#And he was always so sure of himself as who he was and who he would be

[hurlingdown]

‎        ★ ❛ HOT DEMON B!TCHES NEAR U ! ! ! ❜

synopsis. getting two sex-addicted hot demon bitches as your roommates wasn't exactly part of the contract, but they might just be the second best part of it. oh. and the best part? they are utterly, uncontrollably obsessed with you. wc. 5.3k

tags. top master! reader, bottom succubi! gojo & geto. reader has a cock. hardcore dom/sub. mean dom! reader, masochistic! gojo. threesome, womb tattoos, breeding kink, creampie(s), rimming, face-sitting, rough anal sex, multiple orgasms, riding, blowjob, male squirting, spanking, dacryphilia, somnophilia (slight dub-con), slut-shaming, degradation, praise kink, voyeurism, jealousy, felching, yandere! gojo undertones, aphrodisiacs, both of them are whiny, needy and hungry for your cock.

a/n. this might just be the filthiest thing i've ever written. do enjoy <3

In hindsight, you really, really should have known that your two roommates were promiscuous, sex-obsessed freaks before moving in with them. No, scratch that. You should have long known that they weren’t even entirely. . . human. 

Not that they were exactly being subtle with it. Once, you had walked in on Satoru naked in the middle of ‘certain peculiar activities’ with his door half-open, wings, tail and dark pink womb tattoo on full display, stretching across the expanse of his lower abdomen in obscene heart-shaped swirls. You were taken aback at first, sure, but you weren’t mean with it, even offering to keep his identity a secret—and he had taken your politeness for something more. 

Now, he didn’t even bother to hide it anymore. In point of fact, he flaunted it. 

Satoru would curl his tail around your thigh playfully whenever he would walk past you in the house, stretching his horned fuchsia wings while shooting you a sultry over-the-shoulder glance whenever you were behind him, even purposefully wearing shirts a size too small around you so that the fabric would ride above his waist whenever he had to ‘stretch’ or reach for something—perfectly showing off his pretty womb tattoo. 

It drove you insane with desire. And if that wasn’t bad enough for you, Satoru’s best friend, who also happened to be a succubus and your other roommate—Suguru, decided that the white-haired succubus accidentally outing himself was his cue to start courting you. 

You didn’t even know that succubi courted. You supposed there was always a first for everything. 

Suguru was far from being openly vulgar like Satoru was, but just as indicative of his wants. And that happened to be you. With long black hair, dark wings and a sharp, swift tail of the same colour, he was eerily gorgeous. He took his sweet time courting you, laying blooming red peonies all over your bed that worked as aphrodisiacs, spending his weekends making you wine-flavoured chocolates in the shape of hearts, hoping to get you drunk and all to himself. You would also constantly find missing pieces of clothing from the underwear section of your wardrobe, the distinctive mouth-watering scent of an aroused succubus left behind in their stead. 

Satoru and Suguru were beautiful in a way that most things were—poisonous and addictive. You had told yourself that you wouldn’t get swayed by their honeyed façade and fall into their trap. You had told yourself, but. . . 

The last thing you expected to wake up to was a wet, searing mouth on your hard cock. 

You groaned, shuddering as mind-numbing pleasure wracked through your body in overwhelming waves, reaching out blindly to hold onto something before it consumed you—fingers digging into the sheets so hard you heard it rip. You couldn’t explain why or how it felt so good, the pleasure almost other-worldly—the sensation of an incredibly soft tongue licking up your length, dragging a trail of heat and drool on sensitive skin. The air smelt sweet, like roses and cherries, the sharp sting of arousal zipping up your spine as you took a deep whiff. 

“D-does it feel good, master?” a voice panted, whined, “am I doing good for you?” 

You looked down to find two teary, dilated blue eyes staring up at you, and two you knew very well. “Satoru,” you managed, fighting down a shiver as his hot breaths smothered your shaft with unbearable warmth. Everything felt fuzzy and smelt too sweet, like someone had sprayed intoxicating perfume in your bedroom a thousand times over. “What the hell are you doing here?” 

He gripped your cock tighter with a pout, like he was worried that you would take away his favourite toy. “I just… I just thought I could make you f-feel better. Some de-stressing after a hard day, y’know?” He sighed, rubbing his cheek against your spit-soaked length, raised tail quivering behind him, shyly curling forward to show off the heart-shaped end of it. 

You couldn’t help but look. Satoru was dressed in a satin white shrug shirt that fully exposed his plump chest while allowing his wings to stretch out prettily, and you followed the tempting curves of his toned torso down to where his womb tattoo was pulsing and glowing red, as though showing off that he was eager to be bred. He was wearing the sluttiest, tiniest pair of lingerie underwear that barely covered his ass, the cute bulge of his cock visible from the front, his weeping cockhead poking out, strapped to his stomach. His outfit gave you the perfect glimpse of his soft milky thighs, before the rest was obscured by cream lace stockings that hugged his legs perfectly, leaving you wanting more. 

Sweet Lord. If this wasn’t heaven, you couldn’t even begin to imagine what heaven would be like. 

The succubus trembled under your scrutinizing, squeezing his thighs together as though he wanted to hide the evidence of his arousal. “A-are you done looking?” he mumbled, glancing at you through his lashes. “Can I continue? Please, I’ve been so good and you know it.” You could’ve sworn you saw his pupils dilate even more when his gaze returned to your erect cock, a line of drool running down his chin as his throat bobbed, as though he were imagining what it would feel like to swallow your cum. 

“Hold on,” you breathed, carding your hand through his soft hair to gently stop him from getting closer to your crotch. “Does Suguru know about this?” 

Satoru’s eyes flickered up to meet yours, his pout fading into something more. . . wary. “No,” he said, quietly. “He doesn’t.” 

“I’d thought so. Suguru wouldn’t—” 

“Stop talking about Suguru,” he whined, like he was actually hurt over this. “Suguru’s not about to suck your cock.” 

You frowned. And what gave him the right to sneak into your room and do blasphemous things to your body while you were sleeping, then? You tightened your grip on his hair, just enough to make him let out a low, pitiful whimper. “And you’re going to be the one to do it, then, Satoru?” 

His eyes widened like a guilty child. 

“I’m impressed,” you scorned, “You actually think you deserve it.” 

Satoru bit his lip, as though he was turned on by your sudden change in behaviour. “I… Master, please. I-I’m sorry, I couldn’t help myself. I’ve been asking for it for ages, I just couldn’t wait anymore—I needed you so bad. Please let me make it up to you. Please, please,” he stammered, hands grasping your knees and thighs in almost desperation while looking up at you with a forlorn expression. 

You looked at him, steering your expression into something like a leer. 

“You want to make it up to me? Is that so?” You pretended to think, scratching your nails lightly against his scalp, and he moaned softly, leaning into your touch. “Fine. Get on the bed.” 

The succubus clambered onto the bed clumsily, settling on all fours as he looked at you over his shoulder with a deep flush, tail quivering with arousal. “L-like this?” 

“Yeah, that’s perfect,” you muttered, hands coming to rest on each of his asscheeks, kneading the flesh softly. Satoru whined, back pressing into an arch as he pushed his rump towards you, eager to please. “So, tell me, Satoru. I’m curious. What makes. . . a good slut?” 

“S-someone who listens to orders,” he replied, obediently. 

“That’s correct.” You whistled, hooking two fingers over the waistband of his underwear, slowly sliding it down to his knees until you completely exposed his leaking cock and hole, the latter clenching and dripping with… slick, like a pussy would. You went back to playing with his ass, ignoring it for the time being. “And does a good slut ever talk back to their master?” 

“No,” he whimpered. 

“What about,” you began, stroking his sensitive inner thighs, “taking what they want without permission?” 

“No,” he repeated, biting back a whine as a slow sense of dread filled him. “That’s what… that’s what n-naughty sluts do.” The words sounded strangely obscene in his mouth, and he flushed, ears turning red. 

“Very good,” you praised. “Last question, Satoru. You’ve answered every question perfectly so far—this one will be easy.” You flashed him a vicious smile, taking great pleasure in his ordeal. “Do you think naughty sluts deserve to be punished?” 

The succubus shivered in both fear and anticipation, swallowing harshly. “Y-yes,” he whispered. “They do.” 

Satoru didn’t even have time to beg for mercy because your hand fell hard on his ass, the force of it sending a loud smack echoing across the room, making him jerk forward with a pleasured cry. 

The pain was electric, and so was the pleasure, a white-hot burn curling in his lower stomach as his cock gave a violent lurch—Satoru doesn’t think he has ever felt pleasure this good before in all his years of being a sex demon. You were a hard hitter too. The skin on his ass stung pleasantly, and he moaned out loud at the thought of you slapping his ass again and again until your handprint was burnt into his flesh, wanting more already. 

“You really are a slut,” you whispered, almost in awe. 

“Please,” he whined. He would take anything you were going to give him—praise or punishment. He was yours. 

You gently massaged the bruised area on his ass, leaning down to give it a tender kiss. “Turn around for me, baby.” You opted for a softer tone, trying to coax him into letting you see his face after the harsh treatment. You couldn’t believe you ever thought that he was the danger here. Things were turning out in the most perfect way, you would believe it was a dream if not for how solid Satoru felt under your touch. 

Satoru parted his lips, as though he wanted to argue—but quickly remembered your words. The pain was good, incredibly good, but it was also fleeting. If this was his first and last chance with you, then he would make the pleasure last. 

He flipped over on his back, removing his underwear and quietly spreading his shaky legs for you. His cock gave a weak twitch as your gaze swept across his body with interest, letting a low whine. 

“Good boy, Satoru,” you muttered, eyes zeroing in on the heart-shaped swirls of his pulsing womb tattoo. Admittedly, you had looked it up on the internet and found out all sorts of things about succubi, terms that ranged from ‘breeding’ and ‘fertility’ to ‘cum-addiction’, and you couldn’t wait to experiment them on him. “Gonna open you up now.” 

You rubbed your fingers against his soft and wet entrance, slathering them in his slick, before starting to push two in, just to be mean. The succubus was already panting, mindlessly arching his back and pushing against your fingers. “Hah… Master… please, more…” 

“More what? Tell me what you want, Satoru.” 

Satoru let out a lewd cry as you rubbed at his sensitive walls, hips jerking. “P-Please!” he squeaked. “Want your cum… inside my womb.” 

You could feel a sadistic smile pulling at your lips. So this was his true objective. To be bred like a cockslut—no, an animal. An animal bound by divine instruction to reproduce again and again and again, brainlessly offering up its holes to be filled with semen until its belly swells with the early stages of pregnancy. Perhaps the rumours about succubi on the internet were true, after all. 

You weren’t going to give him what he wanted so easily, though. You weren’t that nice—he hasn’t earned it yet. 

“Greedy,” you settled for a simple comment, leer morphing into something more innocent. You made sure to crook your fingers at a certain angle while pumping them in and out of his drooling hole, searching for the spot that made his toes curl and back arch, a filthy wail forcing his lips to part. “You sure you can handle that, baby?” 

“Y-yeah,” Satoru moaned, “Breed me… please. Wanna carry master’s children.” 

His womb tattoo glowed brighter, scorching hot underneath your touch. Satoru looked fucked out already and the night was still young, lidded eyes unfocused and glassy while he continued to grind down against your fingers, as though searching for something wider, thicker, deeper. 

“Slut,” you snarled, and the word was barely fitting for how the succubus was acting. You pulled your fingers out, the emptiness making him ache. He gave a loud whine, his hips giving a desperate buck into the empty air, neglected cock red and hard, smearing pre-cum all over his womb tattoo. 

“‘m your good slut,” he babbled, slurred for how drunk and stupid he sounded. You were sure anyone standing outside your bedroom would hear him with how loud he was being. 

His mouth felt empty, you decided. A little too empty. You hooked a thumb into the stretchy side of his mouth before rubbing your fingers on his bottom lip, and he gave a soft keen, parting his lips for you to slide them inside, before lightly sucking on them—tasting his own juices. 

“If you keep this up,” you warned, “Suguru will hear. You don’t want him hearing me making you scream, do you, Satoru? Or are you more of a pervert than I thought?” 

“No,” he said, muffled by your fingers stuffing his mouth full, tears dribbling down his cheeks. 

“Good sluts don’t talk with their mouth full,” you reminded him, gently brushing away his tears. 

He shook his head quickly, whining. Satoru didn’t like to share, and you knew that. You were his bond, his human. You didn’t need another succubus. Right? 

You bit down a smile at his blatant jealousy, pretending not to notice the presence right outside your room, the rustle of fabric unmistakable—barely covered by Satoru’s loud whimpers. It was a little too early to reveal it, with how both of them were enjoying themselves. You would indulge them a little longer. 

You coated your fingers with his spit generously before pulling them out, a string of drool connecting the two, before reaching down and unceremoniously plugging them back into his needy hole. Satoru yelped, trying to snap his thighs shut at the sudden intrusion, and you took the opportunity to guide them to wrap around your waist. He flushed, stammering out an apology, but you wouldn’t miss this chance to tease him. 

“Look at you, Satoru.” You continued to scissor him, occasionally pulling out to slather your cock with his sweet-smelling slick. “I haven’t even put it in yet, and here you are, drooling like we’ve been at it all night. Messy cockslut.” 

“Your cockslut,” he whimpered, and it sharpened into a keen when you slowly drove forward to dip the head of your cock in his hole. It clenched around you greedily, and it felt incredible even with only the tip in, soft and wet and hungry, warmth oozing into you, making you burn with desire. What was even more incredible was the fact that Satoru was crying, tears spilling over red, flushed cheeks as he struggled to stay still for you, wanting to please, wanting forgiveness. “Hnngh… master…” 

He was right. Satoru was your cockslut. 

You leaned down to caress his wet cheek, the action only causing your cock to nudge deeper inside, the warm tightness nearly sending you into overdrive—making you moan. You had never been inside a hole this heavenly before. The snug stretch around your girth was insane, and if that wasn’t enough, his hole kept on fluttering and clenching around you, making delicious sensations bleed into you. 

So the myths were true, after all—succubi were demons crafted for the sake of providing pleasure. 

Your vision was growing hazy with lust, the heat in your belly growing. The pleasure was almost too much—but you held on. You would drain him before he drained you. 

Grabbing him by the thick of his hips, you buried yourself to the hilt in one go, and Satoru let out a wrecked cry, fingers bunching up the sheets at the sudden stimulation. His womb tattoo sizzled and pulsed obscenely, and you reached down to gently press your palm against it, making him whimper loudly. 

You didn’t know if you would be able to hold it in for much longer—with how the poor thing was squirming on your cock, sweet slick coating your cock with every thrust in and drive out, the carnal smell of it all making your appetite grow tenfold, making you want to strip him of all dignity and devour. 

“Satoru,” you murmured, thrusting forward, and he answered with a keening wail of your name. “It seems like… we have a rather eager spectator. Should we invite him inside?” 

“Wh-what…” Satoru said dumbly, whines interrupting his words as his eyes struggled to focus. “Spectator…?” 

“Yeah.” You grinned as he realised who you were talking about, stiffening and shaking his head with a cry. He wanted to have you all to himself for a little longer… you haven’t even cum inside him yet. This wasn’t fair. “Let’s see if he’s just as much of a cock-hungry slut as you are, mm?” 

You turned your head to the door. “Suguru. Come in.” 

The door hesitantly creaked open, and Suguru stepped inside. Immediately, the sweetness of aroused succubi intensified in the room, a clash between Satoru’s sugary scent and Suguru’s honeyed one making you dizzy with want. 

“Master,” Suguru swallowed, a red flush on his cheeks. He was dressed in a revealing dark purple night-robe, a ravishing complement to the long, black hair that cascaded down his shoulders. He looked at the two of you calmly, but you didn’t fail to notice the shine between his thighs, giving away how bothered he really was. “How long have you known?” 

“Quite a while. Get on the bed and prepare yourself,” you ordered, turning back to the other succubus who was currently grinding himself senseless on your cock, little whines and pleas plucked out with each desperate roll of his hips. “I’ll deal with you after I’m done with Satoru.” 

Suguru listened obediently, laying down on the bed on his back, night robe gracefully falling open to reveal his purple womb tattoo, already throbbing and glowing with heat and need. He reached down between his parted thighs, rubbing and pleasuring his hole while watching the two of you, soaking the mattress with how much slick he was producing. 

You turned back to Satoru, the sight of his red, crying face sending a jolt of heat straight into your abdomen. “What?” You grinned, gripping his waist and starting to thrust into his tight heat again. “I did warn you.” 

“S-so mean,” he sobbed, arching his back at the pleasure. He was whimpering again, warm walls hugging your length firmly every time you drove in, and you could tell he was getting close again, had been close before you had so cruelly stopped to indulge someone else. Satoru turned his head to look at the other succubus, their simultaneous pants and whines serving to make each other even more aroused, Satoru’s slick drenching your cock while Suguru’s messily dribbled all over his hand, obscene squelching noises like heavenly music to your ears. 

“Gonna cum,” you announced, and both of them answered you with needy, high-pitched whines, Suguru fingering himself to your thrusts while Satoru laid there, moaning and sobbing, reduced to nothing but a pliable body made to take and take and take. 

The latter blinked up at you with glossy eyes, tears dotting on his lashes and crying out lewdly while you continued to pound into him like a rabid animal. Satoru loved it, how rough and careless you were treating him, your gentle hands telling a different story as they caressed his face, the contrast of pain and pleasure making him shiver. No one had been able to satisfy him like this before. You were perfect for him. 

“Please… your cum…” he pleaded, laying a hand on his pulsating womb tattoo, begging for you to fulfil his only purpose in life—to be filled and bred like the dumb slut he was. “I w-want it inside…” 

You could feel yourself getting closer and closer to the edge, his warm hole sucking you deeper in with every flutter, every clench, showering you in waves of stimulation to the point where it teetered between pleasure and pain. Just when stars began to float across your vision in hazy swirls, a sign that you were close to orgasm, you pulled out hastily, ignoring Satoru’s desperate, keening sob, yanking Suguru towards you by the hips before roughly plunging your cock into his needy hole. 

The startled moan that you pulled out from the other succubus was enough to drive you to the peak of your arousal, and you thrust a few more times before spilling into warm wetness with a loud, guttural groan. 

When you came to be, there were two kinds of noises rebounding in the room—Satoru’s cries and Suguru’s whines. 

“Master!” Satoru sobbed, bucking his hips into empty air as tears messily dripped down his face. 

“M-master,” Suguru whimpered, drooling and panting, stuffed so full of cum and cock he could barely speak. 

You moaned as you drew out from Suguru’s heat, watching as cum dribbled out from his puffy hole and onto the soaked mattress—and he let out a soft, needy whine, plugging two fingers inside himself to stop anything more from leaking out, as though to replace the fullness that he had felt before. You watched as he lay there shivering weakly, glowing womb tattoo tainted with streaks of white, and you realised that he had come just from you releasing inside him. 

You swallowed, feeling your cock fill out again. Suguru really was a good slut. Perfect, even. 

“Master…!” Satoru cried out again, gaze lingering on you and Suguru with an expression that could only be described as heartbroken, and you would feel sorry for him, if not for you catching sight of the softening cock resting against his heaving abdomen. The perverted thing had orgasmed from watching you cum inside someone else. If that wasn’t a sight. 

“I never promised you anything, Satoru.” You looked down at the mess you had created, smiling innocently. “Plus, Suguru’s a far better slut than you are, don’t you think? After all, he waited patiently for his turn to be bred, unlike you.” You slumped down onto the bed with a heavy sigh, turning to Suguru and patting your lap. “Sit on my cock, baby.” 

Suguru rubbed at his eyes, compliantly trudging over and straddling your waist, the length of your cock rubbing lewdly between his cheeks. He bit his lip, raising his hips until the tip of it nudged against his sore hole, the growing stretch more pleasurable than anything. Your cum turned out to be the perfect lubricant, and the intrusion was met with little resistance, allowing him to slowly sink down with a hungry whine. 

“F-feels so goood,” he slurred, his eyes rolling back as you bottomed out, making the both of you moan. He mindlessly rubbed at his stomach, right above his womb, where you had gifted him a baby. 

“See?” You looked at Satoru lazily, the poor thing watching in a mixture of arousal and frustration. “Suguru’s been so good for me. What have you done?” 

Satoru wanted to cry again at your demeaning tone. This was too much. You were being so mean to him, when he was trying his best to atone for his wrongdoings! He didn’t deserve this treatment, not one bit. If Suguru gets a baby, then he should get one, too. 

“I’m s-sorry,” he snivelled weakly. “Please, master… I promise I won’t ever misbehave again. I’ll be a good slut… I’ll do anything you want.” 

You smiled. “Anything I want?” 

He nodded, desperate. 

“Sit on my face and I’ll think about it.” 

Satoru wanted to protest, yank Suguru off your cock and ride it himself until you spurted heavy into his womb, showing you that he could please you just as much as the other succubus did, maybe even more. You were his, and naturally, your pleasure belonged to him as well. Suguru might be his best friend, but that didn’t mean Satoru liked to share his toys with him. But. . . if this was his last shot at gaining your forgiveness, then he would do whatever it takes to please you, even if it meant suppressing his needs for the time being. 

He scrambled over to where you were lying, carefully placing one knee on each side of your face, trembling with effort as he slowly lowered himself onto your face. He let out a soft, whiny keen as his position pressed his hole directly against your parted lips, and he struggled not to rut against your face—holding himself back from chasing after the addictive pleasure. 

You gently lifted him by the hips to breathe, before pressing a light kiss to the twitching hole. Licking around Satoru’s swollen rim in an attempt to loosen him up, you rolled your hips up into the welcoming warmth of the other succubus, jolting out an erotic moan. 

“You can start riding me, Suguru,” you muttered, closing your eyes and letting out a drawn-out moan as he gave a filthy clench around your length at the mention of his name. “Don’t hold back.” 

“Yes, master,” Suguru whined, rolling his hips against yours in smooth, circular motions, and you could feel the slick leaking out from his hole, smothering your length with the abundance of it, sweet and sleek and thick. The succubus rode you like he was made to do it, his cock slapping against his womb tattoo messily with every bounce, eyes fluttering shut in pleasure—letting out a stream of whimpers and pleas while his hole fluttered around you tirelessly, trying to get you to cum inside him a second time. 

You returned to your task at hand—giving a broad lick over Satoru’s dripping hole to gather some of his slick on your tongue, making him sob out a whine. It was sweet and intoxicating, addictive flavour melting in your mouth like sugar, and you couldn’t get enough—shoving your entire tongue into him before eating him out in earnest. 

And sweet lord, did he taste good. He was squeezing around you deliciously, releasing so much slick that it dripped all over your chin and down the column of your throat, making a mess. It drove you crazy. Before you knew it, you were making animalistic noises against his swollen entrance as you made love to it with your tongue, the vibrations making him croon with pleasure. And by now, you were sure that succubi slick had aphrodisiac effects, because with every mouthful that you swallowed, you found it harder and harder to control yourself, wanting to just give in to your arousal and take. 

“Please,” Satoru was sobbing loudly, feeling wet and loose and dirty, thighs trembling with little restraint as you lifted him up and down your tongue with ease, reaching so deep one would think you were trying to plunder his soul. “Gonna… gonna cum already…” 

“M-me too,” Suguru chimed in with a moan, hips growing wearier with every lift, his impending orgasm making him weak, the fullness of cock giving him the illusion of heaviness, and he held his belly as though he were pregnant already. 

You continued to pleasure the both of them the best you could, tongue curling inside Satoru with precision to press against his sweet spot until he was shaking and whimpering with overstimulation—while rolling your hips up to meet Suguru’s, feeling him needily clench around you every time you rammed up just right. 

You could feel yourself getting closer as well, the noises that your two obscene lovers were making serving to turn you on even more. Combined with the sinful pressure of Satoru’s sopping hole clenching around your tongue and the searing tightness of Suguru jumping on your cock, this was practically heaven. 

Reaching over to grip Suguru’s hips, you thrust up repeatedly into his tight warmth, leaving the other to ride your tongue on his own. You groaned your pleasure into Satoru’s hole, and the succubus answered with a keening cry of “Master!”, grinding down against your face with wild abandon. Both of their womb tattoos were glowing brighter than ever, screaming at you to breed them, take them, devour them—and you did just that. 

You rammed your hips up with a muffled shout, gripping Suguru’s waist so tightly you were sure it would leave dark bruises for days to come—unloading everything into his womb for the second time tonight—your seed, your love, your legacy. Suguru cried out loudly at the feeling of your cum filling him up, shuddering as his cock squirted all over the three of you—his stomach, your chest, Satoru’s back—while Satoru clenched around your tongue so tightly as his orgasm crashed over him like a hurricane, cumming all over your face and the mattress with a hoarse scream. 

You gasped for breath the moment Satoru slid off your face and collapsed onto the bed, panting heavily, black spots swirling heavily in your vision—the aftermath of the most intense orgasm you’ve had in your entire life. Succubi—no, your succubi really were something. 

Suguru was too tired to even protest as your softening cock slid out from his sheath, dragging out a trail of slick and cum. Yawning, he shifted to lay on the bed on his stomach, mumbling “Thank you, master,” before his eyes drooped shut in exhaustion. You watched him fondly, reaching out to card a hand through his silky hair, before a soft, almost petulant whine caught your attention. 

Satoru was glaring at the other succubus with jealousy. Sure, he had gotten a mind-blowing orgasm out of it, but he wanted you filling him up until he felt bloated with your cum, wanted to be bred. 

You let out an amused laugh. “You want my cum that bad?” 

He nodded his head frantically. 

“Well, then…” You turned to where Suguru had fallen asleep, cum trickling out of his asshole and sliding down his perineum steadily. You guess it would be somewhat of a waste to just leave him be. “Since Suguru took your share for the night. . . there you go. Have a taste.” 

Satoru’s face was slightly pale when you turned back to look at him, a sick grin stretching at your lips. He didn’t question you, however, quietly crawling over until he was kneeling between Suguru’s legs. His heart was pounding, your words earlier that night replaying in his head again and again like mantra—a good slut listens to orders. 

Making eye contact with you, he poked his tongue out, slowly leaning down before giving the excess cum a tentative lick. . . and swallowed. 

You were sure those were hearts exploding in his eyes. 

kinktober masterlist! masterlist!

[itneverendshere]

LOVED YOU AT YOUR WORST - r.c series - EIGHT

pairings: ex!sweethearts; rafe x thornton!reader; rafe x sofia. chapter warnings: mentions of pregnancy; abortion.

MASTERLIST

Topper prided himself in keeping out of people’s business.

He hadn’t noticed anything was off with you on his own, he wouldn’t have; he didn’t do the whole “emotional radar” thing.

But Rafe had practically cornered him, demanding he figure out what was going on with you.

You were his cousin, after all. 

That didn’t stop the way his stomach twisted from thinking about lying to you, or how every part of him had always silently rooted for you and Rafe. He’d loved seeing you two together. You were a mess most days, for years, sure, but it was the kind of mess that made sense in a way, and Topper couldn’t help but admire it.

You were like fire and gasoline.

But that was before the break-up, before everything got fucked.

Now, you were just… distant. He never knew how to approach you without feeling like he was crossing a line, but the way you’d passed out on Rafe at the beach had him worrying in a way that was more personal than he wanted to admit.

He wasn’t a thinker, not really, he liked simple things: good waves, cold beer, and not getting roped into drama.

But there he was, standing outside your door with Korean fried chicken. He didn’t do feelings, and he didn’t do heavy conversations. Rafe owed him big for this. The conversation had been good, even when you started talking about Sarah and Ruthie. 

Topper was all in—laughing along, throwing in a dumb joke here and there, the usual. It felt nice, like when you were kids, sneaking your dad’s beers and pretending you weren’t gonna get caught.

But then he had to go and ruin it by asking if you were okay.

You went all stiff, then weirdly far away, laughing it off like he’d just asked you to explain calculus or something. You mumbled something about being fine and then bolted to the bathroom before he could even follow up with his usual Topper-brand wisdom.

He sat there, feeling uncomfortable, which wasn’t a thing he usually did. You were acting off, and it was messing with him more than he wanted to admit.

Finally, he decided he needed to move, so he got up to grab some water. Except, as he walked past the counter, his hip caught a pile of your mail, and an envelope went sliding to the floor.

