and your wet cheeks pressed against his shoulder.

The moment the two of you are exiting the room, both of you far too wrapped up with the other to pay him any mind, Mahito lets out a laugh before groaning at the pain Megumi inflicted.

The two of you don’t know what you just started, but no worries — Mahito has the means of ending it.

It’s only a matter of time.

You’re too good to be true.

You won’t listen to him when he tells you this (you never do), but he swears you’re a fucking angel or something otherwordly. There’s no other possible explanation for just how breathtakingly beautiful you are, or how you’re the only thing consuming his every thought. Despite the fact that all the blood on his hands has reached an amount that he’s sure he’ll never truly be able to wash it all off, you don’t shy away from his touch. As a matter of fact, it seems like you’re keening for it.

“‘Gumi.” You mewl out, sticking out your tongue to lap at the precum on Megumi’s thumb.

You’re well aware of just how dangerous your boyfriend (the title makes you giddy every time you refer to him as that) is, but you know him. You know that the hands of a killer are the hands of your lover, and most of the time, you have a hard time believing the awful things he’s had to do with them. Because right now, those hands that are meant to be weapons are handling you with care, touching you so gently, you would have thought you were made of glass and ready to shatter.

“Look at you, all spread out for me. What happened to my precious, shy little girl, huh?” He removes the hand that was cradling your face back to his cock, stroking his length, the saliva from your tongue acting as a minor lubricant. The first time he fucked you was the first time you’ve ever had sex with anyone ever, and it had been the start of an addiction. You love Megumi. You love everything about him, from his character to his tenacity, all the way down to his cock, with its red tip that’s sticky with pre and leaking out more as he stares down at the obscene position you’re in.

Your face feels warm as he stares down at you, his eyes darkened with a mix of love and lust that you don’t think you’ll ever get used to being on the receiving end of.

“Need you, need you so bad, please, ‘Gumi—” You’re staring up at him, giving him your best doe eyes.

“Fuck.” Just the sight of you beneath him, completely bending to his will, whining out for him to pretty please fuck you has him ready to cum right on the fucking spot. He’s pressing the tip in, his breathing faltering just the slightest as the warmth you provide envelopes the most sensitive part of him, nearly causing him to lose all self control right then and there.

You let out a cry as he pushes himself deeper in you, making himself at home in your gummy walls, one hand gripping your hip and the other holding onto the headboard.

“You feel so good for me, baby, shit.” He hisses, waiting for you to adjust, impatient but willing to bear it if it means it’ll feel better for you in the long run. After all, there’s nothing he wouldn’t do, nothing he wouldn’t endure, just to ensure your happiness.

“Mm — ah — please.” There are still tears welling up in your eyes — precious girl, he hasn’t even began to properly fuck you, and you’re already tearing up? The sight of you completely and willingly at his mercy is enough to get him to start rutting his hips against yours, the satisfying sound of skin slapping against skin resounding and bouncing against the walls of his bedroom that is starting to feel more like the both of yours.

“Y’feel so fuckin’ good for me, baby.” He groans, his pace quickening, the thrusts getting sharper and rougher with every roll of his hips. You’re powerless against his strength, and this type of easy submission feels so natural, feels so good, when it’s him that’s taking advantage of it. “You’ve got the sweetest pussy, y’know that?  I could fuck you forever.”

His praise goes through one ear and out the other with you, but your heart swells up to twice its size. Even if you can’t focus on the words all too clearly, you’re still aware that Megumi’s probably praising you. You can come to this conclusion because he’s always praising you. He’s always so sweet, so gentle, so loving — when it comes to you, that is.

“Hng — daddy!” You can’t help but let out a high pitched moan as he hits that sweet spot inside of you that makes you buck your hips up.

There’s no way you don’t know what you’re doing. Clenching around his cock like that, making those cute little noises that he can’t help but want to hear all the time, and then calling him that.

“Daddy, daddy, daddy.” 

Forget igniting something within him; you whining for him, calling him something that’s the root cause of all his childhood traumas… That’s like dousing him with gasoline and tossing a lighter at him. He’s going to burn through all his energy, channel all this dark, feral energy, and use you as the one unfortunate enough to be on the receiving end.

He fucks into you so deeply that if your eyes weren’t shut tight, there’s no doubt that you wouldn’t see the unmistakable shape of his cock outlined against your tummy. The headboard is banging against the wall, and the squelching sounds of him roughly thrusting in and out of your sopping cunt is so lewd and so dirty that if you had any room to harbor a single ounce of shame, you would be downright embarrassed.

“How about you make me a daddy, huh? How about I fuck a baby in you?” He won’t lie and say it’s not something that’s never crossed his mind. The thought of your stomach round with a life the two of you created is enough to get him to continue with this near-brutal pace he’s set forth. “Doesn’t it sound nice, baby? My baby giving me a baby, what—” He grits his teeth as you tighten up. “—a fucking dream.”

“Baby. Wanna have your babies.” You cry out, tears spilling out and wetting your cheeks as your arms find their way to his neck and broad shoulders, trying to pull him in closer. The heat building up from within you feels like you’re about to fucking explode. “‘Gumi, I love you, Iloveyoupleasegimmeababy—'' Your words are practically unintelligible as you slur them out, the words sticking together as you cum all over his cock, all that pleasure that has been building up now physically tangible, if the white ring encasing his cock every time he pulls out is evidence.

“Fuck! You feel so fucking good. Always so fuckin’ tight.” He’s reaching his own end, and you’re just lying there, trying to recover from such an intense orgasm but unable to as your too sensitive walls clench around the constant intrusion of his cock. Spurred by your little love confession and his mind imagining his daydreams coming true — you, as his cute little housewife, taking care of the kids the two of you made together — he finally shoves himself as deep as he physically can, making sure that as he cums, nothing will spill out.

“‘Gumi.” You whisper, your head resting against his chest, listening to the beat of his heart. “Did you mean it when you said you wanted to start a family?”

He’s silent for a minute.

“I wouldn’t mind starting a family with you.” And he means it. He knows this life isn’t one meant for children — look at how he turned out, for god’s sake — but he thinks that for you, he can do anything. Even make a family work out. As long as it’s what you want, he doesn’t mind how hard it may be.

You snuggle closer to him, burying your face in the warmth of his chest. “Good.” You mumble. “I wanna start a family with you, too.”

Megumi feels… at peace. Like he’s got the whole entire world in the palm of his hands. He wraps his arms around you, and realizes that no — right now, he’s got his world right in his arms.

Mahito likes to play with his food before he devours them whole.

Humans are just so… vulnerable. Even the coldest people have a heart; it’s only a matter of whether or not they find someone warm enough to defrost it. Megumi Fushiguro, for example, likes to walk around this world, acting indifferent and claiming to follow his own moral conduct, only to give himself the biggest weakness he could possibly harbor: you.

He still remembers that party. He still remembers the way you were dressed like a little slut, completely oblivious (or maybe you were just acting coy) to the wolfish stares all the guys were giving you. He had the same class as you. Seen the way you clung to Gojo’s charity case, as if the ground would swallow Megumi whole if you let go of him. You’re cute, and you scream naive virgin, and that’s precisely why Mahito wanted to take you to that bedroom and have his way with you.

And then, your infamous little guard dog bared his teeth and pummeled him into the hardwood of a stranger’s bedroom floor.

Grudges are cancerous. If you don’t deal with it right away, it develops into something worse. It takes over all your internal organs, ruining you ‘til the only thing you can focus on is getting revenge. And the longer you wait, the more vengeful you get. It doesn’t become a matter of ruined pride or reestablishing honor — it becomes about inflicting the most pain one possibly can. It becomes about suffering — about transferring your pain, your anguish, onto someone else.

Mahito isn’t the type to hold grudges, but for Megumi, he’ll make a special exception. He wants to see just how well trained the boy is; after all, he’s been taken under the wing and supervision of Satoru Gojo, the myth himself. Surely, his student must be nearly as skilled, right?

It’s been a long game of watching and waiting on Mahito’s end. A lot of lurking in the shadows and gathering intel. It’s a lot more boring than he anticipated, but today’s the day where all his hard work finally comes to fruition. Megumi Fushiguro is going to regret ever interfering with him that one fateful night. The burning humiliation he’s felt has long since fizzled out, but since he’s already been set on the path of orchestrating Megumi’s destruction, he figures it only makes sense to see it through. You only can let go of a grudge after you get your proper revenge.

He’s been leaving Megumi all sort of taunting, teasing threats any chance he gets. Mahito’s got nothing but disgraced yakuza members on his side; those who have committed acts vile enough to get them kicked out of what is essentially a group of criminals. He knows how to be twisted — hell, twisted might be the only thing he knows how to be.

Killing girls that resemble you and sending him the photos. Taking videos of you when you’re out in public alone. Leaving voicemails for Megumi, ones that leave him pale faced and unable to breathe as he listens to how Mahito wants to tortue you.

Megumi’s been on edge for the past few months, unable to explain to you why. It’s why you don’t understand why Megumi won’t let you go back to your car, even though you left your phone in there.

“I’ll go. Or, we can go together.”

“You have to wait for our coffee! And besides, I don’t even know where I left my phone. It might not even be in the car, but you’ll just waste your time searching for it if it’s not there.”

“So then why do you have to go look for it?”

“Because it’s my phone? Also, I reeeeeallly don’t wanna have to wait for our coffee, so I figured looking for my phone in the car would kill some time.” You give him that sweet smile of yours that he loves so much before waving him goodbye. “I’ll be back by the time our order is ready, pinky promise!”

At the end of the day, it’s all luck. Mahito realizes this as you happily skip out of the crowded cafe, headed towards your car to search for your phone. He doesn’t know why you’re returning back to your car, doesn’t even really care. All he knows and all he cares about is that you’re headed there alone. And while you’ve been alone plenty of times, he’s never had an opportunity quite like this one. A chance to finally detonate the bomb that’s been lying dormant underneath your car, ready to be activated at the press of a button. He could’ve killed you plenty of times already, but it’s not enough to merely murder you. He wants to make it a spectacle, sure, but he also only cares about one audience member watching: Megumi.

From where he’s hiding, blending in with the rest of the customers from the bakery across the street, he’s got a decent enough view of Megumi, who’s sitting by the glass windows, watching you with furrowed brows as you unlock the car door.

Mahito can’t help the cruel smile that spreads across his face as pushes the remote connected to the bomb.

Nobody expects to hear the loud, resounding boom of something exploding. The surrounding cars parked next to yours have their alarms going off like crazy; it’s nothing but high pitched, blaring noises blending together to create a disruptive harmony. People are screaming, someone is on the line with emergency services, and—

—your precious car is set aflame, reduced to a burning pile of scrap metal no salvage yard will take.

In this moment, Megumi Fushiguro’s world crumbles to ashes.

[livelaughloveluffy]

yearning - monkey d. luffy

a/n: currently in the mood to yearn tonight... its probably the fiona apple playing in the background as inspo to write.. anywho!! i wanted to start a new series about reader's pov of falling for the boys because i seriously just need to gush about how much i love and adore and want these men 😭😭😭 so i hope you guys enjoy this!!

nothing but fluff here 💗

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it was absolutely impossible to not be drawn to the captain of the straw hat pirates. luffy simply radiated joy and kindness, and while he can be extremely straight-forward, trusting to a fault, and at times naive, his pure love and affection for those around him is so plainly addicting to be around.

since the very first time your eyes were graced with the sight of the raven-haired boy's wide smile, your heart couldn't help but just melt and the overwhelming feeling of willing to do anything to never see it leave his face utterly consumed you.

•♡•

when the captain had asked you to join his on his journey to become the king of the pirates, you were initially shocked. what had he seen in you to view you as valuable enough to need in his crew?

it was not unknown that luffy could have some questionable taste at time, not hesitating to invite animals, zombies, or other strange creature to join the straw hats with the same wide smile he had shown you.. that's just who he was.

but nothing quelled those doubts as instantly as his wholehearted smile when he called your name.

•♡•

it was just after breakfast, a bright and sunny day on the thousand sunny, you stood outside the kitchen leaning against the wall overlooking the deck. luffy, usopp, and chopper had run out of the kitchen just 10 minutes prior, clearly in a hurry to go back to whatever fun shenanigans they had planned for the day full of travel on the open ocean.

the three laughing and chasing each other in circles on the small deck. the captain throwing his head back laughing, watching as his body began to lean with him as well, making him fall to the floor. and now his laugh can finally reach your ears, as the raven-haired boy's now trapped in a laughing fit, finding his fall absolutely hilarious.

you didn't notice the smile grow on your face, but the blonde-haired chef who had just stepped out for his post-breakfast cigarette did.

"he's definitely something special... don't you think?" sanji gently murmured, with a sly smile itching at the edge of his lips.

the blush on your cheeks didn't go unnoticed by the chef when you looked at him with wide eyes, before responding with a meek nod and a small whispered "yeah... he really is.."

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tags ♡: @dindjarins1ut ; want to join the taglist? click here!!

a/n: i was listening to "i want you to love me" on repeat in case you were wondering 😭😭 and you most definitely can tell 💀

a/n: enjoyed this fic? here's my masterlist!!

[carmenberzattosgf]

the long awaited spanking fic

Content warnings: dom/sub dynamics, heavy spanking

I cannot get the brain rot for this out of my head. I was going to write a full fic for it first that includeded subspace but imma just do a spanking blurb for now to free myself from the thoughts… so basically stay tuned for this to be expanded

You did the thing that pisses off Carmy the most. You talked back to him during service in front of everyone. It was over something stupid, really, but your stubbornness got the best of you. As soon as the words left your mouth, you regretted them. The look on Carmen’s face was enough to shut you up for the rest of the night.

The car ride home is silent, dead silent. Carmy hasn’t said a word to you at all, and you don’t dare try and talk to him. You’re well aware you screwed up. You just aren’t sure what he’s going to do with you.

Carmy remains wordless as he parks the car in front of his apartment and heads to his door. You follow quickly behind him, watching as he digs in his pocket for his keys. Once he gets the door open, he walks straight to the couch to sit down, expecting you to close the door and lock up for him.

As soon as Carmy hears the lock click, he speaks in a firm, unwavering tone from where he sits on the couch. “Take off your clothes.”

His tone sends chills down your spine. He’s really fucking pissed. You walk towards him, standing right in front of the couch. “Carm, I’m—“ you begin to apologize, but Carmen doesn’t let you finish talking.

“I’m not going to repeat myself. Take them off. Now.”

“Y-yes, sir.” You remove your clothes as fast as you possibly can, not wanting to make him wait. You watch as Carmy sits up straight on the couch, slightly parting his knees.

“Bend over my lap,” he commands. Your legs move quickly as you bend over on his lap with your eyes facing the ground. His left hand hooks around your waist to steady you. His right hand rests right above your ass, lightly soothing the skin. “You were bad today. Talked back to me in front of everyone.”

“I’m sorry, Carmy. I wasn’t thinking.”

“It’s fucking obvious you weren’t thinking. How can I expect those people to listen to me when my own girlfriend won’t do what I ask of her? You know better than that. I’ve taught you better.”

“It’ll never happen again. I promise.”

“Oh, I’ll make sure of that. You’re going to learn your lesson. I’m giving you fifteen spanks.”

“Fifteen?” you audibly gasp at the number. He has never punished you with so many spanks. The max before had always been less than ten.

“And you’re going to count every single one of them. If you mess up, I’ll add another one. Do you understand me?”

“Yes, sir. I understand.” Not even wasting a second, Carmy’s hand strikes your ass. He’s not starting off easy. “Shit! O-one.” The next two spanks come one after another, hitting at different spots. Your body jolts in his grasp from the impact of each hit. “Two. Three.”

Carmy doesn’t give you time to think in between the strikes of his hand. Each one comes down harder than the one before it. The only sounds in the room are your strangled whines and the sound of his hand against your ass. You manage to count pretty well at first, but it gets harder as the heat between your legs increases.

“Are you getting wet right now?” He says before spanking you once more.

“t-ten.” It’s all you can say. Stringing together a sentence seems impossible.

“Are you already so stupid you can’t count and answer my question?” Carmy’s hand grips your raw skin as he spreads your legs to see for himself. He scoffs when he sees the wetness pooling between your legs, starting to make a wet spot on his pants. “You’re fucking dripping. You’re a desperate little thing, aren’t you? Even my hands spanking you turns you on.”

He hits your ass twice in quick succession in the exact same spot. You cry out from the impact. Your skin is throbbing. “Eleven— Carm, please.” You beg, not quite sure what you’re asking.

“That was twelve. I guess you can’t even count right anymore. Now, I’m going up to sixteen.”

You tremble in his lap, holding onto his legs with a death grip. At this point, he’s lightened up on the force behind his hand. Carmy also directs some of the strikes on your upper thigh to give your ass a break. It’s completely raw from the spankings, red and pulsing with heat. You’re barely holding on when he delivers the last strike.

“S-s-sixteen—“ you gasp. Tears run down your cheeks as Carmy rubs the skin of your upper back.

“You did good, baby. You took that so well. Such a good girl. You just needed a little punishment to remind you who you listen to, didn’t you?”

“Yes, sir. I’m so s-sorry Carm. I didn’t mean to make you so mad,” you speak through sobs. “I-I shouldn’t have done that I’m so sorry—“

“Shhh—baby. Calm down. I’m not mad at you anymore. You made a mistake and got punished for it. It’s all okay now. You don’t have to apologize again. I know you didn’t mean to upset me. Let me help you sit up, yeah? Need to see your face.”

With Carmy’s help, you sit up in his lap to face him. His hands cup your face, wiping the tears away with this thumbs. You get emotional in times like this, especially when Carmy looks at you with such adoration like he is right now. “I love you, Carm.”

“I love you too, sweetheart. Can I take care of you now? I wanna make it all feel better.”

“Please. P-please. Need it,” you beg, feeling the his hard cock underneath you.

“I’ve gotcha. I’ll take care of you.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Yeah im sorry for leaving this here but i gotta have room to expand on this idea later. Hehehe so expect a more full length one shot with all of this once again and more soon!!

[littlebearbun]

Sleepy-time T(ouching)

Stanford Pines x Reader

(Like sleepy-time tea? Get it? I'll see myself out. I hate writing titles.)

Summary: Stanford Pines is a brilliant scientist. He's also a liar. He said he would be in bed hours ago! Whatever is a determined lover like yourself to do about that?

AN: This is the longest fic I've written to date and it's not even for the Pines twin I simp for the most. Stanford just has a certain....Listen I think he would beg real nice and I wanna make him feel loved ok

Included: Oral sex with Ford under his desk. Hand/finger kink. Begging. Sub!Stanford Pines.

“Stanford Filbrick Pines, you told me you were coming to bed!” you called from the doorway to his lab, arms crossed and impatience lacing your tone. The machinery of his lab beeped and chirped sporadically. Some of them printed what looked like receipts of information for him to collect later. 

“It’s barely been a few minutes since you asked me to, darling,” Ford murmured. He didn’t even look up from his journal (if you remembered right, this was #5.) His shoulders were hunched, the sleeves of his red turtleneck rolled up to his elbows (God, you found his forearms of all things attractive. You really were in love), and his tan trenchcoat lay forgotten over a nearby chair. The six fingers of his left hand tapped rhythmically as he read over his notes. 

“It’s been three hours!” you responded with a roll of your eyes that he didn’t see. When he did look up, you saw exactly what you had seen hours ago-Ford’s eyes were ringed with dark circles, his eyes themselves were bleary and borderline unfocused, and his hair was mussed. He must have been running his hands through it. If it was frustration or contemplation, though, you couldn’t say. 

“Three hours?” he repeated, softer, and blinked for longer than necessary. It was probably one of his micro-naps, even though you didn’t really believe him that those were a thing. 

“Yes,” you said, and walked over to him. He watched as you approached, his eyes warm even through his obvious exhaustion. 

“I apologize,” he said. “I didn’t realize that I lost track of time. I’m so close, it feels like there’s just one or two more breakthroughs I need to make-”

“Stanford,” you interrupted, voice more of a coo of his name. “You haven't slept in, like, two days.” You reached out for him, cupping his face first, stroking your thumbs over his cheekbones. His shoulders loosened immediately. Even through your annoyance that he hadn’t come to bed, you couldn’t help the burst of affection for this man that melted into your hand as soon as you touched him. You didn’t say anything more for the moment, running your fingertips under his big brown eyes, over the bridge of his nose, across his brow, and lastly, over the seam of his mouth. 

By this point, Ford was already sufficiently in your power. His lips parted and he started to say something, stopped, and kissed your fingertip instead. You pressed it between his lips and gave him a sweet look. You did not miss the small shudder that went through him as you hooked your thumb behind his teeth and pressed. 

“Oh, honey,” you murmured, saccharine, and removed your hands from him. “Why don’t you let me take care of you, huh?” 

“I-” he started, but you took hold of the back of his rolling chair with your free hand and pulled it back just enough to fit between him and the desk. He cut himself off, then, watching you with narrowed eyes and a slight pink tint to his face. Carefully, to avoid his ire, you stacked all of his papers as orderly as you could and moved them to the side. You dropped his pens back into their glass with a clink and closed the box that held his other supplies for scientific notes and his lovely artistic journaling. You knew Ford liked organization, and he was looking at you like you’d hung the moon as you moved everything about his desk with such care. Once the desk was clear, you hopped up onto it, spreading your legs so Ford and the chair could fit between them. You pulled him forward by his turtleneck, kissing him properly this time. 

If Stanford Pines wouldn’t come to bed, you’d have to get him to follow another way.

As soon as your lips met, Ford let out a sigh that curled in your stomach and warmed. He tilted his head up, his nose bumping against yours (Ford had always been a rather clumsy kisser, but what he lacked in skill he made up for in enthusiasm. It’s not like you minded either way.) You kissed him quick at first, pulling away too soon for both of your sakes. He tried to follow your mouth, eyes half lidded and mouth half open. You dodged him, and instead your lips followed the path of your fingers from earlier. You kissed under each of his eyes, then at the crows feet at their corners, his nose, each of his brows, and then both of his cheeks. 

“Darling,” Ford said, long suffering but a bit breathless already. You giggled, moving like you were about to kiss him again, but then you dipped to kiss his chin, then his jaw, dragging your lips across his stubble. It tingled. 

“Love,” Ford tried again, and you laughed again against his skin. 

“Yes?” you teased. “Do you need something, handsome?” 

Ford gave you a look that you were sure he thought said ‘you know exactly what I want’, but to you it just looked a little petulant and needy. You grinned at him. 

“Ask me,” you said, straightening his glasses for him as if they wouldn’t be askew again in a few moments. “What do you need?”

“.....For you to let me work,” he mumbled, but his gaze was squarely focused on your mouth. You tsked.

