#He probably gets him a diary with a lock

[sixeyesonathiel]

the curious case of satoru gojo

pairing — scientist satoru x housewife reader

synopsis : satoru gojo is a nobel-nominated genius with three phds, a devoted wife, and one tiny problem: he's accidentally turned himself into his nineteen-year-old self. now locked out of his own house and mistaken for a very persistent stalker by the love of his life (that’s you), he has one mission—fix the time machine, reclaim his face, and survive your increasingly violent attempts to defend your marriage from... him.

tags — oneshot, porn with plot, established relationship, domestic fluff, crack treated seriously, age regression/de-aging, identity shenanigans, miscommunication but it’s technically quantum, time travel(?) shenanigans, idiots in love, emotional whiplash, romantic comedy, jealous of himself, satoru gojo is so down bad, penis in vagina sex, kitchen sex, breeding kink, mating press, praise kink, overstimulation, sexual overstimulation, multiple orgasms, multiple sex positions, satoru gojo worships you like a religion, slight size kink, he’s been deprived okay, smut happens after he fixes everything

wc — 20.1k | gen. masterlist | read on ao3?

a/n: yes i wrote this in one day. yes i wrote this instead of focusing on finishing the part two of my apothecary diaries au fic. please don’t get your pitchforks out (⁠•⁠ ⁠▽⁠ ⁠•⁠;⁠) if u see i typo, no u don’t.

two weeks.

fourteen days of existing as a walking contradiction—a twenty-nine-year-old genius trapped in the lanky, smooth-faced prison of his nineteen-year-old body. satoru adjusts his reading glasses (the same prescription, thankfully, because his eyesight had been terrible since childhood) and stares at your front door like it’s the gates of heaven guarded by the world’s most beautiful, most stubborn angel.

his hair catches the afternoon light, those fine strands the color of fresh snow that had turned this ethereal shade when he was four and his first chemistry set had gone spectacularly wrong. it had originally been a soft, milk-tea brown, the color of dusty books and early autumn. he’d tried to invent a hair-growth serum for his dad. instead, the mixture combusted, coated his scalp, and bleached every strand into something unnaturally pale. his parents had panicked, thinking he’d poisoned himself. little satoru, meanwhile, had stared into the mirror and grinned with gap-toothed delight.

now, at nineteen-again, it falls across his forehead in soft waves, glowing almost silver in the sunlight. he looks like a walking, talking academic heartthrob from a university romance novel—which would be flattering if his own wife didn’t look at him like he was an unsightly bug on her kitchen floor.

the irony tastes bitter on his tongue, metallic like blood and regret. he’d spent six years perfecting a device to slow down time—not for scientific glory or recognition, but because twenty-four hours with you had never felt like enough. he’d wanted to stretch lazy sunday mornings into eternities, to make your sleepy smiles and the way you hummed while making coffee last forever.

instead, he’d accidentally turned himself into a time paradox of the most pathetic variety. a cautionary tale about hubris wrapped in the body of a college freshman.

his phone buzzes somewhere in the basement lab, probably sending another automated message to your device: still working on the temporal displacement project. eating the sandwiches you left. miss you. love you. —satoru

the ai assistant he’d programmed to keep you from worrying had become his greatest enemy. every perfectly crafted message, every detail programmed to sound exactly like him, was another nail in the coffin of his credibility. he’d been too thorough, too careful, too much of a perfectionist even in his contingency planning.

because here he stands, looking like a college freshman who’d wandered into the wrong neighborhood, while you believe your husband is safely tucked away in his lab, probably elbow-deep in equations and caffeine addiction.

the thing is—and this is where his pride starts gnawing at his intestines like a particularly vindictive parasite—he doesn’t want to sneak into his own house. he’s the dr. satoru gojo, for crying out loud. he has three phds, a nobel prize nomination, and enough patents to wallpaper the entire first floor. he shouldn’t have to skulk through basement windows like some sort of lovesick cat burglar just to access his own laboratory.

he’s a dignified man of science. he has principles. standards. a reputation to maintain, even if that reputation is currently being dragged through the mud by his own temporal incompetence.

no, he’s going to do this the right way. he’s going to convince you, properly and thoroughly, that he is exactly who he claims to be. he’s going to walk through the front door like a civilized human being, kiss his wife hello, and pretend the last two weeks never happened.

this is a matter of scientific integrity. of personal dignity. of—

he rings the doorbell.

the sound of your footsteps approaching makes his heart perform some sort of olympic gymnastics routine, complete with triple axels and a dismount that leaves his stomach somewhere in the vicinity of his ankles. even through the door, he can picture the way you move—that particular grace you’ve always had, like you’re dancing to music only you can hear. you’re probably wearing one of those sundresses he loves, the ones that make you look like you’ve stepped out of a 1950s magazine about perfect wives, except you’re real and warm and you smell like vanilla and clean laundry and home.

the door opens, and satoru’s brain promptly short-circuits.

you’re wearing the yellow dress. the one with tiny white flowers that he’d bought you for your second anniversary because you’d mentioned once, in passing, while distracted by a butterfly in the park, that it reminded you of the field where you’d had your first picnic. he’d remembered that throwaway comment for six months before finding the perfect dress, had it tailored to fit you exactly, had even added those hidden pockets because you always lost your keys.

your hair is pinned back with the butterfly clips he’d made for you—tiny mechanical marvels that flutter their wings when you laugh, solar-powered and calibrated to respond to the specific frequency of your joy. he’d spent three weeks perfecting the mechanism after you’d mentioned liking butterflies. three weeks of delicate gear work and programming, all for the chance to see you smile when the wings moved.

you look at him, and your expression shifts from hopeful to confused to absolutely murderous in the span of three seconds.