“Crap,” he muttered, crouching to grab it. It was just some random envelope, but there was a phone number written on the front in messy blue ink.

Topper didn’t think about it—because thinking wasn’t really his strong suit—he just whipped out his phone and typed it in. Curiosity, man. It got him every time.

He hit call. He wasn’t trying to snoop or anything. It was just one of those things you do on autopilot, right? Call a number just to see who answers? Except this time, someone did answer.

The phone rang. Once. Twice. Then:

“Women’s Health Center, how can I help you?”

His brain short-circuited, full-on panic mode. He stared at the phone like it had grown a second screen, then frantically hit the hang-up button just as the bathroom door creaked open.

You were back.

Topper, sweating for no reason, slapped the envelope back on the counter like it was about to explode and turned to you with a smile that definitely didn’t match his pounding heart.

He got out of there as soon as possible, as he drove to meet Rafe, the whole thing was still playing on a loop in his head. That phone number, the voice on the other end of the line, the way you’d acted when he’d asked if you were okay—he couldn’t stop trying to force the pieces into place.

Something was going on, he wasn't sure what, and he wasn’t exactly the guy you went to for deep insights, but he felt something was up.

When he pulled into Tanyhill, he spotted Rafe leaning against his truck, scrolling through his phone with that permanent scowl he seemed to have these days. He barely had the car in park before Rafe was pushing off the truck and heading his way.

He climbed out, doing his best to act normal—which, for him, meant cracking the same goofy grin he always did. His mind was still spinning with a dozen half-formed thoughts about that phone call, that clinic, and how the the fuck he might fit into all of it. 

The only thing he knew for sure was that Rafe knowing could be catastrophic. Like, meteor-hits-earth catastrophic.

“You gotta chill,” Topper said, slamming his car door shut and giving Rafe a once-over. “Why do you look like you’re about to punch somebody?”

Rafe just glared, shoving his phone in his pocket. “What’d you find out?”

He blinked, thrown by how fast he cut to the point. “Nice to see you, too. Second, what makes you think I found out anything?”

“Don’t fuck with me, Top. Did you figure it out or not?”

“Yeah, I figured it out,” Topper shot back, crossing his arms. “But why the hell did you make me go through all this work if you already know what’s going on?”

Rafe shrugged, leaning back against the truck like this was all just some casual conversation. “Didn’t think you’d actually get it, to be honest.”

“Bro, I’m not that stupid. How did you get to the bottom of this shit? I’m still confused as fuck over here.”

Rafe’s mouth twitched like he was deciding whether to smirk or yell, hesettled on neither. “She passed out on me, remember?”

“So?” Topper shot back, frowning. “I’ve seen you pass out for, like, way less.”

“It wasn’t the same. It wasn’t a hangover or heat stroke, it was different. And she’s been weird lately, avoiding everyone.” Rafe leaned back against his truck, arms crossed, talking fast. “The hospital did blood work.”

Topper, who’d been zoning out halfway through his little doctor act, suddenly perked up.

“Wow,” he mused, dragging the word out. “Okay. So, how’d you take the news? I mean, shit, you look pretty calm for once. Didn’t think that was in your wheelhouse."

Rafe frowned, his sharp blue eyes narrowing, the crease between his brows deepening like it always did when he thought someone was wasting his time. 

"The fuck are you talking about?”

Topper shrugged like this was totally normal. “I just expected you to, like…freak out or somethin'. Throw a punch, maybe.”

“Throw a punch about what?” Rafe snapped.

“About—” Topper paused, squinting at Rafe like he was trying to solve a puzzle. “Wait. What are you supposed to do?”

Rafe’s hand twitched toward his jaw, fingers brushing over the stubble there, a telltale sign that he was gearing up to lose patience. He didn’t wait for Topper to answer before shaking his head, the movement quick and irritated. 

“Don’t do that, man,” he added, pointing a finger “I’ll help her figure it out. What else can I do?”

Topper tilted his head, genuinely impressed. “Damn. You really matured, huh? I mean, good for you.”

“Top, what the fuck is that supposed to mean?” Rafe demanded, his tone sharp now like he was finally catching on to the fact that they weren’t on the same page.

Topper blinked, “I’m just saying you’re handling it better than I thought. Especially since she’s not—uh, showing yet.”

“Not showing what?”

“…The bump?”

He immediately realized he’d said the wrong thing, or maybe the right thing, but in the wrong tone, with the wrong level of context, and—okay, maybe he should just stop talking. 

Abort mission, abort mission. Topper immediately wanted to crawl into a hole. Dude, shut up, shut up, shut up.

“What the fuck?” Rafe’s voice cracked; his eyes blazing as he stepped closer. “What bump?!”

His laugh fizzled out under Rafe’s glare, it was starting to feel less like “concerned ex-boyfriend” and more like “interrogating cop.” He felt a bead of sweat slide down the back of his neck. 

Cool. Stay cool.

“Wait,” Topper held his hands up, trying to physically stop the situation from spiraling. “What do you think is wrong with her?”

His brain was spinning in a way it wasn’t built for. He was a simple guy—he liked clear problems and easy fixes. But this? This was a category-five disaster, and he was stuck right in the middle of it.

Rafe let out a sharp breath through his nose, dragging a hand through his hair, the small strands sticking up in every direction.

“I think she’s got a fucking infection! Why the hell would I think she’s pregnant?”

Topper hesitated, glancing toward the house like maybe Sarah or Wheezie might miraculously appear to save him. No such luck.

“Well fucking shit,” Topper blurted, the words tumbling out in a rush. His heart was pounding, and he was pretty sure he’d just signed his death warrant. “I—I didn’t say she’s pregnant, okay? I found this number, and it was for a women’s health center, and—fuck, man, I’m dead. I’m so dead.”

Rafe grabbed him by the collar, yanking him close. “Start talking. Now.”

“I wasn’t snooping, okay? It just—happened. I wasn’t trying to get in her business, but—”

“But what?” Rafe barked. His other hand twitched at his side, curling into a fist before flexing out again, a warning of how close Topper was to eating pavement, but Rafe wasn’t the one he feared right now.

You were going to kill him.

He could already picture the look on your face when you found out—those cold, furious eyes, the way your voice would drop, he was officially dead meat. He gulped, his mouth dry as his brain scrambled for something—anything—that wouldn’t get him killed or disowned.

“You better explain what the fuck you mean by ‘happened,’” Rafe growled, his grip tightening, giving Topper’s collar a shake, just enough to make his point clear.

Topper was done, leaving nothing but pure panic and the faint, distant sound of his voice saying things he definitely shouldn’t. 

“I called the number!” Topper yelped. “I didn’t even mean to, it was—dude, she’s gonna kill me, and I mean that literally. She will.”

“Not if I kill you first,” Rafe shoved him back, his grip finally loosening, his face unreadable now, which was somehow worse than when he’d looked ready to punch him. “You’re telling me you think she’s pregnant? And you didn’t remember to tell me sooner?”

“I didn’t!” Topper said quickly, panic bubbling over. “It’s not like she’s gonna tell me this kind of stuff.”

“Did she say anything to you? Anything about seeing a doctor or being sick?”

Topper shook his head so fast it made him dizzy. “I asked if she was okay, but she just brushed it off and changed the subject.”

The silence that followed was thick and suffocating, both of them staring each other down.

“No, no way. She’s probably… I don’t fucking know, changing her pill or something.”

Topper raised an eyebrow. “Changing her pill?”

“Yeah,” Rafe said quickly, “Or—what else do they do there? Those check-up things. Maybe she’s getting one of those.”

“Uh-huh,” Topper replied, not convinced but also not dumb enough to call him out on it outright. “Sure. Just a… routine check-up?”

“Exactly,” Rafe agreed a little too loud, his tone almost defensive as he started circling again, his hands gesturing wildly. “They don’t just deal with… y'know. They do all kinds of shit. Tests, prescriptions, all that stuff. It doesn’t mean anything.”

Topper scratched the back of his neck, his expression caught between agreement and unease. “I mean, yeah, they do other stuff… but don’t you think—”

“I don’t think anything, there’s nothing to think about. She’s fine. She’s—she’s fine.” He stopped pacing, standing rigid with his hands on his hips, glaring at the ground like it had personally offended him.

“Okay,” Topper started, his tone cautious. “I get that you don’t want to jump to conclusions, but—”

“I’m not jumping to conclusions!” Rafe barked, spinning around “You’re the one making it into something it’s not! She’s not—she wouldn’t—she hasn’t told me anything,” He muttered finally, “And if she’s hiding this… from me…”

He’d never seen Rafe like this—angry, yeah, but there was something else there, either way, it wasn’t good. His glare burned into him, but for the first time, there was hesitation behind it. He wasn’t just mad—he was scared. Topper couldn’t decide if that made him feel better or worse. 

“Holy shit,” Rafe muttered, gripping the side of his truck for balance. His vision going fuzzy as his heart raced like he’d just sprinted a mile. “Holy shit, what if—what if she is?”

“Dude, breathe,” Topper said, stepping closer cautiously like Rafe was a live grenade. “You don’t even—”

“Even if—if—she was, how the hell would that even—” He cut himself off, his face twisting like he couldn’t decide whether to finish the thought or abandon it entirely.

Topper didn’t need him to finish, he understood exactly what Rafe was thinking. The timeline, the breakup, the way everything had gone down between you.

Rafe’s breath hitched as he let go of the truck and paced a few steps, his hands on his hips, muttering under his breath. “No. No way. It’s not—she’d tell me, right? She’d fucking tell me.”

Images started flashing through his mind in rapid succession, each one more ridiculous and unhinged than the last. You, standing in some clinic, staring at a test with a blank expression. You, trying to figure out how to tell Rafe.

You, holding a baby—Rafe’s baby—in your arms.

“This doesn’t make any sense. We were careful. She’s just stressed, girls go through shit. Hormones or whatever. Right?”

“You’re asking me? I barely passed bio. I’m not exactly a walking textbook on—” He stopped himself, seeing the look on Rafe’s face. “I don’t know what’s going on with her, okay? But if this is what I think it is, you gotta handle it right. Don’t screw it up more than it already is.”

“And if I don’t handle it right?”

Topper forced a shaky grin, even as his stomach twisted in knots.

“Then I guess I’ll see you in hell, man. Because she’s gonna kill us both.”

Rafe’s hands went to his hips, his thumb brushing the edge of his pocket as he stared past Topper, he was trying to work out an equation that wasn’t adding up.

“She hasn’t said a word to me,” Rafe muttered, “Not at the hospital, not since. And you think…” He trailed off, dragging a hand over his face. 

Topper shifted on his feet, resisting the urge to bolt to the other side of the world.

“I guess, but I swear, it wasn’t on purpose.”

Rafe shot him a look, his brows knitting together, and Topper felt like he was under a microscope. “You called a random number. How does that ‘just happen’?”

He huffed, throwing his hands up. “I was grabbing some water, and her mail fell, and there was this number—I didn’t think! I just… acted.” He groaned, his head falling back as he stared at the sky. “I didn’t mean to put two and two together, but what was I supposed to do? You’re the one who made me go digging in the first place!”

“You really think that’s what’s going on?” Rafe asked finally, his voice quieter.

“You said she’s acting weird, and then there was that number, and…” He trailed off, scratching the back of his neck. 

“Do you even understand what this means? If she’s—if there’s a—” He broke off, “I’d have to—Jesus Christ, what would I even do? I’m not—God.”

His hands gripped the edge of the truck bed so hard his knuckles turned white, the veins in his arms standing out as he glared at the ground like it had personally offended him.

“If she didn’t tell me—” His voice was low, quiet in a way that made Topper wince because he knew what came next.

“Maybe just... ask her?”

 “Ask her?” he repeated, his voice disbelieving.

“Yeah, you know,” Topper said, gesturing vaguely. “Talk to her? Maybe find out what’s going on instead of losing your shit over worst-case scenarios?”

Rafe shook his head, “No. If she wanted me to know, she’d tell me. She’s... she’s dealing with her own stuff. It’s not my place to push.”

 “Since when do you not push?”

“Since now,” Rafe snapped, though even he didn’t sound convinced.

“Rafe—”

“No, seriously,” Rafe interrupted, his voice rising now, the tight restraint unraveling with every word. “If she’s—if she’s going through this, if she’s pregnant, and she didn’t tell me?” He let out a bitter chuckle, “What the fuck does that say? About me.”

Topper opened his mouth, hesitated, then closed it again. This felt like a minefield, and if anyone was good at stepping on the wrong spot, it was him.

Rafe pushed off the truck, he couldn’t physically stay still. His eyes were burning as he raked a hand through his buzzed hair.

“I was—fuck. She thinks what? That I wouldn’t show up for this. She didn’t tell me because she doesn’t think I deserve to know.”

“That’s not true,” Topper said quickly, stepping closer, but Rafe’s empty laugh stopped him.

“Isn’t it?” Rafe’s voice was hollow now, all the fire drained out of him, turning his head slightly, just enough for Topper to see his throat working as he swallowed hard. “What the hell have I ever done to make her think I’d be there? That I’d—” He broke off. “Shit. I wouldn’t blame her. I can't even fucking blame her.”

“You still care about her, right?” Topper pressed, knowing he didn’t have to ask to know the answer.

Rafe’s head snapped up, “She’s the only thing I’ve ever cared about.”

He nodded slowly, “Then prove it.”

The envelope sat exactly where you’d left it, the faintest corner of folded. You froze for a second, your pulse quickening.

No. No way.

It was fine. Fine.

The number wasn’t even labeled—just digits scrawled hastily, you hadn’t touched it in days. Still, you couldn’t stop the tiny seed of panic attaching itself to your chest. There was absolutely no way Topper could’ve seen it, let alone put two and two together.

You exhaled slowly, placing it back on the counter.

He didn’t see it. He couldn’t have seen it.

Then why had he acted so… off? The pale face, the sudden excuse, the jittery energy—it was all so unlike him.

You shook your head, trying to push the thought away, a million things could’ve set him off. 

Maybe Ruthie had texted him something awful, or maybe he’d remembered he had to pick up his dry cleaning before the shop closed. Knowing Topper, it was probably something stupid and unrelated to you entirely.

Still, the nagging lingered as you cleaned up the counter and threw away the napkins. You glanced at the envelope one last time, then slid it into a drawer and shut it firmly. Whatever was going on with your cousin, it couldn’t have anything to do with that. It was impossible. And yet…

You sighed, rubbing your temples. 

“Pregnancy brain,” you muttered to yourself. “Making me paranoid over nothing.”

Of course that didn’t stop your heart from jumping every time the drawer creaked, or when you saw anything even remotely similar to that envelope’s color lying around the house for the entire night. Not that he’d ask, of course—Topper wasn’t the confrontational type, especially not with you. But he noticed things. And when he noticed, he worried.

The next morning you sank onto the couch, hugging a pillow to your chest. Topper was close, but he wasn’t like Sarah. She had been able to look you in the eye and say, You know I’m here, right? and mean it without any strings attached. Topper, though…

Your fingers itched toward your phone, even though it was stupid to call her so early over this. Still, you needed someone to remind you that you weren’t losing it, that Topper’s weirdness had nothing to do with anything serious.

Before you could talk yourself out of it, you found Sarah’s number, pressing the call button. She picked up on the second ring, “Hey, what’s wrong?”

You could picture her, sitting in her car or probably stretched out somewhere in Poguelandia with her feet propped up on a table, looking concerned.

“Nothing’s wrong. I just…” You trailed off, fiddling with the edge of a pillow. 

“Topper’s been acting strange. And I think I’m just overthinking it, but it’s making me crazy.”

She made a sound between a hum and a laugh. “So the Topper panic spiral. That’s what we’re dealing with?”

“Basically,” you muttered, trying to keep your tone light. “But this time… He was here last night, and I thought he saw this random piece of paper I had with, you know. A number on it.” You took a shaky breath, embarrassed for how paranoid you sounded. “But he couldn’t have, right? I mean, it was buried under five other things.”

“Okay,” Sarah said slowly, clearly choosing her words. “First, let’s just say that if he did see anything, which he probably didn’t, he wouldn’t assume the worst. He’s your cousin; he knows you don’t tell him everything, and he respects that. Right?”

“Yeah… I guess.” You chewed your lip, feeling a little stupid for even calling her.  “But what if he does put it together, Sarah? I don’t know if I’m ready for that.”

“He won’t,” she reassured, like she could see right through your anxiety. “And you don’t need to feel bad for wanting to keep this private. You’re allowed to handle it however you need to. You’re not doing anything wrong.”

You exhaled, the knot in your chest loosening a little. She always knew how to talk you down, "Okay,” you murmured, and a shaky laugh slipped out. “Maybe I'm being paranoid.”

“Pregnancy brain,” she teased, and you couldn’t help but smile.

You hung up feeling marginally better.

Sarah had a way of calming you down, but the uneasiness stayed with you, the way it always did when you couldn’t fully explain something.

But the relief was fleeting, by lunchtime, the nagging voice in your head was back. Topper wasn’t malicious, but he did have a habit of talking without thinking, and the last thing you needed was for this to get out before you were ready. Not only was this a huge scandal, but it was your business.

You busied yourself with small tasks—folding laundry, wiping down the counters, pretending that everything was fine. It wasn’t until almost noon that your phone rang. The hospital’s number flashed on the screen, and your stomach dropped.

“Hello?”

“Hi, is this Miss Thornton?” the voice on the other end asked politely, too polite for comfort.

“This is she."

“This is Linda from the hospital. I’m calling about your recent bloodwork. We had a bit of an issue with our system, and unfortunately, there was a delay in getting back to you. We also lost some patient information temporarily—”

“Wait, what?” you interrupted, not liking where this was going, “What do you mean you lost information?”

“Oh, nothing to worry about,” Linda said quickly, as if that would make you feel better. “We managed to recover most of it, but in the meantime, we had to rely on emergency contact information to reach out. Dr. Harris called yours last night.”

Your breath caught. “Called... my emergency contact?”

“Yes.”

“Sarah Cameron? She didn’t tell me someone called.”

“She’s not listed as your emergency contact in our system, Rafe Cameron is. It might be an older record?”

Fuck.

Your heart was in your throat. “What... what did he tell him?”

“He only left a generic message asking for you to follow up about your bloodwork. Nothing specific.”

“Nothing specific,” you repeated, more to yourself than to her. Relief and panic warred within you. If Rafe knew, he’d already be there, the night before, demanding answers. Right?

“We need you to come back in. It’s possible you may have an infection, and we need to run a few more tests.”

You didn’t even hear the rest of her explanation.

Your fingers felt numb as you mumbled something that vaguely resembled agreement and hung up.

Infection, that was what she’d said. That was all it was. Not… not anything else. If it were anything else, they wouldn’t have just called—they’d have told Rafe.

“Stop,” you muttered aloud, shaking your head. “Stop spiraling.”

But your brain wouldn’t listen.

“Generic message,” Linda had said, but did it sound generic? What did he think when he got it? Had he laughed it off, or was he running his stupid pristine bedroom, piecing together clues you hadn’t even realized you’d left?

You didn’t want to text Sarah again.

You could imagine her smirking, “I told you, he’s not going to magically grow psychic overnight.” Yeah, sure, but this was Rafe.

He didn’t need magic. You squeezed your eyes shut, trying to focus on Sarah’s voice in your head. “You’re not doing anything wrong.”

Except it didn’t feel like that. You hadn’t thought about Rafe as your emergency contact in months, hadn’t needed to. 

You sank into the couch, hugging your knees to your chest.

“This is so stupid,” you muttered, but your voice didn’t make it feel any less real. You weren’t even sure what you were spiraling over anymore. The envelope? The hospital? The baby?

“Okay,” you said out loud. “Okay, it’s fine. Everything’s fine.”

The sound of your voice didn’t even convince you. Your brain wouldn’t stop jumping from one thing to the next, spinning every scenario you didn’t want to think about. 

What if he did know? If that was enough to set him off, to make him call someone, pull some strings...Shit, what if he did show up, and you had to explain why you were dodging everyone and keeping things from him and—stop. 

Stop. 

You were doing it again. The spiraling. The pregnancy brain Sarah teased you about like it was some sort of cute quirk, but wasn’t cute.

You sat up straight, squeezing the couch pillow so hard you thought it might burst. Breathe. Just breathe, you’d made it this far without imploding.

You glanced toward the drawer again, the one with the envelope. You should’ve burned it, shredded it first. No, you had to keep it—just in case. But just in case of what? Just in case you needed more reasons to feel like a lunatic.

Oh my god. What if Topper saw the stupid number, and then Rafe got the hospital call, and then—bam—suddenly, they had the whole damn thing figured out?

You could feel it already—the panic. You liked to think they were both too stupid for their own good, but they were also observant. Rafe, that bastard always knew how to put things together faster than anyone. 

What if—what if it’s that simple for them? What if they both saw it, and then they were just sitting there, having some stupid-ass conversation, connecting dots you didn’t even realize were dots?

No. Stop. Stop thinking like that.

You were getting carried away, jumping to conclusions like some manic soap opera character. You weren’t that girl. Not really. But the thought of them talking—Topper with his concern and Rafe with his overbearing intensity.

Your fingers tapped a frantic rhythm against the pillow. The idea of him figuring it out? Oh, that made your skin crawl. Not because he’d be cruel—no, that wasn’t his style. He’d just be so… himself.

Overwhelming, determined to “fix” things for you, even when you didn’t ask for it. 

You groaned, dropping the pillow and standing abruptly, like the movement might kill the growing dread. No, you told yourself firmly.

You weren’t spiraling over things that hadn’t even happened yet.

But the voice in your head, the one that always sounded a little too much like Rafe, had other plans: What if it’s already too late?

You paced the living room, arms crossed tightly over your chest. This was ridiculous, you were ridiculous. Nothing had happened, nothing was going to happen. The number wasn’t even that suspicious, it could’ve been anything.

You groaned again, flopping onto the couch like the dramatic mess you were currently embodying. Rafe had probably gotten the hospital call, rolled his eyes without a second thought, too busy with his new precious life.

Your stomach churned, and you pressed your hands against it instinctively. It wasn’t showing yet—thank god—but you couldn’t help the way your mind spiraled back to it, to all the ways this could go wrong.

You grabbed your car keys without thinking, maybe it would clear your head. A drive—that’s what you needed. Get out of the house, and put some distance between you and the stupid envelope, the phone calls, all of it. You turned the knob, yanked the door open—

—and froze.

Rafe’s hand was raised mid-air, clearly about to knock. You didn’t even try to hide the way your breath hitched. 

Oh, no. No, no, no.

Standing there on the porch like he hadn’t just derailed your entire plan. As if it was still perfectly normal for him to show up unannounced, one hand shoved into his pocket and the other gripping his phone, his head tilted in a maddeningly familiar way.

His hand hovered uncertainly on the doorframe as you stepped back, your arms folding protectively over your chest. He didn’t push past you, didn’t move his weight forward—just stood there.

He glanced down at the spare key still in his hand, turning it over like he was considering whether he even had the right to use it. “They called me last night.”

Okay, he was just here because of the hospital, a coincidence, that’s all it was.

“And? You could’ve ignored it.”

His hand flexed at his side like he didn’t know what to do with it. “I thought something might be wrong.”

“It’s not.” Your voice was clipped, cold. “They called the wrong number. End of story.”

He didn’t rise to the bait.

“I thought—” He cut himself off, exhaling sharply. “I thought you were sick.”

“Like I said, it was a mix-up.”

His jaw ticked. That tiny muscle in his cheek twitched, the one that always flared when he was suspicious.

“Funny, they didn’t sound mixed up when they said your name,” he drawled, his tone probing. “Wanna try again?”

“Mind your fucking business,” Your voice was defensive, and you hated the crackle of guilt in your chest when he flinched. “I don’t need you to pretend to care. Why are you even here?” you snapped, taking a step back. The space between you felt vulnerable. “Don’t you have someone else to worry about?"

You felt cornered with every second he stood there.

“We need to talk.”

Maybe if you acted calm, like nothing was wrong, he’d stop looking at you like that. Vulnerability wasn’t something you were good at, he’d already taken too much. He always took too much.

“I don’t owe you shit. Not explanations, not answers, nothing. Leave.”

He didn’t. Of course, he didn’t.

Rafe didn’t know how to let shit go, not when it came to you, he didn’t back away.

“You’re right,” he said, surprising you. “You don’t, but I’m not leaving until we talk.”

The way he said, it wasn’t even a threat. It was worse than that. It was calm, resolute, like he’d already decided, and nothing you said or did could change it. 

That scared you more than anything.

“There’s nothing to talk about,” you hissed, “Whatever you think you know, you don’t.”

He arched an eyebrow, his eyes flicking to the edge of the couch where your phone still sat, “You sure about that?”

“God, you’re always like this. Always overstepping, always assuming—”

“I know."

All the noise in your head—your spiraling thoughts, your excuses, your endless denials—went silent, except for the way your heart thudded in your chest, so fast, it hurt. He hadn’t raised his voice, but those two words hit you like a kick to your chest.

No, he couldn’t—he didn’t, he was bluffing, he had to be. Air caught in your throat, and for a moment, you thought you might choke on it. He didn’t move, didn’t repeat himself. He couldn’t know.

Your tongue went dry. 

“What are you talking about?” You couldn’t breathe. It felt like someone was squeezing your chest. You shook your head again, more violently this time, stepping back, “You don’t know shit.”

“I think I do.” His voice was quiet, and that made it worse, it wasn’t cold or angry; it wasn’t even accusing. He didn’t sound like he wanted to be right, he just sounded tired.

You prayed to come up with something—anything—to deflect, to deny, to keep the truth buried where it belonged. 

“You’re delusional,” you took another step back, putting more space between you and the man who had always known you too well.

He just shook his head, “You don’t have to lie to me, you’re scared, you’re not even trying to hide it.”

It was the way he stared with those stupid blue eyes, he was peeling back your layers. He always did that, made you feel like he could see something in you that you weren’t ready to acknowledge.

“Oh, fuck off.” You threw your hands up. “You don’t know shit about what I’m feeling. You’ve got no right to—I’m not lying.”

It still hurt how much you missed him, hurt to even look at him.

“Don’t pull this cryptic bullshit with me, if you’ve got something to say, say it.”

“You’re pregnant, aren’t you?”

The thing you’d been running from, denying, hiding, you simply stared at him, trying to decide if there was any way to lie your way out of this.

“What the fuck are you talking about?” You tried to laugh, but it came out strangled, desperate. “T-That’s insane. You’ve lost your mind.”

Rafe wasn’t gloating or triumphant—he just looked… resigned, he’d pieced it together before he showed up.

“Don’t do that. Don’t lie to me, not about this.”

You wanted to scream, to shove him, to do anything that would make him stop looking at you like he cared. Like he knew you. Because if you stopped long enough to think about it, you knew it was over.

He’d already seen it.

“I mean it, Rafe.” Your hand tightened on the door, nails digging into the wood. “Get the fuck out of my house.”

God, this was so fucked. You wanted him gone, but wanted him here, needed him to leave you alone, but at the same time, you hated that he could just leave.

“Tell me I’m wrong.”

You thought about what he’d do if he knew—really knew. Not just the vague sense he had now, but the details. Would he try to stop you? 

Your lip quivered, and you hated yourself for it. “You’re wrong.”

You stared at him, at the way his shoulders hunched slightly, his usual confidence worn down. You hated him for being calm for once in his fucking life, for being here, for not letting this slide when it was none of his fucking business.

“Am I?”

Your hands clenched tighter, nails biting into your palms. “Why? Why do you even care? It’s not like you—”

“Because it’s mine.”

Your breath hitched again, and this time, you couldn’t hide it. You wanted to deny it, to throw something—hell, anything—back at him to make him shut the fuck up. But your throat felt like it had shut off entirely, and your mind had gone blank.

“I—” you stammered, shaking your head violently, “No. You don’t know what you’re talking about. You’re—”

“Hey, hey, just—just stop,” he said, his voice careful, as if he was trying not to spook you. “I’m not—Jesus, I’m not here to fight with you, okay? I’m not here to make this harder.”

Your chest heaved, a bitter laugh escaping before you could stop it. He was too late—late to care, late to help, late to fix anything. Five days, that’s all you had to get through.