“Well, what I need is for you to sleep, Stanford.” you said. “So try again.” 

Ford looked pained for a moment, clearly unsure if he wanted to give in to your game or hold out in the hopes you would actually let him work. 

You wouldn’t agree to the latter, obviously, and he knew you better than that.

“Kiss me,” he finally said, the words barely audible over the machinery of his lab. You cupped a hand to your ear, leaning forward. 

“I’m sorry, what was that?” you asked, and Ford scoffed. Still, he was smiling, just a slight quirk of his lips, and his eyes were crinkled at the edges. He could not hold a poker face for the life of him. You loved that. 

“Kiss me,” he said, louder. “Please.” 

“I suppose,” you said, but your immediate kiss betrayed your excitement. Ford had come such a long way in asking for what he wanted, it was hard not to give it to him. 

This kiss wasn’t quick, wasn’t meant to tease anymore. You put your hands on his shoulders for balance as you leaned in and kissed him. You felt one of his broad hands splay across your thigh and the other cupped your cheek. His thumb stroked over your cheekbone in an almost mechanical but comforting movement. 

Ford, for his part, kissed you with no less enthusiasm than earlier, but this time you allowed it. His tongue parted your lips and licked into your mouth, behind your teeth, across the roof of your mouth. You sighed into it and Ford let out a soft little moan. He’d always been so touch starved, so perfectly easy. You nipped at his tongue. One of your hands followed his shoulder up to his neck and you played with the baby hairs at the base of his skull. Everything in you wanted to pull them, so you did, delighting in the groan that escaped your lover. His hand left your thigh and played with the hem of your shirt, slipping beneath it to spread his fingers against your stomach.

“Darling,” he gasped out, his lips kiss swollen and pupils blown. You bit your lower lip, smiling, hopelessly in love. 

In lieu of responding, you mirrored your earlier movement, pressing a thumb between Ford’s lips. He accepted it immediately, eyes fluttering shut as he licked and sucked at your finger. A muffled groan escaped him.

“Yessss?” you asked, hoping that he would get the hint from earlier and ask for more when-

Footsteps on the stairs. Ford paled. You squeaked, yanking your finger from his mouth. He looked momentarily bereft, but quickly tried to school his expression into neutrality. 

You didn’t know why it was the first instinct you had-You could have hidden behind one of the many machines in the lab, or simply pretended you were both only talking (though the blush on both of your faces would have betrayed you.) It wasn’t like everyone in the house didn’t already know that you and Ford were involved, but-

You slid to your knees, hiding under the desk.

Ford stared at you, incredulous, one bushy eyebrow raised, and you put a finger to your lips. You grabbed him by his knees and pulled the chair back in, effectively hiding you from view. Ford kept his legs spread to make room for you under the desk, but he was clearly tense. One of his boots tapped a nervous rhythm on the floor.

“Just find out what they want and we can get back to it,” you whisper, winking at him. 

“But-” Ford was cut off by Stanley opening the door, and you shrunk more under the desk. If Stanley found out about this, neither of you would ever hear the end of it. While that was better than Dipper or Mabel interrupting, the repercussions would certainly last longer and would show up over every meal, every conversation with Ford's smarmy younger brother. 

“Stanley,” Ford said, waving a hand at his twin. His voice was surprisingly level. 

“Hey, Pointdexter!” Stanley replied in that rasp of his. It seemed deeper than normal-maybe he was out smoking a cigar on the back porch recently. 

“What can I do for you?” Stanford asked, impatience coloring his tone, but Stanley was used to that. Ford got that way when he was deep in a project or a train of thought.

Stanley answered him, but to be honest, you had stopped paying attention because when you looked ahead towards Ford’s hips…Well. You knew he was easy but God. 

He already had a hard on. You could see the outline of it through his pants. From the little bit you had done to him. 

You bit back a smirk. How you loved this man. You put a hand on his knee, rubbing it with your thumb, and it probably would have been comforting if you didn't know he was so keyed up already. You rest your cheek on his opposite thigh, against his black pants, and the contact made him stutter. 

“S-Sorry, Stanley,” he said, waving it off, voice a bit clipped. “Just a bit tired. Nothing to worry about.” His other hand slipped under the desk and six fingers spread in your hair and pulled slightly in warning. 

You did not heed it. If anything, it spurred you on.

You grabbed his wrist, gently tugging, and Ford released your hair. Knowing him, he was worried he had hurt you. Far from it, you just had more devious plans in mind. 

Ford's hands had always been beautiful. You had thought so when you first met him, when you shook his hand and Mabel quipped something about how it was a “full finger friendlier than normal!” Ford had laughed then, shaking his head in that fond way you had later grown to recognize, and apologized for the strangeness of his handshake. Even then, when you'd barely known him, it had taken you aback. Why apologize for something so lovely?

As you'd grown closer, gotten together, his hands had only held more fascination for you. Those lingering touches on your shoulder or your elbow as he passed you in the hall, the first time you'd kissed and he had cupped your face with six fingers instead of five. It felt all the more encompassing. 

Even when you both had graduated to more…strenuous activities, even when you had fawned over his hands and begged for more of his fingers, he had paused. Apologized. Looked momentarily so far away. You had to fix that. 

You had been delighted to learn that you could quiet Ford’s insecurities about his hands when you took them in your mouth. 

So you did. You pulled Stanford's hand to your mouth and kissed each fingertip. Above you, his breath hitched, but he did not pull his hand away. Greedy. 

Good.  

You started with his pinky. You licked from the knuckle closest to his palm to his fingertip and then sucked on the end of it, pressed the length of your tongue across it. The short gray hairs on the back of his fingers tickled your lips. You gave him a moment to bask in the warmth of your mouth and then you moved to the next finger, then the next, when you took his two middle fingers into your mouth. 

Ford’s hips jerked up involuntarily. His feet planted flat on the floor and he lifted out of the chair for just a moment. You grinned around his fingers, dragging your teeth and tongue lightly across them, playing with them like you would his cock. His fingers twitched and flexed in your mouth, then pressed so far back you gagged. 

Ford yanked his hand away from you and you bit out a whine. He clasped both of his hands together on his lap, knuckles white, fingers slick with saliva, and you barely kept in a giggle.

Stanley said something about a specific tool that he was sure Ford had and he needed to borrow. You caught bits and pieces, so focused on your task of torturing the scientist you loved.

You leaned forward more, scooting forwards on the floor as close as you could get with the wheels of the chair in the way. You touched his hands and he recoiled, probably nervous about you continuing and him making a noise he could not hide from Stanley. With his hands ‘safely’ above the desk, your prize was revealed to you. 

You pressed a kiss to the bulge in his pants. You licked up the clothed length of him, the fabric rough against your tongue, but you knew that the light touch would drive Ford up a wall. 

You wished you could see his face.

You undid the button of his pants and took his zipper in your teeth as you heard Stanley's slippers slap against the floor and recede to the back of the lab. Stanford loudly mentioned “the red toolbox in the cabinet to the left” and then leaned forward to hiss

“What do you think you're doing?”

“I should think that's obvious,” you whispered after unzipping him. You grinned at him, all promise, your fingers hooked in the waistband of his boxers. “Ask me to stop. You know the safeword.”

Stanford's mouth hung open for a moment and them snapped closed with an audible click of his teeth. You could almost see the gears turning in his head. His jaw set and his cheeks colored. He took a deep, steadying breath through his nose. 

He did not ask you to stop. He did, however, level you with a look that spoke of payback and devotion all at once, then straightened back up to address Stanley. One of his hands found it's way into your hair again and his fingers combed through your hair until he got a hold in it. 

“Did you find it?” He asked, and you pulled the waistband of his underwear down to free his cock. It twitched a bit in the cooler air of the lab. Ford wasn't especially thick, but he was longer than average, with well groomed short gray curls at the base of him. You licked your lips and used the hand not still on his knee to smear precum across the head. 

Ford stiffened but didn’t make any noise. 

What a good boy. 

You leaned forward, licking the pre you spread from the tip of him, and then started at the base. You flattened your tongue against him, dragging it up his length and then off of him again. Your saliva cooled against his skin as you stared for a moment, gleeful. His fingers tightened in your hair. 

“Found it!” You heard Stanley shout from the back of the lab. He tripped over a box in his exclamation, stumbling and knocking some gadgets from their place. You could see Ford’s displeasure in your mind’s eye, so you took that moment to take him fully into your mouth. 

Ford made a sound like he had been punched, a low exhale of air layered with a groan. He bent over the desk slightly and his hips jerked up to meet your mouth. You took him deeper. He was warm against your tongue, hard and twitching. Your thumb kept soothing motions against his knee. 

“Hey, Sixer, you ok there?” Stanley asked, and Ford straightened. 

“Fine, fine, Stanley. Like I said, just tired. I'll be heading to bed soon,” Ford said, voice a bit strained.

Happiness bubbled in you at his admission, warring with arousal. 

“If you say so,” Stanley said. You pictured one of his bushy gray eyebrows climbed up into his hairline. “Thanks for the screwdriver-Mine doesn't have the bits anymore. I'll bring it back.” 

You hollowed your cheeks, sucking harder on him, taking him deeper until you wanted to gag. You just wanted to feel him shake.

“No rush,” Ford said, which should have tipped Stanley off that something was wrong immediately. Ford always wanted his things back as soon as possible. “I know where you live, after a-ah-all.” 

Stanley chuckled, blessedly ignoring Ford’s slip, and his footsteps receeded back upstairs. The metal door to the lab shut with hopeful finality. 

“Fuck,” Ford gasped, and wheeled his chair back out of your reach. You whined at the loss and wiped your mouth with the back of your own hand. 

Stanford stumbled to his feet, pants barely hanging off his thighs, and moved towards the door. He flipped the heavy metal lock and looked back at you with the expression of a man starved. “I want to see you,” he said, and sat back in the chair with his legs spread. You raised an eyebrow at him and did not move from under the desk. “Please,” he added. “Please let me see you.”

Well. You wouldn't say no when he asked so nicely. 

“You're learning,” you teased as you slid forward on your knees to rest between his legs. “See what rewards you get when you're good?”

“Yes, I-Mnn,” Ford broke into a moan as you took him back in your mouth. You giggled, and the vibrations made him gasp. You looked up at him as you sucked, base to tip. His ears and his cheeks were a perfect shade of red. 

“Try again,” you said, smirking.

“I…I see,” he said, and rest a hand on your head almost reverently. “W-What I get when I'm g-aaah…!” 

You didn't let him finish. He looked too delicious, sounded too wrecked. Your sweet, sweet man. 

“Be a good boy,” you whispered as you stroked him. “Be good for me and cum.”

“S-Shit, I…I…” He actually whimpered. “Please, tell me…tell me I'm…” he trailed off, whether by embarrassment or pleasure you weren't sure. Either way. 

You kissed the tip of him again, tenderly, gazing up at him with all the love you had. Still, you needed him to say it. “Tell you you're what?” You ask, and run your fingertips lightly up the underside of his cock. He cursed, ears fully scarlet now, and gave you a molten look. 

“Please,” he started, and you're so so proud of him already. “Tell me I'm…” He trailed off, clearly fighting with himself. His pride, his self sabotage, his need to cum. The latter won out. He couldn't look at you. “...good. Please tell me I'm good.” His voice got a bit watery at the end and your expression softened. You pretended not to notice the tear that escaped and rolled down his cheek.

“Oh, my sweet, precious Ford. Of course you're good. So, so good.” And you took him back into your mouth, deep enough you could feel him in your throat, and swallowed around him. 

Stanford let out a filthy moan of your name as he came. His whole body curled over you, his thighs tensed and shook under your hands, and you watched his jaw go slack as he gasped and moaned through it. His hand tightened in your hair to the point of pain. You moaned around him and swallowed. You squirmed a bit where you sat, so unbelievably turned on by this man, and kept him in the warmth of your mouth. You sucked on his softening cock again, experimentally, and he gasped out a 

“Please…!”

He didn't pull you off of him and you didn't volunteer the movement, instead licking at his length with him still in your mouth. You dug your nails into his thighs through his slacks as he squirmed and looked up at him in rapt adoration as you shallowly bobbed your head.

Making him cum again was easy. He was already so sensitive, so shaky and pliant, begging out a chorus of pleasepleaseplease. All it took was a few more licks and a moan you let out around him. This orgasm was weaker, which was fine, because the whiney moan he let out was heaven. Tears gathered at the corners of his eyes and he squeezed them shut, unable to watch you any longer. His head fell back, resting against the back of the chair as he tried to remember his own name. You kept him in your mouth until he came down from it, keeping your head still this time, and he gently pulled you off by the hair. 

“You are…magnificent,” he whispered, ever the wordsmith. He cupped your face, memorizing your swollen lips, your hazy eyes, the flush of your cheeks, and you laughed. His head lolled a bit, the lack of sleep and the pleasure you'd given him stirring into the perfect cocktail to get him to bed. 

“I could say the same about you,” you counter, and you press a kiss to his fully soft length just to hear him gasp. You tucked him gingerly back into his pants, zipped and buttoned them, and stood, smoothing out his hair and fixing his crooked glasses. You kissed his forehead. “Now come on, my good boy. It's bed time.” 

“What about you?” He asked softly as you pulled him to his feet by one of his perfect hands. He looked towards your hips, suggestion in his tone and tired eyes, but then he swayed a bit. You pressed yourself to his side, wrapping his arm around your shoulders. 

“What about me?” You asked, smiling up at him. No matter how much you wanted him, some things were more important. “Like I said earlier. All I needed was for you to come to bed.”

[charliemwrites]

Since I’ve been going pretty hard on dark fics lately….

Who’s up for some childhood friend Simon?

In his worst moments, when he thinks of his inevitable premature and violent end, he hopes that he’ll be able to hold out long enough to die in your arms. Even if they have to fly him straight from the battlegrounds to you, lay him in the grass outside your flat, he wants your face and voice that puts him to his final sleep.

Most moments aren’t his worst moments. But he still thinks of you and prepares. Everything is going to you, of course. Price knows. You’ll get Simon’s tags, his mask, a flag. You’ll get a letter.

He started one night after you two reunited, a little drunk from a thank-fuck-we-survived post mission celebration. It’s a little wobbly and ramble in some places, but never threw it out - never reread it either. Finished it in one hour, three pages long.

He’s added onto it since then. On hard night, nights he misses you. When he’s nostalgic and tipsy, when he wakes up from nightmares soaked in your blood. It’s about 12 pages now. Different colors of ink, different types of pages. Even one slanted and awkward because his writing hand was broken so he had to use the other.

He doesn’t bring it home to you with him. Doesn’t want you to accidentally discover it and think it’s something else. It stays where Johnny will find it if the worst happens; Simon trusts him to give it to you.

He never really thought about it the other way round. Couldn’t stand to face the prospect again. Not when he can feel the bullet scar beneath your shirt sometimes, or sees you rubbing at it in cold weather.

(He doesn’t consider it his worst moments but he knows you would - that he’d crawl in that grave with you.)

But it’s almost happened again. You’re sitting caddy-corner to him at a briefing table, listening to Price as he explains the situation. Simon’s watching you watching Price. Your shoulders are relaxed, fingers fiddling with your temporary access card. Not nervous, just occupied while you focus.

You’re not worried at all. Simon feels like he’s falling apart right here. One shake of the stupid uneven table and all his pieces will just slide apart into a useless pile.

Without looking away, your hand slides across the table and hooks around his. He doesnt startle - he’s ghost right now, and ghost is rock solid - but his fingers twitch around yours. You shoot him a quick smile and then refocus on Price, picking at a worn patch on the skeleton design of Simon’s glove.

Duct tape for a collapsing soul.

Price concludes, “You’ll stay here, safe and sound with an escort.”

Simon speaks up for the first time in what feels like days.

“I’m not bein’ deployed, skipper. Not right now.”

Price snorts. “‘Course not. You’re on leave with little miss here in sweden.”

“Sweden,” Simon repeats, unimpressed. Not one of the Laswell’s better lies.

“Land of tall blondes,” you chime.

“No one else knows I’m a blond.”

You shrug. “Their loss.”

Simon snorts, you grin, and Price dismisses you both in short order.

You’re staying in Simon’s room; the captain didn’t even offer you temporary quarters. Not that you minded, happy to toss your things amongst his and climb into his bed.

He cleans his favorite gun impulsively at the desk while you futz around on his computer - probably investigating the latest set of unreleased movies he bribed from Laswell.

“You get ten minutes of brooding left and then we’re getting food and watching a movie.”

He scowls down at the magazine, oiled cloth in hand.

“I’m not brooding.”

“It’s like you have your own lighting. I swear those shadows are darker next to you.”

“That’s just how light works.”

“Oh it would have been so much cooler if you said, like, ‘I am the shadows’.”

He pauses, casts you a long, flat look. You beam.

“Ooh, yeah, with that face too! C’mon, say it!”

He blows out a dramatic breath, then grumpily repeats, “I am the shadows.”

You laugh, hopping up from the bed to approach. He shifts his gear out of the way, clearing a space for you to lean against his desk, your knee touching his.

“Im alright, Si. There’s nowhere safer I could be.”

He sets the pieces in his hands aside, flexes his fingers spasmodically.

“Could just not know me. Anywhere would be safer than knowing me.”

You click your tongue, purely derisive. “That’s stupid.”

“That’s just facts, babes.”

You shake your head. “No, it’s your guilt complex. There’s nowhere I’d rather be than right here.”

He arches his eyebrows - not that you’ll be able to see it past the mask. But you know him well enough to just know.

“Right here?” he challenges. “On a military base? With who fuckin’ knows out to get you? Just because you lived two doors down from me in kindergarten?”

You sigh, that one that tells him you’re employing extra patience purely out of love and experience.

“Right here, Si. Wherever you are,” you confirm.

“Should cut your losses,” he says, trying his best impression of the machine he became after he lost everyone but you. He’s never felt less protected in the mask.

As always, you see right through him.

“A bullet couldn’t take me from you, Simon Riley. The ‘Ghost’ doesn’t stand a chance.” You curl your fingers around the back of his neck, duck down until your forehead knocks against the hard mask’s. “Because it’s me n’ you ‘til the sun stops rising.”

An oath made of picked daisies and shared blood. The weight of it presses on his chest so hard he feels buried again. Layers of earth crushing him, you up above, the only heaven he knows or needs.

“Me ‘n you,” he rasps.

You let him stay like that another moment. Absorbing the warmth of your fingertips, crept beneath the edge of the balaclava. Breathing with you until he’s sure you’re synched. Heart, breath, blood, down to the firing of your neurons.

“Alright, no more brooding. You’ll feel better with some food.”

Simon exhales, sloughing off the gloom and pessimism that weighs on Ghost’s shoulders. You’re here, right here. Nothing will happen to you when he’s still breathing.

“Think I have a few more minutes.”

“Nah, it compounds when I brood with you.”

“You brood like a rainbow broods.”

You snort and flick at his mask, tugging him up with you towards the door. He lets himself settle, listening to your cheerful babble all the way to the mess.

[its-time-to-write]

Hi!! I absolutely love yo he fics talk about carrying the Jamie tartt fic community 🫶🏻🫶🏻🫶🏻

could you please write something about like the Richmond team being out at a bar and someone kissing Jamie and reader seeing and the chaos that ensues, hopefully with a happy ending but I trust whatever you want to do 🫶🏻🫶🏻

Haha hey, thanks! I write because I have a lot of things in my head, so thanks for enjoying it and for requesting!

Also I literally hate looking for gifs because I can never find the ones I want

wrote all your lines in the script in my mind

“Why did I let you drag me here?” you ask your absolute best friend the whole world, “I hate bars so much!”

Colin grins. “It’s good for you to get out of your flat and into the real world for a change. You’re getting all pasty.”

“I am not!”

You can’t help but catch onto his infectious mood. He’s still happy after scoring a winning goal, so he and Michael convinced you to go out with them even though it was almost a whole week ago. 

You and Colin had grown up together, kicking the football around his backyard until age ten, when you declared you were never playing with him again because he was “unbeatable.” 

You hate losing. 

You two had been inseparable, even at university. Colin was more outgoing, what with football and all. You were too, in your own way, but you hated bars. And going to the club. You said it was too many drunk, sweaty people but both Michael and Colin promised that it would be fun this time. 

“If I have to go, you have to go,” Michael had said to you. 

You had groaned, but acquiesced. You’re not too sure of your decision anymore, especially because of how many footballers are present.

The last time you were out with them, one of Colin’s teammates had taken it upon himself to flirt with you the entire night. And he flirted very well. Like, so well that you went home that night incredibly flustered. So well that it now occupied a permanent place in your brain. You played the moment he tucked a strand of hair behind your ear on repeat in your mind, like a tab on your laptop that you couldn’t bring yourself to close. 

And you told fucking Michael, who told fucking Colin, who then teased you about it mercilessly until you swore you’d tell the press about the Incident when you two were ten.

Colin shut up after that. 

Actually, that’s not entirely true. You’d go out to coffee and he’d say, “Saw your footballer today,” and you’d say, “He’s not MY footballer,” and Michael would ask, “Then why are you blushing?” so you’d respond, “I’m not blushing, it’s just hot in here, alright?”

Anyway, you’re at this fucking bar filled with fucking footballers and you catch yourself looking around the room for one in particular, and Michael catches you too. He doesn’t say anything, just winks at you and pulls Colin over to an open booth. 

You tell Colin all the time that you like Michael better than him. It’s because Michael knows the meaning of the word discretion. 

“I can be discreet,” Colin says. 

“And I can play football,” you reply.

Michael says you two bicker like a pair of siblings. He’s not wrong.

Right now, though, you’re not bickering. A few of Colin’s friends are filling in the booth. Sam slides in first, then Isaac, and then finally Jamie. 

Michael is sitting opposite Sam, then Colin, then you. 

You’re all squished in, ordering drinks and food, swapping stories and laughing like you’ve known each other for ages. 

You suppose you sort of have. 

You’ve known Colin the longest, obviously, but the next one is Isaac. You met him shortly after university because he was always around Colin. You met Sam once he signed for Richmond, and Jamie when he domineered the little triad of him, Isaac, and Colin. 

You really didn’t like Jamie. 

You told Colin all the time that he was a prick and a bully, but Colin wouldn’t listen. 

It actually was the cause for one of your biggest fights. You two didn’t speak for three months. 

Then Roy head-butted Colin and Jamie was gone, and you’re sure there are other details in between but whatever the case, Colin was at your doorstep with takeout and an apology. You watched Look Both Ways and argued about which was was the best. And that was that. 

When Jamie showed back up, you were less than thrilled. 