“oh, you’ve got to be kidding me.”

his heart skips a beat. maybe five. this is the part where he says something clever. this is the part where he charms you back into loving him. this is the part where his superior intellect saves the day and—

before he can open his mouth to explain, to plead, to grovel at your perfect feet, you’ve already produced what looks like a small silver device from somewhere in your dress. the hidden pocket in the seam, specifically—the one he’d reinforced with extra stitching because you had a tendency to overstuff it with lip balm and emergency snacks.

the device hums ominously, a sound that sends ice water through his veins because he recognizes it immediately. it’s the personal protection gadget he’d built for you last christmas, after you’d mentioned feeling nervous walking home from your book club in the dark. he’d spent a month perfecting it—a sleek little thing that could stun, disorient, or mildly embarrass an attacker depending on the setting.

and right now, you’re turning the dial past ‘warning shot’ and heading straight for ‘regret your life choices.’

“listen here, you little creep,” you say, and your voice is deadly sweet, like honey laced with cyanide. the juxtaposition of your floral sundress and the murder in your eyes is somehow the most attractive thing he’s ever seen, which probably says something deeply concerning about his psychology. “i don’t know who you think you are, but i’m a married woman. deeply, completely, utterly in love with my husband.”

the way you say ‘my husband’ makes something in his chest crack open like a fault line. there’s so much pride in your voice, so much fierce devotion, and he wants to bask in it except you’re not talking about him. you’re talking about him, but not him-him. you’re talking about the version of him you actually want to see walking through this door.

“so whatever pathetic attempt at impersonation this is,” you continue, and the weapon in your hand starts glowing a rather alarming shade of blue, “you can take it and shove it where the sun doesn’t shine.”

“wait, wait!” he holds up his hands, noting with growing horror how young they look, how smooth and unmarked by years of lab work. these hands haven’t built the music box that plays your wedding song. these fingers haven’t spent countless hours crafting the little inventions that make you smile. “i can explain! i know this looks bad, but i’m really—”

“satoru,” you finish, your eyes narrowing dangerously. “yes, i heard your little introduction yesterday. and the week before that. you know what? the name satoru only fits one person in this world, and he’s about a hundred times more attractive, intelligent, and charming than whatever discount walmart version you’re trying to pull off.”

the words hit him like a freight train loaded with emotional devastation and existential dread. discount walmart version. you—his wife, the love of his life, the woman who’s seen him drool on his pillow and still kisses him good morning—think he’s a cheap knockoff of himself.

“my husband,” you continue, and there’s that tone again, soft and dreamy and absolutely besotted, “is brilliant beyond measure. he’s kind and funny and makes me laugh every single day. he has these eyes that light up when he’s excited about something, and he gets this little crease between his eyebrows when he’s concentrating. he’s tall and gorgeous and perfect, and you...” you look him up and down with obvious disdain, “are none of those things.”

satoru feels something die inside his chest. possibly his will to live. definitely his ego.

because the thing is, you’re right. he doesn’t look like the man you married anymore. he looks like a college student, all gangly limbs and baby fat and skin that hasn’t been weathered by years of late nights in the lab. he looks like someone who might ask you for help with his homework, not someone who’s built you a smart house that anticipates your every need.

“but i know things!” he says desperately, his voice cracking in a way that makes him want to crawl into a hole and die. “i know about your scar from when you fell off your bike when you were seven! it’s shaped like a crescent moon and you hate it but i think it’s beautiful! i know you cry during dog food commercials but only the ones with golden retrievers! i know you keep our wedding photo in your recipe book, tucked between the pages for chocolate chip cookies and banana bread!”

your expression grows more dangerous with each word, and the weapon in your hand charges up another notch.

“you sick little stalker,” you hiss, and the venom in your voice could probably strip paint. “how dare you dig into our private life and try to use our precious memories against me! what kind of pathetic creep researches someone’s marriage just to play dress-up?”

“i’m not playing dress-up!” he protests, and he knows he sounds pathetic, knows he looks like exactly what you think he is—some obsessed fan who’s done way too much homework. “i know about the time you got food poisoning from that seafood place and i held your hair while you threw up! i know you have a freckle shaped like a heart on your left shoulder! i know you sing off-key in the shower but you think you sound like an angel!”

“stop it!” you snap, and your finger hovers over the trigger. “stop trying to soil our beautiful relationship with your creepy research!”

“i know about our first fight!” he rushes on, desperate now, sweat beading on his forehead. “it was about the thermostat because you like the house warm and i run hot! i know you forgave me by leaving little notes in my lab equipment! i know you doodle my name in the margins of your books when you’re daydreaming!”

each piece of intimate knowledge he reveals only seems to make you angrier, and satoru realizes with growing horror that he’s trapped in some sort of emotional paradox. the more he proves he knows you, the more you’re convinced he’s a stranger.

“and i know,” he adds, his voice dropping to something desperate and broken, “that you’re wearing the perfume i bought you for your birthday. the one that smells like vanilla and jasmine and makes me want to bury my face in your neck and never leave.”

you go very, very still.

“that’s enough,” you say quietly, and somehow that’s more terrifying than when you were shouting. “i don’t care how much you’ve stalked us, how many private details you’ve dug up, how perfectly you’ve copied his appearance. you are not my husband.”

“but—”

“my husband,” you continue, and your voice goes soft and dreamy again, like you’re talking about something holy, “is perfect. he’s brilliant and beautiful and kind, and he loves me exactly as much as i love him. he’s probably in his lab right now, working on something that’s going to change the world, missing me but dedicated to his research because that’s who he is. that’s the man i married.”

the weapon powers up another notch, and satoru is pretty sure it’s no longer set to ‘stun.’

“and you,” you say, looking him up and down with obvious disgust, “are just some sad little boy with a crush and too much time on your hands. so here’s what’s going to happen. you’re going to leave. now. and if i see you anywhere near our house again, i’m going to do something that will require a very good explanation to the police.”

satoru stares at you—really looks at you—and sees the fierce protectiveness in your eyes, the way you’re guarding not just your home but your marriage, your happiness, your love for a man you think is safely tucked away in his basement lab.

you’re magnificent. terrifying and beautiful and absolutely magnificent.

and you’re about to potentially murder him while defending his honor.