Five days until you didn’t have to think about it anymore. 

This is the right choice, you told yourself for the hundredth time. You couldn’t bring a baby into this mess.

“You’re doing a hell of a job at that.”

“I just want to help. If you let me—”

“No,” you interrupted, grabbing the edge of the door. “I’m fixing it.”

“Fixing—?” Rafe’s brow furrowed, his confusion almost comical He started to step forward, but you stopped him with a resentful glare that made him stop. “What does that even mean?”

“It means you can take your fake concern and shove it up your ass.”

His brow furrowed. “It’s not fake—” His face twisted in confusion, mouth opening like he was about to argue, but you didn’t give him the chance, slamming the door in his face, so hard the frame rattled.

“Of course. Of course, it’s mine,” you muttered to yourself, mocking his stupid, self-righteous tone.

You leaned back against the door, sliding to the floor, arms crossed over your knees as your brain whirred like it was trying to kill you.

It wasn’t like you had a choice.

Technically, you did, but what were you supposed to do? Keep it and become a tragic sob story? The words almost felt like you’d ripped them out of someone else’s mouth, right or wrong didn’t even matter anymore. There wasn’t space in your life for this—for him, for a baby, for any of it.

A muffled knock sounded from the front door—tentative, like he was giving you a moment.

“Go away,” you yelled, your voice hoarse.

“Open the door.”

Your thoughts taunted you with memories and possibilities you didn’t want to entertain. The way Rafe had looked at you—like he knew—it was unbearable.

How had he put it together? Maybe you'd slip up in tiny ways, leaving a trail of breadcrumbs for him to follow. You hated yourself for being so careless, despised him even more for being so fucking relentless.

You wiped your cheeks roughly, not realizing you’d started crying until your sleeve came back damp.

“Please, just open the door. We can talk—just talk, okay?

“No,” you muttered to the empty room. “No, I’m not doing this.”

You squeezed your eyes shut, leaning your head back against the door and pressing your hands over your ears to block him out. 

“Don’t shut me out like this,” he begged. “I can’t—fuck, I can’t stand it when you do this. Just open the door. Five minutes, that’s all I’m asking.”

He had a key. If he wanted to, he could let himself in at any moment, but he didn’t, that wasn’t the Rafe you were used to.

Before, he'd have barged right in, shouted until your ears bled, and demanded answers. He would’ve tried to fix it or destroy it, maybe both. 

You hated that he still acted like he cared, that he was trying to be so fucking reasonable now, when just a few months ago, he would’ve lost it, broken through any barrier to get what he wanted.

This was worse, this Rafe was wearing you down.

Another hushed plea made it through the door, but all you could think was how thin the wood felt, how it barely drowned the sound of his voice. A new door might be better, something heavier, more solid, that could drown out everything—the desperation, the crack in his voice.

Tears prickled at the corners of your eyes, and you bit hard on the inside of your cheek to keep them from falling. 

“I know you’re scared,” he continued, “And I know you think I’ll screw this up—God knows I probably will. But please don’t keep me in the dark. Just tell me what’s going on.”

You pictured flipping through hardware store catalogs, weighing your options: oak? steel? soundproofing foam?

“Please,” Rafe whispered, and the rawness in his voice scraped against you like nails on a chalkboard. You tilted your head back against the door, willing yourself not to cry again. 

Steel doors don’t warp as easily as wood.

You swallowed hard, your body aching as you fought the sob threatening to escape. He didn’t deserve this—didn’t deserve to sound so wrecked over you. He'd done this to himself.

Your fingers twitched against the door handle, the temptation to open it curling around you, but instead, you thought about bolts.

Deadbolts, a second lock could work, something he couldn’t get through even if he had the key.

His voice wavered again, you thought he might start crying, too, yet all you did was glance at the base of the door. A better seal would muffle the noise more. Maybe weatherstripping? That could help.

You pressed your hands tighter over your ears, as though it would help. It didn’t. Nothing would—not until you replaced the lock, the door, the memory of him standing there and breaking himself open for you.

God, you really needed a new door—and a new heart.

One that didn’t twist at the sound of his voice, that didn’t flinch every time he called your name like it was a prayer. A heart that didn’t feel for him, you told yourself, over and over, like a mantra. If you could just stop the way your chest tightened at his pleas, stop the ache in your ribs when he said he couldn’t let this go.

You wanted steel walls, that could keep everything out—his voice, his touch, the memories of all the good parts of him that had kept you hanging on for so long. Because of this heart? It was useless, too soft, too easily swayed, still willing to believe him, even when you knew better.

“Please, just talk to me,” Rafe begged. You bit your lip hard enough to taste blood.

You couldn’t help but wonder if this calmness came from Sofia.

Perhaps she was the reason he’d changed, maybe she had somehow made him different, had softened the sharp edges of the guy you used to know. She was calm, collected—nothing like you. It hurt like a bitch, the thought that someone else could make him this patient. You wondered if she’d taught him how to handle his emotions, how to be this way—he’d learned some secret he never bothered to share with you.

You couldn't let yourself go there, couldn't let the bitterness of that thought settle in your mind for too long.

“Talk to me.”

No. Not this time.

TAGLIST: @maybankslover @october-baby25 @haruvalentine4321 @hopelesslydevoted2paige

@rafebb @rafesbby @whytheylosttheirminds

@zyafics @astarlights @bruher @nosebeers @carrerascameron

@serrendiipty @sunny1616 @yootvi @ditzyzombiesblog

@psychocitylights @maibelitaaura @kiiyomei

@stoned-writer @justafangirls-blog-deactivated2

@starkeygirlposts @enjoymyloves @ijustwanttoreadlols @icaqttt

[vanillarosekiss]

Eternally thinking about how Husband!Simon Riley would always keep you, his loving wife, nicely fed and fucked…

Pairing: Husband!Simon Riley x afab!reader

A/N: can you tell i need a bf? this is not proof read btw!

Warnings: heavy smut with no plot, highly descriptive sexual actions, mentions of cnc at the end, unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it people!) language, Husband!Simon Riley x afab!reader.

Simon took great care in keeping his wife happy. As a military man who’d been subject to changing his old ways, he had taken pride in the fact that his missus was always looked after, fed well, and fucked regularly as needed.

It’s sort of like taking care of a plant, he would think. A delicate house plant, capable of looking after itself at times, but needed some external factors to keep it growing properly. That’s what Simon was, your external factor. He would always make sure you’d had something to eat, allowing you to cook for him occasionally but also taking the same duty for you.

And he was a great cook, underrated really, many didn’t know how good his culinary skills were. Of course, you did.

He would get back from a day of work, exhausted and fed up, but wouldn’t allow himself to sleep until his missus had been eaten out properly and had a sufficient orgasm. After all, you were the one who cared and loved him so much, so you should surely get a reward, pretty girl?

He wouldn’t leave you hanging either, best belive it. He came home one day, finding you trying to work yourself up to orgasm. Silly girl, don’t you know that it’s Simon’s job? He would pull your hand away from your already soaking pussy, immediately delving down on it with his mouth, hot and ready to work for a reward. Your hands would grip onto his short blonde hair, moaning his name as he devoured your mound, his nose occasionally catching your clit and creating the friction you so longed for. He would continue these ministrations for a while, his thumb coming to help work you by rubbing small clockwise circles on your delicate nub, building up the pressure over time. As you writhed around, already overstimulated after coming on his mouth once, he wouldn’t stop, knowing you could take more.

“Come on, lovie, i know you can take it” he would coax you into orgasming again and again until you were all fucked out. He would usually put his needs aside, unless he had a particularly stressful day. In this case, he’d apologise for riling you all up but doesn’t he deserve a treat once in a while for looking after you so well?

“That’s it baby, take it all like the good wife you are” he would groan as he stuffed your pussy with his hard cock, precum leaking from the soft pink tip that was now almost hitting your cervix. He would undoubtedly finish in you, apologising profusely for the mess. He would obviously clean you up, the gentleman he is, only after fucking his cock back into you gently once or twice. What? He didn’t want his seed going to waste.

i must be ovulating because i cannot stop THINKING about him recently.

[shomatoriashi]

11/23/24; 11:00am

{ 18+ drabbles / headcanons }

[ soft intimacy with them ]

featuring: sylus, zayne, xavier, rafayel

[ minors don’t interact; by choosing to interact with this content, you have consented to viewing something n-fw despite the warnings. ]

the way you seemed to fit so perfectly around sylus (like a missing puzzle piece) was enough to drive the onychinus leader insane.

air rushes out from his lungs the moment he parts your legs, basking in your needy, tear filled gaze and the way your naked breast heaves with each breath that you take. sylus’s eyes never once look away from yours the moment he guides his cock toward your entrance.

with his heart pounding, he allows the mushroom tip of his cock to gently trace at your outer lips, collecting the droplets of your arousal while letting out a grunt of your name.

“kitten, you don’t know just how good you feel around me… i don’t need to sink into you to know that you are nothing short of divine, my love.” sylus speaks to you in reverent tones, choosing to slide his shaft up and down your silken walls without fully impaling you. your breathy moans and the way you arch your back against the bed was an utterly beautiful sight for him.

“sy, please- don’t tease me anymore, i-it hurts.”

he hums while giving you a smirk, leaning down to capture your lips in a passionate kiss all while whispering, “as you wish, kitten.”

with those final words, sylus allows every inch of his cock to sink into you, allowing your cries to echo in his ear when he lazily made love to you. his pace was uncharacteristically slow, and he made sure to thoroughly worship you.

each thrust was coupled with lips pressed against the side of your neck-

when his cock would inevitably slide out of you, sylus made sure you would feel the intensity of his kiss right before slotting his cock back within your silken walls, ensuring that you were filled to the brim with him.

but even with all of his displays of passion set out for you, his pace neither slowed or quickened, choosing a steady pace all while basking in your sweet moans and cries of his name-

as if sylus had all the time in the world when it came to pleasuring you.

zayne always prided himself on being a humble man with simple needs-

and what he wanted the most in the world was to see you happy. after all, he believed his sole goal was to always please you through any means possible.

which was what lead him to his current… predicament.

you had complaints about your job and how you felt so overworked. along with such complaints, zayne heard you made a comment on how your back was hurting from sitting at your desk for too long as well. when he offers to prepare a hot bath for you, he basks in your sweet smile and the way you asked “will you keep me company, too?’

and truly, who was he to deny you of your needs?

after preparing your bath, zayne helps with taking off your clothes before joining you. he basks in the beauty of you, hands never once straying too far away from you as he helped with cleansing you, lathering your favorite scented body wash all across your skin-

yet suddenly, his intimate act of wishing to bathe you quickly turns into you bouncing up and down his cock, your hair a tangled mess as the water began splashing out of the tub and onto the linoleum floors.

zayne found himself getting drunk off the pleasure, hands gripping at your naked hips the moment you kept moving your slick heat up and down the entire length of him. your breathless moans we’re driving the doctor insane as he lost all of his senses-

giving the entirety of himself to you.

so lost in his own pleasure, zayne began to meet your bouncing movements with his own upward thrusts, causing you to see stars as you arched your back against him, unable to keep up with his movements.

“hah… zayne-“

your lover cuts you off, harshly bringing your head down to meet his lips in a searing kiss all while basking in the way your silken walls continued to grip at his cock-

as if you would never let him go.

“please, will you let me take control tonight?”

xavier’s sweet voice whispers in your ear, making you weak as you managed to give him a gentle nod. here you were, both naked as you prepared for yet another intimate night with your boyfriend. when he asks you for permission to ‘take control,’ your heart turns warm, knowing that he just wanted to have your consent.

with your heart racing with anticipation, you felt your breath hitch the moment he trails kisses against your skin. his lips linger on the base of your throat before traveling down your form. he stops for a few beats against the side of your neck while lifting his hand to give one of your breasts a gentle squeeze.

the sensation was enough to make your back arch on the bed. xavier’s smile was felt slowly spreading against your skin as he descended his lips even further down your body-

before landing directly against your chest.

curious eyes made darkened by sheer desire for you takes in the sight of your breast, with his hands reaching up to give your hardened nipples a gentle pinch. your sharp inhale sounded so cute to him that he wanted to elicit even more of those sounds from you.

he lowers his head, placing his mouth directly over one of your heaving breast. as he allowed his tongue to curl around your hardened nub, he uses his free hand to descend toward the spot between your legs. the sensation of his hot mouth on your chest and the way his fingertips pinched and prods at your clit was enough to have you gasping for him, growing needier for the young hunter within mere seconds.

xavier continues his gentle ministrations on your form, making you release so many times that you lost count of it all throughout the night. even when your body was covered in a light sheen of sweat, you felt all of your prior thoughts pertaining to how exhausted you were disappear into thin air the moment xavier slides his cock within your slick heat.

“hah…” sweat was seen running down xavier’s face while he bites down on his bottom lip. his thrusts became sloppy, yet it was evident on just how long he had been holding back just for you. knowing that he felt the relief he needed the moment he sinks into you, you wrap your legs around his waist, allowing his cock to reach even deeper inside of you to help with easing his desperation for you.

rafayel’s playful yet cocky voice were all you could hear the moment he traps you against the bed. his angelic smile was painted with mischief when he suddenly thrusts his cock within your entrance, completely sheathing himself as you gasped in response to his sudden intrusion.

he was just so deep inside of you that you swore you could feel him at the base of your throat. as you tried to focus on anything that wasn’t his cock, rafayel continues to smile down at you all while running the back of his hand against the side of your cheek in an achingly gentle manner. and while you admitted that you enjoyed basking in his beauty, there was just one tiny little problem-

the lemurian wasn’t moving.

even with his cock buried to the hilt inside of you, his hips remained ever so still, all while acting like he was carrying on a simple conversation with you-

and it was driving you mad.

your gasps and pants for air echo across the room when you attempt to move your hips and feel some amount of friction-

only to be stopped by rafayel when he uses his hands to grip at your waist, preventing you from moving any further.

“rafayel, i swear if you don’t start moving i will claw your eyes out.” you manage to pitifully hiss at him as tears of frustration were seen against your eyes. with a soft coo of your name, a thoughtful expression paints lover’s face, “hm…? am i being threatened? ah… perhaps-“

he cuts himself off, sliding his cock out of your aching cunt until only the tip was settled at your entrance before slamming back into you. his eyes remained sweet as his pace slowly became faster and faster each time he returned back to you.

“this should be enough for me to avoid punishment, right?” even though his words were cocky, the way his eyebrows remained furrowed as he fucked you into the bed was more than enough proof that he was holding back from climaxing too soon.

realizing now that you always had the upper hand, you lean up to press a kiss against the lobe of his ear, earning a breathy whine from him when you bite down against his skin. “aw… you talk big, but i bet it’s taking you all your effort to not cum right now.”

“tch- fuck…!” your words succeed in making him still his hips, his hands already gripping at your backside when he settles you directly on his lap, choosing instead to make love to you in this new position. being forced to bite back your own words, you were given little choice but to steady yourself on his broad shoulders, struggling to hide your moans as well.

“heh… looks like i finally got the upper hand.” rafayel admits to you while burying his face within the base of your throat, giving your skin a languid lick with his tongue, “after all, it’s about damn time i got my princess wrapped around my fingers instead of the other way around.”

and truthfully, damn him for being correct.

end notes: it’s been a week since my last lads thirst post? let’s change that since writing helps me destress 🫠 especially when i need a serotonin boost after the stress of this week.

all stories are written by rei; please do not repost, plagiarize, or translate my works!!

[dissapointu]

Thinking about Arcane with a partner who is terminally ill and has to stay in bed hooked up to a bunch of needles and tubes

Thank you for all your work you are amazing <3

Thank you so much for your kind words!

I swear we are allergic to happiness-

Jinx

Jinx hides her pain behind manic energy, trying to make you smile even when it feels like her heart is shattering. She brings you handmade gadgets, some of which are purely for fun—tiny robots that dance or explode into colorful sparks, filling the room with chaos and laughter. But when the exhaustion hits, she curls up beside your bed, her fingers tracing the tubes and needles with a quiet reverence. In those moments, her vulnerability surfaces, and she whispers about her fears of losing you.

Vi

Vi hates feeling powerless, and seeing you like this is her worst nightmare. She refuses to leave your side, bringing you books and stories of her past to keep your mind off the pain. Her hands are always gentle when adjusting your blanket or holding yours, but her emotions often spill over. When no one else is around, she breaks down, pressing her forehead against your arm, her tears soaking into the fabric as she begs you to hold on just a little longer.

Sevika

Sevika is practical, channeling her pain into action. She spends hours ensuring you’re as comfortable as possible, fixing equipment when it malfunctions and running errands for anything you need. At night, when she thinks you’re asleep, she sits by your bed, nursing a drink and talking to you like everything’s normal—about work, about Zaun, about how much she admires your strength. If you catch her in a rare moment of vulnerability, she’ll brush it off, saying, “You’re the tough one here, not me.”

Silco

Silco is a man of control, and your condition reminds him of his helplessness. He spares no expense in seeking the best care for you, but he’s always haunted by the sight of you so frail. His visits are quiet but full of unspoken devotion—he reads reports aloud, his voice calm and steady, though his eyes flicker to your face more often than the papers. Late at night, when no one else is around, he gently brushes your hair back and murmurs promises he knows he might not be able to keep.

Vander

Vander is a steady presence, his warmth grounding you even in your worst moments. He sits by your bed, holding your hand as he tells you stories from his youth or hums a soothing tune. He often brings the children by to cheer you up, their laughter filling the room. Vander tries to stay strong for you, but his hands tremble when he thinks you’re not looking. His love is unwavering, and he’ll remind you every day how much you mean to him.

Ekko

Ekko struggles with the weight of seeing you like this, but he refuses to let despair take over. He spends his time crafting small inventions to make your life easier or bring a smile to your face. When the silence becomes too much, he talks about his dreams for the future, painting vivid pictures of what could be. He clings to hope, even when it feels fragile, and does everything in his power to make sure you know you’re not alone.

Jayce

Jayce throws himself into researching treatments, convinced he can find a way to help you. When he’s not in the lab, he’s by your side, his hand resting over yours as he explains his latest breakthroughs or reminisces about the moments you’ve shared. He hides his fear behind his optimism, but when you tell him it’s okay to let go of the facade, he breaks down, resting his head on your shoulder and letting his tears fall freely.

Viktor

Viktor is no stranger to pain and illness, and he understands your struggles on a deeply personal level. He spends hours at your bedside, quietly tinkering with gadgets or reading aloud from books he thinks you’ll enjoy. His touch is gentle, his words soft, and his presence unwavering. He hates that he can’t fix this, but he makes sure you never feel alone, offering comfort in the form of quiet companionship and shared understanding.

Caitlyn

Caitlyn is your pillar of strength, calm and composed even when her heart is breaking. She works tirelessly to ensure you have the best care, pulling strings and calling in favors to get you what you need. She’s a constant presence, her hand often resting on yours as she talks about the world outside. When she’s overwhelmed, she steps outside for a moment to compose herself, returning with a renewed determination to make the time you have left as meaningful as possible.

Mel Medarda

Mel is a force of grace and composure, but your condition shakes her to her core. She fills your room with beauty—art, flowers, and soft fabrics—to make your space a sanctuary. She sits with you for hours, her voice soothing as she shares stories from her childhood or discusses philosophy and politics. Her mask only slips in the quiet moments, her hand lingering on yours as she murmurs about how much she loves you, her eyes shining with unshed tears.

Ambessa Medarda

Ambessa is not one to show weakness, but your illness makes her feel a vulnerability she hasn’t known in years. She takes charge of your care, ensuring you’re surrounded by the best physicians and resources. Though her visits are often brief, they’re filled with quiet intensity. She sits by your bed, her large hand covering yours as she promises to protect you, her voice steady even as her heart aches.

Maddie Nolen

Maddie is practical and nurturing, spending her days by your side to ensure you’re comfortable and cared for. She’s always quick with a joke or a story to lift your spirits, her warmth a balm against the cold reality of your condition. But when the laughter fades and the room grows quiet, she leans her head against your shoulder, her voice soft as she tells you how much you mean to her, her heart aching with every word.

Lest

Lest hates seeing you like this, but she channels her emotions into quiet devotion. She watches over you like a guardian, her sharp eyes scanning every tube and needle to ensure everything is in order. She often sits beside your bed, her tail curling around her legs as she talks about the world outside, filling the silence with her soothing voice. When you catch her staring at you with a mix of love and sorrow, she quickly looks away, her ears twitching, but her hand remains firmly in yours.

[pathologicalreid]

that gold mine changed you | s.r.

in which Spencer won't open up to you following his release from prison and you've reached your breaking point

margovember

who? spencer reid x fem!reader category: angst content warning: post prison/prison arc, lack of communication, chemist!reader, slightly proofread word count: 2.13k a/n: love this song. both the original and the phoebe bridgers cover.

i don’t wanna be here anymore; it all tastes like poison

You rifled through the dish that you kept on the entryway console, looking for your car keys so that you could get out. It was hard to describe the way you felt like a spinning top, not dizzy but out of control. Everything felt so out of control.

How could you let it get this bad? You breathed heavily as you fished your keys from the pottery and looped your finger through the key ring. Wiping your nose with the sleeve of your sweatshirt, your eyes caught onto some movement in your periphery.

“You’re leaving?” Spencer asked from down the hallway; his work clothes were rumpled and creased like he’d fallen asleep in them.

You had hoped that he would have the ability to ease himself back into society after three months of prison, and you always took the time to assure him that you would be there for him. Desperately, you tried to be a pillar of support, but you had reached your breaking point.

He’d been given six weeks to readjust. When that didn’t seem to be working, you thought maybe he needed to find his rhythm again, but going back to work at the BAU didn’t seem to help him either. It wasn’t until his first sabbatical hit that you finally considered the fact that things would never be the same between the two of you again.

When you didn’t answer, Spencer put his foot out but hesitated to take a step toward you. “Are you going to come back?”

Swallowing thickly, you looked down at the keys in your hand, “I don’t know.” You eyed the key to your lab, the one place you could always go to escape when you needed to, but you never imagined needing to escape from Spencer.

You weren’t even sure he had been sleeping in the same bed as you, and if he was, he was getting in after you and getting up before you. There was once a moment when you and Spencer shared every minute detail of your lives with each other, at least the parts you weren’t together for, but now you wouldn’t be able to tell anyone what he was teaching in his lectures, and he couldn’t guess which projects you were working on.

When Spencer was in prison, you thought that was the loneliest you would ever be, but now you were living with the ghost of the man who you once loved, and you had never felt more alone.

Last week, you had practically begged him, very nearly gotten on your knees and pled with him to have a substantial conversation with you. He didn’t seem interested.

you believe that you love me

Looking back up, your eyes widened at the revelation that Spencer had made his way to you in complete silence; he was standing in front of you, “You’re sneaking out?”

Your nostrils flared in frustration; you were sneaking out of your own apartment, a space that you and Spencer were supposed to share, but it didn’t feel like home anymore. “Did I do something wrong?” You asked him, studying his brown eyes as they appeared until the cool light of the moon.

He set both of his hands on your upper arms, and you pulled away from his touch. Spencer flinched back as surely as if you’d struck him. If you pulling away from him hurt, then he wouldn’t be able to fathom how you were feeling right now—how you had been feeling for the last seven months.

“Is it because of your mom?” You tried again, silver lining your eyes as you looked up at him, mercurial tears streaming down your cheeks as you begged for an answer. “I was at work when she was abducted,” you reminded him, having thrown yourself into work while Spencer was in prison. “Is it because I didn’t help her?”

Spencer’s lips parted in surprise, “I didn’t know you blamed yourself for that.” His arms hung limply by his sides, fists clenching and unclenching in an attempt to release nervous energy.

Blinking tears from your eyes, your shoulders slouched at what felt like a rejection, “How would you? You don’t talk to me,” you told him, your tone wholly accusatory.

“We talk every day,” he rebutted, the energy in your conversation veering toward hostility. That’s not what you wanted; you just wanted to feel at peace.

Three months in prison, six weeks of mandatory leave, one hundred days with the team, twenty days into his first sabbatical, and Spencer was refusing to face what you had already run into headfirst. “We haven’t had a real conversation since February, Spencer. It’s September.”

His eyebrows pinched together as he studied your body language, profiling you to deduce what you wanted from him instead of just asking you. “What do you mean ‘a real conversation?’”

You pressed your lips together in a thin line, and you searched every part of your brain for something to say that wouldn’t contribute to taking your life apart brick by brick. You couldn’t. The words simply weren’t there anymore. Maybe you had left them behind months ago, but right now, you shrugged helplessly, “You’re different, Spence.”

He peered down at you as if you had offended him, “Did you expect me to stay the same?”

It was pathetic. You felt pathetic. Staying in your entryway and begging for someone who previously kissed the ground you walked on for a reason to stay. You never had to ask him before. “I’ve never expected anything but love from you, and you know that,” you told him, pulling the truth from the depths of your soul and putting it on display for him.

Spencer took a step back, stumbling as if his legs were threatening to give out beneath him. “You don’t think I love you anymore?” His own tears welled in his eyes, glittering saline along his lash line that made your chest ache.

You blinked, letting more tears fall down your cheeks. You heard the droplets as they fell on the vinyl decal of your sweatshirt, the only noise in the midst of an otherwise deathly silence. “You have given me no reason to believe that you do,” you admitted, your voice tight with emotion.

so, lose your faith in me

“Don’t leave,” he gasped, struggling through his tears. He held a hand out to you, too hesitant to touch you because of the way you reacted earlier.

You felt like you were tearing your own heart from your chest. You held the organ in your hands, blood dripping to the floor and seeping within the woodgrain, and you asked him to put it back where it belonged. “I can’t do this anymore,” you told him.

He set a hand on the side of your neck, and this time, you didn’t pull away from him. Instead, you savored his touch, the warmth of his palm seeping into your skin as the two of you waited for something to give. Three months in prison had been a test of your relationship; you had very little contact with each other. Nothing face-to-face, and after a while, Spencer’s mail started to go missing—interference by a prison guard who had it out for him. You thought that getting him back would fix everything.

Spencer was exactly the same, but somehow, he was completely different after his release. You couldn’t fault him for what he had gone through in prison, but you refused to continue your pattern of dancing around each other.

“I love you,” he whispered, his voice so faint that you would’ve missed it had you not been searching for it. His breaths were quickening, and if it weren’t so dark, you’d be sure that his pupils were dilated in fear.

You pursed your lips, “Say it again.” You wanted to hear him. You needed to hear him. You so desperately wanted to hear him repeat himself so that you could throw your arms around him and let him know that everything was perfectly fine.

He panted, “I love you,” he echoed. “Please,” his voice broke, “I love you so much.”

“I want to believe you,” you breathed, looking back down at the keys that remained in your hand. As far as you were concerned, Spencer was the Patron Saint of Liars. He had the intelligence and the experience to become a master manipulator. He’d lied to you before. What was stopping him from doing it again? He knew that I love you was what you wanted to hear. When faced with telling a lie and losing you, the choice was laid out in front of him.

He nodded as if he understood, but you weren’t convinced that he possessed the bandwidth to fully comprehend why you were so unhappy. “I’m sorry for lying to you,” he whispered.

You lost your balance, your back slammed against the wall, and your eyes widened as a result of his apology, “Why?”

Spencer’s brown eyes widened as you slid down the wall, waiting until you were sat on the floor to speak again, “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about Mexico.”

“You could’ve told me,” you told him, “I could’ve helped you, Spencer. Then we could… Then maybe…” your voice trailed off, lost in a sea of hiccuping sobs.

Gingerly, Spencer lowered himself to the ground and took a seat next to you, “Maybe I wouldn’t have gone to jail. You’re right,” he admitted, “but maybe they would’ve killed you too. Maybe there would have been the same outcome as the one we got, or maybe it would have been much worse.”

Releasing a shuddering breath, you pulled your knees to your chest and wrapped your arms around them. “Lorenz,” you murmured, closing your eyes to relieve some of the burning.

“The Butterfly Effect,” Spencer commented, “Small changes can have large consequences. I made a decision that had massive ramifications and negatively impacted you, and I haven’t been doing enough to fix it.”

You sighed, “You can’t fix it, Spence. It’s like a band-aid over a bullet hole.” You thumbed the hem of your sweatpants, opening your eyes just to stare straight ahead at the wall.