“If you fucking act like that prick again, I’ll fucking sabotage this date,” you had said. You were setting up Colin with a friend of yours named Michael. You didn’t know him incredibly well, but you had a lot of mutual friends who absolutely adored him. You were pretty sure he and Colin would click but you didn’t want Colin to act like a douche again. 

He didn’t. It worked out for him. 

Jamie knew who you were to a certain extent, which you suppose is why he was flirting with you that night at the club. Your distaste for him was evident, but you felt so uncomfortable in that environment. You were sitting alone, trying to make yourself invisible, when a tipsy Jamie found you and began to make it his mission to get you to a) smile and b) not hate him. He succeeded at both, as well as secret mission c) make you blush and fall madly in love with him. (Not that he knew that option existed.)

But he did that with all the girls, so you tried not to let it go to your head. 

It did anyway, which is why you’re sitting in this booth in this bar trying not to look at his perfect face for to long and pretending you don’t notice that his foot is resting next to yours under the table. 

“I’m gonna go get another drink,” he says, pushing himself up. You can’t help but notice the glint of his thin gold chain and the way his shirt hugs his bicep. Colin pokes you under the table. 

You look back to the group and try to immerse yourself in the conversation, but you are far too distracted. Your eyes keep flicking to Jamie. 

Jamie, as he orders a drink. Jamie, as he laughs to the bartender, Jamie as he… kisses a fit blonde girl in a tight skirt?

You look back to your table, eyes fixated on the chips in front of you. Oh. You suppose that settles things then. 

You close the tab in your mind and try to muster up some of the old dislike you had for Jamie. It’s not really working, because all you can think about is how he drunkenly waxed poetic about your eyes and told you he had liked them even when they were angry. 

This is the first time you’ve seen him since that night, so it’s not like it’s that big of a deal. What were you expecting, for him to soberly declare his love? Maybe Colin had over-hyped the way he said Jamie had asked about you the next day. Maybe he was exaggerating when he said he caught Jamie looking at the picture of you and Colin from uni that Colin had taped to his locker. 

Maybe you were looking for something real in someone who was just looking for the next good time. 

It doesn’t matter though, because it was just a crush. That’s what you tell yourself as you get up and tell the table you’re going to get some fresh air. “Too many sweaty boys,” you say with a nose wrinkle, and a squeeze to Colin’s hand that means I’m feeling anxious and need cold air. 

You’re breezing out the door by the time Jamie returns, hair slightly tousled and frazzled expression. Michael and Colin exchange a look.

—

Meanwhile, you’re outside freezing just a little bit. The cold air is a welcome shock to your system, so you don’t mind the way you’re shivering. You take a deep breath, envisioning your lungs expanding to the point of popping. Your breath comes out in a whoosh, and you feel the anxiety beginning to dissipate. You stand, back against the bar wall, puffing cold air into the sky for a long time, tears welling in your eyes but refusing to fall. 

You’re outside so long, that when the door opens and you hear footsteps coming toward you, you’re sure it’s Colin or Michael coming to make sure you haven’t been murdered. 

“You plannin’ on freezing to death?” asks a voice that is neither Colin nor Michael. The owner of said voice leans against the wall next to you, mirroring your position. He’s so close you can feel heat radiating off his body, but you’re not quite touching. 

You shake your head. “No, I’m not,” you hear yourself saying, “I just got a little anxious and the cold air is good for me, so… here I am.”

Jamie makes a concerned hm and nothing else. He just stands there next to you, not touching but still too close. 

“Why are you out here?” you ask, breaking the silence. “Thought you’d be inside. Looks like you met someone interesting. She might be missing you.” 

There’s no malice in your tone. You’re just stating facts as an observer. As a friend, maybe. The only thing that colors your words is just a hint of sadness. You’re sure Jamie won’t register it. 

He grimaces and shakes his head. “Ain’t my friend. Some fan who thinks it’s fucking cool to kiss a footballer. Weren’t paying attention, otherwise I could’ve blocked it. I fucking hate it when that happens. It’s like, they don’t even see me as a real person. Just a sexy lad they can do whatever with.”

You chuckle at the way he says “sexy lad.” It reminds you of the way he had told you he had been a “wee sexy baby.”

“That fucking sucks,” you say. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize, otherwise I wouldn’t have said it like that.” You’re taking deep, calming breaths, still trying to get rid of that anxious feeling. 

Jamie just shrugs. He makes no indication that he’s going to continue speaking so you ask, “So, is that why are you out here, then? Is it to get away from her? Because if anyone should have to leave, it’s her. Pretty sure we could talk to someone and get her kicked out.”

You shiver, cold air beginning to seep through your coat. Jamie closes the gap between you, his bicep pressing against yours. You stifle another shiver, this one not from cold. 

“Nah,” he replies, “that’s not why I’m here. Wanted to make sure you were alright.”

Oh. That’s weird. “Why didn’t Colin or Michael come?”

Jamie shrugs again. “Colin said some shit about fuckin whatever and Michael said the same fuckin shit, so…” he trails off. 

You look up at him. “Jamie. You’re not making any fucking sense. I don’t know if it’s the cortisol flowing through my body or if you’ve had too much to drink, but you have got to be a whole lot clearer.”

That seems to get his attention, and bring him back to the reality that you two are outside, in the fucking cold, and he’s chatting with you as if nothing is wrong. 

Jamie puffs out a breath, watching it coil into the air. He opens and closes his mouth a few times, then settles on: “I ain’t drunk.”

You’re still looking at him. He’s right. He’s stone-cold sober. 

“I wanted to make sure you were alright. Colin said that you’d probably rather see me than him so… I dunno, I fucking came out here. I’ve been thinking about you ever since the last time we talked.”

Your cheeks flush bright red, and you’re grateful for the night sky. You keep taking your deep breaths. 

Jamie continues, “You flirted with me for fucking five seconds, and it’s like- I forgot you hated me. Didn’t care about anything anymore, you just smiled at me fucking one time and I felt like I was floating.” He stares at the sky. “I fucking hate talking about feelings and shit, and you’re basically Colin’s sister, so I figured I didn’t have a chance. But I’ve been fucking head-over-heels since the first time you glared at me.”

You’re pretty sure this is an anxiety hallucination. That’s a thing, right?

Jamie is no longer staring at the sky, but looking at you. He breathes out a laugh. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to make it weird.” He moves to go back inside but you grab his arm. 

“Jamie,” you say. The look on his face when you say his name is so hopeful, that you feel your heart shatter and reform almost instantaneously. “Jamie, you- you like me? You came out here because you like me? And that’s why you were drunkenly flirting with me last month?”

“Yeah, yeah it is.” 

Your hand is still on his arm, and you’re standing face to face. You’re still breathing heavily, but so is he. You slowly run your hand up his arm and cup his face. He’s staring at you, mere inches apart, as you stand on tiptoe to reach his lips.

He kisses you back with the hunger of a starving man, arms wrapped around your waist the moment your lips make contact. You’re pulling each other closer, forgetting the freezing cold, when you hear an, “Oi, boyo.”

It’s Colin and Michael, walking out from the bar, headed home. 

You and Jamie break apart and Colin points to him. “Break her heart, Michael and I will break your fucking legs.”

Jamie grins and nods, and you just roll your eyes. You’re going to have to tell them everything, but right now they’re walking away and it’s fucking cold, so Jamie’s pulling you back to him again to pick up where you left off. 

[samfkiszka]

A Hard Day's Night

★・・・・・・★

It's been a hard day's night, I should be sleeping like a log, But when I get home to you, I find the things that you do, Will make me feel alright…

or… An enemies to fuck-buddies Sam x Fem!Reader One shot

Word Count: 6,493

WARNINGS: SMUT!! 18+ ONLY! Oral (female receiving), dry humping, unprotected PIV sex (wrap it before you tap it i guess), maybe some shitty editing… not sure what else but if i’m missing something feel free to let me know!

a/n: listen… the enemies to lovers sam fics are probably over done and i KNOW he’s a little sweetie pie and i adore him deeply and i know he’d never be mean but i just… needed to write a little silly bit… anywho…

★・・・・・・★

Heat lightning flashed against the sky, splitting the inky black in two as Josh drove ridiculously fast down the dirt road that led to the apartment he shared with his twin brother. The warm air weaving through the open windows brought in the soapy scent of the dogwoods that were beginning to bloom all around town. These weekly drives had become a bit of a tradition. Every Friday, Josh would pick you up from work, his voice carrying loudly over whichever song he had chosen to blare from his worn out speakers that night. He would greet you with an enthusiastic grin, asking you about your day and then proceeding to tell you about his own. He’d drive you to his place, and you’d share a poorly cooked meal with his brother. And then the three of you would sit through some old movie, while he explained every single behind the scene facts he knew off the top of his head. 

And this had gone on for almost three years. Three years with two of the kindest, happiest people you had ever met. You had even met their parents– equally as loving and wonderful. You had gone on weekend trips with them, gone to every short film showing that Josh orchestrated, every shitty party they would throw in their cramped apartment. You’d listen to Jake play the guitar late into the night, to Josh hum along even when he didn’t know the song. You’d grown to love the two of them, deeply. They were more than friends at this point– they had become your family. 

Speaking of their family… there was just one blemish on your relationship with your two favorite people in the world. Their brother, Sam. You hadn’t quite understood what happened when the two of you first met. The… dislike was almost immediate. Josh had been so excited for you to meet his baby brother, rambling for weeks about how much the two of you had in common and how easily you were going to get along. And why would he expect any differently? You had already gotten along well with them, his sister, his parents– who would have thought Sam would be the one outlier.

You didn’t quite hate each other. No, hate was entirely too strong of a word. But on the rare occasions that you crossed paths it was definitely less than pleasant. Josh had been correct about one thing: the two of you were eerily similar. Equally stubborn, though you’d never admit it outloud. Prone to bickering, him more than you. Likely to hold a grudge. He brought out all the things you dislike most about yourself. 

So they kept you apart. Jake had begged Josh to schedule the two of you around each other, especially after the last time the two of you were in the same room at the same time. 

Which is why you were surprised to see Sam's entirely too expensive, entirely too shiny, burgundy car sitting in Josh’s usual spot. This explained why Josh had been slightly dodgy when you asked about his day earlier. 

“What the fuck is he doing here?” You asked, turning to Josh while he parked the car and cautiously took the keys out of the ignition. 

“Don’t get mad. He got here a day early. I mean, you can’t still be upset about last time,” Josh rushed out, flinching when he finished. 

“I’m not going to hit you Josh. And of course I’m still mad about last time. He called me a-” 

Well. You weren’t in the mood to repeat it. 

“In his defense you did say he-”

“I don’t want to hear it!” You interrupted, squeezing your eyes shut in an attempt to stop remembering the last time you and Sam were in the same room. 

“Seriously, can you just try? We already talked to Sammy, and he promised to be on his very best behavior. As long as you promise not to throw anything.” 

“I’m mature enough to keep my hands to myself. As long as he does.” You stuck your pinky out, waiting on Josh to accept your silent promise.

He wrapped his around yours, grinning softly up at you, “I'm glad you’re gonna try. I love you both so much. It would mean the absolute world to me if you guys could just… coexist. That’s all I’m asking for.” He gave your hand an extra squeeze before letting go and throwing his seat belt off hurriedly. 

He practically skipped with enjoyment to his walkway, wiping his feet off against the worn welcome mat you had gotten him so long ago. You followed behind, decidedly less excited for the night that lay ahead of you. He ushered you to the front, pushing you through the chipped door. You were welcomed by Jake’s beaming face, the wonderful aroma of whatever they had decided to make for dinner, and… Sam. 

His back was turned away from you, his hair piled at the base of his neck in a wild bun. He was chopping something on the wooden cutting board you had gotten Jake for his last birthday– the one branded with his initials and a pirate ship in the corner. This apartment was riddled with you. Your clothes left in their laundry room, your extra toothbrush laying on their bathroom sink. Hell, you even had a half empty bottle of body wash stuck in their shower. Little gifts you had gotten them for birthdays, and Christmas, and just because littered their entire living space. 

You were sure Sam hated the constant reminders of your existence. Just as much as your stomach churned when you were reminded of him. His bass, often left in Jake’s room. Pictures of him exploding over the fridge, every once barren shelf. His sweatshirt, the one he constantly seemed to forget, the one that smelled so much like him that it was intoxicating. 

Whatever. You were going to be fine! You promised Josh, and you had yet to break a promise to your best friend. 

Jake welcomed you instantly, pulling you into a rib crushing hug. No matter how often you saw him, he always greeted you like you had spent years apart.

“How was work?” He mumbled into your neck, his ear splitting smile evident in his voice. 

“Awful, but isn’t it usually? 

He pulled away, his brow furrowed with worry. “I’m sorry, sunshine. Hopefully dinner can make up for it, huh?” 

“Your cooking? It might make my night worse,” you laughed, plopping down on the same sofa you had spent many a night occupying. 

“Hey! I’m a fantastic chef,” he complained, ruffling your hair indignantly, “plus, I’m not the one cooking. Sam is.” He shrugged towards Sam, who was busying himself with whatever meal he had decided to make.

You watched him intently, admiring how swiftly he worked with a knife. You bit your tongue, not wanting to insult him with a possible murder weapon in his hand. 

He turns to face you at the mention of his name, and all you could do was wave awkwardly and ignore the buzzing anger that filled you when he refused to respond. Jake and Josh didn’t miss the moment, but they too decided not to dwell on it. They chose instead to sit next to you, flipping through channels until Jake landed on an old pirate movie that was already halfway through airing– one he had seen a million times. 

It was almost a normal night– if you ignore the burning urge to make a quip at Sam, to egg him on to do the same. Sure, if anyone asked you’d swear up and down that the man was the bane of your existence. But on a much deeper level, in a way you would never admit outloud… you actually enjoyed the banter. The teasing. The way you could feel him staring at you across the room, even when his gaze was angry. Even when his face conveyed a range of emotions you could never quite pinpoint. 

Yes, it was undeniable– you did in fact miss the usual biting conversation the two of you shared. It was all it took to remain normal while Sam continued cooking, silently, Jake and Josh joked around beside you. You were abnormally quiet as well, at least quieter than you ever had been with them. Something about Sam’s refusal to speak to you was starting to drive you insane. 

Maybe he had nothing nice to say… so he said nothing at all. As childish as it was, it was all you could think to explain away his unusual silence. And maybe that was better than anything. 

At least that’s what you told yourself. That’s the mantra you repeated over and over again as he continued to ignore you. Sure, he had no problem talking to Jake and Josh. All through dinner, he didn’t shut up. Talking about his new job, his new car, his new bass, something funny Danny did, something that happened in his astronomy class– seriously, it was non-stop. You couldn’t get a word in edgewise. In fact, the only time he actually went silent was when you opened your own mouth. 

“Sam, can you pass me the salt?” 

Nothing. Cue Jake begrudgingly reachinging across the length of the table to slide you the shakers. 

“You really did a great job cooking, Sam.” Surely a compliment would fuel his ego enough to garner a response.

Nothing yet again. 

“So, are you staying over?” 

“Yep.” 

Finally, Something. 

You were used to spending the night at Josh and Jake’s place. You’d fall asleep on their couch, and one of them would take you home the next morning with the promise of seeing you again soon. 

Well.. you’d try to fall asleep on their couch. Not like it was awful; Josh did everything he could to be a good host. And Jake would regularly shell out extra blankets when you complained about the insanely cold temperature they insisted on keeping their shared living space. You never quite figured out what stopped you from enjoying a good night’s sleep. Truth is, it happened everywhere you went. Even your own bed imposed the same struggle, the same sleepless nights spent tossing and turning until the sun came out. You had tried everything short of asking Jake to physically knock you out. It was something you had to deal with, something that was entirely your own problem. 

Yet, you had never spent the night at the same time as Sam. 

You didn’t miss Josh’s smirk. 

“He’s crashing in my room,” he explained, “Jake and I are bunking it. Pulled out the air mattress and everything.”

“Yeah, it’ll be just like middle school,” Jake laughs.

“How come you guys never bunk it when I spend the night. Your couch is ridiculously uncomfortable,” you whine, feeling annoyed when all three of them laugh back at you. 

“Unless you and Sam want to share the so-called ridiculously uncomfortable couch, this is the arrangement. Sorry sunshine.” Josh stretches as he stands up, gathering the empty dishes from their secondhand dining table. A small part of you wished Sam was here to cook every time you were over; this had been better than the plethora of somehow burnt freezer meals that his brother’s tended to fuck up. 

“I’ll bring you some blankets,” Jake offered while trailing behind his twin, leaving you alone with Sam. 

And the two of you sat in silence once more. No yelling. No bickering. He didn’t even glance up from his hands as he absentmindedly picked at the calluses around his fingers.

And it drove you crazy. Sure, you had promised Josh no conflict, But did no conflict mean he couldn’t even spare you a passing glance? Couldn’t bother to acknowledge your simple existence? 

Jake rushed back in, eyeing you two worriedly while he tossed a handful of blankets and lone pillow onto their worn couch. You thank him quickly, sliding up from the table with a huff while you make your way to their bathroom to get ready to struggle to fall asleep for the rest of the night. 

You admired the way they had made it feel homely for you: your red toothbrush resting next to their blue and green one, a bottle of your almost empty face wash nestled in between their own. It was just as much their bathroom as it was yours at this point. You didn’t miss the fact that a new toothbrush had joined your previously perfect trifecta– Sam’s identical red toothbrush lay on the opposite side of the sink, a lone tool, separate from you three. Maybe Josh was right. Maybe you and Sam were just too similar. Maybe you were both too stubborn to get along. 

You hadn’t realized how aggressive you had been with your brushing until you pulled our toothbrush back, the bristles almost flattened out completely. You just had to get through the night. And was his ignoring you all that bad? Sure it irked you, how he could so easily behave like you just didn’t exist. But you supposed it was better than fighting, better than potentially destroying your relationship with Jake and Josh. After all, Sam was their brother. You were just a friend, just some girl that Josh had met on a whim just a few years back. 

So you’d keep the peace. You’d ignore the nagging feeling in you begging to do something to get a reaction, the feeling you had never ignored before. The feeling that pushed you to tease him, to start and continue arguments. The feeling that sent shivers up and down your whole body when he’d angrily retort back. 

Whatever. Who cares?! It’s not like he’s going to be a part of my life forever… just as long as I’m friends with his brothers. 

So, forever. At least that’s what you intended when you met the twins. You can’t imagine not being a part of their lives, and in turn this meant you had to be a part of Sam’s life. No matter how small that part was. No matter if he never uttered a word to you again. 

You made your way back to the now silent and empty living room, sighing with relief when Sam was nowhere to be found. You could vaguely hear Jake and Josh talking in the next room, but about what you didn’t know. Sam’s room was eerily quiet, much like himself just moments before. You flopped down on the couch unceremoniously, cringing when it groaned under your weight. Jake had left a plethora of blankets from you, even slipping in a tattered old sweatshirt depicting his old high school logo. You pulled it on, fluffing the flat pillow he kept mostly for you. You had become all too familiar with their ceiling over the years. Every bump, every discoloration, every bit of peeling paint. Even the faded glow in the dark stars the three of you had stuck on the ceiling in a bout of drunken childishness. Exactly twenty seven– the last three had fallen off. 

The crickets that chirp in the small patches of grass surrounding their apartment complex sounded louder than usual. The ticking clock that Josh insisted on hanging on the wall seemed jarring. You felt wide awake. You weren’t sure why you insisted on spending the night. It was miserable, begging your body to fall asleep, waiting impatiently for someone else to wake up and keep you company. But it pleased Josh, having you over, knowing you felt safe enough to spend the night. You’d never tell him about your failures to fall asleep, how impossible it was to feel restful. It wasn’t his fault– this was something you struggled with your entire life. There was nothing he could do to fix it. 

And so you lay there, counting the ticks, adjusting every few moments. It felt like hours passed of you just listening. Listening to the sounds of the snores Jake swore didn’t belong to him. Listening to the soft patter of rain outside. 

Listening to a door click and softly swish open. 

You lay still, steading your breathing, not wanting to worry whoever came out. The floor creaked softly under light footsteps as whoever they belonged to padded to the kitchen. The fridge door opened slowly with a groan, the light illuminating the room with a blue glow. 

“Can’t sleep?” 

You nearly jumped at the sound of Sam’s voice. 

“Fuck, you scared the shit out of me.” You lean up, taking him in. He was wearing nothing but a pair of boxers that hung low on his waist, and a too big white t-shirt that clung to him in odd areas.

“Sorry,” he laughed, shutting the fridge with a thud. 

“Why are you up?” You glanced at the clock, wondering how the hell you had managed to be up this late. 

“Same as you, I suppose. Can never sleep right.” He shrugged, so casually it was like the two of you had never fought once. 

Yet another thing the two of you had in common. 

He pulled a drawer open, grabbing a lighter and bringing it up to his face, where a cigarette was dangling precariously off his slightly parted lips. The flame danced in the darkness of the kitchen before he quickly let it go, inhaling deeply and blowing a thick cloud of gray smoke out. You shifted uncomfortably for a moment, not quite knowing how to fill the silence. The warm, familiar smell of his particular brand of choice slowly infiltrated your senses. 

“Josh will kill you if he finds out you were smoking in here,” You proclaim, matter-of-factly. 

“How is Josh going to find out? You gonna snitch?” He smirked, taking a step closer to where you sat.

“Maybe. If you piss me off.” 

“Are you trying to blackmail me?” 

“Not unless you plan on pissing me off.” 

“I never plan on it, it just sort of happens.” He shrugs, a smug look washing over his features. He sat down next to you with a huff, holding his half-smoked cigarette out to you. 

“I don't smoke,” you reply plainly, turning your head away from the steady stream of gray smoke billowing out of the lit object. 

It was a lie. A secret you had kept for quite a while, a bad habit that you only partook in occasionally. 

“C’mon…” 

You knew he knew. He had caught you smoking outside of the twin’s birthday party last April. You were shocked he never told anyone, never held it against you. And you couldn’t deny that you had been itching for a smoke all week. 

You reach out your hand, awaiting the feel of it between your fingers, but it never happens. Instead, he cups your cheek, turning your face towards him. He carefully brings the cigarette closer to you, placing it between your partially open lips. You inhale deeply, the cherry red color illuminating the space between the two of you. 

“You know, you aren't half bad when you aren't being a complete brat,” He whispers, his eyes studying your face.

“A brat?” You laugh, passing the cigarette back to him. “If anyone’s a brat, it’s you.” 

He turns his head to the side, blowing smoke away from your face with a grin. The two of you sit in silence for a beat, yet this silence lacked the hanging awkwardness from earlier. It was suddenly comfortable, the both of you wordlessly passing the cigarette back and forth before it reached the butt. He stood, tossing the dead cigarette out into the twins' trash, shoving it far enough down that they’d be none the wiser. 