“i know about the night after our second anniversary,” he tries one more time, his voice breaking completely now. “when you wore that blue nightgown with the little ribbons, and we danced in the kitchen to that song you love, and then we—”

“that’s it.”

the blast catches him square in the chest, and suddenly satoru is airborne, flying backward off your porch and landing in the rose bushes he’d planted for your last birthday. the thorns are sharp, but not nearly as sharp as the look you’d given him right before pulling the trigger.

he lies there for a moment, stunned and possibly concussed, staring up at the sky and trying to process what just happened.

through the ringing in his ears, he hears you call out: “my husband is a genius with 845 patents and the most brilliant mind of our generation! you’re just some sad little boy who probably googled him! stay away from our house, or next time i’m setting this thing to something more permanent!”

the door slams with enough force to rattle the windows.

satoru continues lying in the roses, rose petals in his hair and thorns in his dignity, and tries to comprehend the fact that his own wife just threatened to potentially murder him while defending his honor with the very weapon he’d built to protect her.

somewhere in the distance, a bird chirps. a car drives by. the world continues spinning as if nothing momentous has just occurred.

he’s never been more in love in his entire life. which is probably a sign that he needs therapy. or a lobotomy. possibly both.

he lies there for a moment. processing. his ribs hurt. his pride hurts more. his entire soul aches in a way that is both deeply romantic and profoundly stupid.

“also!” you shout from the upstairs window, your voice carrying that indignant tone you get when you’re really worked up, “my husband has better hair! and better posture! and he’s taller! and he knows how to dress himself like an adult instead of a lost college freshman!”

each addition feels like salt in the wound. you’re systematically dismantling every aspect of his nineteen-year-old appearance while praising the twenty-nine-year-old version with the kind of enthusiasm usually reserved for describing paradise.

“and he smells better!” you continue, apparently not done with your character assassination. “like expensive cologne and coffee and home, not like... like drugstore body spray and desperation!”

satoru sniffs himself reflexively. he doesn’t smell like desperation. does he? the drugstore body spray comment is just mean, especially since he’d specifically chosen the brand you’d complimented on a stranger once.

“and his voice!” you’re really getting into it now, leaning out the window with the fervor of someone delivering a sermon. “his voice is deeper, and smoother, and when he says my name it sounds like music instead of like a squeaky toy!”

he touches his throat self-consciously. his voice had been deeper before the accident, richer, more confident. now he sounds like he’s going through puberty again, all cracks and uncertain intonation.

“and he would never be stupid enough to break into someone’s house like some kind of delinquent!” you conclude with devastating finality. “my husband is a gentleman and a scholar and the most wonderful man who ever lived, and you’re just some discount imposter who isn’t fit to shine his shoes!”

the window slams shut.

satoru groans. loud and dramatic and entirely justified.

he really should’ve just built a cloning machine. or left a video message in case of accidental de-aging. or tattooed a note to his own arm. but no, he had to get ambitious. he had to try and invent time-space atmospheric slowdown like a dumbass in love.

he drags himself up from the rosebush, brushing petals and leaves from his shirt. there’s one stuck in his hair, refusing to leave like it has a vendetta. his reflection in the front window shows a pathetic figure: clothes wrinkled, hair disheveled, a small cut on his cheek from the thorns, and an expression of profound defeat.

this is what rock bottom looks like, apparently. getting ejected from his own home by his own wife while she sings the praises of his other self.

the irony is suffocating. you love him so much that you’d attack anyone who even pretended to be him. your loyalty is absolute, your devotion unwavering, your protective instincts sharp enough to cut glass. it’s everything he’d ever wanted in a partner, everything he’d fallen in love with, turned against him in the cruelest possible way.

he presses his hand to his chest, where the stun device got him. it still tingles, a reminder of your precision, your preparedness, the way you’d defended your marriage without a moment’s hesitation. you’d been magnificent, absolutely magnificent, and he’d been the target.

satoru limps toward the sidewalk, his teenage body protesting every movement. his legs feel too long, his center of gravity all wrong. everything about this borrowed youth feels like wearing an ill-fitting costume to the most important performance of his life.

he looks back at the house—your house, his house, the home you’d built together—and feels the weight of his isolation settle around him like a heavy coat. inside, you’re probably making dinner, humming that song you always hum when you’re slightly stressed, maybe wondering why the strange boy keeps bothering you when your husband is working so hard in his lab.

the thought of you worrying, of you feeling unsafe in your own home because of his appearance, makes his chest tight with guilt. he’d never wanted to frighten you, never wanted to make you feel threatened or uncomfortable. he’d just wanted to come home.

but this isn’t working. two weeks of doorbell rejections, verbal demolitions, and physical removal have made it clear that the direct approach is a spectacular failure. you’re not going to believe him, not when he looks like this, not when every instinct you have is screaming that he’s an imposter.

he understands that you love your husband—him—so much that you’ll fight off anyone who threatens that love, even if it means breaking your own tender heart to do it. he understands that the depth of your devotion is exactly what makes this situation so impossible.

he also understands that his dignity, his principles, his stubborn refusal to sneak around his own house like a common criminal, has just officially been abandoned in your rose bushes along with his pride.

because two weeks without you is already too long, and the thought of spending even one more night in a hotel room that smells like industrial disinfectant instead of your vanilla perfume makes him want to invent a time machine just so he can go back and slap his past self for being such an arrogant idiot.

science is about adaptation. evolution. knowing when to abandon a failed hypothesis and try a new approach.

tonight, dr. satoru gojo, nobel prize winner and distinguished gentleman of science, is going to break into his own house like a lovesick teenager.

his dignity is already dead anyway. might as well bury it properly.

night falls like a heavy curtain draped by a particularly melodramatic theater director, and satoru crouches in the shadows of his own garden like some sort of discount romeo—if romeo had been a twenty-nine-year-old genius trapped in a nineteen-year-old’s body and juliet had been his own wife who’d recently threatened him with what appeared to be a weaponized jewelry box.