He hummed in what you sincerely hoped was understanding, “I took six years of building trust with you and destroyed it, and now when I tell you I love you, you don’t believe me.”

“You told me you were going to Houston,” you whispered.

“I told everyone I was going to Houston,” he said softly.

Your head snapped in his direction, “I deserved more than what everyone else got. I deserved an explanation, and instead, you lied to me. You lied to me, and then you wouldn’t even let me see you while you were in prison.”

The corners of his mouth downturned, “I didn’t want you to see me in there, and I didn’t want anyone else to see you in there.” You’d heard second hand from JJ that the men at Millburn had ogled her the entire time she was visiting Spencer, and maybe he had explained himself in one of the missing letters, but he hadn’t mentioned it since coming home.

“Spencer, I just want to talk with you,” you whispered. “I want to have a conversation with my boyfriend that doesn’t end with him creating some arbitrary mental block because he doesn’t think I can handle it.”

There was a moment where you thought he was just going to let you go, but Spencer Reid liked to keep the things he cared about close. “It’s not because you can’t handle it, it’s because I can’t handle it,” he admitted.

You turned your body to face him, “What do you mean?”

“I don’t want to tell you about prison,” he clarified. “I barely want to tell my therapist about prison, but you—” his voice broke, and your heart went with it. “If I tell you everything I’ve done, you wouldn’t want to be with me anyway.”

You frowned, “Try me.” Your heart was racing; this bit here was decisive. His response would either mean letting go or moving forward.

He looked down at his lap, “Come to therapy with me tomorrow. It’s… there’s something about the leather couch that turns me into an open book.” He told you, nervously running his palms up and down his cloth-covered thighs. Instinctively, you reached out and grabbed his hands, putting a stop to his compulsive movements. He leaned his head back and stared up at the ceiling, “Please don’t leave.”

Shaking your head, you sniffled through your tears. If you’d had more energy, maybe you would’ve given him a soft smile, but for now, you answered him, “I won’t.”

[edenesth]

By Order of the Black Pirates

An 'Ice On My Teeth' Comeback Special Series

"N-No, please! Spare me! I was wrong! I swear I'll never do it again!" The man's voice cracked as he grovelled on the damp ground, tears carving paths through the grime on his face. His trembling hands offered up the tiny diamond he'd been foolish enough to steal—his last-ditch effort to appease the eight figures towering over him like shadows of death.

He'd heard the whispers, the warnings: Never cross the Black Pirates. Never touch what belongs to them. Never even think of betrayal. Yet greed had blinded him. Now, staring into their cold, merciless eyes, he knew his regret was far too late.

The leader of the gang stepped forward, a smirk tugging at his lips as he tilted his head, studying the pitiful man like a cat sizing up a doomed mouse. "Didn't I ask you to screen these rats better?" he drawled, casting a sideways glance at the eldest among them before shifting his focus back to their prey. "No time to waste. Finish him."

A low chuckle echoed through the tension-filled night as the gang's usual executioner, a broad-shouldered figure clad in his signature fur coat, stepped forward, his grin as sharp as the blade in his hand.

"Sorry, buddy," he mused, his voice dripping with mock sympathy. "This will be the night you take your final breath—by order of the Black fuckin' Pirates."

ـــــــــــــــﮩ٨ـ

Watching the harrowing scene from a distance stood a figure with crossed arms, his voice low as he muttered to his right-hand, "Every man has a weakness. Find the Black Pirates', and we'll knock them off their high horses."

"And if they have none, sir?"

The figure's lips curled into a dark smile. "Then we'll make sure they do."

Pairing(s): gang members!ateez x fem!reader

AU: gang au

Summary: One by one, the Black Pirates uncover their greatest weakness. But when the cracks begin to show, will they stand firm or let their vulnerabilities bring their empire to its knees?

Genre: angst, hurt/comfort

Trigger Warnings: violence, torture, abuse, blood, murder, language, contains dark themes in general

A/N: Credits to the wonderful @sundaybossanova for giving me the idea of something Peaky Blinders inspired. Thank you so much and ily💖

ATEEZ MASTERLIST

Hongjoong

‣ The Captain [Coming soon]

The Captain of the Black Pirates—respected, feared, and unmatched in strategy—lives by his sharp mind and unshakable resolve. But his carefully constructed world begins to crumble when a grave mistake leads him to torture an innocent suspect nearly to death. Haunted by guilt, his quest for redemption takes an unexpected turn, awakening a part of him he never thought existed: a desire to protect and care for someone.

Seonghwa

‣ The Gentleman [Coming soon]

The Black Pirates' poised diplomat, celebrated for his refined demeanour, sharp wit, and unmatched negotiation skills, is always in control. But his composure falters when he encounters an unwilling captive trapped in the Red Room—a ruthless training ground for spies. Driven by an unexpected urge to save her, he finds his carefully maintained boundaries beginning to unravel.

Yunho

‣ The Enforcer [Coming soon]

The towering enforcer of the Black Pirates, both disarming and deadly—his easy charm capable of winning over enemies, while his legendary fury dominates the battlefield. But his unbreakable facade begins to crack when he meets a psychologist during a mission—someone who can see through his carefully crafted mask, just as he can see through hers. Beneath her confident exterior lies a frightened soul lost in a dark world, and for the first time, he finds himself compelled to protect someone in a way he never expected.

Yeosang

‣ The Phantom [Coming soon]

Mysterious and elusive, the Black Pirates' intelligence expert is known for his sharp instincts and unparalleled skill in espionage and reconnaissance. But when he crosses paths with a woman who surpasses him in both skill and wit for the first time, his confidence begins to waver. As she outsmarts him at every turn, he finds himself unexpectedly drawn to her, eagerly anticipating each challenge—because the thrill of being near her is something he never expected to crave.

San

‣ The Tempest [Coming soon]

The Black Pirates' most unpredictable force is a whirlwind of fiery passion and unbridled energy—always the first to leap into action when chaos erupts. But his world tilts when he stumbles upon a woman who, unlike his victims who always begged to live, is on the brink of ending her own life. Upon discovering she's terminally ill, he finds himself gripped by an unfamiliar and urgent desire to save her, igniting a battle within himself unlike anything he's ever faced.

Mingi

‣ The Firestarter [Coming soon]

The Black Pirates' wild card is notorious for his fiery temper and even more explosive schemes—a dangerous yet irresistibly charming presence. But his confidence takes a hit when one of his near-disastrous plans is salvaged by an unlikely passerby: a composed and resourceful former aristocrat, exiled and stripped of her wealth, now navigating the world's harsh realities. Her icy demeanour and unshakable poise captivate him, leaving the ever-impulsive man unexpectedly drawn to her.

Wooyoung

‣ The Charmer [Coming soon]

The Black Pirates' negotiator and master of distractions is renowned for his confidence and flirtatious charm, which can sway almost anyone. But his ego is severely wounded when he encounters the loyal bodyguard of a high-profile target, someone completely immune to his usual tricks, during a high-stakes mission. Frustrated by his failure yet captivated by her unwavering resolve, he finds himself unable to stay away, drawn to the challenge—and to her—in ways he never expected.

Jongho

‣ The Anchor [Coming soon]

The steadfast foundation of the Black Pirates is renowned for his unfaltering strength and calm under pressure. As the gang's moral compass and protector, he's always put duty above all else. But when a rival gang's attack threatens the life of their kind-hearted hired doctor, he begins to realise that his priorities extend beyond just his brothers. Torn between his loyalty to the gang and his growing feelings for her, he faces an agonising choice: protect his family or save her.

Voila, my loves! As promised, I finally managed to come up with a little something for this comeback teehee. I hope you're as excited about this as I am! Truthfully, I just returned from a 10-day trip in Shanghai and am back to work on Monday already - which means I might not be able to write much until the following weekend but I will do my best to get the parts out ASAP!

Super excited to hear your thoughts on the concept! Do let me know which member's summary enticed you the most!✨ and of course, just leave a comment if you'd like to be tagged for when the parts are released!

General ATEEZ Tag list:

@aurasblue @marievllr-abg @itsvxlentine @minghaoslatina @huachengsbestie01

@evidive @weedforthoughtz @minkiflwr @cheolliehugs @ho3-for-yunho

@the-kpop-simp @itstheghostofmypast @vantediary @green-agent @skzline

@sharksandminhos @writingwieny @heyitsmetonid @tinyteezer @hollxe1

@pandabur666 @vampzity @tournesol155 @lilactangerine @oddracha

@haven-cove @idfkeddieishot @vic0921 @vnessalau @apriecotte

@bangtannie7 @vtyb23 @khjoongie98 @scuzmunkie @anxiousskylar

@bunny4yungi @zl-world @bethelighthalazia @tsunchani

All Rights Reserved © edenesth

DO NOT REPOST, TRANSLATE, PLAGIARISE OR OTHERWISE REPURPOSE ANY OF THE WORK HERE.

[beloveds-embrace]

dukedom!AU but they realize she’s quickly become a type of ‘peoples princess’ outside the duchy

The timeline for this one is before reader tells john her request! I got this ask before part two dropped and already had some of it written. Hope you enjoy, anon! <3

Dukedome au masterlist

I can imagine them realizing it not from seeing it, but from hearing it, maybe during a gala hosted by John and uou. The evening is alive with music and laughter, the grand ballroom brimming with nobles and dignitaries. Yet the chatter revolve around one figure: you.

“She’s truly remarkable, isn’t she?” one elderly countess says, her voice carrying across the marble floors and gleaming ceilings. “Always so graceful, so kind. I am quite glad she is Duchess Price, now.”

John stands near the refreshments table with Simon, and overhears the conversation. His hand tightens slightly around his glass, though his face betrays nothing. Nothing new to be talked about, it was natural. And yet-

“Graceful?” a younger lady chimes in, voice calm and polite. “She’s more than that. Did you hear she personally visited the orphanage last week? Brought food and clothing, spoke to every child. And not for show- she refused to let any journalists near. That’s a true duchess.”

Simon’s brows furrows slightly, his jaw tightening. He exchanges a glance with John, the unspoken thought between them clear: she hadn’t told either of them about that visit. It wasn’t because John didn’t trust you, or that you need his permission; he just wanted to be aware of where you go and which guards you’ll take. For your own safety.

“She’s so approachable too,” a lord adds, gesturing with his wine glass. John knows this lord, he always ends up drinking too much and being too handsy. Why would you need to speak to him? “I spoke to her briefly earlier- she didn’t just listen, she cared. You can see it in her eyes. It’s no wonder the people adore her.”

Adore is putting it way too lightly.

From the other side of the room, Kyle watches as a small group of maids gossip near the staircase. He wasn’t one for eavesdropping, but their excitement is hard to ignore.

“I heard she gave her own jewelry to the head maid’s daughter to help her pay for her dowry.” One of them whispers, clutching her tray.

“That’s not all,” another group are speaking, talking about her as well. “The market vendors say she always pays more than is needed, even when they insist she doesn’t do. Such a lovely woman.”

“Wish the other nobles were like her,” the first maid says with a wistful sigh. “She’s the only one who treats us like people.”

Kyle’s lips press into a thin line as he adjusts his gloves. He prides himself on protecting you, but hearing how far your kindness extends fills him with a quiet sense of urgency. What if someone takes advantage of you and your tender heart?

It’s not just in the main hall that these words are said; down in the kitchens, Johnny is busy ensuring there’s enough food with the rest of the chefs. But still, he can hear two others talking while they work, trying not to sound too snappy or angry while he listens in on them.

As the night continues, the men find themselves more and more aware of how often your name arises in conversation. They hear nobles discussing your fashion choices (Simon secretly preens), others whispering about your visits to the poorer parts of town and the funds that have been allocated into revitalizing the areas, and even rival duchesses grudgingly admitting that you’ve set quite the high standard.

“I heard she stopped Lord Clinton from evicting his tenants,” one man says near the dance floor, though not quite close enough to be drawn into the dancing bodies. He is within John and Simon’s earshots.

“Not only that,” someone else “whispers”. “She made sure they had food and shelter through the winter. commoners love her, and she truly embodies what it means to be a noble. A true people’s princess, I say.”

John’s gaze flickers toward you, standing across the room and laughing softly with a group of nobles. You’re glowing tonight, the light catching in your hair and your smile as warm as ever, adorned in a beautiful dress.

“They don’t deserve her,” Kyle mutters, sidling up to him while holding a plate of finger foods.

John doesn’t respond, but his grip on his glass tightens again. It’s a wonder the glass hasn’t broken et.

Simon’s voice is quiet when he speaks. “The people see her as theirs.” He pauses, his gaze hardening. “But she’s ours first.”

“I cannot blame them.” John sighs. “She is the perfect duchess. But she is also my duchess, and they seem to have forgotten that.”

John means his words, and he knows his men agree with him. The world may love you, but they know the truth: no one else can have you- not the people, not the nobles, no one but them.

The ballroom continues to buzz with conversation, and John focuses back on the two men near the edge of the dance floor.

“She’s wasted on a duchy,” one of them says, swirling his wine with a smirk, more than just a little drunk. “With her charm, she could outshine the Queen herself.”

“Not just charm,” the other adds in, just as drunk. “But Influence.”

Simon stiffens, his fingers flexing at his sides. “Influence” isn’t something he takes lightly when it comes to you. It’s a dangerous thing in the wrong hands- or with the wrong admirers.

“Careful,” John mutters to him. “They’re complimenting her, not threatening her.”

Simon’s glare softens ever so slightly. “Yet.”

Johnny slowly makes his way towards a hidden corner of the ballroom, gnawing on his lips as he listens to the whispers of you.

Did you see the way she stopped to speak with the gardeners?” one of them asks. “She even complimented the hedges I trimmed last week!”

Johnny’s grin fades, his fingers drumming against his thigh. He enjoys seeing people appreciate you, but this feels different. They speak of you with reverence, as if you’re some untouchable figure. But Johnny knows better. You’re no untouchable goddess- you’re his. Theirs. That’s what matters most.

It’s when you step onto the dance floor that the tension truly rises. A duke- one who’s been eyeing you all evening- approaches you with a bow, extending his hand for a dance. You hesitate, glancing toward John out of instinct. He doesn’t move, but his eyes darken, his jaw clenched as he watches you take the duke’s hand.

The music swells and you move across the floor, laughter bubbles from your lips at something your dance partner says. The men see it for what it is: polite, nothing more. But it doesn’t stop the knot of irritation tightening even further.

“She’s a vision,” someone murmurs nearby, unaware they’re being overheard.

“Who wouldn’t fall for her?” another replies.

The words hang in the air, heavy with implication.

Kyle’s gaze sharpens. Johnny’s grin vanishes completely. Simon’s fists clench at his sides. And John, ever composed, finishes his wine in one long swallow, his eyes never leaving you.

He can’t allow this to go on for any longer.

The dance ends, and as you return to the edge of the ballroom, you’re immediately surrounded by more admirers- ladies complimenting your gown, lords vying for your attention. Or would have been, if John hadn’t started making his way towards you, presence larger than life.

“Your Grace,” he says smoothly, and extends his hand to you, his expression unreadable. “Dance with me.”

The request- or rather, the command- is met with stunned silence. The nobles exchange glances, but a single glance from John keeps them all silent.

You blink up at him, momentarily caught off guard, before placing your hand in his. “Of course.” you murmur softly.

John’s grip is firm but gentle as he leads you to the dance floor, his other hand resting lightly at your waist. The orchestra begins a soft waltz, and he pulls you into the first step, his movements confident and assured.

Around you, the crowd watches, whispers starting anew, though you barely notice. All you can focus on is the intensity in John’s eyes as he looks down at you.

“You’ve been busy tonight.” he says after a moment, his voice low enough that only you can hear. It sends a shiver up your spine- his voice always so nice to hear.

“It’s my role,” you reply, offering him a small smile. “Everyone has been so kind.”

He hums, his eyes flicking briefly to the onlookers before returning to you. “Too kind, perhaps.”

You raise an eyebrow at his tone but say nothing, letting him guide you across the floor. His hand tightens slightly at your waist, and he pulls you even more closer.

“You’ve done well tonight,” he says after a moment, his voice softer now. “Better than I expected, if I’m honest. But I shouldn’t have been surprised. You always seem to surprise me, my dear.”

Your cheeks warm at the unexpected praise, and you smile up at him. “Thank you, John. That means a great deal.”

He leans in just slightly, his breath ghosting over your ear. “The way they look at you,” he murmurs, his voice dropping even lower. “They can’t take their eyes off you. And I don’t blame them.”

You glance up at him, startled, but his expression is unreadable once again. He continues to lead you effortlessly through the dance, his movements precise.

“But,” he continues, his gaze locking onto yours, “they’ll have to remember who you belong to.”

Your heart skips at his words, and for a moment, you forget where you are, the world narrowing to just the two of you. His eyes soften, his grip steady as he twirls you into the final steps of the dance.

As the music fades, he leans in again, his voice barely above a whisper. “You’re exquisite tonight, wife. Don’t let them forget it.”

With that, he leads you off the dance floor, his hand never leaving yours. The crowd parts for the both of you, their gazes following you both as John guides you back to the edge of the room, where the others wait.

You’re still breathless, his words replaying in your mind as he steps aside, positioning himself at your shoulder. Whatever protests the nobles might’ve had about your absence dissolve under his watchful glare.

And though John doesn’t say another word for the rest of the evening, his presence alone is enough to ensure no one dares to crowd you again, and no one comes between you and them. Simon and Kyle keep you busy, chatting happily with them, and Johnny joins later when the guests begin to trickle out and no one would question why a chef is there.

People’s princess you maybe, you are still theirs. John simply had to show and remind everyone of that fact.

[metranart]

Love-Struck Nanami! Who even when he looks measured and in control is burning inside to have YOUR attention all to himself.

Love-Struck Nanami! Who is gentle and kind but must clench his fists tightly to keep from hitting Gojo for putting his arm around your shoulders.

Love-Struck Nanami! Who jacks himself off furiously every night since you came to the academy as a professor.

Love-Struck Nanami! Who almost came inside his pants when you fixed his tie one random morning. “I like your tie, Nanami-san. It’s so you… yet so opposite.” If only you knew, how intricate his mind is as well.

Love-Struck Nanami! Who takes a deep breath to try to calm down and regain his temper before touching you. It's a superficial wound, you're not in danger but to bandage your shoulder you must take off your shirt and he doesn't know if you'll be safe around him, since his hands won't stop shaking anxiously and excited for the long-awaited skin-to-skin contact.

Love-Struck Nanami! Who was unable to contain himself and kissed you, you shouldn't have reciprocated his audacity. Damn it! You shouldn't have—

Love-Struck Nanami! Who lost the ability to control himself when you showed the slightest interest in him, now pushes you against the empty halls to make out, his hands slide under your skirt to fill themselves with your flesh, the shape of his teeth adorns the curve of your soft and delicate neck.

Love-Struck Nanami! Who makes love to you for the first time like a true gentleman, guides you through multiple orgasms and drops you into a pool of pleasure until you’re moaning and babbling only his name, only to do it again and again, wants you to remember this side of him well since he’s sure you won’t see it that often because of how desperate he is to bend you in every imaginable way the human body can.

Love-Struck Nanami! Who uses his tie to tie your hands, cover your eyes, suffocate you, it’s a fantasy he’s always had since you touched his tie so many months ago. “Are you sure, love?” He asked worriedly, nervous that you’d agree so quickly, “I’m not going to hurt you but I’m not going to be gentle either.” He tried to warn you insistently, but you refused to listen.

Love-Struck Nanami! Who fucks you all night, into the morning and into the next night and barely feels any relief, he's held himself back so much that it would take him all year inside you to even feel his blood slow down.

Love-Struck Nanami! Who showers you with affection only to ram his hips so deliciously violent against yours that you lose consciousness at times.

Love-Struck Nanami! Who in all tenderness rubs your wrists after removing his tie, kisses each patch of skin in your exhausted, trembling body, eats your pussy for HOURS until you're tender and dripping, adores you with proclamations of love that come from the deepest part of his devoted heart.

Love-Struck Nanami! Who holds you tight against him while you sleep, greedily cuddling you while burying his face in your soft hair, the scent of your body helping him sleep, having you safe inside his arms helping him reach some undeserved kind of peace, having you in his life helping him not to give up on the Jujutsu world again.

➡️🔞 Check Nanami's tie bondage NSFW action in HERE

[lubdubology]

Take My Love and Wear It

SYNOPSIS: Taking care of Charles has its own special challenges, but you didn’t expect the hardest one to be the man who hired you. Distant, gruff and rough around the edges, Logan still manages to worm his way under your skin. But you’ve worked your way under his, too. 

PAIRING: Old Man Logan x fem!reader

WC: 10.8k 

WARNINGS: smut 18+; mdni; angst; swearing; non-explicit mentions of wounds, blood and use of stitches; extreme physical pain; Charles is a lovable, meddling little shit; fluff sprinkled in for good measure; Logan in a tub (if I had a nickel for every time I bathed him, I’d have two nickels—which isn’t a lot, but its weird it happened twice, right); touch-starved Logan; handjobs; shower sex; fingering; dirty talk; oral (f receiving); sex with feelings; unprotected p in v; creampie

A/N: There’s something special about Old Man Logan, isn’t there? Old and grumpy and desperately in need of some love and affection. I know the Charles caregiver story has been done before, but I couldn’t get this idea out of my head. And then Charles starting talking in my head and well...it blossomed into this. As always, thank you to @joelsgoldrush for allowing me to send her snippets of this as I went along and offering her love, support and suggestions. I hope you enjoy this and any likes, comments and reblogs are always appreciated!

You stare down at the remnants of yesterday’s cold and congealed dinner and sigh. Scraping the food into the trash, you resist the urge to pack everything you have and leave. 

One month. 

One month of helping Charles—making his meals, washing his clothes, giving him his meds, making sure he doesn’t hurt himself (or others), assisting with daily tasks—and Logan still regards you as a nuisance, like a gnat needing to be swatted away. 

At best, he ignores you, moving around the house as if you don’t exist. 

And at worst, he treats you with barely concealed contempt, his scowl deepening the lines of his face whenever he’s around you. As if you’re invading his space uninvited even though he’s the one that sought out help. 

You grip the edge of the sink, staring down into the porcelain basin as if it holds some hidden answers. Every day you’ve tried to break through walls Logan’s built around himself, held onto Charles’ promise that eventually he’ll soften, just give him time, but he only seems to have grown more hostile. And you’ve done nothing to incur his ire besides watching him come home every day battered and bruised, his very bones weary with exhaustion, and offering your assistance.

Part of you is angry—angry that you care so much when your main focus is supposed to be Charles. Angry that despite all his efforts to come across unapproachable and cold, Logan’s worked himself under your skin and takes a little piece of you with him whenever he leaves. 

Angry that somehow he’s stolen a piece of your heart. 

You hear shuffling behind you and turn to find Logan entering the kitchen, fingers fastening the last buttons on his dress shirt. “What?” he asks gruffly and for a moment you wonder if he can read your thoughts.

You straighten and meet his gaze head on, swallowing down your nervousness. “How much longer are we going to keep doing this, Logan?”

“Doing what?”

“This,” you say, gesturing between you. “You walking around here like I’m some stain upon your life, acting like I’m a problem when all I’ve ever done is try and help.” Your voice is steadier than you feel. “You asked for me to be here, Logan. It’s not like I barged in here without permission.”

Logan holds your gaze, his jaw tight, and for a moment you think he’s going to grab his keys and leave, head off into the night and drive until sunrise. His eyes soften for just a moment, something like regret crossing his features. 

“I know why you’re here. And I do…appreciate it,” he says, his words coming out low and rough. As if the words taste foreign in his mouth. 

“Wouldn’t kill you to show it,” you challenge.

You’re waiting for him to lash out and instead he sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Look, I’m not good at this.”

“I’m not asking you to bow at my feet,” you say, hoping to ease some of the tension in the air. “Although, I wouldn’t be mad about it.” You think you see the briefest hint of a smile flicker across his face. “I just want us to be able to live in the same space. I’m here to help, Logan. Let me.”

“You have no idea how hard this life is.”

A rueful smile tugs at your lips. “I understand more than you think I do.”

Logan’s gaze sharpens, inquisitive as he searches your face, as if he’s trying to decipher the meaning behind your words. He rubs a hand across his face, scratching lightly as his beard. “I’ve gotta couple jobs tonight. Maybe more,” he finally says, changing the conversation. “Should be back before sunrise.”

You nod, his switch in topic not lost on you, but you don’t push him. “Alright,” you say softly. “Just—just take it easy, okay?”

He glances down at you, relief softening his gaze and you know a part of him is grateful you didn’t push further. 

Grabbing his keys, Logan heads towards the door but pauses just before he’s about to leave. He turns to look back over his shoulder. “Thanks,” he murmurs, the word awkward on his lips. 

You give him a small nod of encouragement as he slips out the door. He may not be ready to full open up, but you feel as if he extended a tiny olive branch tonight, cracked open the door just enough to let you peek in.

+++

Over the following weeks, Logan’s a little less avoidant. He doesn’t go out of his way to make conversation—you didn’t expect him to—but he at least as acknowledges your presence. Small nods and murmured goodbyes when he leaves and sleepy hellos when he returns. It’s not much, but you’ll take it. 

You’re cleaning the last of the dishes from dinner, Charles safely settled in front of the TV watching an old movie when Logan comes home. He’s earlier than you anticipated, but exhaustion lines his face nonetheless. You expect him to slip away quietly, but he pauses instead, lingering in the doorway. 

“Smells good,” he says softly, nodding towards the pan of half eaten lasagna still sitting on the counter. 

Surprised, you turn around to face him. You brush the hair from your face and say, “Sit. I’ll make you up some.” 

Logan hesitates and for a moment you think he’s about to decline, but then he nods, his shoulders dropping slightly as he sits down at the table. You fix him up a plate, setting it down in front of him with a bottle of beer as you slide into the chair across from him.  

He tucks quietly into the food, his fork scraping against his plate as he eats, pausing only to wash it down with a few swigs of beer. You watch him, a strange satisfaction tugging at you at the sight of him actually sitting down, enjoying a meal with you, even if it is in silence. 

“Long day?” you ask quietly, gesturing towards his bruised knuckles.

He flexes the fingers on his free hand before tucking them under the table. “Nothin’ I can’t handle,” he mutters, taking another bite of lasagna. “They’ll be gone in a day or two.”

You know not that long ago an injury like that wouldn’t have even marred his skin. Now, the simplest of wounds can take days to heal and it’s not the appearance of his skin that bothers you, but the newfound ache he experiences, the heaviness of constant pain.

You want to help him, ease his discomfort, like you know you could. But you know he’s not ready for that. Not yet.

“You’re good with Charles,” Logan says then, his gaze steady on his plate. “He seems calmer around you.”

Logan’s admission is so unexpected, you find yourself staring at him in disbelief. At your silence, his eyes flicker up to yours and you see more than simple acknowledgement in his expression. It’s subtle, but it’s there, a current of something more, something you’re not quite sure how to address.

“Thank you,” you murmur, your voice softer than you intended. “Charles—he means a lot to me.” You pause briefly, but something compels you to continue. “You both do.”

His gaze is focused on you and you don’t miss the flicker of surprise that breaks through his usual stoic expression. Clearing his throat, he looks down, pushing around the last bit of lasagna on his plate and then after a moment, he sets his fork down and leans back in his chair. “You mean a lot to him, too,” Logan finally says and you wonder if he’s talking about more than just Charles.

From the living room you hear Charles call for you, his voice soft but insistent. The moment between you still crackles as you stand from the table and as you begin to walk away, Logan reaches for your hand. His fingers are warm and rough against your skin and you’re barely able to suppress your shiver. 

“Thank you,” Logan says, his voice surprisingly soft. 

His grip against your skin is gentle, a stark contrast to all his roughness and you can feel the weight of his unspoken words curling around you. Charles calls again, his voice breaking through the moment, but Logan’s hand lingers just a beat longer before he lets go, fingers trailing along your skin. 

+++

“He likes you, you know.”

You glance up from shaving Charles’ face and find him staring at you, a mischievous glint in his eye. You give a soft hum. “Did he tell you that or did you read his mind?”