“That couch is really fucking uncomfortable,” He groans, stretching his back out, “I can’t believe they make you sleep on that.” 

“It’s not that bad.” 

It really wasn’t. Sure it dipped in odd places, the fabric was wearing off in patches, and it tended to be a bit scratchy… but anyone else could fall asleep on it easily. 

“You know… Josh’s bed is pretty big. If you want, you can come sleep with me.” 

“What?” You sputter, taken entirely off guard by his proposal. Sleep in the same bed as him? Was he insane? 

“Just an offer.” He shrugged, “Probably be a hell of a lot easier to sleep on than a couch they found on the side of the road.” He rolls his eyes at your almost disgusted expression, “Nothing gross, freak.” 

He had a point. But still, this went against everything you had ever thought about Sam. Well… maybe not everything. Of course, there had been the rare occasion where your eyes would linger on his hands, his lips, his eyes. You’d mentally chastise yourself for it, ignoring the burning urge to keep looking, choosing instead to provoke him and start some immature argument. 

“Just thought I’d ask,” He sighs, turning towards the hallway. 

“Wait, Sam,” you start, gripping the blanket Jake had loaned you, “Fine.” 

He chuckles, watching as you hop off the couch, dragging your blanket and pillow behind you, “You know Josh’s bed has blankets. And pillows.” 

“Oh, yeah.” You drop what you were holding unceremoniously, letting it hang off the couch haphazardly. You follow behind Sam, feeling a rush of heat flare up on your face. Were you really about to sleep next to him? In Josh’s bed? 

You knew there was no deeper meaning behind it. You were definitely overthinking it. He was just being nice, extending an olive branch of sorts. Maybe whatever Josh had said to him had worked. 

He opens the door quietly, revealing Josh’s perfectly cleaned room. Decorated sparsely, yet so utterly like him. Sam’s bag lay raggedly in the corner, the contents spilling out onto the floor. The bed was still made, like he hadn’t even attempted to sleep yet. He sighed, flicking off the lamp that rested on the bedside table. 

He tugged the white shirt off, tossing it near his back. Your eye raked over his exposed torso, his chest, his abdomen, his thighs. Your own pajamas suddenly felt restrictive, too tight, too warm. You toy with the hem of Jake’s loaned sweatshirt, feeling increasingly awkward. He flopped down onto the bed, ruffling the perfectly tucked in top cover. He folded his arms behind him, leaning propped up against the headboard. 

“You gonna lay down or you just gonna stand there?” 

You roll your eyes, climbing over to the other side of Josh’s monstrously oversized bed. You pull down the blankets, struggling a bit with how tightly Josh had shoved them into the corners. Sam was right– the bed was a whole lot comforter than that couch. No wonder Josh had been holding out on you. 

“Goodnight,” Sam mumbles, turning to the side and giving you a wide berth. 

The rain had picked up outside, beating against the window loudly, echoing around the room. Sam had left the fan on, and you were thankful for the chill against your way too hot skin. Sure, the bed was a lot easier to lay on than the couch, but you suddenly felt twenty times more uncomfortable. You shifted once, pushing some of the covers away from you. You shift again, pulling the pillow parallel to your. You move once again, and– 

“Quit squirming,” he bites. He turns over to face you, eyes heavy with sleep. 

“Sorry, I can’t get comfortable.” 

“Really? Wanna go back to the couch?” 

A bolt of thunder interrupts his quip, shaking the whole of the apartment. You move closer to him without thinking, ignoring the quizzical look he gives you. 

“Guessing that’s a no. Just stop moving around so much.” He turns back on his side, his face hidden again. 

“I’ll just go back to the couch, I don’t want to-” Another boom outside, closer this time. 

Sam jumps a bit, inching even closer, hiding the movement with a cough, “It’s fine.” 

The heat of his body, the closeness of his bare skin, sends jolts of electricity through your body. 

What the fuck was going on? 

You squeeze your thighs together, embarrassed by how desperate you were for any sort of friction. If you had told yourself, even yourself from an hour ago, that you’d be in bed with Sam Kiskza of all people… who knows what you would’ve thought. Much less that you were in bed, images racing in your brain about ways he could be touching you, ways you could be touching him. 

“Seriously, why the fuck can’t you sit still?” He sits up, his face flush with irritation. God, why was that so hot? 

Your cheeks instantly turn a deep red, your eyes locked into his. You didn’t have an answer, at least not one suitable to speak aloud. 

Something like, I can’t stop thinking about the way you furrow your brow when you're angry. Or, They way your hands look when you do literally anything. Or, The way you’re staring down at me now, like I’m in trouble- 

“I- I don’t know,” you whisper, unsure of what else to say. 

“You don’t know?” 

You shrug, trying to ignore the way his hair frames his face, the way you can still make out his chiseled features even in the dark. 

“Just- C’mere.” He reaches out, pulling you into his body. You’re flush with his bare skin now, a position you never thought you’d find yourself in. 

“Sam, what are you-” 

“Shut up. Lay still,” He sighs, stretching out just a bit and adjusting his grip on you.

But something about him directly ordering you to do something makes it even more impossible to sit still. Makes it even harder to ignore the persistent ache in your core. You were sure it was painfully obvious now, how increasingly desperate you were for anything, any kind of touch. Attempting to imperceptibly move again, garner any kind of relief, anything, was probably a death sentence. 

But you did it anyway. Moving slowly, trying not to budge too much, trying not to wake him up again. 

“You know, it’s pretty obvious what you’re trying to do,” he mumbles, eyes still closed, arm still wrapped around you. 

“What is it that I'm trying to do?” You ask, hoping to sound innocent enough to avoid suspicions. 

“Moving against me like that. Looking a little desperate,” He teases. 

“What the fuck, Sam?” 

He was painfully correct. Not like you’d admit it. 

“I’m just saying, I can help with that problem. If you wanna go to sleep. Probably be a lot easier if you just let me take care of you.” 

Seriously, what the fuck was happening.

“Offers on the table,” his voice was husky with exhaustion, “until I fall asleep.” 

Your mind races, filled with inappropriate thoughts– things you probably shouldn't think about your best friend’s younger brother. Things you shouldn’t think about the guy that you swore you… strongly disliked. 

“If you’re joking, I’m going to kill you,” You whisper again, too afraid to speak at full volume. 

“Seriously?” His eyes fly open, and he nearly pushes you off him out of surprise. 

“Wait… what if they hear us?” The idea of being caught shoots waves of panic up your spine.

“I have an idea. Just trust me, I promise we won't get caught.” He pushes his pinky out, and memories of  your earlier promise to Josh come flashing in your mind. 

“A pinky promise?” You ask. The two of you definitely did have a lot in common. 

He shrugs, not knowing the full weight of the movement. You link your pink around his, avoiding his eyeline. 

In one motion, he flips you over, leaning directly over you. He pulls a stray hair tie from his wrist, twisting his long hair up into a messy bun at the base of his neck. He leans down, his lips mere centimeters away from yours. 

“Can I kiss you?” His voice is barely audible, so sincere and sweet that your heart skips a beat. 

You nod, failing to come up with any semblance of response. When he doesn’t move right away you find yourself lifting up your head to meet him. But he moves before you get close enough, earning an agitated whine from you. 

“Mm-mm, need to hear you say it.” 

“Yes,” you huffed. 

“So impatient. Relax, okay? That’s the whole point.” 

He leans down, closing the distance between you two. His lips are soft, tinged by the taste of smoke and mint toothpaste. His calloused hands roam down the sides of your body, toying with the hem of your– Jake’s– sweatshirt . For a second he was tentative, slow and calculated in his movements before behaving with a bit less restraint. You feel his tongue swipe against your lips, and without a second thought you find yourself parting slightly to let him inside. His heartbeat hammered against your body, causing yours to race even faster. Warmth spread across your chest, seeping into each limb as he moved slowly under your shirt, inching closer and closer to your chest. 

You arch into his touch, letting out a quiet whimper as you feel him brush against your breast. He takes this as a signal to grab what he wants, kneading the soft flesh between his rough and calloused hands. He moves down your body, placing warm, open mouth kisses along your jawline and neck. 

You absentmindedly roll your body against him, drinking in the soft whine that slips past his parted lips. 

“Fuck, I want you on top of me,” He mumbles, flipping you around again so you were positioned on top of him. He grips your hips, grinding you down against him. You feel drunk already, the sensation of his hard-on against your clothed core making you dizzy. He whines again, his fingers digging into the bare skin where your shirt had rode up. 

“Come here,” He orders, tugging you down again so that you were face to face once more. You nearly slam into him with how desperately quick he pulls you in to meet his lips. “Take this shit off.” His hands fly to Jake’s sweatshirt, making fast work of ripping it off your body. Barely a second passes before the two of you are pressed together again, working hurriedly against each other.. 

“God, you’re fucking beautiful,” his voice is so barely above a whisper you wonder if the comment was even meant to reach your ears. “Look a lot better when you aren’t in another guy’s clothes.” 

His hands are back at your hips, nails digging rough half-moon marks into the exposed flesh. He moves you at a steady pace against him, working your hips in circular motions. You should feel embarrassed by how disgustingly wet you feel, your underwear sticking uncomfortably to your skin. If this was Sam’s genius idea to keep quiet, it definitely wasn't going to be enough to keep you from squirming around. In fact, all it had done was increase your need, your burning desire to feel him closer. 

“It isn’t enough,” You whine, a bit louder than you had wanted. 

“Not enough? Jesus Christ, I’m about to cum in my pants,” he rasps, bucking his hips underneath you. The sudden movement has you clamoring to silence yourself, biting your lip hard enough to draw blood. “Shit, nevermind, you’re right. Fuck, do- do you think you can be quiet?” 

You nod quickly, goosebumps prickling up all over your bare torso. 

“Lay down.” 

You climb off him, lying beside him expectantly. He’s positioned on top of you once more, quickly working down your body. He leaves a sloppy trail all the way down to your navel, where he pauses for a moment before hooking his pinkies into the waistband of your shorts. 

“Can I take these off?” He asks hurriedly. 

You nod again, propping yourself up on your elbows to look at him better. 

“No, I told you. Use your words, or I’ll stop.” 

“Yes, please, just take them off, fuck” You choked out. 

He tears the rest of your clothes off in one fell swoop, leaving you completely exposed. Any other night, any other person, you might have shied away, turned your head and avoided eye contact. Yet, in this moment, you couldn't bring yourself to care. You didn’t care that you were seconds away from fucking Sam in his brother’s bed while said brother slept across the hall. You didn’t care that you were definitely going to regret this in the morning. You didn’t care that there was no way you’d be able to keep this a secret from everyone, much less Josh. None of that mattered. All you could think about was the fact that Sam’s mouth was a breath away from where you had needed him the most all night. 

“Just say the world and I’ll stop, okay?” 

Again, with genuine sincerity. With care. 

“Of course.” You bring your hand down to tuck a stray piece of hair behind his ear. His skin felt warm, a soft pink radiating off his cheeks. 

He presses a kiss to your inner thigh, his golden brown eyes boring into your own. He continues at a tantalizing slow place, a smug smirk gracing his kiss-swollen lips. You wait in anticipation, holding a bated breath while you watch him finally settle right in front of your aching clit. 

“Gonna make you feel good, just need you to relax,” he whispers, his breath fanning over your core,”Just need you to stay quiet for me, angel.” 

Angel. Your heart flutters at the pet name. You were used to all the to all the others; sarcastically calling you princess, calling you a brat, calling you a bitch in your most heated moments. But angel? This was new. 

He barely gives you the time to think about it before he’s delving in, his tongue working against you expertly. Your hands fly to his hair, lacing in between the loose waves he had pulled back. You pull your bottom lip between your teeth, mentally pleading with yourself to remain silent as he laps at you. If he wanted you to be quiet, this certainly wasn’t the way to go about it. Any and all self-control had flown out the window the second he had kissed you. 

Your hips move at odds with his face in a desperate rush, working in tandem with his mouth. His nose bumps against your clit, adding another level of intoxicating pleasure. 

He pulls back, the sudden loss of contact making you whine loudly. His face is drenched with a mixture of his spit and your own wetness. 

“Can’t wait anymore, need to be inside you.” He pulls his boxers off faster than you’d ever seen anyone move, “I wanted to take my time, but-” He shook his head, cutting himself off. 

You couldn’t tear your eyes away from his body. His cock was leaking, the tip looking painfully red and flushed. You watch in rapt awe as he spits in his palm, pumping the length for a moment before lining himself up with your center. He pushes himself in slowly, a loud groan tearing through the both of you. He’s quick to slap a hand over your mouth, effectively silencing you. You groan as he bites down hard on your shoulder in his own attempt to be quiet. He stalls for a second, allowing you to adjust to his size. The two of you breathe together, sharing the same still moment. 

“Gonna move now,” he warns, bracing himself. 

He starts slowly, burying himself so deep inside you, you swear you can feel him in your stomach. 

“Fuck,” You whine against his palm. You savor the quiet grunts that pass seamlessly through his lips every time he moves, the whimpers that come through when you rake your nails down his back. 

“So fucking perfect. Been thinking about this ever since we met. God it was driving me crazy,” he babbled, each word strained against your ear, “You were driving me crazy. Have- Goddamn- have no idea how badly I wanted to put you in your place.” 

If his hand wasn’t gripping your face hard enough to leave bruises you were sure you’d be screaming right now. Who gave a fuck if Josh heard you? If Jake knew what was going on? 

He maintained his agonizingly slow pace, pushing you right up to where you wanted to be, yet not close enough. You wanted to beg him to fuck you harder, to go faster, to do literally anything else. 

As if he knew you needed something more, as if he could read your thoughts, his hand snaked its way in between your bodies, his thumb finding your clit. He works in quick circular motions, this speed contrasting almost painfully. 

“I’m close,” he chokes out, his movements becoming increasingly sloppy. He pulls his hand from your mouth and you gulp in air, panting his name as he brings you closer to the edge, “Where do you want me to-”

“Inside.” 

 He picks up his pace, the bed squeaking slightly underneath the two of you. You silently thanked God for the fact that the twins were heavy sleepers when the headboard began to dully thud against the wall. 

“Sammy, I-” you gasp, finding it difficult to speak. 

“I know.” He nods, meeting your eyes. He cups your face and presses a chaste kiss to your lips, the motion so utterly intimate and calm that you felt your heart swell. 

You tug him down for another kiss, this one deeper, filled with more passion as he swallows every moan that rips through you. His hips stutter, and he groans into your mouth as he finishes inside you, the sensation pushing you right over the ledge. You could’ve sworn that you saw stars, much like the ones littering the living room ceiling. He falls against you, his breathing ragged and his chest heaving. The two of you lay like that for a beat, your hands softly rubbing the expanse of his now scratched to hell back. 

He lifts up, panting still as his eyes rake over your body. 

“Think you can sleep now?” 

“Yeah.” 

He laughs drily, staring down at where the two of you were still connected. You wince as he pulls out, slowly rubbing your thigh in a small act of comfort as he watches your face slightly contort. It’s hard to miss the way he smirks as you feel his cum leak out of you and onto Josh’s previously pristine sheets. He slides off the bed, reaching down and coming back up with his discarded t-shirt. Using gentle motions, he slowly wipes away the mess the two of you made off your skin before tossing the shirt back once again. With a relaxed sigh, he lays back next to you for the final time that night. He tugs you back into his arms, humming as you nuzzle into his chest. 

“Hopefully this time you can stay still, huh?” 

[be-my-ally]

I wouldn't tell you no lie

innocent reader x elvis request.

pairing: afab!reader x elvis (’68-71 elvis described; as in the pics below)

warning: 18+, 18+, innocence kink, first times - reader gives elvis a handjob - with the promise of more in the future, and is kissed for the first time. 

summary: innocent reader has been very sheltered but is now on tour with Elvis, she’s never been allowed to even look at the body of a man but accidentally walks in on Elvis changing and has questions - questions that Elvis is only too happy to answer. 

wc: 4.2k

I watched girl happy three times while writing this for absolutely no reason; title is from ‘cross my heart and hope to die’ so that’s probably suggested listening. 

also while I have everyone's attention I just wanted to say thank u to everyone for being so lovely + supportive with my silly little fics + a thank u for 200 followers!!!

You nod at Sonny on the way in, who offers you a slightly mischievous grin in response as you walk past. You wonder what kind of set-up you’re walking into; the boys, well, men, but boys, were known for their practical jokes and you had been jumped out at more than a fair few times. So you’re tense when you walk into the hotel room — Elvis was expecting you, or so you thought, and you were surprised when you walk in and you’re the only one in there, not even Elvis to be seen. But as you look around, ducking to check under the bed just in case he was planning on trying to scare you, you suddenly hear his voice from the bathroom, singing in the shower. It’s gorgeous, and not at all rushed, you can hear him repeating verses and changing the scale and pitch as he goes. You consider if you should just leave at this point; you’d only wanted him for a quick question about the arrangements for tonight but who knows how long he’ll be now. But then you think how weird it would be for him to know you were here but had gone before you had the chance to talk to him. So instead of leaving you plop yourself down on one of the couches to wait. 

You glance around the room — it’s a lot nicer than yours, and although it’s probably one of the smaller rooms that he’d been put in recently it’s still pretty large. Just the one room rather than a suite; a large king bed and dressing area on one side of the room along with a tv facing the bed, and a full living area — complete with couches and a coffee table at the other end. You’re considering what to tell your mama when she rings this evening; since joining the tour you’ve had to …amend some of your tales of your days to her, knowing that some of the antics that go on would be enough for her to demand you come home immediately if she were to find out. But you’re not a good liar - you have to plan what to say to her. 

Elvis walks out of his bathroom, towel slung low around his hips. You gape at him from the couch, twisting to peer over the back at him; looking at his still damp and glistening chest and arms, his hair wet and slicked back, off of his face, pink from the heat of the shower — which you could feel in the steam that escaped through the open door when he emerged. There didn’t seem to be much point to the towel as barely a moment later he was throwing it aside, peering in the closet to find his clothes while completely nude. He doesn’t notice you sat on the couch waiting for him, and you hesitate to draw attention to yourself now - you’re blushing and mortified at what you’ve just seen; the behind of a man’s naked body. Wet and pink, the movement of his muscles as he bent over; his ass — the only reference point you had was in comparison with your own; his looked much firmer and solid, or with statues you’d seen in textbooks; his looked softer, but not too dissimilar. You’re trying not to stare, you know you shouldn’t even be looking, but you also can’t help that your curiosity is getting the better of you. 

You’re mentally debating what to do and what your options are when he turns around again, and before he spots you, you spot it, hanging gently between his legs and you can’t hold back your gasp. It’s the first time you’ve ever seen one in real life, even the anatomical sketches in textbooks often being taken out of your hands by your over-zealous mother, it wasn’t something girls like you needed to worry about until you were married; she wasn’t risking that you were going to become one of those outrageous free-love hippy types. You struggle to even name it in your head, euphemisms coming to the forefront and your brain has to scream — be an adult, it’s just a penis, at you as you struggle to think beyond childish words. Despite this thought running through your head a glance is all you’re allowed - your gasp having alerted him to your presence. Immediately his head swings up to look at who’s in his room. He goes through phases of extreme body shyness and body confidence  - often depending on his weight, but at the moment he’s fit and healthy and keen to show off. So he doesn’t immediately go to cover up, but you can see his brain whirring thinking of the insult he’s about to shout at whoever he thinks it was intruding; Jerry maybe, he’s never far away, or Sonny from outside.  However, upon seeing it’s you he swears, grabbing the towel off the floor and wrapping it around his hips again. You know you should have immediately looked away, but you couldn’t help but continue to stare as he moves, as it moves with him, until he’s all covered up again. 

“Goddamn, honey, give a man a heart attack sat all quiet like a mouse there like that.” His voice is quiet, but amused, and pulls you away from where you’re still staring at his now towel-covered crotch. You stutter through an apology; 

“Oh, uh, oh, I’m so sorry, oh gosh - sorry! So sorry!” He laughs, and you’re distracted enough now to look at his face. It doesn’t help a whole lot, you’ve always liked how he looks - you’ve always thought he had kind eyes and a smile that made your tummy tingle but with how he looks at the moment, his cheekbones so prominent and his sideburns starting to accentuate his face even more you find yourself thinking that you like this iteration of him an awful lot; perhaps the strange feelings from your look at him a moment ago have preoccupied your mind too much - you’re suddenly unable to think of much else but how handsome he looks. You blush even harder than you were before - you can feel the heat rising off of your cheeks. 

“Give me a second hon,” and he disappears into the bathroom with his clothes again, you’re shielding your eyes when he comes back, both out of embarrassment and concern that something similar may happen again, “S’ok baby, I’m decent enough now.” He smiles at you, and you lower your hands to see that he was, indeed, now fully dressed.  He’s put on one of the drawstring shirts he’s been so fond of recently, the top loose and open - the hard line of his chest peeking out of the large open collar. But you were at least used to the sight of that; it had shocked you at first, but now you’ve been around for a few weeks you had grown used to it. He’s buckling a pretty gaudy belt on top of his fitted, slightly flared, black trousers as he walks out. He’s acting as if nothing had happened - continuing to go about his business putting on cologne and his jewellery, necklaces now hanging down in the open collar. He looks back at you through the mirror on the dressing table that was at an angle, allowing him to see you still peering over the back of the sofa. 

“What did you need honey?” You’ve always found yourself a little giggly around him, a little desperate for his attention and you’ve always understood that was partly because he was so attractive, and partly the force of his personality. But now, knowing what he looks like underneath his clothes has, for some reason, made your mouth go dry as you look at him. You try to recall the reason you were there but it had completely escaped you, and rather than answer his question you had to ask a burning one of your own -

“I came to see if you, if you wanted - El, what - what was that … between your legs?” He pauses. Staring back at you in the mirror, 

“What do you mean? It was my dick baby,” You gasp, but you’re pleased to know that your earlier thoughts had been correct. 

“Is that - that’s what they look like?” He’s shocked and he turns around to face you, properly, but he’s also smiling like he’s just heard an amusing joke.

“Well, some of ‘em are quite a lot smaller, but yeah it’s pretty typical looking, for… for an unc-, no yeah it’s pretty typical.” He looks down, and you can see him thinking about something but he doesn’t expand any further, crossing his arms and leaning against the table. 