the irony tastes like burnt coffee and shattered dreams. he’s spent six years turning this place into fort knox’s prettier, more technologically advanced cousin, all in the name of protecting you from theoretical dangers that pale in comparison to the very real threat of his own stupidity. motion sensors that could detect a butterfly’s landing, cameras with night vision that would make the military weep with envy, locks that respond to seventeen different biometric markers—and here he is, plotting to break into his own fortress like the world’s most pathetic cat burglar.

the security system hums softly in the darkness, a technological lullaby he’d programmed himself. every blinking light, every nearly invisible laser grid, every pressure-sensitive tile in the walkway—his own paranoid genius, now turned against him like some sort of karmic boomerang wrapped in irony and spite.

he adjusts his reading glasses and studies the house like a general surveying a battlefield. except generals probably don’t usually have to factor in the devastating effects of seeing their beloved wearing pajamas into their strategic planning.

the kitchen window. salvation arrives in the form of his own procrastination—there’s a loose latch on the kitchen window that he’s been meaning to fix for approximately four months and seventeen days. not that he’s counting. you’d mentioned it in passing on a tuesday morning while making pancakes, your hair still mussed from sleep, wearing that ridiculous apron with the anthropomorphic strawberries that should have looked childish but instead made you look like some sort of domestic goddess descended from mount olympus to bless his unworthy kitchen with your presence.

he’d nodded and made appropriate husband noises about adding it to his mental to-do list, then promptly forgotten because you’d started humming that song—the one you always hum when you’re happy, the one that sounds like sunshine would if sunshine had a voice—and his brain had short-circuited somewhere between “fix window latch” and “marry this woman again immediately.”

procrastination, it turns out, has never felt so much like divine intervention.

satoru approaches the window with the careful precision of someone who knows exactly how much pressure the old frame can take before it creaks loud enough to wake the neighbors’ dog, which would start a chain reaction of barking that would inevitably lead to you investigating the commotion. his nineteen-year-old fingers work the latch with muscle memory that spans a decade—apparently some things transcend the space-time continuum, including his intimate knowledge of his own home’s structural weaknesses.

the window slides open with barely a whisper, and satoru feels a brief moment of triumph that’s immediately crushed under the weight of what he’s actually doing. breaking and entering. into his own house. to convince his own wife that he’s actually himself. 

if there’s a support group for men who’ve been defeated by their own scientific brilliance, he’s definitely going to need the membership information.

he slips through the window with the fluid grace of his temporarily teenage body, and the contrast is jarring—he’d forgotten how easy movement used to be, before years of hunching over microscopes and circuit boards had given him the posture of a question mark and the flexibility of a particularly rigid breadstick. his nineteen-year-old joints don’t protest the maneuver, don’t crack ominously or require the careful choreography he’s grown accustomed to.

it’s like being a ghost haunting his own life, except ghosts probably don’t have to worry about whether their wives will recognize them.

the house settles around him in the darkness, familiar as his own heartbeat. every creak of the floorboards, every sigh of the old ventilation system, every subtle shift of air that speaks of home and safety and belonging. the scent of dinner lingers in the air—something with garlic and herbs that makes his stomach growl traitorously, reminding him that nineteen-year-old metabolisms apparently require more fuel than whatever laboratory subsistence he’s been surviving on.

guilt tastes like copper pennies and regret as he imagines you eating alone, probably glancing at the basement door every few minutes, wondering if your husband remembered to eat anything more substantial than the sandwiches you’d left for him. the automated messages from his ai assistant feel like lead weights in his chest—every perfectly crafted lie, every synthetic expression of love and longing, every digital deception that kept you from worrying while the real satoru stumbled around in a teenage body like some sort of scientific cautionary tale.

his feet hit the kitchen floor with barely a whisper of sound, and for a moment, he allows himself to breathe. step one: infiltration successful. step two: somehow make it to the basement without triggering any of the—

the lights explode to life like the sun deciding to have a particularly vindictive tantrum.

“gotcha, you little creep.”

and there you are.

standing in the doorway like an avenging angel who’d decided that white cotton nightgowns were the appropriate battle attire for dealing with home invaders. the nightdress—the one with the lace trim that he’d bought you for your birthday because you’d mentioned once that you felt pretty in white—catches the harsh kitchen light and transforms you into something ethereal and terrifying in equal measure.

your hair spills over your shoulders in loose waves, the same waves he’s buried his fingers in countless times, that he’s watched catch morning sunlight during lazy weekend mornings when the world consisted of nothing but you and him and the space between heartbeats. but there’s steel in your posture now, a predatory grace that speaks of skills he’d never suspected, secrets kept with the casual competence of someone who’s been protecting others while letting them think they were doing the protecting.

satoru opens his mouth to explain, to plead, to throw himself at your mercy and grovel with the desperation of a man who’s spent two weeks learning exactly how much his life means nothing without you in it—

your hand moves faster than his genius brain can process, faster than the calculations that usually come as naturally as breathing, faster than any of the combat scenarios he’s ever run through his head during his more paranoid moments.

the karate chop catches him right at the base of his neck with surgical precision, and satoru’s world doesn’t just explode into stars—it becomes a supernova of sensation and realization and the most inappropriate surge of attraction he’s ever experienced.

because even as his vision goes blurry around the edges, even as his knees buckle and his carefully planned explanations scatter like startled birds, even as consciousness starts its tactical retreat from the battlefield of his skull—you’re beautiful.

devastatingly, impossibly, catastrophically beautiful.

he’d known you were deadly, in the abstract way that husbands know their wives are capable of anything. but seeing it, experiencing the controlled violence of someone who’s spent years learning how to end threats efficiently and effectively, watching the way you move with the fluid confidence of someone who’s never doubted their ability to protect what matters—

it’s like falling in love all over again, except this time it’s happening while his nervous system stages a coup and his equilibrium files for immediate resignation.

the woman he’d married, the one who makes him sandwiches with the crusts cut off because you knows he eats more when food is convenient, the one who leaves little notes in his lab reminding him to drink water and take breaks, the one who hums while doing laundry and always smells like vanilla and clean cotton and home—you just incapacitated him with the casual efficiency of someone who’s been trained to handle much worse threats than lovesick scientists with poor life choices.

and he’s never been more attracted to another human being in his entire existence.

his vision swims, the edges of the world growing soft and fuzzy like someone’s smeared vaseline on the lens of reality. but even through the haze of imminent unconsciousness, he can see you clearly—the slight flush in your cheeks from adrenaline, the way your breathing has quickened just fractionally, the protective fire in your eyes that speaks of love fierce enough to level cities.