Charles scoffs and waves his hand dismissively. “What’s the difference, dear?” 

You chuckle, shaking your head as you rinse the razor. “With Logan I’m pretty sure there’s a big difference.”

“Bah, if Logan wanted to keep me out of his head, he would. Stubborn man.” He tsks softly to himself and shakes his head. “But, no my dear, he can be quite loud if you know how to listen.”

You raise an eyebrow, giving him a playful look. “Loud, huh? And what exactly is that brain of his telling you?”

Charles gives you a knowing smile. “Oh, just little things,” he says casually with a wave of his hand, but you can tell by the look on his face that he’s holding back. “He notices you—what you do for me, this place, for him. He may not realize it himself, but his thoughts linger on you more often than he’d like.”

A flicker of hope sparks in your chest and despite yourself, you feel a blush creeping into your cheeks. “Logan doesn’t strike me as the sentimental type.”

“Logan has spent so much of his life running,” Charles continues, his tone and expression growing more thoughtful. “The loss he’s experienced has led him to believe it’s better to be alone than form meaningful connections with people. But you’ve somehow become something of a home for him. And he doesn’t quite know what to make of that.”

Your heart skips a beat as you take in his words. The idea of being a home for Logan, a comfort, feels surreal, and yet...there’s a part of you that dares to hope what Charles is saying is true. That this isn’t some fictional truth his brain has concocted, a product of his disease riddled mind. 

“Home.” You repeat the word softly to yourself, testing the word on your own tongue as if it might shatter into pieces.

Charles nods, his hand reaching for yours, his gaze warm and knowing. “Yes, home. He feels it, deep down, in a way that’s unfamiliar and frightening for him.”

You glance down at your hand in Charles’ grasp, his touch grounding you as his words settle over you. 

“Logan’s spent so long hiding from himself,” Charles continues. “I think he’s convinced himself he doesn’t deserve that kind of peace.”

“And you think I can give him that peace?” you ask quietly, your eyes flicking back up to Charles’ face.

He smiles knowingly and gives your hand a squeeze. “You already have, dear.”

+++

“Want some help?”

You turn to find Logan standing in the entrance of the kitchen, hands tucked into his pockets.

It’s a rare night—one where Logan’s chosen to stay home, taking a night off from the almost endless driving he does. He’s dressed down, well worn jeans and a button-up flannel, and for once you actually think he looks comfortable.

You smile, surprised, but happy to see him there. “Sure, the company would be nice,” you reply as he comes to stand next to you. “Want to wash and dice the potatoes?”

Logan nods and rolls up his sleeves before reaching for the bowl of potatoes you had set aside earlier. You watch him for a moment as he settles into the task with a quiet focus. 

“Smells good,” he comments, gesturing towards the oven. “What’re we having?”

“Charles has been asking for beef tenderloin for weeks now, so I’m finally indulging him.” You finish trimming the last of the green beans and toss them into the bowl beside you. “You know, if you have any favorite meals you’d like me to make, you can tell me.”

Logan pauses and glances at you as he shuts off the tap. He clears his throat and says, “You already are.”

You blink in surprise as Logan’s words sink in and then the realization dawns on you. A soft smile spreads across your face as you piece together the extent of Charles’ meddling. You can’t find it in you to be annoyed and only feel a mix of amusement and fondness towards the old man as you chuckle softly to yourself.

“What’s so funny?” Logan asks, raising his eyebrow as he catches your expression.

“Oh, nothing,” you say, waving him off with a smile. 

Logan doesn’t look convinced, but he doesn’t pry as he picks up the knife and begins to deftly dice the potatoes. You watch him for a moment, captivated by the simple domesticity of the task. It’s in direct contrast to the man you’ve seen numerous times before, brooding and gruff, brimming with an almost untamed violence. 

It suits him, you think, this quieter version of himself.

You both finish the prep with relative ease. He helps you set the table as the rest of the food cooks, plates clinking softly as he sets them down. You busy yourself with finishing the green beans in a garlic butter as you wait for for the tenderloin to rest enough to carve into. 

“Ah, my dear, this smells wonderful,” Charles announces as he rolls into the kitchen, a warm smile on his face. “And you managed to pull Logan out of his room. What a treat.”

Logan snorts in response, giving Charles a pointed glare.

“I dare say it’s because the company has improved much as of late,” Charles says, his eyes twinkling in amusement as he glances between the both of you. “We all know he’s not out here for my benefit.”

You laugh as you bring the dishes to the table, noting the faintest of blushes creeping along Logan’s cheeks. “I’ll take that as a compliment, Charles.”

“As you should, dear. Your personality is quite sparkling.” He looks over towards Logan. “Isn’t it, Logan?”

Logan’s eyes land on you as he answers, “Yes. Yes, it is.”

Dinner begins quietly, the three of you settling into easy conversation as the first few bites are consumed. Both Charles and Logan hum in delight and a warmth blooms within you watching them both. This—this is the simplicity you’ve been craving with Logan.

As the meal continues, Charles launches into his usual repertoire of stories, those of the school and his students, his words brimming with nostalgia and pride as he talks. Logan sits back in his chair, arms crossed as he listens to him speak, shaking his head fondly at some of the memories.

“You know,” Charles begins, setting his fork down with an air of mischief, “I don’t think I ever told you how I met Logan, have I?”

Logan’s head snaps up. “Don’t, Chuck.”

But Charles is already smiling at you, ignoring Logan’s warning. “It’s a good story, dear. See, Logan had quite the career as an underground cage fighter.”

You lift your brows in surprise and you glance over at Logan, who’s thoroughly unamused by Charles’ choice of topic. “Cage fighting, huh?” you ask, unable to suppress your curiosity. 

Logan shifts uncomfortably in his seat, stabbing at his potatoes with a little more force than necessary. “It wasn’t a career,” he mutters. “Just a distraction. Way to get by.”

“Mmm, yes, perhaps,” Charles chuckles, clearly enjoying himself. “Regardless of the reason, it lead you to this exact moment. Didn’t it, Logan?”

Logan narrows his eyes at Charles, though the glare is only half-hearted. “You make it sound like all it all had some grand purpose.”

“Did it not?” Charles says gently, his tone shifting into something more serious. “Kept you alive, for one. But more than that, it brought you to us. To me.” He pauses for a moment, his eyes darting towards you. “To her.”

The words hang in the air and you glance over at Logan, whose expression softens just slightly. Without thinking, you reach across the table and give his forearm a gentle squeeze. His eyes meet yours, a flicker of a smile tugging at his lips.

Charles watches the exchange with quiet satisfaction before clearing his throat. “Well, I believe my work here is done,” he announces, wheeling himself back from he table. “Logan, fancy a game of chess? I haven’t made a player out of her yet.”

You laugh to yourself as Logan follows Charles into the living room. After clearing the kitchen from dinner and loading the last of the dishes into the dishwasher, you join them both in the living room. Tucking yourself into the couch, you read while the two of them play, the clinking of wooden chess pieces and the occasional dry quip from Charles filling the room.

From your spot on the couch, you glance up from your book every now and then to watch them. Logan’s brow furrows in concentration, while Charles’ face is more relaxed as they play. You smile to yourself, wondering how often they played like this in the past, when times were simpler.

You’re not sure when you fell asleep or how long you’ve been out, but you’re jostled awake as two large, warm arms wrap around you, holding you close as you’re lifted off the couch. Logan’s familiar scent—cigar smoke and pine—fill your nose and you blink up to find him walking you down the hall towards your room.

“Logan?” you mumble, voice thick with sleep. “D’you really cage fight?”

Logan chuckles softly, the sound rumbling through his chest. “I really did.”

“Did it hurt?”

“No.”

You blink slowly, your sleep-laden mind struggling to process his answer. “Not even a little?” Your voice is barely audible as you nestle closer into the warmth of his chest.

“Not in the way you think,” he answers, nudging open the door to your room with his foot.

You’re too drowsy to ask what he means and instead you hum softly, a noncommittal sound that Logan feels more than hears. Lowering you onto the bed, he moves with a gentleness you’ve never felt from him before. He brushes a strand of hair from your face and pulls the blanket over you before he turns to leave.

Your limbs are heavy, eyes barely open, but you call out softly—“Logan?”

He looks back towards you. “Yeah?”

“I’m glad Charles found you,” you murmur, closing your eyes.

Logan doesn’t answer, but you swear you feel the lightest of kisses against the top of your head before he leaves.

+++

It’s deep into the night when you hear the front door finally open. Your heart flutters against your ribs as you swing out of bed, unsure of what condition you’ll find him in. He was expected back two days ago, those extra hours away feeling like an unfathomable eternity. 

You find him sitting at the kitchen table, dress shirt hanging off one shoulder, the rest of his clothes rumpled and bloodied. A large gash oozes from his shoulder and you can’t stop the gasp that falls from your lips. 

Logan looks up at you, eyes narrowed and lined with exhaustion. “Don’t look at me like that,” he grunts, tugging off the rest of his shirt. 

“How else am I supposed to look at you?” you ask, taking a tentative step forward. “No phone call or text letting me know you’re not coming home and then you waltz in after midnight soaked in blood and covered in wounds.” Unshed tears burn in your eyes but you will yourself not to cry. 

“Didn’t ask you to care about me,” he bites back, but his tone is more weary than argumentative. 

“Oh, fuck you, Logan,” you snip, but your tone lacks venom.

He ignores you, pushing up from the chair with a heavy groan and limps over towards the cabinets. He shuffles through one of them, pulling out the makeshift sewing kit before sitting back down. You watch as he attempts to thread the needle, growing increasingly frustrated when he keeps missing. 

Shoving down your own frustration, you pull up a chair next to him and reach for the needle and thread. He pulls his hands away from you, turning in the chair to keep you away. You chase after his movements, finally grabbing his wrists and removing the supplies from his grasp.

“I don’t need your help,” he growls. 

You sigh, tired of this same argument, this same endless loop every time he comes home injured. “Goddamit, Logan, just let me help you.”

He drags his gaze up to yours, eyes tracing the lines of your face. His chest still heaves with heavy breaths, but you can see the anger bleed from him. He nods once, turning just enough so that you have access to his wound. Threading the needle, you place a gentle hand on his shoulder, ignoring the flinch he gives at your touch. 

“I’m not going to hurt you,” you whisper. 

Logan huffs. “It’s a needle, darlin’. It’s not gonna feel nice.”

You try to ignore the flip your heart does at his use of the word darling. Despite his earlier gruffness and proclivity to push you away, Logan has softened to you over the last couple of months. Since that first dinner you shared, he’s joined you and Charles more often. Or if he comes home late, sought out the leftovers you’ve kept for him. He’s engaged in conversation, offering small pieces of himself, pieces that you’ve cradled close and nurtured. 

But there’s a tension between you, thick and heavy in the air, and you wonder if he feels it too. Feels that same undeniable pull you’ve always felt in his presence. You’d like to think so, otherwise you were doomed to love him silently, your feelings for him bound in the quiet of your mind.

“Just trust me,” you say. 

Slowly, you release your power, warmth spreading from your fingertips, easing his pain and discomfort as you begin to stitch him up. You try to ignore the heavy press of his gaze on your face and you can almost hear his unspoken thoughts, his words still stuck on his tongue.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he asks, his shoulder relaxing as you continue to work.

You glance up at him then, finding his expression softer than you’ve seen it. “A mutant is a dangerous thing to be, Logan,” you answer, your voice soft. “Few people know what I can do. Those I trust.”

For a long moment, Logan just looks at you, his eyes unreadable. Then, a rough, tired sigh falls from his lips. “You coulda told me.”

You take a steadying breath, his words lingering in the space between you. “Maybe,” you say, your fingers brushing against his skin as you continue to stitch. “But you don’t make it easy to talk to you.”

Logan lets out a low huff. “No. I guess I don’t, do I?”

You finish the last stitch, securing the knot. Your fingers linger a touch long than necessary, the warmth of his skin a comfort you’re loathe to lose just yet. Slowly, you lift your gaze to his and you feel your heart beat solidly against your ribs as he looks back at you like he’s seeing something there he hadn’t allowed himself to before. 

Logan’s voice is low when he finally speaks. “Why you keep stickin’ around? Watchin’ me come home time after time covered in blood?”

“Because you deserve it.” The words tumble from your mouth before you can stop them. “Even if you don’t see that.”

He doesn’t respond, not right away, as he continues to watch you, his eyes tracing the lines of your face. Then he reaches up for you, fingers curling around your wrist, his skin warm and rough against yours. He holds you there as if grounding himself in your presence, his thumb drawing random patterns against your skin. The gesture is simple, but vulnerable and open in a way he rarely shows.

“I’m no good for you,” he murmurs, glancing down at where he’s touching you. “For anybody.”

“How ‘bout you let me be the judge of that?” you answer, your voice steady. “You’re more than you think you are.”

Logan clenches his jaw, a flicker of disbelief crossing his features, and you know deep below the surface he’s waging a war against himself, one he’s been fighting for far too long. His thumb stills on your wrist, his grip loosening slightly, but not letting go. 

Placing your hand over his, you give him a soft smile. “C’mon, let’s get you cleaned up.”

+++

You’re surprised that he doesn’t argue, doesn’t try to brush you off or push you away as you gently nudge him towards the bathroom. He still gives you a dubious glance as he looks down at the tub, but you just ignore it, moving past him to run the tap.

You give him privacy to undress and get settled before you reenter the bathroom. The sight of him, as large as he his with his knees pulled up to his chest, makes you laugh, garnishing a terse look from him.

“You find this amusing?”

“Big man in a little tub? Yeah, I do,” you reply with a smile. “Just relax, Logan. This’ll be our secret.”

He huffs, but does seem to visibly relax, resting his arms over his knees. You kneel down in front of him, resting one hand gently against his forearm as your other reaches for the washcloth. You can feel the tension release from his muscles as your power floods through him and he breathes out a soft, “Oh,” as all the pain and discomfort is eased from his body.

You wonder how long it’s truly been since he’s felt like this, unburdened by the pain and suffering of his own body. Your heart aches for him as you slowly begin to wash him, rubbing soft circles over the scarred flesh of his back, rinsing away the blood dried to his skin. 

Even battered and marred as he is, you still find him beautiful—you always have. When you first started working with him all those months ago, you felt that pang of attraction when you met him, you’d have been blind not to. Ruggedly handsome, so strong and sure of himself. But you know that wasn’t all that drew you to him. Deep down, below all the tough, seemingly impenetrable exterior, you saw the man he truly was. Someone born of scars and rough edges, yet gentle. Someone who would selflessly put himself before others, even at his own expense. 

You let the cloth linger a moment longer against his skin before dipping it back into the water, watching as his blood rinses from the fabric. Squeezing the excess water out, you press it back against his collarbone, tracing the warm cloth along his neck and over his shoulders. Logan doesn’t move, his eyes half-closed, his expression relaxed in a way you’ve never seen before.

Something deep tugs at you as you realize how vulnerable he is right now, how trusting. He hides behind a gruff exterior, his true self guarded so carefully so that he doesn’t let people in, doesn’t open himself up to the hurt that trusting another person can bring. But maybe you’ve finally cracked through, broken down a little bit of that wall he surrounds himself with.

The warm water drips from his skin as you continue to wash him, letting your fingers trail gently along the newly cleaned lines of his arms. Logan shivers at your touch, but he doesn’t pull away. If anything, he seems to lean into it, his breathing deepening, muscles falling even more slack. 

“Feel nice?” you ask in a murmur, voice barely above a whisper.

He nods, finally glancing up at you through his half-lidded gaze. “’S very nice,” he replies, his voice rough.

“Good. You deserve it,” you say, repeating your sentiment from earlier.

You feel a flicker of warmth as his eyes meet yours and he simply nods. It takes everything in you to not smile too widely, to keep the moment gentle, but you take his acceptance to heart. 

Running the cloth down his ribs, you pause when you feel the misshapen knot of a bruise beneath your fingers and glancing down, you find a deep purple hue coloring his skin. Your eyes dart to his with worry, knowing that an injury like that will take him at least a week to heal, if not longer, in his weakened state. That with every breath he’ll feel the pain of his muscles pulling and the bruise spreading if you’re not touching him.

Dropping the washcloth in the water, you press your palm against his side and take in a deep breath to steady yourself. Then, a warmth spreads from your skin into his as you pull his injury from him, feeling his skin knit back together, feeling his abused muscles realign themselves under his skin. A dull, yet sharp ache, blooms along your ribs as you continue to pull his pain into yourself, erasing the injury from his body. With a final gasp, you draw back, your fingers now running along unmarred flesh knitted whole. 

Logan tilts your chin up, forcing you to meet his gaze as the back of his knuckles brush against your cheek. His eyes flicker to yours, holding your gaze, and for a moment, the room falls into a deep quiet.

That pull between you, the magnetic force that you’ve felt since the beginning, feels amplified now. You’re acutely aware of every inch of space between you—how small it is, how easy it would be to close it. How badly you want to close it. You swallow, feeling the tension coil in your belly as he continues to hold your gaze, unblinking, but more open and raw than he’s ever been before.

“What are you doing to me?” he asks.

Your breath catches in your throat at his question, voice rough and laced with something between wonder and disbelief. As if he can’t quite fathom what you’ve done for him—what you’ve given him so freely.

Logan’s eyes search yours, his fingers drifting from your cheek to trace along your jaw, lingering with a tenderness that belies the man he presents to the outside world. His gaze is steady and intimate, as if he’s trying to understand you in a way that goes beyond words. But you say nothing, your heart pounding too loudly in your ears to form a reply.

“You took it on yourself, my pain?”

You simply nod, distracted by the way Logan’s fingers continue to brush along the edge of your ear, tracing the lines of your face as if he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he lets go. 

“Why?”

“Because I want to,” you whisper, unable to resist the pull of his hand against your skin, the warmth of his touch that you feel with every fiber of your being. “Because it’s the one thing I can do to help you.”

A beat of silence passes, the air thick and heavy with unspoken words. He exhales, shaky and deep, letting his hand slide to the back of your neck. The calloused pads of his fingers press gently against your skin, anchoring you in place and you can feel him pull you closer, his gaze dropping to your lips, his breath mingling with yours in the small, intimate space between you.

“I shouldn’t want this, want you,” he says, voice so low it’s almost a rumble. “But, fuck, I do.” 

His confession is raw, leaving him unguarded for the first time in a long time and before he can pull back, before he can throw those walls back up around himself, you close the gap, resting your forehead against his. You bring your hand up to touch his face, thumb brushing over his cheek as you breath him in, feeling the heat radiate between you. 

Logan’s hand slides further along your neck, his fingers tangling in your hair as he finally, gently, presses his lips to yours. His kiss isn’t demanding or rushed or filled with passion, but a lingering connection, the promise of something more. His lips are softer than you imagined, his touch more careful than you expected, as if he’s afraid he’ll break you. Slowly, his thumb traces circles against your cheek, steadying and soothing, pulling you closer. 

When he pulls back, he rests his forehead against yours, eyes closed. His breath is warm against your skin. “I don’t wanna push you away anymore,” he murmurs.

“Good because I don’t want you to.”

Logan lets out a breath, a hint of a smile finally softening his features. 

Reluctantly, you pull away and pick the washcloth up again, intent on finishing what you started. The water turns to rust as you wash him of blood and grime, making sure you reach each cut, each bruise, each scar on his body that makes up the map of who he is. 

You turn off the tap and hand him a towel, averting your eyes as he stands, wrapping the towel low across his hips. Logan reaches for you, tugging on the collar of your shirt to pull you closer. You stumble a bit as he pulls you in, surprised by the insistence in his grip. Logan’s eyes meet yours, an intensity behind his gaze that makes your breath catch.

“C’mere,” he murmurs, hand slipping along your jaw, his thumb pressing against your bottom lip. 

You’re drawn forward as Logan’s lips find yours again, but this time there’s an urgency behind the kiss, a desperation and need he’s no longer trying to hide. He holds your face gently in his hands as he deepens the kiss, his nose pressing against yours, his beard scraping against your skin and you find yourself melting against him.

This is what you’ve been craving since you met him. Despite it all—the rage simmering just below his surface, the sharpness of his exterior, the sometimes shocking callousness of his words—you always knew there was a tenderness underneath, a softness that even his tortured past couldn’t erase. 

Logan’s hands drift from your face, trailing down your neck and tracing along the curve of your spine as he presses you closer until there’s no space between you. The dampness of his skin bleeds into your shirt and you gasp into his mouth when he shifts his hips just enough and you feel heat of his erection against your thigh.

He pulls away from your mouth long enough to husk against your lips, “I’m old, not dead.” His teeth nip lightly at your bottom lip. “I’ve gotta beautiful woman lettin’ me kiss her, what did you expect?”

Your fingers trail along the edge of the towel slung low across this hips and a thrill runs through you as you feel his abdominal muscles flutter beneath your touch. You peer up at him, noting the flush of his skin, the black of his eyes as you tug the fabric just enough to loosen it. “How long has it been since someone has touched you, Logan?” you ask, your breath warm in the space between you.

Logan’s hands urge your hips closer, seeking friction as he starts to slowly rut against your thigh. You hear him swallow as your fingers dip below the fabric, brushing along the damp hair at the base of his cock. 

“F—fuck,” he groans, guttural and low, his head dropping down to your shoulder. “Since before you.”

The weight of Logan’s confession presses into you and in that moment you want to give him everything. Wrap him in all the love you can muster, show him something other than pain and suffering. 

You move your hand from the towel, allowing the fabric to fall from his waist and pool forgotten on the floor. Logan’s breath catches as your fingers wrap around him fully, the heat and weight of his cock pressing against your palm. 

A ragged groan escapes his throat. “Christ,” he mutters, voice thick and vibrating against your skin. “You don’t gotta—”

“I want to,” you interrupt, slowly and deliberately dragging your hand along his length, tracing the vein along the underside of his cock with your fingertips.

Logan’s hips jerk involuntarily, seeking friction, chasing your hand, and you oblige, tightening your grip just enough to elicit another groan from him. 

“What do you like?” The question lands in the sliver of space between you, your strokes still light, teasing.

“Firmer, more ah—” He breaks off as you tighten your grip on the upstroke. “Fuck, yes, like that, sweetheart.”

A shiver runs down your spine as his hands find your waist, fingers clutching at you almost hard enough to bruise. His breaths are growing uneven, each exhale warm against your neck as he fights to maintain some semblance of control.

“You keep that up,” he rasps, lips grazing your ear, “and I’m not gonna last long.”

His admission sends a rush of pride through you and you tilt your head back to look at him, your thumb brushing over the sensitive head of his cock, spreading the wetness there. Logan’s eyes meet yours, dark and heavy-lidded, his expression raw and unguarded. You like him like this, such a large, imposing man boiled down to pure wanton need. 

“I don’t mind,” you reply, keeping your movements steady, your strokes firm yet gentle. You focus on the subtle shifts in his breathing, the way his fingers grip you tighter each time you find the right rhythm. “Just wanna make you feel good, Logan.”

He leans forward, capturing your lips into a kiss that’s both rough and messy, teeth nipping at your lip as his tongue licks into your mouth. He groans are muffled against your mouth as his hips begin to thrust in time with your strokes, his movements growing more erratic as he chases after his release. 

“Can’t believe—ah, fuck—can’t believe how good you’re makin’ me feel,” he growls against your lips.

You smile into his mouth, your free hand brushing along his hipbone as your strokes quicken. His whole body tenses, the muscles in his shoulders and arms flexing, his abdominal muscles taut as he teeters on the edge.

“Let go, Logan,” you say. “I’ve got you.”

With a strangled groan, he comes, his release spilling over your hand, hot and thick. His body shudders against yours as he buries his face in the crook of your neck. You hold him close as he continues to thrust lazily into your grip, your own movements slowing as you guide him through the aftershocks. 

For a moment, neither of you speaks, then Logan lifts his head, his hazel eyes soft as they meet yours. “You walked into my life and I knew—I knew—you would ruin me.”

You smile to yourself, unable to stop the thought that floats into your head—he’s ruined you as well. 

+++

The text comes in at a little over one AM—hurt.

You jump out of bed, adrenaline rushing through your veins as you slip into one of his discarded flannels and head out into the night. Pacing the driveway, your heart jumps into your throat at every passing headlight, your thumbnail almost bitten down to the quick as you wait for him.

The minutes bleed into eternity until you finally see the limo turn down the long drive and it takes all your willpower to not run and meet him halfway. You’re bouncing on your heels as he finally comes to a stop, the driver’s side door opening with a faint groan of steel. 

Your heart stutters in your chest as he emerges from the car, blood soaking through his shirt, dark and spreading, as he steps towards you on shaky legs. Logan’s face is pale in the moonlight, his breathing uneven and shallow and white-hot dread shoots up your spine as you see his arm hanging limp, two of his claws unsheathed and dripping blood.

“Oh, fuck, fuck!” you gasp, rushing to his side.

Logan tries to wave you off, gritting his teeth as he grips the doorframe. “”M fine,” he grits, but the tremor in his voice betrays him. 

You reach for him, hands already attempting to steady him as his knees buckle and he collapses to the ground beneath him. “Careful. Claws,” he rasps as his left hand seeks purchase against your shoulder.

“I don’t fucking care about your claws, Logan,” you snap, although you both know your anger isn’t at him. You glance up at him and for once you think you actually see fear in his eyes. “What happened?”

“Gas. Robbery.” Each word punches out of his chest, the effort to speak sending tremors down his limbs. “Got ‘em.” He nods down towards his limp arm, claws still unsheathed, but slowly, so slowly starting to retract.

He winces as you help him peel off his coat to get to the shirt underneath. Your fingers shake as they trace the holes the bullets made—one in his shoulder, dangerously close to his lungs and the other just below his ribs. Hooking your fingers through the fabric, you rip it from his chest—the wounds are deep and his skin is hot and slick with sweat.

Panic claws at you and unshed tears burn in your eyes. You’ve seen Logan hurt before, but this—this was different. His breathing is painfully shallow, his usual gruffness and resilience absent. 

“Logan, you’re not healing,” you whisper, your voice shaking as your fingers stain with blood. Logan simply grunts, trying to wave you off, but lacking the strength. “I can’t…I can’t lose you. I can help.”

Logan’s eyes widen as he grabs for your wrist. “No. You’ll hurt yourself.”

“I don’t care!” you shout. “I love you, dammit, and I’m not just going to sit here and watch you die!”

Before he can protest, you press your palms over his wounds, the familiar warmth of your power surging through you as it spreads from your palms into his torn flesh.

The pain hits you like a freight train.

It’s sharp and relentless, searing through your shoulder and into the softness of your belly like molten fire. You gasp, biting back a scream as your body jerks instinctively away from the intensity, every cell in your body demanding you withdraw from the torture. 

But you don’t stop. You cling to him, tears streaming down your face as you channel your power into him, knitting his flesh back together. You can feel it, the way his muscles, bones and tissue rearrange themselves, months of healing taking place in mere moments. Every second feels like an eternity, but you refuse to let go.

You’re dimly aware of Logan yelling at you to stop, his own pain momentarily forgotten as he watches you endure his agony. 

Black dots dance in your vision as the last of his wounds come together, the spent bullets clinking to the gravel and you finally collapse against him, trembling, your breath coming in ragged gasps. The fire in your body begins to dull, fading to a cold, hollow ache as Logan wraps his arms around you, pulling you tight against his chest.

“Hey,” you mumble against him, your voice barely above a whisper. “You’re okay now.”

“Me?” Logan’s voice is low, disbelieving as his hand cradles the back of your head as if you might shatter. “You’re the one—why the fuck would you do that? You could’ve—dammit, you—”

His words break off, his forehead dropping to yours as his breath shudders against your cheek. You can feel the tension radiating through him, warring with himself between his gratitude and anger, between his guilt and the love he’s too afraid to speak out loud.

“I told you why,” you answer, lifting your head to look up at him. 

Logan’s jaw clenches, his words caught in his throat, but his eyes say everything is voice won’t. You don’t need him to say it, not yet, but you can feel it, pressing just below the surface.

“C’mon, let’s get you inside.”

+++

There’s a reverence in which Logan washes you. 

Steam swirls around you as he works the thickly lathered loofah over your shoulders, down across your collarbones and down along the soft planes of your stomach. The water rinses away the faint metallic tang of blood, leaving behind the fresh scent of soap. He continues with a silent determination, as if the act of washing you can erase all the pain you’ve taken from him.