“So, do you not… you don’t have a kitty like I do down there?” He frowns at you, shaking his head, he’d thought you were playing with him a moment ago, but now he’s not too sure;  “Like at all?” He laughs, 

“No honey, no, uh that’s uh - that’s how boys and girls are different - you got a set of holes in your kitty, and we got… we got penises and uh, balls.” You nod, you already knew that, of course, but you hadn’t known it was just one or the other - you’d always assumed that men just had, extra equipment to yours.  You start to think of things to say to change the subject, satisfied to finally understand the difference between men and women, before a thought pops into your head that you have to ask while you have him in front of you and willing to tell you things others never did. You wrinkle your nose asking; 

“Well then … how d’ya pee?” He laughs, coming towards you and sits down on the couch next to you while he thinks of how to respond, 

“What do you me- do you think you pee out of the same place?” You nod, of course. He laughs at you, his eyes crinkling as he shakes his head,

“Um no sweetheart, You uh, you have a separate little hole; gonna have to get you a mirror and have you take a look baby - but I, well I pee out of a little slit at the head.” You don’t believe him — you know where you pee from, and it’s the same place that gets wet every now and again; otherwise what is that? But you’re too distracted by his own anatomy. 

“Like - like a mouth?” You’re aghast, dreaming up a horrifying looking image. But he laughs, 

“No, no - not, not quite like that.” 

“Well then I don’t know what you mean, I’m sorry, I just, I just can’t picture it.” His gears are turning in his head and he stays silent for a moment before saying, 

“Would it be easier to understand if I showed you?” On the one hand your mother had always told you not be alone, or naked with a boy unless you were going to get married, so you should say no. On the other though you were so curious. And really this seemed like information you should know as an adult! So you nod, 

“Oh would you!” You watch as he swallows, his adams apple bobbing - almost as if he was nervous, but he couldn’t possibly be. He starts to unbutton the trousers he’d just a moment put on. He pauses when they’re undone, as if he’s considering if he should take them all the way off. In the end you stare as he shoves them down to his knees, stops and then steps all the way out. You get to look over at him again, this time much closer.

When you reach out with one gentle, tentative hand and brush your fingers over it, he jumps as if he’d been hurt and you pull your hand back as if you’d been burnt. “No, no, baby it’s fine - go on, you can touch it.” You don’t want to hurt him, just for the sake of satisfying your curiosity, but when you looked up at him he’d smiled encouragingly at you, reassuring you enough that you reach out again. You gently skim your fingertips over it again, you’re fascinated by how it seems a darker colour than the rest of his skin, the strange feel of the simultaneously silky but wrinkled and soft but taut skin. You gently wrap your hand around it, feeling the strange mix of hard and soft and its heated temperature. You squeeze, gently, and brush a finger over the head. Where you can see, just behind, a little wrinkle of skin has left it exposed and shiny where it was half-covered before. Elvis had been desperately trying to remain silent and still but with that move he can’t and he lets out a high-pitched moan. You snatch your hand back, he’d sounded wounded. Apologising profusely, 

“Sorry, sorry - Elvis, sorry, I didn’t know, didn’t know that would hurt you, sorry! I, uh, I’m so sorry you can, you can put your trousers back -” He interrupts you, bright red and blushing, but his pupils blown wide and lips red with where he’d bitten them, as he quickly attempts to reassure you; 

“No no, no I’m fine darling. It feels too good s’all. It’s just, you’re making me feel so good baby, so good.” You frown, uncertain - it doesn’t look like it’s feeling good, it looks hot and sore to you. “I promise, sweet thing, promise - you can put your hand back on, if you - do you want, want me to show you how to make me feel really good?” You’re still not sure, and he continues, pleading, “C’mon baby, my pretty little yittle baby - you, you know you are right? My baby, my little girl, you gonna make me so happy?” He looks down at you, earnest eyes meeting your wide ones. “Gonna show you how to do it? How ta, how ta please a man? Please me? Treat me nice; let me show you how to help me?” You couldn’t deny his desperate pleads anymore and you nod, steeling yourself to try again, reminding yourself you weren’t hurting him, you were helping him. 

“I, I - ok, but you hafta, you hafta tell me how El, I can’t - I don’t wanna hurt you or anything like that.” 

“You won’t, you won’t baby, just, just wrap your little hand around it, there,” He smiles encouragingly at you as you do as he requests; nervously wrapping your hand around and rubbing it up to the tip. You stroke a finger across the shiny pink end and stare, fascinated, as a bead of thin white liquid forms at the tip. You gasp, pulling your hand away when your finger accidentally touches it. 

“Gosh, it’s leaking! Oh ew Elvis! — don’t pee on me. That’s disgusting!” You shake your hand, holding it away from you. He’s quick to grab your wrist before you can wipe it on the couch, correcting you, 

“No, no, no, baby it’s not, it’s not pee. It’s uh, it’s… it’s what makes babies, darling, but this little bit of it is, it’s the same as why you get wet down there. Bet your little panties are clear through right now.” You blush, how could he know that you sometimes, unknowingly, seemed to wet your pants, 

“Elvis - don’t, it don’t happen often enough for you to accuse me of peeing my pants,” his laugh in response is strained.

“No, no, baby, it’s not pee, it’s slick baby - it’s saying … that your little kitty wants something in it … wants someone to touch it.” He pauses, suddenly realising that he’s your only point of reference for any of this — “but you mustn’t - not ’til you’re completely alone, or, or, with me - you understand?” You frantically nod and he continues talking, satisfied he’d impressed that upon you sufficiently; “and it's making that because it wants to make it easier for a uh, for uh a penis to go in there. That’s how babies are made sweetheart.” You frown, 

“My mama always told me you got given one from the church where you got married - you prayed hard enough and it got put in your tummy like Jesus and Mary,” he smiles, 

“I think your mama was very smart - tryin’ to keep you innocent but I swear… I promise I’m tellin’ the truth.” For some reason, you believe him. And he can tell, moving your hand back onto him, the thin sticky wetness cooling on your fingers; 

You stop, a hair’s breadth away from touching him - looking up at him, “So, uh, so - if we’re alone I can, you’ll let me touch myself too?” 

“Of course honey, of course, I’ll even touch you myself — but right now, I need you to move your hand a little, ok baby? Think you can do that? Just gotta listen to me, ok?” You nod, suddenly determined to show him that you can take instruction. Your hand trembles as you reach it out again, and he tucks it under his own fingers, firmly but gently placing it back onto his length. You’re again surprised at the heat, and how it somehow seems to have firmed up even further.

He directs your hand, his palm on the back of yours, both in pressure and movement. You feel him jerk underneath your palm and you can’t help but jump in slight surprise, 

“S’ok, s’ok baby, just feels good. Tha-tha- that’s just right darling.” It doesn’t take long before his hips are stuttering, and you’re starting to understand the motion and technique that makes him groan in pleasure. He grips the back of the sofa over the top of you, releasing your hands and caging you in between his arms; it puts you at an awkward angle, and you wriggle up to get onto your knees. It puts your head back near his chest height rather than directly facing his crotch and, though you were fascinated by what was going on, you were slightly relieved at the distance. Now that you’re in sole control you feel free to experiment to your heart’s content, twisting your hand and stroking a gentle finger down to his tip. You watch as a thin stream pulses out at the feel of that, and he lets out a little cry; 

“Don’t, don’t tease me baby, s’not nice, not when I’m bein’ so kind - lettin’ you learn like this. Showin’ you what ain’t seen ‘fore.” You nod, feeling slightly chastised even at his soft words, and return your grip. You giggle, suddenly thinking that in some ways it reminds you of milking a cow. All this tugging and twisting. He groans above you again, begging - 

“Can, I, sweetheart - can I kiss you?” He cups your cheek with one of his hands, distracting you and pulling your eyes up to meet his. You nod, whispering agreement, and you think frantically for a moment if you should warn him - tell him that you haven’t done this before either but before you have the chance he’s cupping your cheek and bending over capturing your mouth in his.

You press your lips to his, and he responds in kind, but a second later you’re shocked when he opens his slightly, suckling on your lower lip. He pulls it back a tiny bit with his teeth and you whine at the little sting, but also at the sudden butterflies springing in your belly. You don’t know what else to expect, and go to pull away, but his hand cups the back of your head, holding you in place so you’re forced to breathe through your nose and let him continue. Your hand squeezes involuntarily at the action and he falls even closer to you, pulling you so that your arm is sandwiched between you both. He pushes his tongue against yours, and you can feel his little smile when you catch the hint, letting him push it into your mouth. You feel awkward, uncertain what to do with your own tongue, and you don’t know where you should be looking - he’s got his eyes closed but you can’t help but watch his face - stare at the arch of his nose and his long lashes. You melt against him as his tongue continues to map your mouth, not even realising that you’re chasing his lips wherever they move or that you’re making tiny little gasping noises. It feels weird but certainly not something you’re opposed to, now you’ve felt it, and you certainly are getting pleasure from it, little zings going straight to your core as he brushes over your teeth and cheeks. He pulls back for a second, panting, 

“Was that - have you done that before?” You shake your head, and his hangs forward, chin resting on the top of your head, groaning. “Lord, baby, what I wanna do to you.” You twist your hand, where it was still holding him, although slightly forgotten in the heat of the moment that had just passed, and he moans again, his head lifting to fall back the other way. 

“That’s it baby, that’s it.” He’s gabbling approval at you, and you somehow continue touching him. You narrate to him your actions as you do, feeling and hearing when something felt particularly good to him. 

“Is that right? You like this? Is it better if I do this?” And you swipe your thumb over his head — he thrusts forward, his hand that was still cupping your head coming down to clutch at your shoulder. 

“Just, almost there, I’m almost there. That’s it baby, doin’ so well for me. That’s it, oh god, that’s it.” He’s constantly talking, and you can feel his eyes watching you now, so you bring your other hand up, feeling around to the strangely soft and silky skin just behind his cock, you stroke that, while the other continues its ministrations. That seems to be enough to send him over the edge, as a moment later his hips stutter, and he yells out a curse as a milky stream spurts out of the end straight into your palm. You hold him through it, uncertain of what else to do, and you’re not sure if that’s all you need to do so your hand stays there until he whispers, 

“S’ok little one, that’s me done. For the moment, that’s - uh, that’s not, that's not what you think - that’s babies there in ya hand.” You look up at him shocked, before looking back at your palm, suddenly panicked that you might have to be a mother now. 

“Babies?!” He chuckles, 

“Yeah, hon, but they don’t - they don’t grow unless I put ‘em in you.” You breathe a sigh of relief, “They don’t… you don’t only do that for the babies to grow though, it’s uh, its also because like what we just did - it feels good.” You nod, it’s starting to make an awful lot of sense, but you’ve still got that feeling in your tummy and his earlier accusation was right - you could feel your wetness now; although you’re far less ashamed of it now that you know it wasn’t pee. You squirm, and he strokes your face, just a single finger down your jaw, looking down at you before turning to put his trousers back on. He’s buckling up his belt, and you’re still sat there with the pooling ejaculate on your hand, it looks kind of similar to that thin icing, like your mama used to put on her pound cakes. And you’re tempted to have a tiny taste when he turns to grab something off of the side, but when you run a finger through it you’re put off by the texture, and the reminder that it came from him. He turns back to you, talking again and distracting you from your study. 

“That’s all there is to it, baby - now you’ve seen me and you know. Know how to pleasure a man with your hands and the truth about babies - ain’t that a lot of learning for one day.” You’re about to ask if he could show you what he meant before, since your pussy was, with this heat and wetness, apparently begging to be touched. But you suddenly, as you wipe your hand on the handkerchief he pulled out from somewhere, feel quite overwhelmed. Maybe another day. Kissing and touching was more than enough for the one day. You stand up, as if to leave, and he rushes to you, 

“No, no - what’s all this;  I can see it on your face. Don’t you go worrying your pretty little head about any of it, ok baby? I’ll, I’ll show you what you need to know - don’t you go worrying ‘bout any of it.” You nod, you want to disagree but he looks so earnest and true, grown-up and handsome, that you can’t do anything but agree. “You’ll come to me if you have any other questions, right honey? ‘Fore you go anywhere else right?” He’s speaking authoritatively, like he’s giving you an order, and you can’t do anything but accept his words.  

“Ok - El, ok. I’ll come to you - promise.” 

[jazzthatonewriterchick]

Hit ‘Em Up! (18+ Fic)

Pairing: Cowboy!Gojo Satoru x Cowboy!Geto Suguru x Black!Cowgirl!Reader (Slow Burn/Enemies to Lovers)

Synopsis: You get to meet Geto & Gojo the Gunslingers, the notorious outlaws that have every town and law enforcement in a twist, when your bum-ass BF offers you as payment to avoid going to prison. Little do they know that this is only a part of your plan to get what you desire. But when you realize that the infamous gun-slinging, smooth-talking cowboys could be everything you want and more when they offer you a deal to team up with them, will you successfully be able to go through with it? 

Warnings: Smutty Smut; 18+ (MINOS GTFO); poly!SatouSugu; Reader is Black & Fem; Mention of other JJK characters; Porn with Plot; Tragic Backstories; T/W for Childhood Trauma, Parental Death, Violence, Panic Attacks & Torture; Angst/Hurt/Comfort; Hand Kink; Masturbation; Voyeurism; Gay Sex; Polyamorous; Double Deepthroat; Mutual Oral; Fingering; CMNF; Spitroast; Riding; Unprotected PiV Sex; Creampies; Outside/Public Sex; Shotgunning; Multiple Positions; Spit Kink; Facials; MDom/fsub Undertones; Aftercare

Disclaimer: I own none of the characters mentioned in this fic. However, as this is my writing, I do not give permission for my work to be reposted on any other sites that are not from my own accounts. Thank you!

Writer's Note: LISTEN TO BEYONCE'S NEW ALBUM. -Jazz

Chapters: One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten. Eleven. Twelve. Thirteen. Fourteen. Fifteen. Sixteen. Seventeen. Eighteen PT I & II. Nineteen. Twenty. Twenty-One. Twenty-Two. Twenty-Three. Twenty-Four. Epilogue + Soundtrack.

********

FOUR: SHE A TYRANT.

You pause, wondering if you heard Gojo correctly or if Valentine smoked you after all. “Come again?” you ask. 

Your eyes switch like ping pong balls between the handsome strangers, wondering who will make the first move. Geto bites back a laugh while Gojo cackles to himself. “We said,” he repeats, humor in his tone which pisses you off, “we are here for you.” 

You pause, processing their confusing words. “For what?” you bark. “To kill me? Have your way with me? ‘Cause I don’t roll like that, especially with outlaws.”

Gojo shoots Geto a look, winking at him. “We know,” he chuckles. “You kill ‘em dead instead…which I’m kinda curious about. Why is that you–” 

“That’s none of your business!” you snap. He puts his hands up higher. 

“How do y’all even know where I was?” you demand, more upset than anything about your secret identity being exposed. You thought you were more careful! You’ve kept your face hidden behind a bandana for years as the Femme Fatale, never coming out of it unless you’re alone or no one knows who you are. You thought you were safe in Blackwater. 

“It ain’t hard to ask around,” Geto explains. “We blew into Blackwater after a couple of folks in the next town over said they saw you headin’ South. Since this is close by, we figured if you weren’t here, you’d at least be seen here.”

He gives you a smile, sweet despite the situation at hand. “How lucky were we to have found you?” he chortles. 

You keep the gun trained on them, cocking it. “Seriously?!” Gojo scoffs, glaring at you. “After we already put down our guns, you still wanna kill us?!” 

“I don’t trust outlaws,” you growl. “I’ve been waitin’ for y’all to come here to get Valentine, so I can finally cross y’all off my hit list…but I need some questions answered first.”

You watch the duo give you a questionable look. “I wanna know where Benji The Bandit is,” you say, your voice steely and cool. “Ya’ll work for him, correct?” 

The duo share a troubling look with each other at the mention of their boss and the eviliest man in the wild, wild West. He robs the rich and the poor; decimates towns and villages; has killed dozens. Legend says that he can show up in a town only once and scare its civilians into silence which is why the law has been chasing him for nearly two decades now. Nobody will ever give up Benji the Bandit’s whereabouts unless they have a death wish. 

“We did to work for him,” Geto answers, correcting you much to your dismay. “We did his dirty work for two years until he gave us a mission that we had to refuse.”

You cock your head to the side, curious. “And what was that?” But the duo stays silent on that and you sigh, exasperated. “Fine, don’t tell me that, but at least me where he is.” 

“We’re just as clueless as you, doll,” he says with a shrug. “We’ve been lookin’ for him for three years since we left him, but you know Benji: if he don’t wanna be found, he won’t be. Now may we ask you some questions?” 

“No,” you hiss, pissed that you didn’t get what you wanted. “I don’t wanna find out why y’all are here for me. Frankly, I don’t care and now you two definitely have to go if you know who I am.”

Even through his blindfold, you can see Gojo roll his eyes. “Drama queen,” he mutters. “We won’t tell anyone.” 

You squint at them, sizing them up. “How can I be so sure?” you ask suspiciously. “How do I know that if I let my guard down now, y’all won’t put a bullet in me where I stand?”

Geto frowns at you, possibly wondering why you’re so difficult. “We wouldn’t do that,” he says, actually sounding offended. “But since you mentioned us takin’ you off guard…” 

His foot only moves an inch across the carpet, but it slides across the hardwood floors anyway and takes you with it. With a shriek, you trip backwards and lose the grip on your gun, causing it to fly out of your hand. You manage to catch yourself with one hand balancing you and turn so your on one knee, staring up at Geto who bends down to pick up your gun. “Hey!” you bark. 

He smirks down at you, his eyes gleaming underneath his cowboy hat. “Now that’s takin’ off guard, little lady,” he chuckles. “Just wanted to get the gun from you. It was startin’ to scare my ���Tarou.” He looks back at Gojo with a smiling that way too intimate and personal to be platonic. 

Flushing at the realization, you gape at them. “Wait,” you pause. “Are you two–” 

“Together?” Gojo finishes with a smirk. “I’m afraid the rumors are true, doll: the famous gunslingers ride more than just horses. But you won’t tell anyone, will ya?” He gives you a wink.

You stand up with a grunt, angered at the subject being changed and being embarrassed by Geto’s move. “Listen, I don’t care about y’all’s love life,” you scoff. “Just gimme back my gun!” 

Geto twirls your gun around his gloved fingers, his gaze teasing. “And if I do, are you gonna blow our heads off?” he asks. He and Gojo keep their eyes on you, sizing you up the way you do them, watching you to see what your next move will be. You have to be careful, so you shake your head. 

But the long-haired outlaw isn’t buying it. “How can we be so sure?” he retorts. Gritting your teeth, you go to snatch it from him, but he holds it up out of your reach. “Ah-ah…I asked you a question.” 

“I said give me back my goddamn gun!” you snap before kicking Geto straight in the balls. His pretty face screws up in pain and he grunts, dropping your gun as he cups himself and hunches in agony. You race to pick up the pistol, but Gojo’s foot sends it shooting across the floor to the other side of the room. 

You glare at him, seeing red like a bull. “Oooh, she’s feisty,” he cackles, taking off his hat and letting it fall to the floor. “I like that. Just be careful, little miss. I happen to like what ya just kicked.” Geto groans as he rolls onto his side, still cupping his balls. You’d laugh if you weren’t so pissed off. 

You stand before Gojo with your fists tightly palled up and your feet in a fighter’s stance like a boxer. “Goin’ against me?” you bitterly laugh. “I’d like to see you two try.”

You take the first punch at Gojo, but he blocks it with his hand as if he saw it coming a mile away. You take another; he blocks it again. Frustrated, you decide to switch it up and go for a kick at his head, but he ducks. 

His next move is something you count on him doing: he yanks on your ankle, sending you careening backwards onto the floor. This time, you can’t catch yourself and fall onto your ass. You have no time to focus on the sharp pain shooting up into your behind because the outlaw quickly gets on top to straddle you.

“Usually, I don’t do this with girls I just met,” he chuckles, “but I think you’re an exception, little miss.” 

“Bite me,” you growl before wrapping your legs tightly around his neck and squeezing your thighs around it. Using all the strength in your core, you bring yourself up to headbutt him with the top of your skull. You release him and with a gasp, Gojo falls backwards into the couch, clutching his head. 

Quickly, you get up and head to the door to escape, but two strong arms wrapping around your midsection stop you. With a yelp, you’re shoved into the wall by Geto, pinned between him and the wall. “Get offa me!” you cry out, wriggling around to try and break free. But that becomes futile when you suddenly feel Geto begin to pin your arms behind your back, sending sparks of pain shooting into your body.

“No!” you cry out, near tears. “Stop!” 

“Then calm the fuck down,” he demands, his voice firm in your ear. Though you do stop, you turn your head slightly to look back at him, seeing the warning in his eyes. “Or what?” you spit defiantly. 

A terrifying (yet thrilling) fire alights behind Geto’s dark eyes just at the same time as Gojo comes to assess your restricted state. “Oooh, she’s a brat,” he chuckles despite just receving a nasty headbutt. “Now I really wanna keep her, Sugu.” He tugs his pink bottom lip between his white teeth.

“Chill, Satoru,” Geto firmly says, his eyes still trained on you. “We won’t hurt you, but if you’re okay with bein’ pinned against the wall, then by all means, sugar, we’ll get the whip.” 

Gojo gives you a sly grin, his long, thick, black leather whip in his hand now. At the thought of being tied up and completely at their mercy, you let yourself go slack in Geto’s hold.

“Okay, okay, I’m calm! I promise!” You take a deep breath and relax yourself, much to your dismay and irritation. You don’t like listening to anyone, especially grown ass men, when you’re a grown ass woman. 

But in this situation, you’ll have to. Satisfied, Geto releases you and you begin to rub the kinks out of your arms from his iron grip, turning to face them as you do. The duo gives you your space now, stepping to the other side of the room. A sudden knock at the door makes you jump. “Y/N!” Todo yells. “Everythin’ okay in there?” 

“We’ll come in if you aren’t!” Mai calls through the door. “We’ll call the sheriff!” 

“Mai, you idiot, don’t let them know that!” Maki criticizes. You look at the duo standing before, wondering if you should say yes. Finally, you call to the others, “It’s alright, y’all. We just dropped some drinks up here.”

The two still stand there, never getting their guns or taking a step near you. They leave the ball completely in your court. “Explain,” you demand, crossing your arms. 

“We didn’t come to fight you,” Geto explains and the corner of his lips lift slightly, “though that was quite entertainin’. We came to offer you a proposition: you team up with us. Help us take out these other baddies.”

You raise your brows at them, stunned. After putting up that fuss, they still want you on their team? ‘They must want this pussy bad,’ you think.

“Plus, you’ll need us for protection,” Geto adds. “It’s only a matter of time till people find out who you are, especially when Valentine gets arrested. You think he’s gon’ keep quiet about your identity just ‘cause you shot him in the ear?” Your world once again crumbles when you realize that he could be right. 