“you,” his mouth tries to form words, but his tongue feels like it’s been replaced with cotton batting soaked in novocaine. “you’re...”

“insane?” you supply helpfully, though your voice carries that particular note of concern that always appears when you think he might be hurt. “scary? criminally strong?”

“perfect,” he manages, and even slurred beyond recognition, the word carries every ounce of wonder and adoration and bone-deep reverence he feels.

you blink, clearly not expecting that response from your supposed stalker, and in that moment of confusion, satoru sees something shift in your expression. a flicker of uncertainty, a crack in the armor of your righteous fury that lets just a hint of the woman he knows peek through.

then the world tilts sideways, his legs forget how to function, and consciousness waves goodbye with all the dignity of a deflating balloon.

satoru surfaces from the depths of unconsciousness like a man drowning in reverse, fighting his way back to a reality that feels suspiciously soft and comfortable for someone who’d just been neutralized by his own wife.

the mother of all headaches pounds against his skull with the rhythm of a particularly enthusiastic drummer, and somewhere in the distance, birds are chirping with the sort of aggressive cheerfulness that makes him want to invent a device for negotiating with wildlife.

satoru opens his eyes to find himself on the porch—his porch, their porch, the one with the swing he’d installed because you’d mentioned once that you’d always wanted one—with a pillow tucked carefully under his head and a glass of water sitting nearby like a peace offering from the goddess of justified violence.

even while knocking him unconscious for breaking into his own home, you’d made sure he was comfortable.

the pillow smells like you—vanilla and that lavender fabric softener you use and something indefinably warm that he’s never been able to identify but would recognize anywhere. it’s the same scent that clings to his shirts when you do laundry, the same one that fills their bedroom in the mornings, the same one that he associates with safety and belonging and the radical concept that someone might actually love him enough to put up with his particular brand of brilliant stupidity.

he sits up slowly, his head spinning like a carnival ride operated by someone with a grudge against inner ears, and catches sight of a note tucked under the water glass. the handwriting is yours—neat, precise, with the same careful attention to detail you bring to everything from grocery lists to the birthday cards you make by hand because you say store-bought ones don’t carry enough love.

for the headache. next time, try using the front door like a normal stalker. —the wife of the REAL satoru gojo

despite everything—the splitting headache, the existential crisis, the fact that he’s been reduced to breaking into his own home like some sort of romantic criminal—he smiles. even your passive-aggressive notes are perfect. even when you’re threatening him with bodily harm, you’re taking care of him. even when you think he’s some delusional teenager with stalker tendencies, you’re making sure he’s hydrated and comfortable.

he’s never been more in love, which would be romantic if it weren’t so completely pathetic.

the front door opens with the sort of casual grace that suggests you’ve been watching him from inside, probably trying to determine whether he’s going to keel over again or attempt another round of breaking and entering. you step out wearing a blue sundress that makes his chest ache with longing so profound it feels like a physical injury—the one with tiny white flowers that he’d bought you for your second anniversary because you’d mentioned once that it reminded you of the field where you’d had your first picnic.

you’re carrying a plate of what looks like his favorite cookies, the ones you only make when you’re worried or upset, the ones that involve three different types of chocolate and a recipe you guard more jealously than state secrets. the fact that you’ve made them now, for what you think is a complete stranger, speaks to a kindness so fundamental that it makes his throat close up with emotion.

“you’re awake,” you observe, settling into the porch chair you’d insisted on buying last spring, the one he’d grumbled about because it didn’t match the aesthetic he’d carefully planned, the one that’s now his favorite spot in the world because it’s where you sit in the mornings with your coffee and your terrible romance novels and your complete contentment with the life you’ve built together. “good. i was starting to think i’d hit you too hard.”

there’s genuine concern in your voice, the same tone you use when he’s working too late and you’re worried he’s going to collapse from exhaustion, and satoru feels his dignity—what little remains of it—crumble into dust. his wife is worried about the wellbeing of someone she thinks is essentially a teenage stalker, because that’s the kind of person you are. that’s the kind of heart you have.

he struggles to his feet, swaying slightly as his nineteen-year-old equilibrium files a formal complaint about the abuse it’s recently endured. “you... you know karate?”

the question comes out slightly accusatory, tinged with the bewilderment of a man discovering that his beloved is capable of violence on a level he’d never imagined. six years of marriage, six years of thinking he knew everything about you, six years of believing he was the protector in this relationship—

“among other things.” you bite into a cookie with the satisfied air of someone who’s just discovered an interesting new fact about the world, watching him with the expression of someone observing a particularly fascinating specimen under laboratory conditions. “my husband doesn’t know. i like letting him think he needs to protect me. he makes the most adorable gadgets when he’s worried about my safety.”

the casual way you mention keeping an entire martial arts background secret from him makes satoru’s head spin worse than the concussion. not because you’ve hidden something from him—everyone deserves their secrets, their private spaces, their own mysteries to unfold in their own time—but because you’ve hidden it for the most fundamentally sweet reason imaginable.

you’ve been letting him play protector while being perfectly capable of protecting yourself, because you think his overprotectiveness is cute.

he falls in love with you all over again, which seems physically impossible given that he’s been operating at maximum love capacity for the better part of a decade, but apparently the human heart has hidden reserves for discovering new depths of adoration even when you think you’ve already catalogued every possible reason to worship someone.

“why didn’t you tell him?” he asks, genuinely curious despite the circumstances and the growing certainty that he’s about to learn something that will fundamentally reshape his understanding of the woman he married.

your expression softens in the way that always makes his chest tight with emotion, that particular look of fond exasperation mixed with infinite patience that you reserve for discussions of your husband’s more endearing quirks.