You know better than to convince him you’re fine, that the pain is always temporary, that it only lasts for a few minutes, sometimes just a bit longer. That the pain is something you’d endure for him again and again if he’d let you. 

His thumb brushes along the underside of your ribs, searching for a wound you know he won’t find. You reach for him, lacing your fingers together with his. He blinks up at you, hazel eyes holding far too much worry for such a stoic man.

“I’m not going to break, Logan,” you say softly.

A wordless noice escapes his throat as he removes himself from your grasp and continues to work, ditching the loofah in favor of his hands. His fingers are warm and calloused against your skin as they glide lower, down over the swell of your hips, over your thighs, down towards your knees. 

His touch morphs from one of care and comfort to one more sensual, simmering with unspoken tension as his fingers rest in the hollow behind your knee. You glance down at him, water droplets catching in his hair, running off the slope of his nose. 

Though you’ve seen him bare before, you can help but trace the lines of his body—the broadness of his shoulders, the well defined muscles of his chest, the sturdiness of his thighs, the scars that mar his skin. The sight of him stirs something deep within you and you feel your pulse thrum beneath your skin.

“Logan,” you murmur, your voice almost lost in the sound of the water.

He looks up at you then, eyes locking with yours. A storm swirls within them, a mix of guilt, affection and an intensity that takes your breath away. Leaning in, he presses the barest of kisses to the inside of your knee before he rises to his full height, pressing you close.

“D’you mean what you said before?” he asks, voice low.

I love you, dammit!

“Yes,” you answer without hesitation.

Logan exhales sharply, the tension he’s been holding coiled in his muscles loosening as he loops his arms around your waist. “I’m not very good with words,” he admits, his breath fanning across your damp skin. “Can I show you?”

There’s no mistaking the meaning behind his words and you can only nod, your voice catching in your throat. 

His lips find yours, mouth moving over yours slow and deliberate as if he’s savoring the taste of you. The first touch is a spark, the second a fire, and by the third, it’s an inferno that engulfs you both and leaves you breathless. Logan kisses you like you’re his anchor, his salvation, his touch desperate and full of everything he can’t yet put into words.

Your fingers slide into his hair, gripping the strands at the nape of his neck as you pull him closer, deepening the kiss. He groans against your mouth, the sound swallowed in the space between you. His tongue brushes against yours, teasing and exploring and you respond in kind, your nails scraping along his scalp.

Logan’s control is fraying. You can feel it in the way his teeth nip at your bottom lip, the way his hands press along the curve of your spine, the way he can’t seem to find enough of your skin to touch, to caress. A low growl rumbles through his chest as you slip a hand between your slick bodies, finding his cock, thick and heavy against your belly.

You give one slow drag of your palm along his length before he’s gripping your thighs and forcing your legs around his waist. His mouth leaves yours, trailing down to the curve of your jaw as he presses you against the wall, the coolness of the tile a direct contrast to the heat of your skin and you can’t stop the gasp that escapes your lips. 

Despite his age, the metal bones inside him slowly poisoning him and causing him human aches and pains, he’s still able to hold you up solidly with one arm as the other trails along your hip bone and dips down to where you’re warm and wet. 

“This all for me?” he asks in a murmur, sliding a finger along the seam of your cunt, just barely brushing against your clit. 

Your breath hitches and you grip his shoulders, nails pressing lightly into his skin as you nod. Logan’s eyes darken at your reaction, the faintest hint of a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Yes,” you finally manage to whisper. “Always for you.”

“Good,” he growls, leaning in to nip at the skin just below your ear. The deep rumble of his voice vibrates through you, his touch deliberate and almost torturously slow as he slides his fingers through your folds, spreading your slickness with a focused and unrelenting precision. 

“Oh, fuck,” you gasp, your head tilting back against the wall as he finally presses his thumb to your clit, circling it with just enough pressure to have your thighs trembling around his waist. 

“I got you,” he coos against your skin, his lips trailing from the pulse point in your neck to your collarbone. His teeth scrape along the curve of your shoulder, his free hand gripping your hip tighter to steady you as his fingers continue to tease and coax. “Lemme make you feel good.”

Every nerve ending is afire beneath him, every motion, every stroke of his fingers against your cunt leaving your mind reeling with pleasure. Your nails dig further into corded muscles of his shoulders, desperate for something to anchor yourself to. You pull back when you see the tiny, crescent shaped cuts marring his skin.

His eyes snap up to yours, sharp and molten. “No, do it,” he urges, fingers still moving. “Mark me with somethin’ pretty.”

“Fuck, Logan,” you gasp. 

“Say my name again,” he demands, his voice rough and commanding. There’s a quiet desperation in his tone, as if hearing it grounds him. Grounds him to this moment. To you. 

You can’t help but obey, whispering his name like a prayer, and he rewards you by slipping one long finger inside you, the sensation sending a jolt of pleasure along your spine. Logan watches your face intently as if memorizing the way you react to his touch. When he adds a second finger and slowly begins to thrust his hand, you cling further to him, the heat inside you building to an almost unbearable intensity.

“Good girl,” he murmurs, his voice low and reverent. “You’re so beautiful like this. So wet and warm and tight around me.”

His words barely register in your mind, too focused on the way his fingers curl and thrust inside you, finding that soft spot that makes your eyes roll back. He’s relentless now, his thumb pressing hard against your clit as he brings you closer and closer to the edge.

“Logan, I’m so close,” you whine, your hips beginning to roll against his hand, seeking just a bit more friction, forcing his fingers deeper inside of you.

The tension coiling low in your belly finally snaps, your orgasm washing over you in waves that make your whole body shudder as you cry out his name. Logan holds you through it, his hand continuing to thrust against you as he draws out every ounce of pleasure from you, his own breathing ragged against your skin.

When you finally come down, Logan presses a kiss to your temple as he helps you unwrap your legs from his waist and carefully sets you down, keeping you close. 

You tilt your head to meet his gaze, your fingers tracing the line of his jaw. “I didn’t think you’d be into shower sex, old man,” you tease with a smile.

His laugh is low. “I can make exceptions. I need a bed to fuck you properly, though.” 

“Prove it,” you challenge.

+++

The heat and intensity between you doesn’t diminish as Logan helps you out of the shower and guides you down the hallway towards his bedroom. A shiver of anticipation crawls up your spine as you get closer, knowing that once you cross this line, there’s no going back, that he will have claimed you fully.

You scoot back onto the bed, watching as he approaches you with a fire in his gaze that doesn’t waver. He climbs onto the mattress, knee pressing down between yours as he cages you in from above, gently pinning you beneath him. 

Leaning down, his lips brush against yours, teasing. “Still wanna challenge me, sweetheart?” His voice is a low gravelly growl that sends a prickling rush of arousal down your limbs.

“Always,” you reply breathlessly, arching into his touch as his hands slide down your thighs, parting them with ease. 

His grin is sharp as he leans back to take you in fully and you acutely feel the weight of his gaze against your skin. He traces his calloused fingers over your damp skin, along the dips of your collarbones, under the swell of each breast, mapping the curve of your hips as if committing you to memory. Dipping his head, he leans down between your legs, his beard grazing the sensitive skin of your inner thighs and you can’t help but shudder at the sensation.

“You’re so fuckin’ beautiful,” he says, almost to himself, his voice dripping with desire. He drags his lips higher, brushing along your damp cunt, his breath hot and tantalizing. “And all mine.”

The possessiveness in his tone has you clenching around nothing, heat pooling low in your belly and your fingers tangle in his hair, urging him closer. But he ignores your silent plea, almost deliberately testing your patience as he kisses you everywhere except where you want him most.

“Logan, please,” you gasp, the ache between your thighs almost painful.

“Patience,” he chides with a smirk, though his own resolve seems to be thinning. His hands grip your hips, pulling you closer before he flattens his palms against your thighs, opening you fully to him. Then, his tongue is on you, lapping at you with flat, broad strokes in a rhythm that quickly has you teetering on the edge.

Logan’s focus is unrelenting, his low growls of approval vibrating through you as he works you over with an enthusiasm that proves to you this is about more than just pleasure—he’s claiming you, showing you just how much you mean to him. Making you his. 

Your thighs tremble around him and his warm, rough hands hold you steady as he slips one, then two fingers deep inside of you. It’s embarrassing how quickly you come as he thrusts his fingers against that spot inside you, your second orgasm of the night crashing over you as his name falls from his lips in a breathless moan. 

Before you can properly catch your breath, Logan is moving from between your thighs, making his way back up your body, leaving wet, open-mouthed kisses against your skin. His lips finally find yours in a kiss that’s messy and desperate and you can taste yourself on his tongue, sharp and bright, and the intimacy of it sends a thrill through you. 

“You taste so fuckin’ good,” he groans against your lips, his voice wrecked as he grinds his hips against yours, his cock hard and insistent against your hip. “Could spend the rest of my life between between those thighs.”

“Why stop there?” you tease, your lips tugging into a smirk. “I thought you said you’d fuck me properly.”

Logan’s eyes darken, your challenge seeming to light something dark and primal in him. His grin is all teeth as he sits back on his heels, hands curling around your hips and pulling you down the bed like you weigh nothing until your hips are flush with his. “You gotta mouth on you, sweetheart. Should we see if you can still talk stuffed full of my cock?”

The weight of his cock brushes against your slick folds and you gasp at the sensation, your nerve endings exquisitely sensitive. Logan grips himself at the base, giving himself one languid stroke before running the thick head along your cunt, teasing you with shallow thrusts. Each slow, deliberate stroke of him sliding against you leaves you desperate and aching and you lift your hips in search of more.

“Look at you,” he murmurs. “So needy. Bet you’ll take me so well, huh?”

“Yes,” you breathe, nails digging into the muscles of his forearms. “Please.”

He presses into you then, the stretch of his cock making your jaw drop as he takes his time, sinking in inch by inch, filling you completely. Logan’s gaze is locked on yours, heavy and possessive as he watches every flicker of pleasure cross your face. 

“Fuck” he groans when he’s fully seated against your hips, his body trembling with the effort to stay still. “You feel…so fuckin’ tight. So damn perfect.”

Your hands clutch at his shoulders, anchoring yourself to him as he starts to move, pulling out torturously slow before thrusting back in harder, setting a rhythm that’s relentless and consuming. Each stroke of his hips has you crying out, your body arching into his as you meet him thrust for thrust.

“Takin’ me so well, sweetheart,” he growls, his fingers gripping the flesh of your hips hard enough to bruise as he continues to pound into you. “Like you were made for me.”

The sound of skin slapping against skin fills the room, mixing in with your whimpered moans and Logans own ragged groans. He leans down, bracing himself on his forearms, the wiry hair on his chest teasing your nipples as his lips find your neck, biting and sucking marks into your skin that feel like promises.

Your legs wrap around his waist, pulling him in deeper, your heels digging into his back as the coil inside you begins to tighten once more. He feels it too, the way you body clenches around him, and his pace falters slightly, his breaths coming faster.

“C’mon,” he rasps against the pulse point on your neck. “Wanna feel you come. Wanna make you fall apart.”

It doesn’t take much more—just a few more well-angled thrusts that hit that spot inside you and the tension finally snaps, your orgasm ripping through you with a force that leaves you trembling. Logan’s finesse is slipping, thrusts growing erratic as chases his own release.

“Come Logan,” you manage in a whisper. “Come for me.”

His hips stutter as he groans your name, spilling into you as his body tenses, lazily thrusting against you as he wrings out the last of his pleasure. He stays deep inside you, still for several moments before he shifts just enough to collapse against your side.

For a long moment, neither of you moves, the only sounds in the room being your heavy breathes and the pounding of your heart. Logan rests his head against your chest, heavy and sweat slick between your breasts. You brush at the strands of hair against his forehead before running your finger along the old scar on his cheek.

He lifts his head to look up at you, his gaze soft yet still simmering with hunger. “I do, you know,” he murmurs. His fingers brush idly against your skin. “Love you.”

A smile spreads across your face, warming blooming in your chest.

“I know.”

+++

You wake before he does, rolling over to find him prone, face buried in the pillow he hugs close to his chest. Sunlight filters in through the half slatted blinds, catching on the silver in his hair and beard and you can’t help but admire how handsome he looks, how at peace he is beside you. He’s relaxed in sleep for the first time since you came here. You’ve heard his growls and yelps of terror that echo in the night, seen the claw marks that pierce his sheets.

Your mind filters back to last night and how he looked as he came apart inside you, how desperate and needy he was for your touch upon his skin. The memory of his gasps and groans send a rush of warmth over your skin, making you dimly aware of the ache between your legs. Logan, so guarded, so unyielding and seemingly unbreakable, trembled as he came, his voice rough and wrecked as he called out your name. You shiver thinking about it.

You want to hear it again. But not now.

Resisting the urge to reach out and brush the hair from his forehead, you leave him undisturbed and slide out of bed. Padding into the kitchen, you find Charles sitting in his chair at the kitchen table, the newspaper spread out in front of him. He looks up at you with a warm smile as you start a pot of coffee, the machine humming to life. 

“Ah, I see,” he comments, a smirk tugging at his lips.

You glance over at Charles, his eyes back on the paper in front of him, but his smile still paints his face, sly and knowing. Heat creeps up your neck as you busy yourself with the coffee. “Are you reading my mind?” you ask, trying to force nonchalance into your tone.

Charles chuckles softly and taps at his temple. “I don’t have to. You’re projecting. And quite loudly, at that.”

You bite your lip as you fill your mug, leaning against the counter as the coffee warms your hands. You attempt to clear your mind, trying to think of anything mundane—the weather, baseball, laundry. Charles just shakes his head. “Relax, my dear. What the two of you do together as consenting adults is none of my business.”

“Oh, God,” you groan, your cheeks aflame. “That’s what I’m projecting?”

“Not that explicitly, no. You think more in feelings, rather than words. But they’re quite powerful emotions and rather hard to ignore when they’re radiating as strongly as yours are this morning.”

You bury your face in your hand, peeking at Charles through your fingers, which only seems to amuse him further. “You’re enjoying this far too much,” you mutter. 

“Perhaps,” Charles says with a laugh. “But you’re helping him. Healing him. And that, my dear, is worth everything.” 

Before you can respond, you hear the sound of heavy footsteps coming down the hall. Logan rounds the corner, hair tousled from sleep, his body still bare except for the pair of low slung sweatpants clinging to his hips. His eyes find yours first, softening in a way they rarely do for anyone else as he scratches at the back of his head and mumbles, “Mornin’.”

“Morning,” you reply with a smile, thankful for the distraction. You pour a second cup of coffee and offer it up to him. “Coffee?”

Logan grunts in affirmation, moving towards you, but instead of reaching for the mug, he loops an arm around your waist, pulling you against him. He buries his face in your neck, beard scraping against your skin as he sighs. “Didn’t like wakin’ up with you not there,” he breathes into your hair, his voice so low you almost don’t hear him.

“Sorry,” you whisper. “I didn’t want to disturb you.”

“S’okay,” he says softly, pressing the lightest of kisses just under your ear. “Next time, wake me.”

Your heart stutters against your ribs at his open display of affection, the softness and warmth in which he holds you, and the promise behind his words. From over his shoulder you see Charles give you a slight nod, a bright smile on his face before he turns his attention back to the newspaper in front of him.

You think back to what Charles told you all those months ago, about how you were a home for Logan. Those words echo in your mind as you feel Logan’s steady weight against you. He’s so different now, soft and unguarded and in that moment you know.

You’re home, too.

[gay-dorito-dust]

Could you please write sweet,subtle,cute things batboys+Bruce does when they are crushing on reader?

Dick

He wants to spend a lot of time with you. Literally.

He’s very much the kind of guy who wanted to see you smile and laugh with every interaction that you had with him, just so he could shamelessly memories both your laughter and smile to his memory long after the outing you both had was over.

He would make goofy remarks or recall a story from recent memory that he thought would make your day a bit brighter. Gotham was often a depressing city that could easily damper anyone’s mood with its lack of dramatic change to better the lives of the people who lived within the seemingly cursed town.

So seeing you happy and smiling was more than enough to keep Dick’s hopes up for a better future, hopefully for the both of you should you reciprocate his feelings. He’d gladly die knowing that the last thing he remembers was your laughter and smiling face, looking like an absolute angel in his eyes, but this was him just being a dramatic romantic who just wished to be the very reason you lived a relatively happy life.

Dick would use Hayley quite often when he wanted you to prolong your stay at his place, claiming she’s going to miss you greatly, when it was actually him who’d miss you the moment you walked out the door. After all who could say no to a cute doggy that looked up at you with thoughtless but happy to be there eyes. So it wasn’t uncommon that you and Dick would take Hayley out on walks together through a safe area where he would let Hayley off the leash, only to watch with a warmth blossoming within his chest as you and Hayley enjoyed each others company.

Dick would come to see you, himself and Hayley as a little family of your own making and would love nothing more than to have this become a common thing. Something he wished would become a thing of reality rather than a fantasy he’d visit within his sleep, but he can take what he can get for you being in his life was more then enough, even if there wasn’t a label to what you were to each other.

Another thing he would do was buy you things that he’d thought you’d like. Anything that he saw within a shop window that reminded Dick of you was already bought within minutes as he would then go on a hunt for more things to buy you for the sake of spoiling you for being his anchor and his person through thick and thin. It could be blankets, plushies or sweets that he knew you’d find comfort in it didn’t really matter as he’d treat you like the royalty you were in his mind, all the while getting you a silly card with a cleverly thought out pun that he would write an equally silly message within it, hoping it would become a keepsake to look back on with a sappy but warm feeling within your chest.

Bruce

Very giving but he would act like a real distinguished gentleman towards you.

Alfred raised him right that’s for fucking sure.

He’s the type to never let you pay for anything, always having his card in hand to hand off to the waiter, nor to place on the card reader in a retail store, before you has the chance to reach inside your purse/wallet. It didn’t help that he looked smug after paying for the things that you let your eyes linger a second too long upon.

The man didn’t fear for the loss of money in his bank for as soon as the money was spent, the money lost was quickly replenished within the blink of an eye. No exaggeration.

Bruce would only want to be a provider for you and the type of partner that you could feel safest with as he takes care of you and your needs first and foremost, all the while making sure to make your life a hell of a lot more easier as he helps you by helping you into your shoes, zipping up your coat when it’s cold and put gloves on your hands while stroking the backs of your hands gently; offering you his arm with a smile afterwards as he escorted you both out of the manor to attend a charity event that Wayne Enterprises was hosting.

He personally asks for you to company him to these such grand events as his plus one, even offering to buy you formal attire should you lack any in your wardrobe, or go ahead into buying you one regardless and giving it to you as a present just so he could see your raw reaction himself when you opened the box to see the high quality attire he had picked out for you. Ironically it matched his own attire but in the most subtle of ways that not many would spot unless they were actively looking.

The press have a field day with this as you were frequently seen on Wayne’s arm, so much so that they called you his secret spouse in the tabloids, not that you see them as serious though as the press will make anything up to get people to read their half baked stories.

Offers to drive you home all the time no matter what, it didn’t matter if your home was within walking distance Bruce didn’t feel it was necessary for you to walk alone home when he had a perfect car in excuse use to take you home instead. Just give him a text and he’ll come over within minutes, but even if you didn’t text him he’ll turn up anyway as though he knew where you’d be, and when asked about it he only shrugs and says that he was merely in the same place at the same time, you joked and said that he might’ve been tracking you and Bruce only cleared his throat as he drove you home.

Damian

He’s not so quick to anger when it comes to you, almost like your presence was all that was needed to reassure his mind and bring peace to it without needing to try.

No outbursts came your way at all that many thought you were the one person Damian would never yell at, and they were right but Damian would deny all of this, but even deep down he knew it was something he couldn’t deny forever not if he was going to confess his deepest feelings sooner or later.

He felt as though he could experience a normal life with you as he found himself confining in you with things that he didn’t tell anyone else. You were his safe space whether or not you were aware of it, and sooner or later Damian found himself smiling and laughing and enjoying life as he taught you how to draw.

He was patient with you, more then he ever was with anyone else as he taught you brush strokes, to knowing what type of pencil to use for effective shading along with shading techniques and which ones would make your sketches some more life to them. If it seemed as though you were struggling with his verbal instructions, he’ll use a fresh page in his sketch book and show you firsthand how to do it in a step by step manner, waiting for you to follow along his steps and smiling softly to himself when your finish sketch looked similar to his.

He’s happy that he’s made you happy, it’s not something he’s ever done but if it was just for you then he’ll do it again for the rest of his life.

He’ll even let you name an animal he found abandoned somewhere, letting you hold it in your hands and loving the image before him as you smiled down at the animal he found, handling it with uttermost care as though you were afraid of hurting them. Once you’ve given it a name, Damian will treasure it by always holding them against his chest wherever he could when the occasion arises, as they were the closest thing to you in this point and time. And he smiles every time he looks at them and feels a lightness within his chest.

He’ll use the little guy to have your constant company…not that he’ll ever admit to using such a tactic to anyone.

Jason

He’s a lot more lighthearted with you and playful, almost as if the boy he used to be was coming through.

He’s softer towards you also as he would always be the first to offer you help with whatever you needed without a second thought. He wanted to be helpful towards you, and so he would go out of his way and prove himself as such by doing small but meaningful things that he’d knew you’d appreciate greatly, whether that be getting your coat or reminding you of whether you were forgetting to take your mandatory medication. Literally anything you needed help with Jason will do it without being hesitation.

This then becomes him doing stuff on your behalf that he knew you didn’t like by memory because he remembered everything about you, from your likes to your dislikes, anything related to you he remembers it as though he had known for a long time.

He just wanted to show to you that he wasn’t what others perceived him to be, he didn’t want you to think of him as an angry, broken, hollow husk of a man who knew nothing but revenge and self destructive tendencies that left him feeling lonelier then ever.

Jason would offer up his apartment as your safe reprieve, you were allowed to enter his place whenever you please. He didn’t mind either way as your presence was a much welcomed one, for Jason had never had he felt comfortable in going home just to find you waiting for him with a smile, whether or not your good at cooking didn’t matter as he could easily cook you both up something, or you’d both go to the nearest fast food restaurant for some much needed greasy comfort food.

The domestic act of having you in his apartment constantly that sooner or later he’s seen that you’ve made the apartment even more like home to him, for it has traces of you scattered here and there and Jason couldn’t help but smile at seeing your touches made to his home that he could only wish that he could ask you to move into his apartment permanently. He knew he couldn’t ask that of you yet, especially not when he has still to confess to you.

He’s protective over you and was more then willing to scare off anyone that was doing your head in by overstepping your boundaries. So once they had left you alone Jason would look to you and ask whether you were okay in a soft tone. His eyes filled with concerned he holds you by the shoulders, looking you over incase you were hiding anything from him before moving forward, making sure that there was no one else to cause you problems for the rest of the day.

[hannieehaee]

NEED TO KNOW

18+ / mdi

summary: with jungkook's lifelong crush also came an aversion to dating anyone who wasn't you. but what would happen when the poor lovesick boy came crying into your arms after finally giving a chance to what turned to be a disastrous date?

content: virgin!jungkook, f2l!jungkook, loser!jk, sub!jk, college au, jk is insanely socially awkward and shy, kook is touch starved, afab reader, smut, dry humping, body worship, reader's lowkey possessive over jk (and vice versa tbh), oral (f and m receiving), handjob, penetrative sex, etc.

wc: 10k

a/n: loser virgin koo but light on the loser and heavy on the virgin

masterlist | patreon

Jungkook often found himself feeling like his life was one of those very shitty romcoms.

Except he had never really felt like the heartthrob, or even like he was the one getting swept off his feet.

No, his experience was more closely aligned with the loser virgin who was tossed aside so the star-crossed lovers could find their way to each other. This was just how it had always been.

Jungkook had watched most of his friends find love with a person he could easily consider their soulmate. He was a romantic at heart, after all. These things were not difficult for him to spot.

He often wondered when his turn would come, except it just never did.

Being one for romance was seemingly not for the weak, as Jungkook found himself passing yet another year as a lovesick fool hoping to find that perfect someone to finally look his way.

Scratch that. Many people looked his way. Even as a self-proclaimed loser, Jungkook received plenty of attention from boys and girls alike. Looks were often thrown his way, but they were never the looks he wanted to receive.

Sure, he could easily reciprocate the appreciation he received for his looks. He could smile back, maybe even ask for their number and then see where it all led afterwards.

Except that Jungkook needed the romance. He needed to be swept off his feet (or maybe the reverse, it depended on his mood). Jungkook needed a soulmate.

It all just became eternally more complicated when Jungkook insisted on having that person be you.

That and the fact that Jungkook was slightly, how to put it, socially inept. He was shy, anxious, unable to read social cues, and basically just an overall mess. But the worst of all was his undying crush on you, this he knew.

It was a tale as old as time. Falling for your best friend, pining after them for years, hoping one day they'd turn around and realize you'd been here all along. And now on year nine of knowing you, it still hadn't happened. Jungkook remained a sad, lonely virgin awaiting for you to grant his romcom wish and make him into the love interest.

It didn't really help how painfully socially awkward Jungkook was. Truly, he was surprised you'd stuck by his side for this long despite that. There was no way Jungkook would ever want to risk ruining your current relationship in favor of something he knew would never work out. You did not like him back, these past nine years made him very well aware of that.

And so, as a result, his friends had the grand idea of setting him up.

Not once, not twice, but countless times.

However, Jungkook being Jungkook, never agreed to it. Not once had his friends been able to reel him out of his dorm long enough to entrap him into a date.

Jungkook simply saw no point in it. Blind dates were the complete antithesis of Jungkook's beliefs about romance. He needed a connection before even considering entering a romantic relationship. The thought of going on a date with someone he'd never met before unnerved him to no end.

Plus, he was convinced no one would ever actually like him past his looks. There had been far too many instances of him being on the receiving end of insults to his personality or not-so-subtle stink eyes thrown his way. To have that happen to him whilst on a blind date was just a huge no.

Jungkook found himself stuck in an endless limbo. A loveless, endless limbo as he pined after the one person he could never have.

"You're going. No isn't an option here," deadpanned Namjoon, hitting Jungkook lightly to the back of his head with a rolled up magazine — almost as if he were a puppy receiving a scolding.

Well, that's pretty much how Jungkook had been feeling these days.

For the past week or so, Jungkook had been down in the dumps (even more than usual), making his unrequited crush everyone else's problem through his constant sighs and unsolvable complaints. You truly were the only person in Jungkook's life who didn't fall victim to his lovesickness — for obvious reasons.

There was a very reasonable cause for Jungkook's souring mood, though.

You were seeing someone.

Maybe.

At least that's the impression Jimin had given Jungkook when he mentioned some guy you'd been texting lately.

Jungkook had no further evidence, but the mere thought was enough for his heart to begin cracking.

He always knew this was a one sided love, but the confirmation was entirely too hurtful for Jungkook to take. Apart from that, the thought of you not telling him also added to the hurt.

This only caused Jungkook's lovesickness to worsen, making him become a leech at his other friends' sides as he allowed himself to rot. Maybe it sounded dramatic, but Jungkook felt the situation was drastic enough to justify his reaction.

It was unfortunate that Jungkook's friends cared so much for him. Had they simply allowed him to rot in his own self-inflicted misery, he wouldn't have found himself at the receiving end of Kim Namjoon's wrath as he scolded at him to go on the date he'd set up for him with his lab partner.

To be fair, his friends had offered him many options. They'd tried to get Jungkook out of his shell and wingman him in order to find a girl for himself. They'd attempted to get him to confess to you. Hell, they even putting Jungkook on dating apps where he had full control of who, when, and how he met a partner. But Jungkook rejected every option.

This was not good enough for Kim Namjoon.

After having dealt with a heartsick Jungkook for far too long, he gave him an ultimatum. Either he confessed to you, or he'd have to at least attempt a date with a nice girl of Joon's choosing.

So, it seemed like Jungkook was going on a date.

"Sora's going to hate me. I make a terrible date. Last time I went on a date, I panicked when my date tried to kiss me and closed the door on her face. I'm pretty sure I slammed it her nose," Jungkook whined as he rubbed at the back of his head.