“Shit!” you hiss, pinching the bridge of your nose as a headache begins to thump-thump-thumb against your head. “Shit, shit, this ruins everything! I had a plan!” 

“Well, whatever that plan is, we can still help you achieve it,” Gojo replies, “but you’d have to come with us. We’re not gonna go into detail now since I’m sure people are listenin’,” ––he nods at the door––”but with our skills and brains combined, we could be unstoppable!” 

You look between the two, assessing their faces for something––a glint in their eye; a twitch of their mouths––to give them away. But you see nothing. “What’s in this for me?” you ask suspiciously. Geto looks like he was waiting for you to ask that question. “We can go into all of that if you agree,” he tells you. 

They actually look like they want you to say yes to this and to your shock, you want to. You’re curious as to why they want you in the first place out of so many other people dying to even get their attention. But you can’t. You have a plan that you’ve been putting together for years now. 

“No,” you laugh. “Sorry, fellas, but I work alone. I always have and always will. Plus, I’ve been runnin’ from the law for years now and they haven’t caught up to me yet.” 

They look like they were expecting that answer. Gojo sulks while Geto gives you an understanding nod. “Can’t bash the confidence,” he says, “but if you ever think differently…”

He takes a moment to take something out of his pocket––a piece of paper––and takes a pen from the nightstand next to the bed. He scribbles something down before passing it to you. “Pay us a visit,” he finishes. “We leave tomorrow.” 

You read the message in your hands, seeing a number and an address to a motel: 1211 at the Corner of Maplewood, Rm 201 - G &G. 

Geto then moves to pick up his weapons, straighten himself up, and walk back over to you. His eyes on you longer than necessary as he watches you read the note, looking gobsmacked. “Think about it,” he whispers. “We hope to see you again, little lady.” He takes your hand and gives it a light kiss before walking off to the door. 

Gojo gives you a wink and a tip of his hat as he follows his partner to the door. “Bye for now, doll,” he says. When Geto opens it, Todo, Shoko, Yuki, and the Zenin sisters stand in the threshold, wide-eyed and definitely eavesdropping. 

“Ladies,” Gojo greets as he follows Geto out the door. “Y’all might wanna dial for y’all’s sheriff. I don’t think this establishment needs a wanted criminal as a boss.” He nods down at Valentine’s unconscious body before heading off, disappearing down the stairs. 

You are immediately bombarded with questions as your coworkers rush you, but you can’t say anything. You’re too busy staring at the note, so much that you begin to memorize the hotel room number. 

*******

That night, the Blackwater saloon closes early and Valentine is arrested. 

As soon as Gojo and Geto leave as quickly and as quietly as they’d come, Choso calls the Blackwater sheriff who riles up his posse and quickly come on their horses, one of them dragging a steel box behind it to transport Valentine to prison.

The entire saloon erupts in whispers and shocked stares as they watch two officers drag Valentine’s body down the steps, his wrists cuffed. 

For the next hour, the entire saloon is questioned––you, the bartenders, the dancers, the guards, and even the customers––about what happened tonight.

You tell the sheriff about Geto and Gojo’s arrival to find Valentine and Valentine forcing you onto the Gunslingers, but you don’t tell them anything about anything other than that. The sheriff doesn’t seem suspicious of you, only thanks you for your time and apologizes for this “huge mess”. 

Later, you retreat to one of the empty bedrooms to watch Valentine be tossed into the back of the steel cart. As you watch from the window, Geto’s warning continues to haunt you. You can’t help but wonder if he’s right.

Will Valentine expose you to the law? Will you be arrested? That makes your want to flee even more tempting. Just leave without telling anyone where you are headed. 

But what about Shoko and the others? What would you tell them? You look down at the note clutched in your palm, reading the hotel number over and over again. Can you really trust these guys? 

The door to the bedroom opens and you quickly hide the note in your bosom just as Shoko comes. “Jeez, what a mess,” she sighs, hands on her hips. “This is gonna be the talk of the town for a week. I just spoke to Maki and she’s gonna be takin’ over the saloon till we get a new manager.” 

“Why doesn’t she just manage it herself?” you ask. Shoko just gives you a look and you laugh, knowing damn well that Maki would cuss so many people out that she’d never be able to handle a managerial job.

“Came up to tell ya that the saloon is closing for tonight,” Shoko says, giving you a tender look. “We can head home.” 

You nod, giving her a smile. “Thanks. I’ll change my clothes and say bye to the others then.”

Silently, you walk past Shoko and she lets you, watching you go. You can tell she is worried about you and wants to ask what happened tonight, but she doesn’t want you to feel attacked or cornered. But you also know that she’ll ask you later when you’re both home. 

After saying goodnight to the saloon employees and pretending to vomit when Yuki giggles about going home with Choso tonight, you change into a simple, pink dress, pack your things, and walk home with Shoko to your shared home only four blocks from work.

When you moved to Blackwater five months ago, you bunked with Shoko in a 500 square foot room that you renovated into an apartment with a kitchen, a small lounging area, a bathroom, and two twin beds. 

You couldn’t be happier to have such a great roomie and friend, but you know it can’t last forever. This is the thought you’ve had in your head for months now any time you acted as if you were “normal”, going with your coworkers to happy hour at another bar or gossiping with Shoko by the candlelight at home. And you can sense that Shoko feels the same way as you take the short route home together. 

The dirt roads are quiet, the many stores, boutiques, and establishments closed for the night, and the street lamps surrounded with buzzing insects attracted to the brightness and alight with flames that light your way as you walk side by side. The night is warm, but not sticky and you can tell that rain is in the forecast judging by the smell. You’re originally from the South, so you know these things. 

Shoko is concerningly quiet, something that is unlike her. You wait for her to ask the golden question, but she instead stays silent, looking ahead. “Alright,” you sigh. “Go on and ask.” she looks at you questionably. “Hm?” she asks. 

You give her a long look, raising an eyebrow. “You wanna ask me about the Gunslingers, so go ahead! Ask me!”

But she doesn’t, probably because she figures that you need your privacy and that you have your reasons for keeping things from her…which you do. “We didn’t have sex,” you say. “And they didn’t force themselves on me if that’s what you’re worried about. They didn’t even really want Valentine.” 

Shoko finally looks at you as she takes out a cigarette and lights it with a match stick. The end of the cigarette butt glows bright red, reminding you of a firefly in the darkness. “So what did they want?” she asks, confused. 

You bite your lip, battling internally with yourself. You know that Shoko wouldn’t go running to the law if you tell her who you really are, but the life you live has taught you to never trust ANYONE. But even so, you can tell her some of the truth.

“Me,” you softly whisper. 

Shoko stops walking and stares at you in awe, the cigarette dangling from her lips. “They asked me to come with them, Shoko,” you explain. “To join them and help them catch other wanted outlaws.”

She continues to stare at you as if trying to pull back the layers of your skin and bones and peer inside of you. You away to a nearby street lamp, watching the flame flicker in the gaslamp. 

“Well, why don’t you?” she asks. You look back to her, shocked. She shrugs, puffing on her cigarette. “They may be able to help you get to Willow Springs like you always wanted.” She gives you a reassuring smile, probably to make you feel better about not telling her the entire truth. 

At the mention of your dream, you feel an overwhelming sense of need come over you. You want that so badly: a life in Willow Springs, known for its quietness, away from the wild West and danger. Just a quiet life with a cabin by a waterfall and your own farm, ditching the Fatale Femme identity for good.

“I don’t know,” you sigh. “I don’t even know if I can trust ‘em.” 

Shoko once again shrugs and takes a final puff on her cigarette before tossing it down and crushing it under her heel. “Well, you’ve got plenty of time to think about it, but I personally think you should do it. Throw caution to the wind and let ‘em take you away from here.” 

She stares you down with her eyes, intense yet caring. “There ain’t nothin’ here for you, honey, and that’s the truth.” Then she walks off towards your apartment, leaving you standing there stunned but knowing that you’ll eventually catch up. 

Something in you tells you that her words mean more than she lets on and they follow you all the way home and into your dreams that night.

[ireallyliketalldarksultrymen]

for writing stuff, lizzie & mumbo perhaos? i think they'd be a silly duo (ooh if u want maybe as a hypothetical double life pair?) /vnf

lizzie and mumbo are such sillies <333 (you can find this fic here on ao3!)

—

Never in all his years did Mumbo imagine him and Lizzie having a sleepover—Void, he never expected them to be friends. Their personalities clashed, practically worlds apart; while she was outgoing and effortlessly warm, Mumbo tended to be reserved, fading into the background at times. He’d long assumed friendship between them would be improbable, if not impossible.

Yet here Mumbo was, hands folded politely as he sat on Lizzie’s bed, cross-legged atop hot pink sheets. Lizzie herself was at the vanity in front of him, chatting animatedly as she rummaged through her drawers. Her space buns bobbed with her words, and Mumbo watched, almost mesmerized.

As he listens to her ramble, loud and clear over the song humming on the record player, Mumbo’s allows for his eyes to drift around the room, taking a moment to admire her decor.

Joel didn’t exaggerate when he told him her bedroom was pink—in fact, he downplayed it. The walls, the drapes, the lamp, they were shades from chewed bubblegum to carnations. The latter so happened to rest in a rose pink clay pot on the windowsill.

There are few contrasts to the rest of the room; stood inches from her dresser was a bookshelf, which barely held novels. Sea shells and rocks painted in their own ways sat on the ledge, detailed in acrylic paints. Vinyl records lined the remaining shelves in a rainbow gradient, dark reds bleeding into deeper violets. Mumbo makes a mental note to ask her about her favorite artist.

Right of the windowsill is a poster of band he’d always be familiar with. Gem, Impulse, and Scott were posed with their instruments on the stage of their very first venue, sporting shirts tailored to their favorite colors, accompanied by embroidered initials.

When Mumbo squints hard enough, he can make out the cursive written in Sharpie on the top corner, which is marked with three different signatures that vary in neatness.

A platter of what were formerly cookies was put aside at the foot of her bed, crumbs and chocolate chunks its only remains. Mumbo’s only a tiny bit embarrassed to admit to scarfing down the cookies after the first bite.

Without warning, the bed dips as Lizzie plops down beside him, carefully balancing a handful of nail polish bottles. She grins, simping the assortment between them. “Alright!” she exclaims, looking excited. “What color are we going for?”

Mumbo glances down at the small, powerful army spread out across the blanket and realizes he has absolutely no idea where to start.

After a moment’s hesitation, he thinks he’s settled on a shade,  from his peripheral catches his eye, so Mumbo’s positive he’ll settle on that one—but, no, turns out there’s a whole other color that suits him better and, oh, he’s lost.

At this point, his hand hovers over one bottle before he snatches it back, repeating the gesture with the caution of someone touching a hot stove.

Finally, he groans, pulling his hands over his face. “Sorry, I just—“

“It’s okay!” Lizzie’s voice is warm and steady, coaxing Mumbo to pull away his hands away from his face.

He looks up and her smiling at him with a reassuring glint her eyes, full of understanding. “Here, let me see if…”

Lizzie starts to rifle through the pile, nose scrunched as her eyes carefully examines each bottle, and moment Mumbo feels ridiculous, fully convinced they wouldn’t be able to find the right color for him, but the gasp Lizzie lets grasps his attention.

“A-ha!” She triumphantly holds up a bottle, brandishing it like a prized trophy. “Looks like we’ve found your match!”

Lizzie brings up her other hand, placing her nails and the bottle side by-side. “It’s the shade I’m wearing!” she explains, grinning.

Mumbo tilts his head, studying the polish in her hand. The bottle was half-filled with a rose-gold paint, which shimmer slightly with glitter. He feels a smile tug at his lips. “It’s…perfect.”

Lizzie lets out a cheer, raising her arms in victory. The sight of her happy makes a sense of pride coil in Mumbo’s stomach.

Once her enthusiasm settles, she reaches over and gently presses her and Mumbo’s palms together. “See? Now we can even be matching!”

Mumbo looks at the hands, grinning at the sight of her painted nails against his plain ones. He can’t help but feel a flutter of excitement. So towards the end of the night, when the lamp on the bedside table is turned off and the sound of crickets chirping can be heard beyond the window, Mumbo settles in his sleeping bag, admiring his nails as they glow in moonlight.

[the-apocrypha]

3, 22, 26?

3. How would you describe your writing style? 

Uh. Functional. Highly functional. Occasionally I strive toward the slightly poetic or prosaic, and I feel like my own tendency toward dry humor will come out from time to time, but otherwise I think it's pretty… basic. 

(The more literary answer is that my style is highly reflective of my history of pretty much only ever writing within the bounds of fanfiction. While there are obviously exceptions, there tends to be a lot of homogeneity amongst fanfiction writing style, for a lot of reasons, including (1) You tend to write what you read, and (2) People generally turn to fanfiction for literary comfort food. While a House of Leaves or an On Earth We're Briefly Gorgeous is nice on occasion, we are mostly here to straight torture or sexify or cuddle our blorbos and we don’t want to beat around the bush. It is in no way a bad thing! It’s actually kind of cool, from a literary perspective, because it's genuinely recognizable. Like the Scholomance trilogy! They are good, but you can tell by page two that this person absolutely cut their teeth on fanfiction. So, I am a product of my experiences.)

22. What is it about watching the same two idiots fall in love over and over again? 

See above: comfort food. 

Long answer: for me, I am a person who does not instantly attach to characters. I rarely enter fandoms that are based around a single book or movie, and greatly favor comics/television/series because it lets me spend a lot of time with characters and my affection for them can really take root and grow. Fanfic is just the next natural extension of that. I am very much a person who finds a Happy Button and then wants to mash the Happy Button ad nauseum until it breaks. I listen to the same album on repeat for three months. I just discovered Tim Tams and have bought a box a week for the last four months. And when I settle into a fandom, I want to see my blorbos having nice things over and over and over and over again. :D 

26. What would you describe as OOC?

Oof this is a tough one! I think characterization is such a personal thing that it’s impossible to define that. I definitely have opinions on things that I read, on whether they’re in/out of character, but the beautiful thing about fandom is that we are all casting prisms of the same characters and what is out of character for me may be in character for someone else! So, eh. 

I will say that I feel like any time I start writing for a new fandom, my first fic or two will always feel a little rocky in characterization. Once I’ve written more and developed a more nuanced and consistent concept of the characters, I usually look back on the early stuff and go woof. Sandman has been no exception to this. (Fond wave at fly me to the moon. You’re not completely terrible.)

(for the writers ask meme)

[starstruckkittensweets]

"Spitfire" | Gojo x Reader (Kinktober 2023)

Size Difference - Satoru Gojo

Fandom: Jujutsu Kaisen Pairing: Satoru Gojo x Reader Words: 3.3k

A/N: Halfway through writing this I forgot I was supposed to be writing some good ol' smut...so that's why there's a lot more fluff in this one than I'd intended! Anyway, this is my first attempt at some Satoru smut, so I hope it's not too bad. (Also a very self-indulgent fic, writing this made me giggle and kick my feet in all my 4'11" glory.) I hope you enjoy!

Warnings: 18+ only, minors DNI, modern au, smaller reader (no particular height in mind, just shorter than Satoru), dirty talk, unprotected sex, cum eating, slight praise kink

If there’s one thing Satoru finds so appealing about you, it’s your height (or lack thereof, as he likes to remind you).

 Of course he loves everything else about you. Your smile, your eyes, the way you laugh at all his jokes, even the ones that make everyone else roll their eyes. How you give him every bit of attention whenever he’s with you, like he’s the only one that matters in the entire world. And obviously he thrives off the attention, but there’s something else about it—something else about you that makes his heart hammer furiously against his ribcage. Something that makes him want to please you and make you happy, just to see your smile.

But your smaller stature was the first thing that drew him to you. The first time Shoko brought you over to hang out with their little friend group, he couldn’t tear his eyes from you. Suguru had to repeat whatever he was saying three times for him to finally listen. But he couldn’t help it, not with you sitting right across from him.

Looking all small and dainty and simply cute.

Yeah, cute. That’s what you are to him—and you only prove his point when he says it to your face, and you make a sad attempt to hide your face in the collar of your hoodie. He only laughs as Suguru shakes his head, and Shoko rests a comforting hand on your shoulder.

So fucking cute.

He loves how small your hands are, and how perfectly they fit between his palms.

It never fails to make him smile, the way you act so shy and flustered whenever he holds your hand. The stutter in your voice when he reaches out, the way your eyes flicker from side to side as he gives you what he hopes to be a reassuring smile. Then again, people often confuse his genuine smiles for his cocky ones.

But he tries, for your sake. You’re the only one he sees, and he’s determined to remind you as often as he can.

“Sorry,” you mumble, tucking your palms into your pockets, “…hands are sweaty… You don’t wanna hold ‘em…”

He can only stare at you as you chew on your bottom lip, eyes cast down to the floor as you shift your weight from one leg to the other. Slowly inching away from him as the two of you continue your walk, careful not to bump your shoulder bag into his side.

Is… Are you serious? Or are you just teasing him?

But the dullness in your eyes is enough of an answer for him, and it sends a pinch of agony straight to his chest. Too pretty and cute to look so sad.

You squeak as he reaches in and practically yanks your hand back out of your pocket, holding it much more firmly between his fingers. Sending you a smirk as you gape at him, eyes blown wide and so fucking pretty.

Damn it, will you ever understand how adorable you are to him?

“Don’t care,” he replies with a shrug. “Hands get sweaty sometimes, so what? Now come on, don’t wanna be late to meet up with the others!”

Of course he would rush, you’re heading to the bakery at the next block, the usual meeting spot for all your little get-togethers. The one that sells all those sweets he practically drools over—and the same ones he always tries to get you to share with him, even when you brush him off.

“I…” Your voice falters when he peeks at you over the rim of his glasses; already you can feel your cheeks start to heat up. “…Never mind, if it doesn’t bother you—”

“Not at all! I like when I get to hold your hand.”

He picks up the pace, long legs eating up the distance as you struggle to keep up behind him. Still sputtering at his little confession, and the way he tightens his grip around you.

And strangely enough…it’s comforting. The way your little hand fits in his much larger one. Almost like he’s protecting you, keeping you safe from the rest of the world.

Like you can finally loosen your shoulders and relax whenever he’s around.

It takes every bit of strength in him not to smile like an idiot when he feels your hand squeeze his own oh-so delicately.

He loves the way you stand on your tiptoes to reach something high above you.

Whether it’s a family photo album or one of your favorite coffee mugs in the cupboard, he never passes up the chance to see your arms stretch high over your head, muscles straining and tongue poking out of the corner of your mouth. Swallowing back a sinful moan when he sees your shirt ride up over your stomach, granting him the slightest peek of the soft skin beneath.

This time it’s one of your books on the very top shelf, and you’re just ten seconds away from climbing up the bookcase yourself. He lets you struggle for a bit before stepping in like a gentleman (even though you claim he’s the exact opposite). Reaching over your head and plucking out the hardcover—only to hold it just out of your reach like the asshole he is. He lets out a laugh as you scramble to grab it, only lifting it higher when you start jumping up and down.

“C’mon, Satoru, cut it out! Give it to me already!”

“You almost got it, babe. Almost there, I know you can do it!”

“Satoru, I’m serious! Just hand it over!”

Your cheeks puff out as he dangles the book over your head; no matter how many swipes you make to grab it, he always yanks it back up to his level. Curse him and his ungodly height, it’s not your fault you’re vertically challenged!

And the smug fuck is laughing his ass off as he waves the book over your head. Like you’re a fucking cat with a feathered toy.

“Just a little higher, babe, I know you—ow!”

He winces as your shoe rams right into his kneecap—damn it, he doesn’t remember you being this strong—and with a final lunge you manage to curl your fingers around the book and yank. Pressing it against your heaving chest as he doubles over, both hands clutching his injured knee.

“No fair, that was a dirty trick!”

“So was taking my book in the first place.”

It’s hard to feel any sympathy for him, even if he makes a convincing case with those pouty lips and big blue eyes. You roll your eyes and head into your shared bedroom with your prize, leaving him groaning in pain about his poor knee.

“It really hurts, you know! I could be dying in here and you wouldn’t even know!”

“Then it’d be quiet, and I could actually start to read my book.”

“Babe!”

He’s full-on whining now, limping towards the bedroom and making a show of favoring his leg. You’re already cuddled up in bed with your book, a blanket thrown over your lap. Not even sparing him a glance as you leaf through the pages.

“…Can you kiss it, make it better?”

“Kiss it yourself.”

That gets a laugh out of him, despite the bolt of pain shooting up his leg. You’re small but damn feisty when you want to be, even more than you were when you first met him. Just goes to show how much more comfortable you’ve gotten around him. But he wouldn’t have you any other way, his tiny little spitfire. And he makes a point of telling you that, even when he launches himself into bed next to you and peppers your face with kisses, only laughing when you shriek and try to bat him away.

If he makes you lose your page, you’ll make sure to kick him someplace higher than his damn knee.

He loves how delicate you are in his arms. So small and fragile, practically a doll.

Another late night at work, another night you come home with your feet dragging and your eyelids drooping. You barely make it through the threshold before collapsing, and luckily Satoru’s there to catch you in his arms. With your cheek pressed against his chest and his arms around your waist, you barely have time to mumble out, “Missed you,” before falling asleep right then and there.

Satoru’s used to it by now. You work yourself to the bone every day, and he’s left to pick up the pieces at night. Not that he minds, he enjoys taking care of you like this. Makes him feel special, he’s the only one who gets to see you in this sleepy, vulnerable state.

It’s a dance he’s become all too comfortable with at this point. Cradling your tiny body against his chest, legs thrown over the crook of his elbow as he carries you into the bedroom. Settling you on the mattress, smiling when you groan softly in your sleep. Pressing a kiss to your forehead, lingering just a few seconds too long before you start to stir. Last thing he wants to do is rob you of some much-needed sleep.

Your shoes slip off easily, then your jacket and shirt. He’s always amazed at the difference in your clothing; how all your shirts and pants, while they look simply stunning on your body, always seem so tiny next to his own. Just the thought has him picking up the pace, eager to rid you of your work clothes and slip one of his old sleep shirts over your head. He catches the ghost of a smile on your lips before leaning you back against the pillows, careful when he pulls the covers up and over your bare legs.

Small and precious. So adorable, aren’t you?

He leans over and smooths his hand across your hair. It’s hard not to smile when you nuzzle into his touch, always finding his warmth even in your sleep. He swears he wasn’t tired before, but tucking you in always seems to wear him out. And it’s not long before he’s stripping down and joining you in bed.