“because my satoru gojo is the smartest man alive,” you say, and the pride in your voice makes something warm and golden spread through his chest like sunrise, “but he’s also a complete idiot when it comes to the people he loves. he’d spend all his time trying to make sure i never had to use those skills instead of appreciating that i can take care of myself. this way, he gets to feel protective, i get beautiful functional jewelry and self-defense gadgets, and everyone’s happy.”

the way you say his name—their name, his name, the name you chose to take and make your own—carries so much love it’s like being hit by lightning made of pure affection. there’s pride and exasperation and devotion all wrapped up together, the voice of someone who sees all his flaws and brilliant strengths and loves him not despite them but because of the ridiculous, wonderful, impossible whole they create.

“he’s lucky,” satoru says quietly, his voice rough with emotions he can’t begin to untangle, “to have someone who understands him so well.”

“he is,” you agree, and your smile could power entire cities, could fuel space programs, could probably solve half the world’s energy crisis if properly harnessed. “he’s brilliant and kind and funny, and he makes me laugh every single day. he’s also terrible at remembering to eat when he’s working and has a tendency to forget that normal people need more than three hours of sleep, but he’s perfect. he’s mine.”

satoru has never experienced jealousy of himself before, but it turns out to be a unique form of psychological torture—listening to the woman he loves describe him with such complete adoration while being unable to claim that love for himself. it’s like being handed a gift and told you can look but never touch, like being shown paradise through bulletproof glass.

the domesticity of it, the casual way you catalogue his flaws alongside his strengths, the matter-of-fact possessiveness in that final declaration—it’s everything he’s ever wanted and everything he currently can’t have, all wrapped up in a blue sundress and served with homemade cookies.

“what if,” he tries carefully, his voice pitched to sound like idle curiosity rather than the desperate plea it actually is, “hypothetically, something happened to him? what if he was... changed somehow?”

your expression shifts faster than a summer storm, going from warm affection to arctic fury in the space between heartbeats. the cookie in your hand crumbles slightly from the sudden tension in your grip, chocolate chips scattering like the remains of his dignity.

“nothing’s going to happen to my husband,” you say, and your voice carries the kind of quiet menace that speaks of consequences beyond imagination. “and if someone tried to hurt him, they’d have to go through me first.”

the protective fire in your eyes makes something primal and deeply satisfied purr in his chest, even as his rational mind catalogs this as yet another example of how thoroughly he’s miscalculated this entire situation. you’d go to war for him. you’d fight gods and demons and the fundamental forces of the universe itself if it meant keeping him safe.

and here he is, the very person you’re trying to protect, being threatened by that same fierce love.

“but hypothetically—”

“no hypotheticals.” you stand up with sharp, efficient movements, smoothing your dress with the same precision you bring to everything, from folding fitted sheets to organizing his lab equipment when he’s too scattered to think straight. “my husband is in his lab, working on something that’s going to change the world, because that’s what he does. and you’re going to stop harassing us, because that’s what you’re going to do if you want to keep all your limbs attached.”

the dismissal is absolute, final, delivered with the authority of someone who’s never doubted their ability to follow through on threats. you disappear back into the house like an avenging angel returning to heaven, leaving satoru alone with his thoughts and the growing certainty that dignity is a luxury he can no longer afford.

he sits on the porch steps—his own porch steps, in front of his own house, locked out by his own security system and his own wife—and contemplates the spectacular wreckage of his scientific career. somewhere in that basement, his life’s work hums quietly, the temporal displacement device that was supposed to give him more time with you having instead stolen the time he already had.

the irony would be poetic if it weren’t so completely devastating.

satoru gojo, holder of 845 patents, winner of seventeen international scientific awards, the man who’d revolutionized three separate fields before his thirtieth birthday—reduced to breaking into his own home like a common criminal, only to be defeated by his wife’s previously unknown martial arts skills and her absolutely justified protective instincts.

he’s given up his dignity, his professional reputation, and apparently his door privileges, all because he’d been too excited about surprising you with a scientific breakthrough to properly test the safety protocols.

note to self: next time he wants to revolutionize temporal mechanics, maybe start with laboratory mice instead of jumping straight to human trials. 

assuming there is a next time. assuming he can figure out how to convince you that the teenager on your porch is actually your husband without sounding like the world’s most delusional stalker.

the basement feels very far away suddenly, farther than when he’d been planning his infiltration, farther than the actual physical distance between the porch and the lab where his salvation waits. because now he understands the true scope of his problem: it’s not just about fixing the temporal displacement device.

it’s about rebuilding trust with someone who thinks he’s been safely contained in his laboratory while a dangerous stranger makes increasingly desperate attempts to insert himself into their life.

satoru sighs deeply like a man who has discovered that rock bottom has a basement, and that basement has a sub-basement, and he’s currently spelunking through the geological layers of his own humiliation. the pillow you’d left under his head when you dragged his unconscious body out here mocks him with its floral pattern—little daisies that seem to whisper pathetic in tiny flower voices.

his dignity lies somewhere in your rose bushes, probably fertilizing the begonias.

he stares hopelessly at his own house—the house he designed, built, and has been systematically locked out of by his own security measures. the irony tastes like pennies and poor life choices. somewhere in that house, you’re probably stress-baking again, creating cookies that could end world hunger while muttering about stalkers and the general incompetence of teenage boys who think they can impersonate geniuses.

the truly tragic part is that you’re not wrong. he is a teenage boy trying to impersonate a genius. the fact that he actually is that genius feels like a technicality that the universe is refusing to acknowledge.

satoru stands up, brushing pillow lint off his jeans (when had he started wearing jeans? his twenty-nine-year-old self exclusively wore slacks, but apparently his teenage body had different sartorial opinions). if he’s going to reclaim his life, his wife, and his chronological age, he needs to get into that lab.

the front door is obviously out of the question. you’ve made it abundantly clear that any further doorbell-related activities will result in weaponized consequences that his nineteen-year-old body might not survive. the back door is visible from the kitchen window, where you’re probably standing guard like a beautiful, homicidal sentinel.