"Jungkook, believe it or not, girls do like you. Sora asked me to set you guys up. C'mon, just try it out. This could be that romcom romance you're always talking about."

"Doubt it," he murmured sadly, "But fine. I guess I have nothing to lose."

Namjoon clapped his hands gladly, proceeding to pat Jungkook's back in encouragement, "Good! It'll go great, Jungkook, don't worry."

"I- I don't even know what to wear or what to say, I-" Jungkook found himself begin to panic, "What if-"

"Jungkook," Joon interrupted, "You're overthinking this. Sora's a nice girl. She's been asking me about you since you stopped by my bio class that one time. She's probably excited about this, there's nothing for you to worry about," he reassured.

Still, Jungkook remained overly anxious about it. Also, how was he supposed to explain this to you? He didn't want you to think that he, that he was interested in pursuing other girls. It was a dumb thought to have, but he couldn't help it. What if the feelings were somehow, by some act of god, reciprocated and Jungkook was ruining it by going on a date with someone else? It wasn't like he could possibly hide this from you. You were best friends, for god's sakes!

But one more look to Joon's annoyed expression told Jungkook that he could under no circumstance call this off.

And so he was going on a date.

When the day of the date arrived, Jungkook was even more nervous than he had imagined.

He had no one to ask for advice, no one to confide in so that his nerves didn't go overboard and drove him to insanity.

Okay, he could've easily asked one of his closest friends like maybe Jimin? Or perhaps Taehyung? Maybe even Mingyu. They were all very successful with dating, whether that be casually or long-term. Jungkook was really the only outlier in his friend group to fail miserably at the dating aspect of life.

And every other social aspect, really.

Unfortunately, there was only one person that could provide Jungkook with the comfort and reassurance he needed right now. And that was you.

You, however, were the one person Jungkook could simply never tell about this.

Regardless of the endless times he'd convinced himself that you did not care for him in any way other than platonic, the fear of somehow disappointing you by going on a date with someone else completely prevented him from even considering telling you. It was stupid and delusional, but, well, so was Jungkook.

The very (extremely) small thought that maybe you liked him back continued to bug him even as he got dressed for his date. He'd subconsciously dressed in an outfit he knew you liked on him and had even done his hair the way that usually had you running your fingers through it. In his head, there was a battle between pleasing you despite your absence from this date, and feeling immense guilt over it.

Somehow, Jungkook managed to push those thoughts aside, choosing to try and calm himself down as he waited for the time to arrive.

He attempted to implant happy thoughts into his mind. The possibility of this date going well was one among them. What if Sora was a perfect match for him? What if this was what he should've done years ago instead of closing himself off to relationships due to his hopeless crush? Who knows, maybe he'd fall in love and become a former virgin within a few months.

But then life decided to catch him off guard again with a sudden knock on his door.

He knew in his heart who it could be, but he senselessly hoped it was anyone but you, knowing he'd panic with your sudden presence.

Walking over to check the peephole, he was met with a sight he usually enjoyed seeing — you, smiling in the direction of the peephole, knowing he was watching on the other side of the door.

Hesitating a bit, he opened the door, attempting to decrease the acceleration of his heart. Was there any way he could lie to you about his plans and get you out of here within less than ten minutes? According to his phone, it was 6:32, which meant he needed to get his ass out of his apartment in the next fifteen minutes if he wanted to make it on time for the reservation Sora had made for 7.

This might've been the downside to telling you you could come over unannounced at any time. Usually, Jungkook was either at home or with you, so this arrangement had not caused any issues until now.

Upon opening the door, he was immediately caught in a simple, yet sweet hug — you were a huge hugger, a blessing and a curse to poor, touch-starved Jungkook.

You entered the apartment as soon as you pulled away, making your way inside as if you owned the place (which, you kinda did, considering how often you were here). It took you a few seconds to register Jungkook's dressed-up appearance and inevitably comment on it, interrupting your usual greeting to him.

"Oh? You're all dressed up. I love that shirt on you," you fixed at his collar as you said so, "Do you have plans today? You look really handsome."

Well, Jungkook's unofficial goal of impressing you had been accomplished. Too bad you weren't the girl he was going on a date with tonight.

After your question, you'd moved further into Kook's apartment, making your way to his couch with ease only a true best friend would have. You even grabbed at the chips Kook had left on the coffee table earlier, disregarding your surroundings due to the level of comfort you felt at his place.

"Oh, uh, I ... Joon actually set me up on a date tonight," he decided to go with the truth. Jungkook knew that he'd feel better with your encouragement at the end of the day. Maybe that was what he needed in order to calm his nerves. That, and some sort of official confirmation that he had no chance with you. Perhaps that'd be enough to get him to snap out of his delusions.

He felt bad about it as soon as your face dropped. Or maybe he imagined it. It went back to normal immediately after.

"Oh," you paused, "That's- wow. Congrats, Kook. Who's the lucky girl?", you asked as if it meant nothing. As if him going on a date wasn't a life changing event.

Which maybe it wasn't for you. Kook knew you didn't like him like that, but the stupid hope prevailed for some reason. He was driving himself insane with the idiocy behind the thought, but his hopeful nature couldn't help itself.

"Uh, you know, just some girl from Joon's class. Her name's Sora. We're, uh, going to some fancy restaurant tonight."

"Oh, fuck, did I interrupt you? Sorry, Kook. You should've told me," another flash of something made its way to your expression, but it left as fast as it came as you stood from your seat and walked back to him.

"You, uh, you look amazing, Kook. She's going to fall in love with you for sure," you smiled sweetly at him, fixing his collar again in a manner that had him screaming internally.

He didn't want anyone but you falling in love with him, but it's not like he could actually express that to you without putting your friendship at risk. So, he gave you a tight lipped smile and accepted your compliment with a scrunch of his nose.

"Is it time for you to leave? I'll leave you alone. Wouldn't want to interrupt you in case the date goes well," you went to joke, chuckling lightheartedly as you usually did, but Jungkook swore there was something off in your tone. Call it wishful thinking.

"You don't have to leave," he mumbled.

"It's okay, Kookie. Good luck with your date," you went to pick up your bag that you'd put down when you came in before approaching him by the door once more, "Here. For good luck," and a soft kiss was pressed against his cheek.

He stood there dumbly after that. Maybe he mumbled a thank you or a see you later, he wasn't too sure. He was far too distracted by your proximity and touch and then suddenly he was alone again.

Kisses on the cheek weren't exactly a tendency for you. They practically never happened. At least not with Jungkook's aversion to intimate touch. Hugs were usually as far as you two went due to his shy demeanor in that area. Perhaps you were somehow asserting your place in his life? But it was most likely not from a place of possessiveness as Jungkook's dumb mind wished for it to be. You were just genuinely the sweetest girl he'd ever met, and so you kissed him with the best of intentions. Jungkook would just have to keep it in the back of his mind for his date.

... Which was starting quite soon, he realized as he finally rushed to leave.

With one last resigned sigh, he looked at himself in the mirror and finally made his way out, hoping tonight would be the first step to getting over his rom-com wish of being with you.

Jungkook's nerves did not diminish on the drive to the restaurant, much less as he walked in and was led to his reservation. It was a bit of a shock to him to find Sora already sitting there, but perhaps it was a sign that she actually liked him. Sometimes it was difficult for Jungkook to believe anyone could possibly be into him romantically. He knew people found him attractive and had been prepositioned many times in his life, but no one had ever actually shown interest any further than that. Maybe it was how socially awkward he was, or perhaps how insistent he was on chasing after you in particular.

He shook these thoughts out of his mind for the time being, opting to arrive over to his date as quick as possible.

"Hi," he said dumbly as he took a seat across from her.

"Hi, Jungkook," she smiled back.

She did not seem as nervous as Jungkook did. She seemed quite calm actually, which only made Jungkook more anxious. That and the way she'd checked him out as he sat, but he'd put that thought into the back burner for now.

"Uh, sorry if I kept you waiting," he scratched the back of his neck awkwardly, not knowing what to do with his hands.

"Don't worry about it. I'd have waited longer if necessary," then she leaned over the table, as close as she could through the distance and whispered, "I've been waiting for a chance with you for a while."

Okay, that was forward. Was that good?

"Oh, uh, well, I, uh, I hope I don't disappoint you, then," he felt himself blush.

She gave him a smile that made him feel as if she was in on some joke he was unaware of, "You won't. Trust me," and that was that.

The waiter came soon after and wrote down their orders, offering them some breadsticks and beverages as they waited. It was pretty calm during that time. Maybe even too calm.

The conversation didn't exactly flow naturally between the two. It was a little static here and there, forcing Jungkook to think of ice breakers for first dates that he'd seen on some Buzzfeed article he'd read back in high school, back when he was first introduced to the idea of dating.

Sora was nice and extremely pretty, but Jungkook did not feel that spark he'd always hoped for. He should've known the moment he walked in. There were no bells playing nor did he feel dizzy at the sight of her. Jungkook knew these were unrealistic measures to find the love of his life, but they had been present when he met you and still remained prevalent in his current feelings for you. With Sora, however? It was as if he was awkwardly making conversation to his science partner after having finished a project — it was just filling the silence.

But Sora looked happy. She continued to smile at him, giggle harder than Jungkook would expect (his humor wasn't really at its peak performance tonight), and would even reach over to grace at his arm every so often. When the food came, she made eyes at him as she ate. It was a pretty sight, but her intentions confused Jungkook. Was she flirting with him?

He felt out of his league in this situation. Like there was some context he didn't have.

And then the other shoe dropped.

Sora began playing footsie with him under the table, interrupting him as he responded to some benign question she'd asked about his major. She hummed in response, tilting her head to the side and biting her lip flirtatiously at him. It unnerved Jungkook, causing him to stutter endlessly at the contact. God, he was so unaccustomed to touch; any kind of touch, really. Sure, you and him hugged from time to time, but he avoided any further touch, knowing he'd make an embarrassment out of himself if you ever did anything similar to what Sora was doing.

You'd never questioned his proclivity against intimate touch. You just respected it, keeping touch to a minimum and letting him take the reins any time you hugged or lounged on the same couch — there was the very rare cuddling, but it never went further than shoulders pressed up against each other.

It's not as if Jungkook was a germophobe or anything of that genre. He was quite fine with pats on the back, handshakes, hell, even tackling when playing sports, but it was the more intimate touches he stayed away from. He just felt entirely out of place, knowing he'd embarrass himself somehow. Thankfully, he'd never been in such a situation until now.

Jungkook didn't want to judge Sora too harshly by how forward she was being. It was nice to be wanted, especially by someone as appealing as Sora. It wasn't her fault that he was a little socially inept when it came to relationships. No, that was entirely on him.

He'd seen countless romance movies and had even watched as all his friends interacted with their significant others. Jungkook knew what was expected in a relationship, yet he just wasn't feeling it with Sora. Any time you touched him, he found himself wanting more but holding back due to how much more he wanted. In this instance, he just felt nervous as to what type of touch would come next from the girl sitting across from him.

Then came the question.

"Wanna get out of here?", she smiled after dessert, the same flirtatious grin on her glossy lips.

Jungkook physically gulped at the implication, but somehow found himself responding.

"O-okay."

Was that enthusiastic enough?

Jungkook had been a gentleman. He'd walked Sora home, held her hand, and pulled her close to him as they swung their hands back and forth. It was nice. Sora was a really nice girl when she wasn't fucking Jungkook with her eyes — was that what she'd been doing? He wasn't exactly sure.

But his question was answered pretty quickly.

Kook had insisted on walking her all the way up to her apartment. She lived off campus and it was after dark, it just seemed like the proper thing to do. Even if the date hadn't been exactly what he'd hoped (through no real fault of Sora's), he wanted to remain polite to her.

Turning to him as they stepped foot in front of her door, Sora's hand went to rub at his arm, thumb feeling at the skin of his bicep in a sensual(?) way. Her eyes deemed slightly hooded and her grin was still present.

She took two steps forward, taking his lack of movement as indication he was okay with her coming closer. Which he was, but he was still anxious about it. Would she kiss him? Should he kiss her?

Her arms wrapped at the back of his neck, the hold causing him to lean down slightly. His balance left him at the sudden proximity, making him naturally wrap his arms around her waist. He kept the touch as feather-light as possible, not wanting to cross any boundary.

That's when she kissed him.

And it wasn't just any kiss. It wasn't like the two or three kisses Jungkook had shared with other girls in the past — no mere peck or short-lived kiss. Sora was very forward with her kiss, making Jungkook yelp in surprise as he tried to follow.

He kept at it only for a few moments before attempting to pull away with shy mutters and excuses, 'wait,' 'shit, i-' and 'maybe we shouldn't' were a few of them, with the last one finally making her fully pull away.

"I-I'm sorry, I'm just not sure I want to ...", he grimaced at himself, feeling like an idiot.

Sora was a pretty girl, clearly into him and seemingly willing to put up with his weird personality. Jungkook was simply being an idiot, thinking that he could go on a date and suddenly be over his years-long crush and-

"What? What do you mean?" she interrupted his thoughts, looking rather peeved off.

"I, uh, I mean that, uh, maybe we should wait? I don't wanna rush things and-"

Just as he pulled out the first excuse he could think of, — What, Jungkook? Were you really thinking of going out with her again or would you just ghost her? — she interrupted him again.

She looked at him with clear annoyance overtaking her features, arms on her hips as she moved her weight from one foot to another. Anyone who saw her could clearly see some sort of frustration in her demeanor.

"Jungkook, what did you think this was?", her tone was incredulous, "What was the point of all this?"

"W-what do you mean?"

She scoffed.

Okay, she didn't look as happy to be there anymore.

"We to some shitty restaurant late at night, I invite you back to my place, we kiss. What did you think I was expecting from all this?" she continued.

Jungkook was pretty sure he knew the answer, but he was too mortified to actually respond.

It was sex, right? Sora had seen this as a hookup rather than a date.

God damn you, Namjoon.

"I- it's not-"

"I thought you were interested. Hell, Joon said you kept asking him about me. That you were into me," she groaned, "I should've known. Everyone knows you're a prude. I've seen you shut down other girls, I just thought maybe I'd be an exception," she continued, confusing Jungkook further.

Fuck, had Joon tried setting him up with Sora? Jungkook knew his heart must've been in the right place, but he had probably misread Sora. They were clearly not compatible.

Jungkook kind of felt like he was going to cry. He felt so embarrassed by the situation. And there was no way he could clarify the white lie Joon had told her. It'd just exasperate her more.

"Do you have nothing to say? Should I just go into my apartment now?"

Jungkook looked at his shoes in remorse, feeling as if he'd actually done something wrong.

Kissing her had been a mistake. He should've stayed as he was, waiting for the perfect girl to come around. Should've trusted his gut despite Joon's insistence.

"I'm sorry. I, I didn't mean to lead you on."

She scoffed again, "Yeah, clearly. You should just go. And tell Joon to never set me up again," and with that, she'd entered her apartment, slamming the door on Jungkook in the process.

Jungkook stood there for a minute or two as he contemplated what had just happened.

Part of him was glad it had stopped where it did, while another part felt like an idiot for not going through with it. Granted, he had not expected such a big reaction to his rejection, but he could've used this opportunity to lose his virginity, maybe force himself to move on from you.

But Jungkook knew that would've been an even more disastrous experience. He didn't want to sleep with anyone just to get it over with. He wanted love. He wanted you.

With his tail between his legs, Jungkook went back home, disappointed at his first attempt at putting himself out there. He also made a mental note to spit in Joon's soup or something.

The way back home had been a mess of emotions.

Jungkook went from embarrassed, to angry, to confused, and ended up settling on mortified. That, and pathetic. That feeling seemed to always be present in Jungkook's mind, but tonight he felt a little more pathetic than usual.

I mean, he had had, by all means, what could be considered a perfect date. He had a girl who clearly wanted to take things further, yet he panicked like an idiot and caused her to blow up at him. At that moment Jungkook couldn't really find it in him to blame Sora for her reaction. He should've realized from Sora's advancements that she'd want more from him and shouldn't've fed into it throughout the night.

He wondered what you'd think of it all.

Would you have found Sora's reaction reasonable? Would you have comforted him after such a mortifying night.

Well, it turned out Jungkook would find out sooner than expected.

Despite your denial to his offer of staying over at his place while he was gone, he still found you sitting on his couch as soon as he entered the threshold of his apartment - you did have a key, after all.

You got up as soon as you saw him come in, clearly having been expecting him. Your demeanor did not seem as casual and laid back as it had a few hours ago. On the contrary, you looked troubled.

But Jungkook was sure he looked equally as troubled, if not more. He felt shock at seeing you there despite having left earlier, but it soon left him due to bigger matters taking over his mind at the moment.

"Kook," you started, putting your weight on your knees as you knelt on the couch.

"Uhm, hi. What- what are you doing here?"

He was hesitant in making his way to his own couch. Your presence was unnerving him for some reason (well, at least a different reason than usual). He could feel something different in the air. Your demeanor wasn't your usual.

You wrapped your arms around yourself, looking down to your lap.

"I don't- I'm not really sure."

That was unlike you.

"I thought you didn't want to stay in case I, uh, I brought Sora back home."

He didn't mean it in an accusatory manner, but perhaps his disheartened demeanor made it sound as such.

"Sorry, I can leave. I- I'll leave," you went to get up, but were swiftly stopped by Jungkook when he walked over to you, closing the distance.

"Don't- Please don't go. I could use the company," he offered you a loop-sided smile, hoping it didn't give away how shitty he was feeling.

You looked up at him now with the closer proximity between you. Jungkook knew you could probably see the glassiness in his eyes due to tonight's events. He hadn't cried on his way home, per say, but he had been pretty damn close to. And you, being you, would probably be able to clock it immediately.

"Are you okay?", you finally asked.

"It was just ... a very shitty day," he chuckled despite himself.

The two of you took a seat on the couch, the tension somehow still loud.

"What happened?"

"Oh, you know. I was kind of dumb to think a girl could possibly like me like that. Joon meant well, but ... it's just not for me, I guess."

He wanted to diminish it. To keep it vague so he wouldn't have to open that can of worms. The can of worms that were his deep-seethed insecurities and his never ending crush.

Turning your body to face him, your eyebrows furrowed in worry, bottom lip sticking out a bit in a subtle pout.

"Jungkook," your voice was serious, "Tell me what happened."

"You first," he rebutted, "Tell me why you're here."

He surprised himself a bit. Usually he had no problem letting you comfort him when he was down in the dumps. But something about your demeanor needed to be addressed first. That small seed of hope in the back of his mind was twinkling at it. Could it be? Had you stayed because-

"I didn't want you to bring her back home," you said after a few moments of silence, voice almost a whisper.

Your eyes were forcefully shut and a breath left you. It was as if it had been a huge weight on your shoulders. Though you didn't seem more relaxed at letting it out. If anything, you appeared even more pent up.

And Jungkook? His body was reacting to such a statement. The implications behind it had his heart racing and his hands clamming up. It'd be a punishment beyond belief if it didn't mean what he thought he meant.

But still, he asked.

"Why?"

"Please don't make me say it."

"I need you to. Please."

Sora was completely out of his mind despite the conversation orbiting around her. All he was thinking about was the pained tone in your voice when you'd said you didn't want her back here with Jungkook.

He felt sickly at the strange satisfaction that brought. Your pain was the last thing Jungkook could ever want, but this was the kind of pain Jungkook could remedy. Only one word from you — or rather, three — and he'd take it all away. He just needed a bit more from you to not risk it all. He needed you to take the risk, however selfish that might've been.

You opened and closed your mouth a few times, but never garnered the courage to actually say something. It was rare for you to not speak your mind around Jungkook, and that knowledge only made his heart race more. Wanting to encourage you, he scoot over a bit closer, placing his hand atop your own that was lying on your lap.

A soft smile was his reward for such an action. That and the brushing of your fingers before fully grasping his hand in yours. He loved holding your hand, even if he rarely allowed himself to do so.

"Why didn't you want me to bring her back home?", he asked again.

You sighed, nodding to yourself in what seemed to be self assurance before turning your eyes to his and finally speaking.

"Because I like you. And it would've killed me if you lost your virginity to someone else," you said in one quick breath. Your confidence pretty much left you after that. "I know that makes me a hypocrite, but I- I can't help it. I like you so much it hurts. I was never going to tell you, but I had no idea how much it'd actually affect me if you ever got a girlfriend," you continued, hand squeezing his own every so often, "I thought I'd be ready to see you find someone else and take that as a sign to move on but, fuck, I felt like shit walking out of here this afternoon knowing you were going to see another girl."

By the time you'd finished your confession, your eyes were glassy. They weren't really facing Jungkook's anymore, but he could still tell. His eyes were glassy too.

His heart had stopped within first sentence. He wasn't sure how he was currently sitting up, somehow not having passed out at the initial confession. He also found himself completely mute, unable to react to what was a life changing moment for him.

"Kook?", you called his attention, hand letting go of his own and retracting into yourself, "I kinda need you to say something here," you let out an awkward chuckle, eyes wide and worried in contrast.

"I- I, fuck," he stammered, "I almost slept with Sora tonight," was what he had not planned to say whatsoever, but still somehow found leaving his lips.

"Oh."

Yes. 'Oh.'

"Wait, I didn't mean-"

But you stood up, still refusing to look at him.

"I should go. I'm sorry if I got in the way of your plans."

You tried to push past him, but he towered over you, stubborn in letting you leave but still too panicked to return your sentiment.

He felt like a complete and utter piece of shit.

"Wait, please don't go," he pleaded, hand bracketing around your wrist.

"I think I embarrassed myself enough, Jungkook."

"You didn't! Please, I don't know why I said that. It wasn't true, I- I couldn't go through with it. That's what I meant to say," that seemed to get you to stop fighting him, but your sniffled and glassy eyes remained.

"It's fine, Jungkook. You don't have to try and spare my feelings. I knew it wasn't mutual, I didn't mean anything by it, I-"

That was seemingly what broke the camel's back.

"It is mutual! I'm in love with you!", he interrupted, surprising himself even more than you.

Quiet fell for a few moments, breaths as heavy as the tension of the room.

"What?"

"That's why I could never go on dates. Why I always said no when the guys set me up. Why I shut you off any time you got a boyfriend ... Why I stopped things with Sora before they could go too far."

His admission got you to finally look at him. The look in your eyes was indescribable to Jungkook. He'd never seen it before. There was shock mixed with something else. Perhaps hope? That's more or less what he felt at the moment.

"Are you lying to me?", you asked in a sudden shift of demeanor, now a serious edge to your tone.

"What? N-no! I- I love you. I've been in love with you for years. You can ask any of the guys. It's embarrassing and time-consuming, but it's always been there. I swear it's-"

That's as far as Jungkook got. He'd never be able to recall what other embarrassing detail about his crush he was about to share, but he found himself unable to care as soon as he realized what the source of his interruption was.

This kiss was incomparable — despite having shared a heavy kiss with someone else less than an hour prior.

No, this kiss was full of emotions Jungkook would need a thesaurus to describe. He was completely out of his league (but, really, when was he not?), lips attempting to follow your hungry ones but losing the battle.

The discrepancy in experience between the two of you was entirely too visible in the kiss, but Jungkook wasn't complaining. He was getting the better end of the stick and you didn't seem to find any issue, so he just counted his blessings and continued to kiss you to his heart's desire.

Your tongue sucked at his own, making his eyes roll back. His hands, which were usually shy in touching you, were greedy in grabbing at and squeezing any part of you available to him. The usual shyness was replaced with sheer need.

Usually, he would've been embarrassed by the needy whimpers he kept leaving against your lips, but he was too into it to stop. You'd reward every whimper with a slight pull of his hair, so he saw it as a good sign and allow himself to let loose.

When he was almost out of air, you pulled away, though Jungkook's lips attempted to follow, not wanting a single second of separation from you. He was able to steal two pecks and one lick of lips before you pressed your arms against his chest to stop him.

"I'm in love with you too," you were breathless as you said it, "I just thought it was safer to tell you I liked you to, you know, preserve some of my dignity in case it wasn't mutual," you chuckled.

Jungkook's mind was somewhere in Kansas at the moment, not really paying full attention to your words. Knowing you loved him back was life-changing, but the monkey-brained part of him was itching for more of your touch at the moment.

"Where'd your mind go?", you giggled when you took note of his dazed look.

Your hands went to pull him closer once more, which he accepted immediately by locking his arms around your waist.

"What? I, uh, nothing," he mumbled, eyes not meeting your own.

God, how had he gotten horny over a simple kiss?

You caught on quickly, grinning up at him as you attempted to fish at his eyes, following his head any time he tried to turn away from your view but failing. It was comedic in contrast to how tense things had just been.

"What's wrong, Kookie?", you sing-sang, "Something on your mind?"

He gave you what he was sure was a pathetic, pleading look, "Please don't be mean to me. My brain's barely catching up to what's happening," he whined.

"I get to be mean for you. You almost slept with another girl tonight," you huffed jokingly.

With a wince, he groaned, to which you just giggled, causing him to drop his head into your shoulder.

"That's not fair."

"I think it's pretty fair. Here I was, pining over you and you're out there about to give it away to some random girl," you continued.

His response came in the form of nuzzling into your neck, encouraged by your arms pulling him closer.

"Stop," he whined, "It was so shitty. I hated it."

You pulled him away from the comfort of the crook of your neck (much to his dismay) to look at him once more. Luckily for him, your arms were still on his shoulders, allowing him to retain close proximity to you — he was unsure how he'd ever accept any distance between you from now on.

There was some worry in your eyes. Or at least that's what the furrow in your brows and the slight pout made him think.

"What happened?"

"Oh, uh, it was nothing. She just ... I guess Joon's not that good at matchmaking," he explained, not really finding it worth it to go back to that moment. Not when he had something so much better now, and weirdly enough as a result of his shitty night.

You offered him another pout, reaching up to give him a sweet kiss as an acceptance of him not wanting to give too many details.

"Mmm, wait, not yet," he mumbled when you went to pull away, this time successful in keeping your lips locked.

Despite your giggle in response, you continued kissing him, soon going back to the pace you'd had during your earlier kiss. It soon turned heavy and wet, making Jungkook's mind daze once more.

Jungkook was on a mission, refusing to let the kiss end. Putting his all into the kiss, he allowed you to take his mind away, making him all but literally melt at your touch. Matching sighs left you, the sound mixing with the squelch of your tongues licking and sucking at each other.

Eventually, Jungkook turned around — lips still connected — and let himself be pushed to sit back on the couch, with you straddling his lap as a result. The newfound warmth of your body atop his own made him dizzy with desire. It was a feeling he'd never experienced before, and it was quickly growing addictive.

A high whine was left against your lips when your hands moved onto his hair, pulling at it softly at first and increasing the intensity based on his sounds. He melted under you, knowing he'd be willing to let you do whatever you wanted to him without even having to ask.

Hands explored your body, feeling an innate need to map out every inch and pull you as close to him as possible, almost to the point of molding with one another.

Your lips explored his neck for a bit, occasionally nibbling and licking at the skin. The contrast between the warmth of your breath and the coolness of your tongue had him sighing out in pleasure.

Who would've thought having his neck kissed could feel so orgasmic?

He wasn't sure whether he was happy or frustrated when your lips found his own again. As petulant as it sounded, he wanted your touch everywhere, all at once. His skin was burning, as were his loins — and no contact further than some kissing had been done.

"Mm, Kook-" you failed at interrupting the kiss, trapped into another and another, "Shit, Kook," you tried again, but easily fell back into it, letting Jungkook lick into your mouth, "Wait, baby."

Baby?

Okay, that stopped him.

"What's wrong?", Jungkook was sure he looked completely gone. His eyes were still glued to your lips and his chest heaved with his heavy breath.

"Are you sure you want to keep going with this? I don't want to push you," you asked, breath equally erratic.

He could've laughed at the question.

There was no doubt in his mind that he needed to keep going. His body was already about to explode, and you were asking him if he wanted to stop? He felt let out a silent whine at the mere suggestion of stopping.

He kissed you again, hands gripping your hips and instinctively pulling you closer.

You took this as a hint to crumble his sanity even further by beginning to grind on him, slow yet intensely. It had him hiccuping in pleasure against your lips, sighing out and allowing you access to his open mouth.