Your arms find his body instantly, wrapping around his shoulders and pressing your face into his bare chest. He’s so warm and soft, his arms a protective shield around your sleeping form. He reaches up to brush your hair back, giving him a perfect view of your gentle face.

So much energy, despite your smaller size. Always working your ass off at your job, completely exhausted every night, and still wearing a smile for him when you come home.

Fuck, he loves you so much. Maybe someday he’ll have the courage to say it to your face.

The thought makes him smile as he snuggles deeper into the pillows, holding you against his chest, finally letting his eyes drift shut.

He loves how small you are, how cute and delicate and sweet you are—especially when you’re struggling to take his cock.

Reclining against the mountain of pillows against the headboard, arms folded beneath his head, licking his lips with every moan that slips through your mouth. You’re straddling him, practically dripping down his thighs with how wet you are. Three rounds of coming around his fingers and tongue, and you’re still whining how his cock is too much for you.

So fucking cute.

“S-Satoru,” it comes out as a hiccup, tears pricking your pretty lashes, “…fuck, it h-hurts—”

“Shh, baby, I know.” He leans up and presses a kiss to your sweaty temple. Fingers massaging your hips as you choke out another plea of his name. “Doin’ so well for me, aren’t you?”

It’s a sight he’ll never get sick of, no matter how many times he sees it: your pouty lips, head thrown back and eyes squeezed shut, as he reaches down to circle his thumb around your clit.

Your nails sink into his shoulders, thighs clenching as you lower yourself down a bit more. Fuck, he’s not even halfway in and you’re already crying like a fucking virgin. Get it together already!

But you might as well be a virgin, with how fucking huge he is. Surprisingly he wasn’t lying in that department; not that it does you any fucking good now, but still…

He’s already kissing away your tears, murmuring sweet words under his breath, against your heated skin. Good girl, so fucking good, so tight and pretty for me. It helps you find yourself again, swallowing hard before sinking down further onto his cock.

“Satoru,” you whine as he bottoms out inside you. Eyes blown wide, the two of you panting heavily against each other’s chests.

So fucking full already and he hasn’t even started moving, how are you gonna survive tonight?!

“’S alright, sweetheart.” His voice is strained but warm as he cradles your face in his large hands. Still so gentle whenever he touches you. “Take it slow, don’t wanna wear you out before the real fun begins.”

He gives you that trademark smirk of his, and you have half a mind to throw caution to the wind and fuck him within an inch of his damn life. But the moment you shift on his lap a sharp pain jolts up your abdomen, and you’re gasping for air against his shoulder once more.

“Easy, easy. Move whenever you’re ready.”

At least he’s being considerate this time.

You suck in a breath, trying to focus on the gentle touch of his fingers against your clit. The gorgeous glow of his bright blue eyes. The way his hands feel pressed against your hips, guiding you with every move you make. His messy white hair, frayed from rolling around in bed, trying to fight you for the dominant position. (He let you win, but he’ll never admit it out loud.)

Eventually you grasp his hand, his palm practically swallowing your own, and roll your hips slightly. It still hurts but nowhere near as bad as it did before. Repeat the motion, and a hint of bliss courses through your veins. Matching the feeling of his fingers on your clit, making your eyes flutter shut.

Easy does it. Don’t bite off more than you can chew.

He kisses you, slow and deep, dragging his tongue over your own. You can still taste yourself on him; he insisted you didn’t have to return the favor this time. Although he’s eager to see what you would look like with his cock down your throat, if you would struggle to take him all in, tiny hands pressed against his thighs, nails cutting into his skin like knives. His cock twitches at the thought, and he knows you feel it by the gasp that leaves your mouth.

You can do this. You got this. Nothing to be scared of, right?

A few more slow thrusts has the two of you moaning out each other’s names. Pure adrenaline floods throughout your body. Eyes flashing, you hold out both hands and press down hard on his sweaty chest, knocking him back down into the pillows below.

He stares up at you through those beautiful white eyelashes, lips parted slightly as you positon yourself over his lap. Letting his cock slip out just enough before sinking back down with a moan that has your back arching and your nails biting into the skin of his chest.

Satoru thinks he could cum just from watching you.

It’s all he can do, just sit back and enjoy the show. Throat tightening from the way you bounce yourself on his cock, singing out his name like a prayer. His hands wander up towards your breasts, eager to feel them once more, but you’re quick to bat them away. Sending him a warning glare as you pick up the pace, mouth falling open as his cock finds that special spot deep inside you.

He can’t help but smirk at that. Still his little spitfire, huh?

“Satoru…” There’s a bite to your tone, one that sends a shiver down his spine, as he fists the pillows behind him. All too eager to touch you, but not until you give him permission.

He’s a gentleman after all, isn’t he?

Your eyes glimmer with tears, hips stuttering against his own with every thrust. Pretty lips trembling as you whisper, “Fuck me, Satoru.”

His hands burn against your waist, heels digging into the mattress as he lifts his hips up to meet your own. You’re screaming out his name, lashes wet with tears, tiny fists curling against his chest. He moves you up and down on his cock at a rapid pace, one that has you sobbing and moaning and pleading with him to go faster, faster Satoru, please fuck me—

You’re clenching around his cock so tight, he won’t last another minute at this pace. So he gathers you in his arms, tossing you into the mattress like a ragdoll, smirking when you flop against the pillows below. Sinking his cock into you once more, savoring the bliss in your eyes as he stretches you out.

“Satoru!”

Your cries are barely audible through the rhythmic thumping of the headboard against the wall. But he still hears them, hears every fucking moan of his name, every plea in your sweet little voice, every whine and gasp and sob that brings him closer to the edge.

He can see it in your eyes, how close you are to your peak. How you dig your nails into his shoulders, cradling him to your chest and kissing his lips as hard as you can. He slips an arm around your back, bracing his other against the frail headboard of the bed. Praying to any god above that the damn thing won’t collapse before the night is over.

And suddenly you shatter around him, squeezing him for all he’s worth, a thousand cries of his name on your tongue as you hold him close. It’s almost enough to make him lose it, he’s so close, almost there—

He pins your tiny body against the mattress, fucking you through your high, leaving you squirming for release beneath his larger form. Another few thrusts has him spilling himself deep inside of you, moaning your name against the shell of your ear. Clutching your smaller form close to his chest, shielding you from the rest of the world beyond.

Several moments pass before the two of you move. Carding your fingers through his sweaty hair, tasting his lips for the thousandth time tonight. He slides out of you as gently as he can, unable to suppress the smirk as he watches ropes of his cum covering your inner thighs.

“So messy,” you mumble, and it’s like a switch has been turned on in your brain. You’re back to being your shy, docile self, hiding your face in his chest. He laughs before pulling away, holding your face between his warm hands.

“I like it messy. You did so good for me, sweetheart, so fucking good.”

It’s hard not to blush when he’s praising you like that, especially when he starts kissing his way down your body. Starting from your neck and trailing down your chest, your stomach, and finally ending between your thighs. You don’t even have the strength to protest as he spreads your legs and flicks his tongue over your messy clit, not even bothered with the taste of his cum.

“Satoru,” you whine, throwing an arm over your face. But he reaches up and pulls it away, blue eyes glowing in the darkness of your bedroom.

“’M not done yet,” he mumbles, dragging his tongue along your slick, “want more of you.”

That gets a weak laugh out of you. “So fuckin’ greedy, huh?”

Yeah, he’s greedy. When did he ever say he wasn’t? He’ll take any part of you he can get, as many times as he can. His sweet little spitfire, all shy and precious but a fucking menace in bed.

And fuck, if he doesn’t love you like crazy for it. 

[the-blue-eyed-firebender]

Hi!

Have I ever told you this? (Probably! But I'll say it again, ha) It's been an absolute treat reading your Royai fics. Thank you for joining this fandom!

What are your inspirations? 😃 In terms of writing style, but also ideas, etc. Please indulge us all, and please do geek out about your writing process too!

I always love learning about how fan fic writers work and write!

Thank you, and I hope you have a lovely day~

Hey there!

You are so kind. It's hard to put into words how much it means to have had such a lovely reception from the FMA fandom. I used to write a lot when I was a kid, but eventually stopped due to some unfortunate and painful circumstances. Writing for this fandom over the last couple of months has been an incredible journey. It has healed some very intrinsic parts of me that I’d forgotten were wounded, and I have written more in the last few months than I have in 15+ years.

So, first and foremost, thank YOU.

Inspirations: I've always been a lover of fantasy and science fiction. My very first fandom was Star Wars, followed shortly thereafter by Avatar: The Last Airbender. Recently, I've become a huge Sarah J. Maas fan (I read ALL of her books in the year 2023 - minus the new one that came out in January). I've also enjoyed Suzanne Collins and Leigh Bardugo (particularly her Six of Crows duology).

But really, I just love stories. I love adventure, magic, and romance. I look for complex characters, vibrant worlds, strong magic systems, and rich backstories. My favorites always involve women who embody strength (mental, physical, and emotional), capable leadership, and femininity. Characters who are equal parts war-like and compassionate, fearsome yet soft.

But my very best inspiration comes from real-life: my sweet husband. It's going to sound silly, but I feel like I write about true love because I've experienced it. This guy was 100% written by a woman (lol). He's read everything I've written, and provides the most wonderful feedback and encouragement.

As far as style/process, I feel like I am still developing it? Haha! It's only been a minute since I got back into writing. But it usually starts with daydreaming to music (often songs without lyrics; Secession Studies is a favorite), typically while I'm in the car. With my first FMA fic, The Counteroffer, I was listening to "Beautiful Things" by Benson Boone on repeat. Something about the way he sings "Please stay / I want you, I need you, oh God" really set the tone for that story. That, combined with inspiration from the infamous Chapter 54 of A Court of Mist and Fury.

There's usually an moment or a line of dialogue that pops into my brain first (for The Counteroffer, it was Hawkeye lifting the discharge paperwork to find Mustang has also given her an unsigned marriage certificate). I write that bit, then the rest of the story sort of fills in around it. I write in disjointed fragments, adding chunks here and there and then connecting them together. Sometimes I shuffle things around, moving chunks to different locations in the story to see how it changes the flow.

Beginnings, endings, and titles are usually the hardest for me to come up with.

And here's a few of my own patterns that I've started to notice:

I love stories that read with a poetic beat to them (I think the best example of this in my own work is Hourglass).

I use line breaks for emphasis a lot.

I am intentional about keeping things concise but impactful. When it comes to word count, my personal rule is quality > quantity, always.

I try not to use "said/says" without other descriptive words.

If a portion of the story is dialogue driven, I'll read it aloud to make sure it actually flows like real conversation.

I often drop "and" from sentences when I feel like it messes with the poetic flow ("She became familiar with the space between heartbeats, the squeeze of the trigger, the wet sound of a bullet finding its mark." - Hourglass).

In the same vein, I use a sort of "rule of threes" quite a bit. I break sentences into three parts, offer three descriptions of a character's observation/sensation/emotion, repeat the same phrase three times, etc. (Oh look, I've done it again.)

I write in third person, present tense, always from the perspective of one character at a time. I feel like this puts myself and the reader right in the middle of the action, as it's happening. I dive deep into the primary character's thoughts and senses, both internal and external.

I re-read/re-watch the original content (i.e. FMAB, the manga) often, even if it's just in small parts. It keeps me grounded to who these characters are, and prevents me from going OOC. It's so easy to lose track of characterization if it's been too long since I watched an episode or read a chapter.

Hoo boy this got long. Thanks so much for the delightful ask! It was a lot of fun to dive into my own writing process and habits.

[cosmoeticss]

The Pact | Aegon Targaryen Modern!AU (Part Three)

Words: 2K

Pairing: modern!Aegon Targaryen II x reader

Warnings: 18+ minors DNI swearing. Mild slowburn. Overall bad writing. this is my ‘rom com’ fic so please expect rom com level corniness.

Note: Sorrryyy for building this up so much I’ve been going through it besties. Thank you for all the love and I hope you enjoy this.

my masterlist

Looking back on it now, you couldn’t remember a time where a building looked so daunting. Even when you had first moved into the building with Dalton three summers back, it hadn’t made your stomach churn like it does now. In fact, you can hardly remember moving in in detail. The process had been severely underwhelming, and it had happened in the blink of an eye. I guess that was one thing that could hold a candle to how you were feeling now. 

Why the hell is everything happening so fast? 

Just three days ago, you had been in your flat surrounded by everything you’d grown accustomed to being around everyday. Just three days ago, you thought you were in a committed relationship. You were wrong. You couldn’t wait for this to be over. The only thing worse than sneaking into the flat you already paid this month's rent on to break all of your personal belongings out, was if you would have had to do it alone.

Toned, Slender arms drape over your shoulders from behind, snapping you out of your haze. Daeron leans his head against yours. “He’s not in there,” he assures you softly. “He’s at work, just like you said.”

You nod, half heartedly paying attention, neck craning up at the towering building. “He’s at work,” you repeat, mostly to yourself. 

Another hand finds the back of your elbow – Lucerys’ hand – and he squeezes softly. “We’ll be in and out faster than the bastard will know what’s hit him.”

You offer them a warm smile, rubbing your sweaty palms against your denim shorts nervously. “Let’s do this shit.” 

Your friends had pulled out all the stops to make sure that getting out of that flat went as smoothly as possible. Helaena and Daeron had offered up their cars, each of a decent size, and designated them for moving your belongings. Aegon had rented a pick up truck for some of your bulkier furniture. Helaena had found a moving company that rented out plastic moving totes for three gold dragons a day, each stack coming with a rolling cart, and Baela and Jace stayed behind at the townhouse to clean up your old room (when Aegon said he hadn’t touched it in nearly four years, he meant it.) 

Sandbox love truly never dies, and you found yourself grateful that you had found the greatest support system you could ever have at such a young age, and that they had stuck by your side through thick and thin.

“Alright, team!” Rhaena grabs everyone's attention by clapping her hands together three times. “Operation: Free My Girl Y/N is now in effect. I want everyone to listen up, Helaena and I are on bathroom and bedroom duty, I want Aegon, Luke, and Dae on furniture, Y/N wants her couch, her bookshelf, her desk, any art supplies you see, and a couple things out of the bedroom. Anything that looks like someone with taste bought it is going in the truck.”

“Aye, aye, Captain,” Aegon mock salutes her.

“You need to wait until Y/N clears out her desk and bookshelf so worry about those last,” she says pointedly. “Aemond, you’re the only one here I trust with glass, so you grab any dishes and nick-nacks that are hers.” 

“You got it, Rhae,” he replies cooly, hands crossed behind his back.

“You’re so hot when you’re bossy,” you quip, and she shoots you a suggestive wink.

“Other than that, once we think we’ve got everything, we’ll do a quick run through to double check, and we are outta this bitch,” she holds her hand out for you to take, and you gladly do. “Does anyone not understand their job?” When there are no objections, you lead them through the lobby, and the seven of you and your moving equipment cram into the newly repaired elevator. 

In an attempt to lighten the mood, Daeron and Luke did a ‘sweep’ of the one bedroom flat the second the door was unlocked. Their hands were folded to look like handguns as they maneuvered theatrically through the four small rooms you had once taken shelter in. Luke lifted his hand to clutch the air by his shoulder, speaking into it like it was a walkie. “Coast is clear. Tactical team move in, let's go.” 

“Affirmative,” Daeron responded, mimicking radio static with his mouth as he did. You shook your head, a miniscule smirk playing at your lips as you made your way to your desk, and the gang got to work.

Everyone kept to themselves mainly, other than the occasional query of if something was for certain yours, they seemed to know you well enough to decipher on their own. 

It was alarming how quickly an entire era of your life could be packed into bins and whisked away. It was, as everything else had been these past few days, giving you whiplash. You could admit it to yourself, Dalton Greyjoy was nothing special. He wasn’t a good listener, or particularly doting, and he had barely been holding up his end of your partnership for the better half of four years, but he was yours. He was someone to come home to, he was a quiet night in, he was safe and boring, and maybe he was a little possessive sometimes, but he was all yours. That’s what you had convinced yourself, that the lackluster in your relationship was what you were supposed to feel. That it was safe. That you were comfortable. 

It was enough for you at the time, and you had just assumed it would be enough for him too. 

A warm, heavy hand slides over your back, snapping you out of your daze and pulling you back down to earth. “That's the last of the bins, but Rhaena wanted me to tell you to double check that we have everything,” Aegon’s voice is smooth and low as he leans against the doorframe beside you. “Still feeling okay?”

You nod halfheartedly. “It just sunk in,” your voice comes out scratchy and dry, like you hadn’t spoken in days, and you clear your throat. “Two hours is what it takes to pack up my whole life, just in case you were curious.”

He offers you a sympathetic smile. “Rhaena leads with an iron fist,” It’s an attempt to make you laugh, and if you hadn’t been so melancholic, you’re sure you would have. 

“I’m going to be twenty-seven soon,” you mumble. “I don’t have a plan. I moved to this city with no actual prospects, and no plan for what I’m going to do with my life and then I settled down with the first man to pay me any attention.” 

Aegon stays quiet as you swallow the lump in your throat. “And I finished school for what? I’m still working at The Golden Stag, I don’t even paint anymore, like it would make a difference if I did. I wasn’t any good.” 

The words stung like acid coming out. You had been painting since you gained the function of your motor skills. As you grew up, you’d painted everything – people, places, anything that caught your eye. Aegon knew that better than anyone, when he wasn’t modeling in front of your canvas he was right by your side watching. It was never anything but a passion to you, your mother had drilled it into your brain at a young age that no one ever found a decent career being a sub par painter, and with that turning it into a lifestyle became completely out of reach for you. Dreams of art school became chasing a business degree you had no want for. Your passion became a hobby, and that fact made you so miserable you couldn’t pick up a paintbrush anymore without feeling like a failure.

“Don’t say things like that. You are good,” he took hold of your shoulders, forcing you to face him but you could barely meet his eye. “And it makes a difference because it makes you happy. Don’t you want to be happy?”

You can’t stop the tears that are freely flowing now, but Aegon carefully brushes them away.Your forehead drops to rest against his warm, soft chest. “I do, but I don’t know how I let it get this bad. I don’t know how to fucking fix it.”

“Hey, do you want to know a secret?” he whispers, and you tilt your chin up to finally look right at him. “I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing either.”

You simper, a faint huff of a laugh pushing through your nostrils. “No way,” there’s a hint of playful sarcasm bubbling beneath the surface. “You?”

“I know, who would have guessed?” he nods affectionately, shrugging softly. “Guess what I do when I feel like I’m lost.”

“What?” you mutter, and if he hadn’t been holding you so close he might not have heard it.

“I call my best friend,” he soothes, causing an all encompassing warmth to spread through you. “And she picks up the phone every time and sure, maybe I still feel a little lost afterwards, but I don’t feel so small and I don’t feel lonely anymore.”

You draw a deep breath in, trying to expel all the heavy tension brewing in your chest. Of course Aegon knows all the right things to say to you to make it all feel a little bit lighter. 

“I’m not going anywhere,” Aegon promises, pointing towards the door. “Those idiots downstairs aren’t going anywhere, so if you need to breathe, or to fall apart for a while then that’s what we’ll do. We’ll just take it one moment at a time.”

You’re quiet as you press the heels of your hands to your eyes, rubbing them, and wiping away your tear stained cheeks. “Tell me what you need right now and we’ll do it,” his words are patient and delicate. “Whatever comes after isn’t important yet.”

Your gaze breaks from his, and roams around the white walls that had been slowly but surely closing in on you without you really noticing, then it falls to the laminate floor beneath you, cold and hard and unforgiving. After what feels like too long, your contemplating eyes find him, warm and welcoming and truly safe. Your thoughts wander to the familiarity of the townhouse, and your rambunctious found family floors below you. 

“I just want to go home.”

He keeps his promise. He takes you there.

The moon is high in the sky when you’ve finished unpacking into your old room. Upon returning home to the townhouse, you find the real reason Baela and Jace have stayed behind to ‘clean’ was technically also a ploy for them to put together the bed and frame they had all got you as a gift. You found yourself crying freely at the heartfelt surprise and before you knew it, pizza was ordered, beers were opened, and Daeron and Luke had picked up interior decorating. 

Maybe it was something that could’ve been done with the same vigor as it had been packed with, but it's slow. It’s procrastinating, it’s laughing over nothing and everything, and taking prolonged breaks to lay on the floor and talk about life. It’s a form of therapy in itself, and you ponder how you survived so long without it. Maybe you didn’t, and that was the point, why it meant so much more to you now.

When the night eventually dwindles out into a close, hugs and sleepy goodbyes are exchanged, along with promises to see each other soon. For the first time in a while, you don’t worry that they’re promises you can’t make good on.

You’re eventually the only two tired bodies remaining, and Aegon plants a chaste kiss to your hairline and bids you goodnight, squeezing your hand before he stumbles into his room. You find your way to yours in the dark like it’s a muscle memory that you forgot you had, and you sink into your bed, a thick sleep creeps into your aching bones.

Yes, you were still lost. It was going to take time to feel like yourself again.

But you don’t feel so small anymore, and as you finally drift off you don’t feel so lonely either.

previous part | next part

TAGLIST

@fan-goddess​ @heavenly1927​

[iffeelscouldkill]

Fic: the old stars are of no importance

Summary: In which RJ McCabe has more emotions about listening to a drunken group singalong than they'd expected. Set during season 1 episodes 9 & 10 and the aftermath of episode 10.

Also posted to Dreamwidth & AO3, or just keep reading for the fic!

---

Junior Agent RJ McCabe is having a terrible day.

A terrible week, actually. Or make that a terrible career.

RJ is no stranger to hard work – no-one can power through the Academy and get a Junior Agent role at twenty-three without working incredibly hard. But since Park was tak- since Park was rightfully apprehended, it’s not felt like hard work so much as desperately paddling to keep their head above water. All the weird stares, the muttering, the pointed questions from their superiors that RJ answers as honestly as possible while frantically analysing the words for anything that could reflect negatively on them.

They go from urgent briefing to the office to one-on-one report with the Major General to another briefing to the office to home, finally, though they’re barely sleeping. RJ is pretty sure their blood volume is 95% caffeine, lately – thankfully the IGR doesn’t test for that.

In recognition of the awfulness of break room coffee, they brew it at home and bring a big flask with them. Or they would, except that this morning they tiredly fumbled the pot while pouring and scalded their hand, causing them to flinch and drop it, splattering half of the coffee across their tiny kitchen floor. They lost ten minutes to the clean-up and they have half as much coffee as they need, damn it.

All of which is to say that they’re not in the mood for Junior Agent Goodman’s attitude.

“Twelve hours of nothing?” RJ repeats as they stare down at Goodman, whose normal mask of impassiveness has given way to annoyance. He looks tired, but RJ is no stranger to all-nighters, and Goodman shouldn’t be either if he wants to get anywhere in the Republic.