which leaves him with the architectural equivalent of a hail mary: the basement windows.

he circles the house like a cat burglar who’s read too many heist novels and not enough actual breaking-and-entering manuals. the basement windows are small, the kind of windows that had seemed like a good idea when he was designing a lab and wanted natural light but not easy access. past-satoru had been worried about corporate espionage, not future-satoru trying to infiltrate his own laboratory while trapped in a temporal paradox of the most embarrassing variety.

the window on the east side looks promising. it’s partially hidden by the hydrangea bushes you’d planted last spring, the ones that bloom in impossible shades of blue because you’d somehow convinced them that regular hydrangea colors were beneath their potential. the glass is dirty enough to provide cover, and the latch looks old enough to have the structural integrity of a wet paper bag.

satoru crouches in the dirt, feeling like the world’s most pathetic ninja. his knees protest against the unfamiliar position—nineteen-year-old joints might be more flexible, but they’re also apparently more dramatic about being asked to crouch in garden soil. 

the window latch gives way with the kind of rusty shriek that could wake the dead, the neighbors, and possibly several small woodland creatures. satoru freezes, waiting for the sound of your footsteps, the opening of doors, the general commotion that would signal his discovery and subsequent re-unconsciousness.

nothing.

either you didn’t hear it, or you’re currently sharpening something in the kitchen while humming ominously.

he slides the window open with the careful precision of someone who knows exactly how much the old frame can take before it decides to give up on life entirely. the basement yawns below him like the mouth of some scientific purgatory, all shadows and the faint hum of machines he’d built to make the world a better place.

getting through the window requires a level of physical coordination that his nineteen-year-old body possesses but his twenty-nine-year-old dignity abhors. he ends up sliding through headfirst, performing what could generously be called a controlled fall and more accurately described as a graceless tumble that would make circus performers weep.

his feet hit the concrete floor with all the stealth of a bag of hammers being dropped from a significant height.

the basement lab stretches before him like a technological cathedral, all gleaming surfaces and blinking lights that pulse in rhythm with machines whose purposes range from “revolutionary” to “probably shouldn’t exist but here we are anyway.” this is his domain, his kingdom, his sanctuary of scientific achievement and questionable decision-making.

it also feels like coming home and visiting a crime scene simultaneously.

everything is exactly as he’d left it two weeks ago, frozen in the moment when he’d stepped into the temporal field with the confidence of someone who hadn’t yet learned that the universe has a twisted sense of humor. the half-finished temporal displacement device sits on the main workbench like an accusation, all smooth curves and innocent blinking lights that belie its capacity for chronological chaos.

coffee cups are scattered around like caffeinated archaeological artifacts, each one marking a different stage of his research. there’s the mug you’d given him for his birthday with “world’s okayest scientist” written in comic sans font—your little joke about his ego that he treasures more than his nobel prize nomination. there’s the plain white cup he uses when he’s really focused, the one with the chip on the handle from when he’d gotten excited about a breakthrough and gestured too enthusiastically. there’s even the fancy porcelain teacup his mother had given him, which he only uses when he’s feeling particularly pretentious about his discoveries.

each cup tells the story of late nights, early mornings, and the kind of obsessive focus that leads to temporal displacement incidents.

his phone sits on the desk, buzzing intermittently with notifications he can’t answer. the screen lights up every few minutes with incoming messages, calls from colleagues, reminders about appointments he’s apparently missing while trapped in his own temporal feedback loop. but it’s the outgoing messages that make his stomach twist into knots that could anchor ships.

the ai assistant is working with the efficiency of a swiss watch and the emotional intelligence of someone who actually knows him. every few hours, it crafts another perfect message to your phone, each one a masterpiece of his writing style mixed with the kind of scientific romanticism that had won your heart six years ago.

making progress on the quantum stabilization matrix. the equations are beautiful—almost as beautiful as you in that yellow dress this morning. did you eat lunch? —satoru

breakthrough with the temporal field generators! i think i can increase efficiency by 34%. also, i dreamed about that weekend in kyoto again. we should go back soon. —your devoted husband

minor setback with the power coupling, but nothing i can’t fix. missing your voice. send a voice message please? maybe hum that song you like while i work? it always helps me think. —satoru

each message is a perfect imitation of his writing style, his habits, his love for you wrapped in scientific progress reports. they capture the way he thinks, the way he speaks, the way he can’t seem to separate his work from his adoration of you because everything he creates is somehow inspired by your existence.

no wonder you believe he’s down here, buried in his work, missing you but dedicated to his research. the ai had done its job too well, creating a digital phantom that was more convincing than his actual de-aged presence.

reading them makes him want to punch his past self for being so thorough, so careful, so goddamn good at programming an assistant that could replicate his personality down to the way he signs his messages with scientific terminology and pet names in equal measure.

satoru rolls up his sleeves and approaches his workstation like a penitent approaching an altar.

the lab’s security system chirps softly as he moves through the space, sensors tracking his movement with the bored efficiency of technology that recognizes him but doesn’t particularly care about his current chronological displacement. red lights blink in sequence along the walls, a heartbeat of recognition that would normally make him feel secure and accomplished.

instead, it feels like the lab is mocking him. oh look, the blinking seems to say, it’s the genius who outsmarted himself into adolescence.

the temporal displacement device looks innocent enough sitting there on the main workbench—a sleek silver contraption about the size of a microwave, all smooth curves and the kind of blinking lights that movie audiences associate with either miracle cures or impending explosions. he’d been so proud of it when he’d finished the initial design, so excited to show you what he’d been working on for months.

the irony burns like acid in his chest: he’d built a machine to give himself more time with you, and instead, it had stolen the time he already had.

but now, looking at it with the clarity that comes from two weeks of enforced separation and multiple instances of being rendered unconscious by his own wife, he can see exactly what went wrong. the power coupling on the left side shows signs of overheating, the quantum stabilization matrix is operating at 73% efficiency instead of the required 89%, and the temporal field generators are displaying the kind of fluctuation patterns that suggest they’re one strong breeze away from turning him into quantum soup.