"Please- oh, fuck, please," he pleaded for nothing in particular.

"Is this okay?," you asked uselessly.

Jungkook nodded, letting his head fall back to the back of the couch as his hips pathetically humped up along with yours. There was no direct contact, but the mere stimulation had Jungkook's eyes seeing white. It was reminiscent of all those nights he'd grow too frustrated with himself and begin humping at his pillow with you in mind. He'd always been too embarrassed to acknowledge such a deprived act, but at least he could now confirm there were no grounds for comparison.

"It's so good, fuck. Want- want more."

By then, you were humping at each other like deprived animals, gasping and crying out at the contact.

Jungkook was unsure when you'd thrown off your shirt, far too distracted by the feeling of you on top of him, but his ability to think completely left him at that moment. Your hands let go of him, instead grabbing at your breasts and playing with yourself right in front of him.

It was like a wet dream come to life, mocking him by showing him how weak and pathetic he was.

The sight had him let out an embarrassing whimper. His face reflected how pained he felt at the view, so needy and painfully horny for you.

"Y-you're so ... Fuck, please, I need- can I ... ?"

He wasn't sure what sentence he was trying to make, but the ability to feel shame had exited his mind a good while ago. To be frank, Jungkook wasn't even sure what reality he was in at the moment. The only thought occupying his mind was your body testing his resolve in a way that he knew would ruin him.

You nodded, biting your lip to prevent a smile of satisfaction as Jungkook let his head fall in between your breasts, lips immediately mapping out the are through kisses and needy flicks of the tongue. He grew immediately obsessed with the feeling of your skin under his touch. It was soft, supple, just perfect to the touch. The scent of your perfume was even stronger now, and Jungkook knew then that the smell alone could probably condition him into a boner from now on.

His hips became frantic then, almost pushing you off him with their intensity. But you took it, silently leading him with your own movements as you held onto him for support.

He was beginning to lose himself, knowing an orgasm was approaching. The fleeting thought of your own orgasm made its way into his mind, but it was quickly gone when you started to breathe out encouragements for him to cum, claiming you were right there with him, that you needed him to ruin his pants for you.

When it finally took him, his eyes crossed, head thrown back as he babbled nonsense in absolute bliss. His brain was barely able to register when a few moments later, your own orgasm hit you just as hard. His hips never gave up, still softly swaying with yours as his high went down. He could've sworn he lost consciousness for a few second, as he finally became conscious with himself again when you were kissing at his neck again.

"Fuck. I wasn't planning on that happening," you giggled between soft pecks to the already tattered skin.

"Is this real?", he mused after a few moments of silence. His hands even went to squeeze at your hips, making sure you were truly there.

Unfortunately for him, that's when you left his lap, making him whine as he sat up to close your distance.

"That's not even the best of it, pretty boy," were your last words before turning towards his room, smiling at him to follow you.

Jungkook, being Jungkook, did not think twice before getting up and following you without further instruction, even tripping in the process.

~

Within just a few minutes of being in his room, you were down to your panties and him to his boxers. As mandated by nature, you were sitting on him again, holding him down by pinning his arms above his head as you made out with him as nasty as you'd done in his living room.

Jungkook had no complaints. If you wanted him tied up and to your mercy, he'd go as far as to beg for the opportunity. His mind was not his own anymore, and neither was his body. As far as he was concerned, he belonged to you — a totally reasonable thought to have.

To be fair, it was quite hard for him to think while the girl of his dreams was lying on top of him with her tongue in his mouth. Not that he was complaining, not at all.

Surprisingly to Jungkook, his hands took free rein of your body. They went from your hair to your back to your ass to your waist and back to your hair. A whole tour of your body was had before Jungkook decided to take a leap and sneak one of his hands between your bodies and take a route south.

Jungkook was inexperienced. That was an unfortunate fact of his life. But despite popular belief, Jungkook was not an idiot. He liked to believe that he was more knowledgeable than the average guy ... maybe. He had tried to overcompensate early during college by taking a female sexuality course and diving into the depths of reddit in order to understand the things he hadn't been able to experience first hand.

That being said, you still had to silently nudge his hand a little higher in the midst of making out, leading him to your clit before gasping into his mouth at the sensation.

His bruised ego got re-inflated quickly after, with your following reactions to his corrected movements going straight to his dick. Your hips canted against his fingers, following their movements in a desperate attempt at increasing the stimulation. Jungkook's head felt heavy at the constant sighs you'd release against his lips.

"Does ... does it feel good?", he still felt the need to ask.

You hummed into his lips in response, tightening around his fingers at the sound of his voice.

Fuck, did you like his voice?

This was something he'd need to save for future use.

Before he could continue to speak, you regrettably removed his fingers from inside you, earning a whine and a furrowed eyebrow from him.

"As much as I want you to finger me, I'd rather defile you," you said with all seriousness, giggling when Jungkook's reaction didn't go further than wide eyes.

"It's okay, baby. I'll make it good for you, I promise," your hand laid on his cheek, caressing it in a gentle manner, creating a huge contrast with your soaked panties sitting right on top of his stained boxers. That was just something he had to ignore in order to not burst spontaneously.

"That's not really what I'm worried about," he avoided eye contact, though his hands remained on you.

"Then what's wrong, Kookie?"

"What if ... what if it's not good for you. I, uh, I know you've done it with a few guys before — N-not judging or anything! Just, I- I don't want to disappoint you or, uhm, embarrass myself," he mumbled some parts lower than others, a little embarrassed by his insecurities on top of it all.

"Koo," you pouted at him, tilting his chin towards you — something that otherwise would've had him reeling — "I've already had way more fun with you than with anyone else. You know why?", you gave him that comforting smile he loved, "Because I like you, and I know you like me just as much. And I know you'll do everything in your power to make this good for me cause you're just ... you're such a good guy. This is just about making each other feel good. Okay? No need to worry about making me feel good, I promise I already am," you punctuated your statement with a kiss to his nose, giggling when he scrunched it.

"Yeah, I, uh, yeah, okay."

He suddenly found himself blushing, having undermined your proximity, or, you know, the fact that you were naked and on top of him, coaxing him into sex that he very much wanted to have with you.

Before you could say anything else, a fiery part of him took over, pulling you into him for a steamy kiss, wanting to express all his word-vomit through actions rather than stumbled words. There was no better way for him to show you how he felt about you, how good he wanted to make you feel. His words would often fail him, so he opted to show you through his actions.

Mid kiss, you got up from his lap, though Jungkook did not allow for the kiss to end, opting to lean upwards and sit up so he could keep himself connected to you. It was awkward, having you lean down as you blindly removed your panties, but it felt necessary to Jungkook. Within seconds you were already back on his lap, clawing at his own boxers to try and remove them while still sitting. It was awkward and difficult, but the job was eventually done, leaving the two of you nude as Jungkook attempted not to hump into you like a needy animal.

"I- I want- God, I want to fuck you so bad," he mumbled in a daze.

"Fuck, you have no idea, Kookie."

You sounded equally as wrecked, already one orgasm in and completely drenched above him. It made Jungkook feel powerful and wanted. He'd never felt desired like this before. It was making him lose his mind. Every passing second without being inside you made him more and more antsy.

Then you finally lifted yourself up, this time prying Jungkook's hands away from your hips so you could lean towards his end table where he knew you'd find condoms.

That shocked Jungkook, making him look at you with wide eyes.

"How-

"I know the guys have been trying to get you laid for ages. Jimin told me he got you some condoms," you chuckled at his shock as you nonchalantly ripped the packet open with your mouth, — fuck, why was that so hot? — taking your position on his crotch once more in order to insert it.

He whimpered at the sight, too turned on to feel embarrassed over it as he ushered for you to hurry up. More tiny sounds of desperation continued to leave him as you actually slipped on the condom and lifted yourself up. The buildup drove him insane with desire. Every second felt elongated, but when the moment to finally lower yourself on him came, Jungkook swore he left this dimension.

He'd read about what it was like. Hell, he'd watched endless porn depicting what were meant to represent virgins (but he was aware were just actors), hoping to understand what the feeling of finally being enveloped by an actual pussy would feel like. But it was safe to say none of it came close to reality.

He was unsure of what he must've looked like to you at that moment, but he truly felt himself completely ruined. His mouth was agape while his eyes closed shut, eyebrows lifting so high up they were likely at his hairline. Fingers dug into your skin, careless of any bruises they could leave behind (he made a mental note of asking if he could kiss them better later, but it was buried under every other feeling at the moment). His toes curled and his body hair rose in goosebumps. Every other part of himself went unaccounted for, as pleasure took over his ability to process anything else.

It was the safest feeling possible. He knew it was an odd way to describe it, but he truly felt like he was made to be inside you. Like he was fitting a part of the puzzle he'd been looking for forever.

On top of that was the immense pleasure, of course. The incoherent pleas and whimpers leaving his lips were a testament of it.

He begged and pleaded and cried and whined and made every embarrassing sound known to man as you started to move. You'd given him a few moments to get used to it, asking if you could move (you only received a gasp and a pathetic nod as a response) before you began a pace so torturously good that it had Jungkook reconsidering his religion.

"S'so good ... fuck. Oh, god, fuck, it's so- ah! shit, f-fuck me," he babbled, literally drooling at the feeling.

He was so yours in this moment, it was ridiculous. Jungkook had always claimed himself as yours (and had even subconsciously saved himself for you), but this feeling simply solidified it. There was no reality in which he wasn't made for you. Made to receive and give all the pleasure from and to you.

At first, his brain could not even process the view above him, and he was glad for it. Because as soon as he could, he was a gone man.

You mirrored his reaction to a certain extent, gasping and furrowing your brows any time his dick would hit a specific part of you that gave you that extra hit of pleasure. Your back was arched and your pelvis glued to his own. The view was something Jungkook could never forget.

"Feel so good, Kookie, fuck ... How could you be worried when it's so fucking good ..." you sighed.

You rambled praise for him, aiding tenfold to the indescribable feeling of being with you in such a bare form. Jungkook was sure his orgasm was pathetically close, but he could not bring himself to even think of it. Not when his undoing was so unimaginably euphoric.

He had no way of warning you, instead writhing and gasping under you. It was an out of body experience, taking him to a place so high he wasn't sure he would ever come back down.

And then everything went dark.

He wasn't sure how long he was unconscious for, but by the time the convulsions ended and his heart rate went back down, you were already lying down next to him. Cuddled up next to him, your fingers ran up and down his chest in a softness he'd never experienced, accompanied by the occasional peck left against his skin.

"Love you," he mumbled when his words finally found him.

"You scared me!," you sat up a bit to face him better, "Are you back with me now? Did my pussy break you?"

You were joking, but Jungkook was almost entirely sure that was what had happened.

"How long was I out for?", he turned to face you, arm wrapping around you to pull you closer.

"Just a few minutes. Was that too intense?"

"Hah, no, just ... yeah. I've never felt something like that before."

"Well, now you get to feel it any time you want," you grinned at him with a peck to his lips.

"Hmm, yeah," he mumbled happily before a thought snapped him out of his post-coital daze, "Wait, fuck, did you cum?"

"Yeah. I was almost there, Kookie, don't worry. Just had to work myself a bit more after you passed out. No biggie," you reassured him.

Before he could protest, you shushed him with your hand hovering over his mouth.

"Don't whine about it. I literally came in my pants because of you. Consider that a win."

And that was that.

Jungkook decided to let it go and instead cuddle you to sleep, completely disregarding the rollercoaster this night had been. Nothing else really seemed to matter while he held you in his arms anyways. Especially due to the warmth of your bare skin against his own, just like he'd always wanted.

to read short 1.8k word continuation (+ all other previously written bonus content) you can go join my jk monthly tier on patreon!

content: jk and reader being annoying and in their honeymoon phase, smut, afab reader, grinding, kissing, oral (m receiving), overstimulation, etc.

wc: 451 (teaser); 1842 (full drabble)

sneak peak:

"God, man, I heard about Sora. I'm so sorry," Joon began, "I didn't think she'd be so mean to you. She hounded me in the hallway just an hour ago about lying to her and setting her up with a loser — sorry, her words."

This caused you to groan in annoyance, cuddling further into Jungkook at the mention of the faceless girl you'd never met but had grown to hate.

Jungkook had let you in on all the details on what had happened upon further insistence from you. It was safe to say that he had to talk you down from jumping her in the hallway (he knew you'd never actually do such a thing, but the thought counted regardless).

"Ew, don't bring her up. Jungkook's never looked in another woman's direction ever. Right, Kookie?"

It was a little inside joke between you. After having defiled him, you'd developed some healthy possessiveness over him. He was over the moon about it, always playing into it.

Joon simply chuckled, rolling his eyes at both the joke and the sight of the two of you practically cuddled up on a bench in the middle of the quad. No sense or shame for being that annoying couple, nor any care for your other friends sitting across from you, already put off by you.

"It's true," Jungkook nodded, "And that shitty date ended up working in my favor in the end, so if anything, I should be thanking you," he added.

"Finally getting you to shut up about Y/N is payment enough," he walked over to the bench you'd been sitting at, with Taehyung and Jimin sitting to the other side of it.The two had quickly learned to disregard the two of you and your lovesickness for each other, "Now get off each other. No one needs to see you sitting on Jungkook's lap at 11:30 in the morning."

"We already tried. They literally kicked me off that side of the bench so she could lay on him," grumbled Jimin before giving his attention back to Taehyung.

You got up then, nose scrunching at Kook's whine at the sudden disconnect between you, "It's fine. We were just leaving anyway," you held out your hand for him to get up.

"Let me know when the honeymoon phase is over," jested Joon as he took the seat you'd emptied.

Already on your way to leave, you turned back with a smile, "You're just jealous that me and my boyfriend are in love!", Jungkook giggled at your loudness.

"Where are we going?", he asked as he followed you mindlessly.

"To get some privacy, baby. They don't tolerate real lovers here," you joked in a mockingly serious tone.

...

find the continuation on patreon!

if you have trouble finding it on there, just let me know!!<3

[thrfted]

꩜ DATING MR. CRAWLING .ᐟ

SFW GN!Reader HCS after the blissful love life ending.

Italics is in the other world’s language! Sometimes more the implied message rather than a direct translation. I'll probably do Mr. Hood later too :3 !

Your bed is much more comfortable than anything in the other world, and it only makes it better that mr. Crawling gets to be in it with you. He grows accustomed to your nightly routine and is always excited to cuddle up. Big spoon, little spoon, facing each other—all of it makes him as happy as can be!

(^ As someone who still has a twin size, some of us have to invest in a much bigger one lol)

Generally so so affectionate and loves when you’re physically affectionate !! You can kiss his head and he’ll giggle, maybe point at his face and ask “Again!” You leave kisses all over his face, and his hands pull you in close when you finally kiss his lips.

One of Mr. Crawling's strongest traits is his patience—especially when it comes to you. The first day you come home without him trailing behind (much to his dismay, and honestly yours), he’s at the door to greet you, smiling and giggling as you wrap your arms around him. You find out he hadn’t done much but wait for you to come home. (With no complaints of boredom on his part, and all the worry on yours.)

He'll sit as you play with his hair, trying out new hairstyles or putting in clips. “Me cute? Pretty?” he asks. And if you let him do the same in return, he'll giggle and compliment you too.

I think he’d look through your closet and enjoy watching you try on clothes too. He compliments you and feels each of the fabrics, liking the ones that feel softest. He might try on some of the accessories if none of the actual clothes (sort of…) fit, and is really happy when you match!

Mr. Crawling is a fast learner. You worry he'll feel overwhelmed with all the new technology and words and whatever else, so you focus on making sure he’s comfortable. But he points at things and ask what they are, repeating after you. “You teach me language?” he asks and you laugh softly before nodding. “I teach you language.”

He will accidentally touch a hot stove top or pot if you don't remember to warn him beforehand. Then whenever you cook he gets worried you'll hurt yourself, watching to make sure you're alright (forgive him if he pulls your hand away and says “Danger! Don't touch!”)

Since he doesn't know his birthday, you make the day you returned special instead! He's happy to just stay in with you, eating a good meal and watching or learning something new.

Mr. Crawling also learns when yours is and does his best to make it a good day for you too. He tries singing happy birthday and makes food with what you have at home, mimicking the meals he's seen you prepare.

You teach him how to call your phone while you're away. It's supposed to “be for emergencies,” but you both know he's going to call just to hear your voice, and who are you to complain?

I think he gets sad sometimes when he sees or hears you talking to friends—the way you communicate and laugh so easily compared to conversations with him. The other world's language itself is limited, and he hasn't learned enough of your own. You spend some evenings reassuring him, reminding him learning is a process, and it doesn't change your feelings!!

He does his best to learn on his own. You buy (exercise) books and show him shows for younger kids and he spends a lot of time alone with them, both to surprise you, and also just because he loves talking with you and wants to talk more and more.

The first time he speaks your language is a special day. After many days of calling out that you’re back, he decides to say it himself. “You home!” You almost drop everything in your hands, and that’s when he continues, “Miss you.” It feels odd hearing it in his voice, but he’s grinning so wide, and you won’t find out for a while just how excited and nervous he was waiting for you to get home.

One of Mr. Crawling’s favourite things to say and hear is “I love you.” Every time you say it, he gets all giddy and tries to get closer to you (as if that’s possible while already cuddling in bed). He says it a lot while you’re doing chores or really nothing, just to remind you and see you smile. There’s no way in his mind for those 3 words to lose their meaning, or become any less special.

[creamflix]

the first time sukuna fell in love, he was but a boy of ten. 

he’d been running barefoot by the riverside, clutching a half-eaten apple he’d swiped from a vendor’s stall.

there, among the reeds, he saw you. 

a girl not much older than him, giggling as you played with a pair of bunnies. you smiled as one hopped into your lap, the sunlight catching in your hair like strands of spun gold. 

for the first time, he felt a pang in his chest — an ache so foreign it startled him. he wanted to walk closer, to hear your laughter up close, but the distant shouts of palace guards reminded him of his plight.

with a scowl and a heavy heart, he turned and disappeared into the forest.

the second time sukuna fell in love, he was twenty-nine. 

a hardened king by then, his hands stained with the blood of countless battles. he was unstoppable, a force of nature, until he met you on the battlefield. 

you were the opposing leader, a woman who commanded armies with fire in her veins. your sword clashed against his with unyielding strength, your eyes defiant even as the tides of war turned against you. he admired the way you held your head high, even in defeat. 

when his blade finally struck true, he found no triumph in his victory — only the hollow echo of your last breath and the unshakable image of your bravery.

the third time sukuna fell in love, he was sixty. 

his body had grown stronger, his face lined with the scars of battles and time, yet untouched by age. at a temple celebrating his birthday — his subjects oblivious to his immortality — he spotted you again. 

you knelt at the altar, your hands clasped in prayer, tears streaming down your face. your whispered words were for the departed, a plea for their peace, not for yourself. your unselfishness struck him like lightning. he lingered in the shadows, unable to tear his eyes away. 

but once again, he left without speaking.

decades blurred into centuries, and sukuna continued to see you — again and again. 

once, you were a nurse during a plague, tirelessly tending to the sick, your hands blistered but your resolve unwavering. 

another time, you were a dancer, spinning under the moonlight with a joy so infectious that even his dark soul felt lighter. 

then, you were a bandit, reckless and daring, stealing from the rich to feed the poor, your grin daring the world to challenge you.

each time, he loved you more fiercely, each time more convinced that you were the universe’s cruel joke on him — a fleeting glimpse of something he could never hold.

until today.

he hadn’t expected anything remarkable when he walked into the café, drawn by the rich aroma of coffee and the warmth of the afternoon sun. his mind was wandering, memories of his past lives and past loves swirling like a storm, when your voice shattered his reverie.

“welcome in! what can i get for you?”

his heart stopped.

it was you.

this time, there was no battlefield, no temple, no grand act of heroism. you stood behind the counter in a simple apron, your hair tied back, a pen tucked behind your ear.

yet you were the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.

“uh, sir?” you tilted your head, offering a polite smile when he didn’t respond right away.

“coffee,” he managed, his voice rough. “black.”

you nodded, punching it into the register. “sure thing. anything else?”

“your name,” he blurted out before he could stop himself.

your eyebrows lifted in surprise, but you laughed softly. “it’s y/n. do you need that on the cup?”

he stared at you, stunned by how casual you were, how close he was to everything he’d yearned for across lifetimes. 

“no,” he said, his lips quirking into a faint smile. “i just wanted to know.”

you laughed again, handing him his coffee once it was ready. “well, enjoy, mystery man.”

he lingered by the counter, holding the cup like it was an anchor to this moment. he didn’t want to leave, didn’t want to miss the chance he’d always let slip through his fingers. 

this time, he swore, he wouldn’t run away.

“how long have you worked here?” he asked, trying to keep his tone light.

“a few months. why, thinking of applying?” you teased, wiping down the counter.

“no,” he said, his voice softer now. “just wondering how long it took for the universe to bring me here.”

you blinked, caught off guard by the weight of his words. but before you could reply, the door jingled as another customer entered, pulling your attention away.

sukuna stepped back, letting you go about your work. for now. 

he’d waited centuries to speak to you, to know you. he could wait a little longer. but this time, he wouldn’t let you slip away.

not again.

the concept of the cafe was inspired by my pookie @curtins's recent post on jjk men in cafes, go show her some looveee <3 produced by creamflix on tumblr. all rights reserved. do not copy, steal, modify, repost — support your writers by liking and reblogging. ♡

[machveil]

Mmmmmmm loser!simon and short!reader size training mmmmm buying multiple dildos increasing in size in order to slowly train your inside to fit him in mmm maybe dedicating a day inserting the biggest one all day inside to prep and finally try to insert him inside that night mmm maybe loser!simon bursting out just from helping you to take the dildo out of you because it felt so warm and slick from you keeping it snug inside you the whole day and the moment the imagination of what if it was him instead being cockwarmed inside you that whole day- the thought alone made him went feral there and then mmm

hi, oh my god? [blows up]

CW: Fem!Reader, size difference, dildos, size training because Little Lieutenant Riley is big, Loser!Simon Riley is his own warning, oral and fingering (Fem!Receiving), spit

Loser!Simon Riley who desperately wants to be able to bully himself inside you. he doesn’t want to hurt you though, hates the thought of you being in discomfort or forcing yourself to take him. even though he’s tried oral and fingering you, slow, comfortable hours between your thighs, he always stops short of fully burying himself. he can’t, not when your eyebrows cinch and your breathing gets unsteady. he’ll always work you towards an orgasm for trying, you did so good for him, he doesn’t mind a handjob in return or finishing himself off if you’re tired. as much as he wants to feel you he won’t push you to take him

Loser!Simon Riley who buys a dildo for you, straight-faced when he presents it to you - ears flushing a little as he stares at you. he really just wanted you to feel good, he always does, and if he can’t work his cock into you then this will do. he didn’t expect to like it so much, cradling you against him while crooning praise, lips pressed to your forehead while he thrusts the silicone in and out of you. it’s nothing compared to what he’s working with, but watching you take it has him breathing heavily. the mixture of lube, slick, and spit coating the dildo has his attention, the way you cry out when he tilts it at a different angle. warm brown eyes watching the way your legs shake and spasm, making sure to bury the toy to the hilt when you orgasm

Loser!Simon Riley who comes home a week later with a new dildo. a little longer, a little more girth. “S’just a little bigger, yeah? You can handle it.”, he knows you can. he doesn’t mind starting off with his mouth and fingers, crooked nose brushing against your clit as he loses himself in your cunt. he starts you off with the first toy, quiet and patient as the fake tip runs along your slit. there’s something about watching you take it that makes him feel elated, shallow thrusts as he rocks the dildo into you. as much as you’re the one crying out and holding onto him, lost in the euphoria of him hitting all the right nerves, Simon’s sure he’s never been harder. especially when he switches to the new dildo, face flushed and straining against his boxers with how it easily slips into you. he holds you close, nosing at your neck as he picks up the pace, watching how it glides in and out of you

Loser!Simon Riley who’s fascinated watching you take larger dildos, thoughts running wild as he thinks about you taking a toy bigger than him. for now he’s content sitting between your legs, a hand pressing down over your tummy as he works his latest purchase into you. “Think you’ll take me t’night.”, voice gravelly as you whine, eyes glued to the way you’re stretching around the toy. as excited as he is with the thought of finally sliding into you, Simon’s more excited that you agreed to have this dildo in you for the day. he’d take it out if you asked, but he’s already trembling with the image in his mind. it plays out how he envisioned - watching your breath hitch as you try to sit down, the way your legs shake when you walk. it’s a long day, his cheeks heating up with embarrassment when he excuses himself to the bathroom after lunch. he barely managed to pull himself out of his boxers before drenching his hand in pearly cum

Loser!Simon Riley who’s fidgety when you both finally retire to your bedroom. still silent as ever, but he’s eyeing you, a slight twitch to his fingers. once you settle in bed he’s following you, pressing gentle kisses to your face as he shimmies your underwear down, soaked in the middle. he can’t help but trace the base of the toy, thumbs running over the slick silicone. there’s a perverse feeling in his chest when he inches it out, a pathetic whine resonating in his throat from how warm it is. he can’t help but toy with it, dumbly working it in and out of you as he watches it split you open. does he really need to replace it? it’s already made you feel so good, kept you full better than he’s ever done. he doesn’t even register how he’s grinding his hips against the sheets, too caught up in bullying the dildo back into you. he’s moving on autopilot, drools onto the cock in his hand before thrusting it back inside you. the only thing that makes him stop is his orgasm, eyes fluttering shut when you climax around the toy, his hips stuttering as he lowly moans

[wonderjanga]

Totally Me

When Billy first joined the league, he made sure to not tell anyone about his identity. This went on for nearly five years until he eventually started feeling bad for the others. They always look so sad. Not that blames them. He knows their names, where they live, their jobs, he knows almost everything about them, yet they know nothing about Marvel. So, Billy decided to tell them some things about himself, only it’s not himself. He told them about his dad, or at least what he remembers. He can’t exactly tell them he’s a twelve year old radio show host who lives in an apartment with his sister and his friend. Can he?

Supes: *talking about Jon*

Hermes: “Alright, Batson. You can do this!” *hyping him up like a sports coach*

Marvel: “He sounds awesome. The way you talk about him reminds me of Billy.”

Supes: “Billy? Who’s that?”

Marvel: *smiles* “My son.”

Supes: *jaw drops*

Clark was so happy his friend finally opened up with something about his personal life. He was smiling the entire day. This information eventually got around to the others so they tried to see if they could find out more too.

GA: “So, Cap, are you finally gonna come one of my mixers?” (ref to a fanfic I can’t remember the name of) *bros digging for information to see if cap is in a relationship*

Achilles: “Come on, Billy, let’s go! You can do this!”

Marvel: “No, I have a wife.”

GA: “A wife? What do you mean you have a wife? I expected a girlfriend not a wife?”

Marvel: *slightly nervous because he thinks Green Arrow might not believe him* “Yeah, well, I have a wife, okay?”

GA: “How long have you guys been married?”

Marvel: “Uh…” *doesn’t even know* “Like since 19-”

GA: “19??”

Marvel: “Yeah, 1920 or 30 something.” *is pretty sure that’s correct*

GA: “You’ve been married to your wife for almost 100 years…?”

Marvel: “Uh… yeah. Now that I think about it, yeah.”

By the way, anything Billy tells these guys, goes straight into the rumor mill. Once he divulges a little piece of information it’ll take like an hour, and then everyone knows.

Bruce even got in on the action by grabbing a form and walking up to Marvel:

Batman: “Captain, on your registration papers you left your occupation blank. Could you fill it out?”

Marvel: “Ah, sure!” *fills it out*

Batman: “Thank you.” *walks away and rounds a corner, only to be met with Clark*

Supes: “So, what’s his job?” *is hoping that Marvel is a reporter because he and Marvel have yapped about reporting multiple times*

Batman: *looks at the form* “He’s an archaeologist.”

Supes: “Archaeologist?” *sounds a little dumbfounded* “Huh. That seems so Marvel-like, yet so un-Marvel-like at the same time.”

Also, Billy does actually like archaeology. It’s one of bro’s special interests. In fact, to see if Marvel was telling the truth, Bruce asked a little bit about archaeology and was met with an hour long rant about how amazing it was.