“The crew was mostly asleep for part of it,” Goodman responds. “Is there coffee?”

“It’s dreck,” RJ says. They’re wondering if padding out their stock of coffee with the break room sludge will result in halfway drinkable coffee. It will probably just taint the decent stuff.

“Yes, because I drink break room coffee for the delicate aroma,” Goodman says, his sarcasm acidic, and RJ’s patience snaps.

“I don’t want to write you up for insubordination—”

They listen to Goodman’s rationale for throwing away a full twelve hours of audio, interjecting with pointed questions. When Goodman says, “Trust me,” they almost snort. Trust Goodman. Trust Goodman after his leading questions about Park and his poorly-hidden recording device. After RJ had confronted him about the recording, he’d simply smiled and said, “You can’t be too careful.”

RJ is just taking his advice. They hold out their hand. “Hand me the headphones.”

The audio picks up mid-conversation, and at first it sounds like so much nonsensical rambling, until RJ is able to pick up the thread of what the insurgents are talking about. Edict 1837. Any confession by a known criminal needs to be transcribed, analysed, and examined for veracity – no matter what the contents.

RJ has to suppress a smirk when they realise what Goodman has been dealing with all night. For once, they’re glad they’re the ranking Agent.

They’re tempted to skip over it, but they can at least listen to the entirety of the group’s confessions. Patel and Tripathi’s knowledge of Republic laws and edicts gives them the advantage in creating, if not convincing confessions, certainly detailed ones. Jeeter’s is less elaborate, but would require a qualified Ancient Pre-Crisis Languages expert to verify. The Dwarnian Krejjh’s ‘confession’ is a pure flight of fantasy – no-one rational has believed Dwarnians can shapeshift since at least 2175.

As for Violet Liu – RJ would have expected her to choose a confession oriented towards her history as a Republic scientist. “The lead singer of Birdie and the Swansong” is just silly.

Their finger hovers over the fast forward button as Patel drunkenly challenges Liu to “prove it”.

And then –

Violet Liu starts to sing.

“So long, can’t dodge the dawn, red light shines on and on and on and on and on...”

RJ has heard Violet sing before, during 'Report 1: Violet Liu', but there's something startling about hearing her suddenly strike out into song, a little unsteady but clear and melodious.

The note hangs there for an uncertain few seconds before Patel takes up the next line.

“But it’s not the sea that’s coming for me-”

And then Liu joins back in-

“-and it’s not the storm, no, it’s not the storm…”

Tripathi starts playing a guitar – they’ve heard her idly strumming it in her room during downtime – and suddenly they’re all singing.

“When I go to sea, don’t fear for me,

“Fear for the storm, fear for the storm!”

RJ squints in confusion, forehead creasing. What are they all doing? Is this a taunt? Because they know they’re being listened to? Why else would the whole crew be sitting around singing like they don’t have a care?

(Fleetingly, RJ wonders what it would be like to have that level of comfort with a group. An image of Nan and Ferdy flashes across their mind’s eye before they quickly squash it. They’re getting distracted).

“So gather your charts and your portents,

“Throw them aside,

“The old stars are of no importance,

“They’re not what I navigate by...”

In hours of monitoring, RJ has never heard the crew sing together, yet they harmonise seamlessly like they’ve done it a hundred times.

The words are – nonsensical, just old-world seafaring imagery of seas and charts and stars. But the way the group sings gives them an energy; makes them important. Like they might be the last thing you’ll ever hear.

“Though I may burn, the heavens may learn to fear for the storm...

“Fear for the storm.”

Liu sings the final lines, and then Krejjh exclaims, delighted,

“Oops – I guess we’re all Birdy and the Swansong. What a coincidence!”

The whole group bursts into laughter, and RJ’s finger stabs angrily down on the fast forward button.

“Don’t tell me it’s all like this.”

They pretend not to see Agent Goodman rolling his eyes.

---

The rest of the day blurs past, the usual chain of reports, audio, meetings, exchanging terse words with Goodman (who’s even more sarcastic thanks to his all-nighter), more reports, more audio.

They dismiss Goodman at the end of the workday, even though overtime is the norm in the Republic to the point where the ‘workday’ doesn’t really have a beginning and an end. (This was less depressing to RJ when they thought the agents were all getting overtime pay). He quickly goes, obviously not wanting to wait around for them to change their mind.

Silence descends.

RJ mechanically fills in a few more forms, initials some reports, getting caught up on the endless paperwork that’s generated by active cases. The Rumor audio isn’t being logged as it’s coming in; last night was an exceptional case in the aftermath of the insurgents making contact with the other Violet Liu, but based on the subsequent twelve hours of audio and today’s similar experience, they’ve determined it’s a more prudent use of resources to analyse it after the fact.

So, there’s no reason for RJ to be going over to the bank of audio desks and slipping on a pair of headphones. An audio file has just come in, but RJ pulls up an older file and scrubs through it, looking for the right timestamp.

They’re just double-checking Goodman’s work – making sure nothing was omitted when investigating the insurgents’ confessions under Edict 1837. A missed detail could give rise to a lot of additional paperwork, and their department can’t afford another blot on its track record. They pull an empty notepad towards them and poise a pen over it, ready to take notes.

But the notepad stays blank throughout the confessions, and then the singing begins.

“So long, can’t dodge the dawn, red light shines on and on and on and on and on…”

Maybe the lyrics could be – could contain some kind of code? RJ scrawls, The old stars are of no importance, and then just as quickly scratches it out. Code for who? That wouldn’t make any sense. The words don’t mean anything.

“So gather your charts and your portents,

“Throw them aside...”

RJ has never been one for music or singing (especially in public); they always shrugged Nan off when she tried to cajole them into karaoke. At the Academy, they’d sat on the sidelines during that kind of drunken, raucous group bonding, nursing one drink and wishing they could be literally anywhere else. Eventually, they’d started making excuses about work to catch up on.

Listening to the Rumor crew sing should sound like that – the kind of alcohol-fuelled stupidity that RJ has never wanted to be a part of.

It shouldn’t sound like –

Like family.

“Though I may burn, the heavens may learn to fear for the storm…”

The song ends, and RJ quickly hits ‘stop’. Almost guiltily, they navigate back through the audio to where the beginning of the song would be.

Distant footsteps sound in the corridor, and RJ goes very still, listening. Clark went home hours ago, so it’s not her.

They refuse to look around furtively, because that would be childish and also, they’re not doing anything wrong. They’re just doing their job.

RJ hits ‘play’ again.

“So long, can’t dodge the dawn…”

---

Chaos reigns as RJ, Park, Liu, Patel and Krejjh dash towards the window where Tripathi hovers with the heisted spaceship. The Vre Chel Noke nanoswarm, which had been a thick, shimmering mist around them seconds ago, hovers ominously like a warning.

It’s enough to keep Goodman and the other guards from trying to retaliate as Tripathi begins helping each of them into the open spaceship door. (RJ was tempted to take a potshot at Goodman in the chaos, but they told themself they’re better than that. Also, they didn’t want to waste any time). RJ is keeping their eyes fixed on Park, deliberately not thinking about what they’re doing, just thinking about the next moment. Stay alive. Get out of here. And then – we’ll see.

As Tripathi holds out her hand to RJ, though, they can’t resist a last glance behind them at everything they’re leaving behind. They thought this building would be the site of a long and (hopefully) distinguished career; it was practically their home, their life – until recently.

A line bubbles up in their mind, and RJ stifles the absurd urge to laugh. The old stars are of no importance – They’re not what I navigate by…

RJ turns away and accepts Tripathi’s hand up into the ship.

---

All things considered, it’s not surprising that only a few hours after joining the crew, RJ finds themself in the middle of a group singalong.

The mood is a mixture of tense and exhilarated in the immediate aftermath of their getaway. Everyone is visibly exhausted, Park possibly most of all, but it’s clear they’re all too wired to sleep or rest. They wander around the new ship, acquainting themselves with the layout and the rooms. The Rumor crew all exclaim over the size of the mess hall, which is pretty small to RJ’s eyes, but they guess anything would seem impressive compared to the homemade junk bucket the crew were flying in before.

The crew have a couple of bags stowed away, stuffed with supplies – all that’s left of the old ship. RJ thinks fleetingly of their small, bare apartment. There’s nothing they’ll miss.

Jeeter – Brian – makes some food and crucially, coffee, which is as bad as the break room dreck, but RJ will inhale anything at this point. The group chatters, their voices still surreal for RJ to hear in person and not through headphones.

They glance at Park, who looks more relaxed than they’ve ever seen him. The Rumor crew are sharing details about what happened to each of them during ‘The Plan’; Park volunteers a little about his own part, though there’s a conspicuous lack of detail about anything related to Zone Z. Sometimes the conversation falls awkwardly silent when the subject comes up. RJ isn’t about to push, and can tell the others don’t want to, either.

Trip- Sana and Krejjh determine it’s safe to set the new ship to autopilot, and Krejjh comes into the mess, intensifying the noise and cheerfulness. RJ tries not to stare; they’ve never been in close quarters with a Dwarnian (well, before shooting Krejjh earlier) and have only ever seen them in Republic training footage and, uh, Sh’th Hremreh. But Krejjh seems to find them fascinating, too, gamely questioning them about their ‘sharpshooting’ skills. Apparently sparing their life carries more weight than shooting them in the leg.

Eventually, Krejjh’s attention turns to their fiancé and the wider group, and RJ, no longer observed, lets their shoulders slump. They’ve drained the last of their coffee and want to ask for more, even though they’re practically vibrating. Adrenaline has carried them this far, and they don’t want to find out what happens when they crash and the reality of what they’ve done hits them. Part of RJ feels like they left their body back at Headquarters; or like they’re about to blink and wake up in their office chair with Goodman glaring at them.

“You okay?” Park asks in an undertone, and RJ jolts, upsetting their thankfully empty cup. They open their mouth to reply, but then Sana calls, “Okay, everyone!”

She’s holding a guitar, and RJ stares, wondering how much space that must have taken up in the supply bags. Arkady groans, but she doesn’t look angry. Violet covers her mouth in amusement, and Krejjh cheers.

“I thought we could christen our new ship with a bit of a song,” Sana says earnestly (RJ is learning that ‘earnest’ is Sana’s default mode). Park’s eyes widen, which makes RJ glad that they’re not the only one experiencing slight panic. Is it too late to sneak out? Sana plucks at the guitar strings, twiddling the pegs to tune them. She strums a chord and nods, satisfied.

“What shall we start with? Any suggestions?” Her gaze alights on Park and RJ, and she smiles encouragingly. “McCabe – do you want to suggest a song? You don’t have to sing if you’re not comfortable.”

“Uh…” RJ would like to suggest something less – incriminating, but unfortunately, there’s only one song currently on their mind. “What about... ‘Fear for the Storm’?”

To their relief, Sana doesn’t ask questions. “Good choice!” she says, and RJ feels, ridiculously, pleased. Park quirks an eyebrow at them after Sana looks away, but RJ just shrugs, not wanting to explain.

Sana strums a few opening chords, and Violet and Arkady begin, singing the first line together.

“So long, can’t dodge the dawn, red light shines on and on and on and on and on...”

RJ sits back in their chair and fractionally, begins to relax, letting the singing wash over and around them.

Quietly, too quietly, to be heard beneath the singing, they hum along.

---

A/N: So the idea conception for this fic went something like this:

Me: Okay, I've got this fun idea I want to write about the real lead singer of Birdie and the Swansong listening to the Iris casefiles and reacting to the group singalong-

My brain: I have an even better version of that idea!

Me: Yes?

My brain: What if McCabe-

Me: OH MY GOD

...Go on...

I have one (1) character whose perspective I'm consistently inspired to write from and can do so at the drop of a hat xD (I was trying to write this in a few days for the Small Fandoms Surprise Scramble on Dreamwidth. I succeeded!

The idea that became this idea was sparked off by listening to the full cast version of Fear for the Storm and having some Emotions about it again :D I remember how captivated I was by this song when listening to Episode 9 for the very first time, and so the idea of giving McCabe some of those Emotions was a very appealing one. Poor thing is going through it.

This also gave me a chance to write about the immediate aftermath of Episode 10, which I had not done before!

[chimerahyperfix]

RECIPE OF THE DAY

[OR: This was the most upsetting alternate looper option]

Long post because i have been cooking this in my brain for like, two months, and it's all-consuming. Also I'm not in the Discord yet because Anxiety so my ramblings had to go somewhere, and what better than one big fucking post yknow. I cast spell of fuck you mind blast on the tag/lh /j

TLDR for below: Siffrin words his wish differently, Bonnie gets trapped in a time-loop, and despite saying they're in a timeloop repeatedly nothing works and no one can help them. The normal ISAT absolute horrors ensue.

CONTENT WARNINGS: the normal ISAT tags [death, violence and trauma, suicide, self harm and unreality], Notable Pin on child endangerment and death, poisoning.

most of these get discussed ^ even if shortly

SO. THIS AU.

This is it this is my big one. Ignore me pushing the literal 12 other isat aus I have into a pile pls this is THE big one. I’m looking at the note I’ve stored all this lore in on my notes app,and it’s like. 35 fucking pages?

I've looked at a ton of alternate looper aus [that's part of the hyperfixation babeyyyy I need to consume ALL content forever and ever and ever] and I was like “oohhhh I wanna do that!!” So I literally just listened to music until I caught an idea and yikes. Looking at the AUs playlist now [it’s about 100 songs! Oops!] and I’m like [cartoony image of me laying face first on the floor]

This is a bit scattered because I wrote it over 3 days instead of working on the fic I’m supposed to be writing ooopsieeeee. Ramblings belowvvvvvvvvvv

It begins as simply as the game does. No one knows how to wish properly; so Siffrin wishes, because they know how to. The same folded leaf, repeated three times wish. Close to what is said in canon; different enough for the Universe to read it differently. No longer does Siffrin loop, because the wish isn’t about him, it’s about Bonnie and their sister. Siffrin’s wish is construed as “I wish Bonnie’s wish would come true,” and even if the Universe can’t hold onto Bonnie’s wish as they did it wrong, it CAN hold onto Siffrin’s.

And that’s the base point: EVERY LOOP, Siffrin wishes, because he wishes after he talks to them and that's where they loop back to, and its wish craft goes to Bonnie. A recipe for disaster with how much time they have!

They loop back when Siffrin gets crushed by the rock, because they can’t win while being down a party member. When they touch a tear, or when the sadnesses get the jump on the party and they all go down, or when they use the dagger equivalent [a poisoned snack], or when they get to the King. They Never Beat The King. Think SASASAaP but ISAT.

Bonnie doesn’t fight with craft, but rather craft-infused weapons. The wok and their pan for rock, a pair of kitchen shears for scissors and a cookbook for paper. Snacks for healing and buffs. And they have a cool friend that lives in the favor tree! [they get in fistfights like every five loops. Maybe it would be funny, someone just as willing to spar with them instead of trying to find the right words they can’t find because they’re a kid, if their friend wasn’t ALSO another version of themself, which bonnie clocks pretty late.] They pick up little quirks from their friends, like biting their nails like Belle, and puffing up to look bigger like Isa and stealing Dile's curses and closing an eye to match Frin's in focus. And maybe they start forgetting a little bit, just a little! The same thing over and over will get to you.

So everything essentially boils down to this. Bonnie specifically needs to be strong enough to beat the King, as the rest of the party doesn’t keep experience through loops. For a good chunk of the loops, they take advantage of Siffrin asking them if they need help and drag him into a training lesson that slowly goes from a whole emotional conversation to them quietly listening to Siffrin’s every word. [Siffrin fills this silence with random star facts that pop into their mind. This Is Important It WILL Be On The Test] Eventually the training becomes too tedious, so they start sneaking off to go fight sadnesses— and eventually just punch trees, which busts their knuckles— to get stronger faster! Everything goes downhill from there, with them forgetting to make food to them sneaking out at night to fight more to them getting reckless and uncaring; it snowballs down into “oh this could be considered suicidal confidence”.

Every loop, you say "hey, I'm trapped in a time loop", and EVERY time it is a big emotional thing that exhausts you to the point of going to bed immediately after, and everyone gets antsy and worried, and in the end the anxiety and trouble NEVER ends up mattering because the King still flattens the party every time. [And (shuffling through the sea of my notes for the au), imagine this from their situation for a second; Today, you tell your friends you are trapped in a time loop. They drag you into a long, uncomfortable conversation that makes you cry, and you go to bed with a full stomach and the knowledge they will protect you, and you will protect them. You make sure he doesn't get squashed by a boulder, you make sure they find the key, you make sure they don't die. Tomorrow, you will tell your friends you are trapped in a time loop. They will drag you into a long, uncomfortable conversation that will make you cry, and you will go to bed with a full stomach and the knowledge they've failed to protect you, but they're trying this loop, and you'll still protect them anyway.]

And then the King fight. He grabs them and he kills them and it fucks them up. [it fucks them up, until it too happens again and again, and eventually it simply is just another obstacle you must pass, because the second his stupid hand wraps around you like a ragdoll it’s over, so you just spit in his face to make him press the trigger immediately and not drag it out for forever- imagine the most traumatic event in your entire life, repeated over and over, until it looses all meaning. It’s still traumatic, it’s sewn into your brain forever you will never forget this.]

They tell the party ‘hey, I just got murdered’, and if this au was ISAT, it would go from having a memory that gave everyone a defense buff to a memory that literally stops you from winning, randomly attaching to a party member. You couldn’t get rid of it. They’d take every hit for you, and you’d have to loop back, because you couldn’t win with an unremovable memory like that. and that’s why they stop saying things, because if the people you loved would die to protect you, something you don’t want and have the ability to stop, would you stop them?

And so everything collapses, and from that point [the start of act 4] it collapses fast.

WHICH LEADS US TO ENDLESS MY FAVORITE LITTLE THANG

if this is transparent or not I don’t fucking know and honestly. After 2 hours of fighting ibisPaint X to make it transparent I stopped caring. o7

Slight design notes tangent: the fucking. Wispy things around their limbs just kinda move around them- yknow because black holes pull things in and they are one. Their like,,,, face spike design??? Question mark on what 2 call it? It’s designed to look like their hair lol. The little star-dot things on their knuckles are important smile. Eventually I’ll post a full thing 4 them (I have like 2 pages of random doodles of them it’s craaazy)

Endless (or Ness, later on) is Bonnie’s loop-alike. They’re a little angry hater and I based them on the song Black Hole Sun [therefore they double-dip in the space theming, the little scoundrel! Imagine being both a black hole and a partial eclipse!! Damn why you taking all the space theming for!!] which was the song the whole AU was based on! Woah! Damn you carrying ALL the out of AU lore in you! They’re anger over fear while Bonnie is fear over anger.

They make me SO fucking upset. Like. I’m not being funny anymore. This is THE most upsetting character I’ve ever written. They make me cry. My entire schtik is making horror and this little creature is the most upset I've ever been at a creation of mine.

Endless is a Bonnie who, without exaggerating, literally imploded from having too much wish craft in them— hence the black hole theme. They went through an unreasonable amount of loops [i think I noted down 400??? Probably not that many, but hey, leveling is slow when half the time you rely on a scripted event that has like 3 enemies. Never really pinned anything down, but it’s a CRAZY upsetting amount.] and just couldn’t win,, and they eventually broke, and begged for it to stop— and, well, with so much wish craft in them, even without the proper rituals the Universe just couldn’t ignore ALL this wish craft, overflowing, in one spot. They asked for help and it killed them.

And then they were at the tree! And they’re helping a DIFFERENT Bonnie, who they’re upset at because what. What why is this happening? They asked for it to stop, not for a whole NEW Bonnie to exist and to do it all over again, what is this what, stop stop it. And they have to keep watching Siffrin wish, and doom them to their endless loop, and they have to tell Bonnie no, the party can’t help them like they want the party to do because the party never could help them, and it’s just going to bring them distress and heartache. Bonnie does it anyways, until the very beginning of act 4: it goes downhill from there, until they’re worried This Bonnie will end up like THEM.

They’re not the most self-confident type. They give themself the most un-nicknameable name [Bonnie still finds one that fits— Ness. They reluctantly accept it.] [Endless vc: Ness? Like? From Earthbound???] they can think of because nicknames are a love language and they speak it, and they don't think they deserve it anymore because they've Changed, and trade out the nicknames they have for the party for things they learned from Siffrin in their own many many training loops: The Sun, The Moon, The Star, The Sky, and Bonnie is Supernova, because its cool as hell and Siffrin told them that’s what happens when a star dies, and they died. Open foreshadowing. They take to closing the same eye they made Siffrin the Star loose, because if he doesn’t get to see anymore neither should they— even if that eventually becomes a natural thing, something they do now to focus. They talk about a sister they have— had, because their world is gone and she never got unfrozen, they never learned if she was alive under all that icy craft or not, and they’re not Bonnie anymore. Ness is Bonnie, but Bonnie is not Ness.

And so, when act 5 hits, they’re desperate. They can’t see it happen again, because it erased them as a person and it was terrifying enough why would you want to see it happen again? they prepare to storm the house, bevause theyre strong enough to tear it apart themself, get stopped by the party, and essentially they’ve replaced Bonnie for a loop; which would be okay, if failing didn’t mean there would probably be Two Endlesses and No Bonnie’s. By the end of the au, Bonnie, lvl 99, is like bringing a brick to a stare down. Endless, in comparison, is like bringing a bazooka to a fistfight. They can’t face the King, they can’t, it would probably mess something up [the party has them pinned as being a kid by this point— wether they realise Ness acts a lot like Bonnie or not, who knows] so they panic and wave the party off into the King’s room and fights off the remaining sadnesses to calm down.

And the Party brings Bonnie down, and they fight a fake version of their sister [who they win against, even if barely, because Nille is their sister and damnit, Nille would never hurt them, not after giving up her life for them] and they have a breakdown, and then there's two of them. There's Bonnie and there's Ness. Bonnie confronts them and they get in ANOTHER fistfight, bveause how else would two angry ultra-powerful preteens settle things, and Bonnie convinces them to come along, because their identity has been found out and damnit Nille really won't care, Ness is her sibling too.

[Nille approaches the situation carefully, but Bonnie is right: Nille sees the two of them and immediately decides she has two siblings and she wants to protect them. Both of them went through so, so much, and they saved the country and damnit it would be monstrous to throw Ness out to the wolves because they Changed. Aka I was physically incapable of letting Ness dissapear or have a bad ending they deserve the world too.]

I just I jsutt. Auguhghghghhh. au too big in my brain spill it out on the floor it goes everywhere. When you hyperfix on your own au