his nineteen-year-old hands remember the work even if they look different doing it—smoother, unlined, with calluses in different places that speak of a life not yet lived. muscle memory is a beautiful thing, and soon he’s lost in the familiar rhythm of calibration and adjustment, replacing the burnt-out components that had caused the initial malfunction.

the security system continues its soft surveillance, cameras tracking his movement as he works. somewhere in the house above, you’re probably going about your evening routine, maybe reading in the living room chair he’d bought specifically because it makes you look like a goddess of domestic tranquility, maybe taking a bath in the tub he’d designed with jets positioned exactly where you like them.

you think your husband is down here, safely contained in his laboratory, working on equations that could revolutionize temporal mechanics. you have no idea that your husband is actually down here, working on equations that could return him to the age where you might not instinctively try to karate chop him on sight.

hours pass in the peculiar way that time moves when you’re focused on something that requires every neuron in your brain to fire in perfect synchronization. his back aches from hunching over the workbench—some things never change, regardless of what decade your spine thinks it’s living in. his eyes water behind his reading glasses, the same prescription he’s had since childhood because apparently temporal displacement doesn’t fix astigmatism.

the basement air grows stale and recycled, nothing like the fresh scent of your perfume or the way the house smells when you’re baking. down here, everything smells like ozone and possibility, metal and dreams, the peculiar combination of scents that comes from trying to bend the universe to your will through applied science and stubborn determination.

component by component, equation by equation, he rebuilds what his hubris had broken. the quantum stabilization matrix purrs back to life, its efficiency climbing toward the magic number that means the difference between “successful temporal correction” and “decorating the lab walls with physicist.” the power coupling stops smoking, which he takes as a positive sign, though the bar for success has been dramatically lowered by recent events.

finally, blessedly, after what feels like several geological ages, the device hums to life with the soft blue glow that means everything is working properly. the sound it makes is almost musical, a harmony of frequencies that speaks to the part of his brain that understands how beautiful math can be when it’s applied to impossible problems.

satoru stares at it for a long moment, this machine that had caused so much chaos, so much pain, so much embarrassment. it looks the same as it had two weeks ago, before he’d stepped into it with the confidence of someone who hadn’t yet learned that the universe has a deeply personal vendetta against his happiness.

but now it’s fixed. now it can undo what it had done, return him to the chronological age where his wife doesn’t look at him like he’s a particularly offensive piece of gum stuck to her shoe.

he takes a deep breath, tasting the metallic tang of possibility and ozone, and steps into the temporal field.

the world bends.

reality stretches like taffy in the hands of a cosmic confectioner who’s had too much caffeine and not enough sleep. colors bleed into each other, the visible spectrum having what appears to be a nervous breakdown while time folds backward on itself with the sensation of falling upward through a kaleidoscope made of mathematics and regret.

his bones feel like they’re growing, stretching, settling back into familiar patterns that his muscles remember even if his consciousness is currently experiencing what could best be described as temporal vertigo. his face reshapes itself like clay in the hands of chronology, features aging forward to match the man you’d fallen in love with, married, and spent six years learning to live with.

the sensation is indescribable and entirely uncomfortable, like being turned inside out by time itself while someone plays a symphony written in mathematical equations. his cells remember being twenty-nine, and they rush toward that memory with the enthusiasm of teenagers remembering they have a curfew.

when the light fades and the world stops doing its impression of a funhouse mirror designed by someone with a degree in theoretical physics, satoru catches sight of himself in the polished surface of another machine.

he looks like himself again. twenty-nine years old, tall and lean, with the same pale hair that had turned white when he was four and stayed that way out of what he suspects is pure stubbornness. the same eyes behind the same reading glasses, the same hands that you’ve memorized, the same face that you’ve kissed goodnight for six years.

the face you’d married, the body you’d mapped with your hands on lazy sunday mornings, the version of himself that you actually wanted to see walking through the door instead of some temporal impostor with the emotional maturity of a teenager and the physical appearance to match.

he runs his hands over his face, feeling the familiar planes and angles, the slight roughness of stubble that his nineteen-year-old self had been too optimistic to grow properly. these are the hands that have held you, touched you, built you impossibly complex gifts that serve no purpose other than making you smile.

satoru straightens his sweater and climbs the basement stairs like a man ascending to heaven, or at least to the ground floor where his wife is probably stress-baking cookies and muttering about the general incompetence of teenagers who think they can impersonate geniuses.

time to go home.

time to reclaim his life, his wife, and his dignity—though he suspects the dignity might be a lost cause at this point.

the basement door opens onto the kitchen, and the smell of home washes over him like a blessing from the domestic gods: vanilla and cinnamon, the lavender detergent you use on the dish towels, the faint scent of the coffee you’d made this morning before you knew your day would include multiple instances of assault and battery against your own husband.

he’s home. finally, truly, chronologically home.

you’re in the kitchen when he emerges, standing at the stove in that pink dress with the tiny pearl buttons he’s memorized but hasn’t seen in two weeks. your hair is twisted into a messy bun secured with one of his prototype hairpins—the ones that glow soft blue when you’re stressed. they’re glowing now, just barely, a testament to how worried you’ve been about his prolonged absence from the world above ground.

the wooden spoon moves in lazy circles through whatever you’re cooking, and the scent hits him like a physical force—garlic and herbs and that particular blend of spices you use when you’re making his favorite pasta. his stomach clenches with actual hunger for the first time in two weeks, nineteen-year-old metabolism finally giving way to twenty-nine-year-old appreciation for real food.

but it’s the humming that undoes him completely. that soft, unconscious melody you make when you think no one’s listening, the same tune he’d programmed into his ai messages because he’d been missing it so desperately. hearing it live, unfiltered, coming from your actual throat instead of his memory—

satoru doesn’t think. doesn’t hesitate. doesn’t announce himself like a civilized human being.

he launches himself across the kitchen like a man possessed, arms wrapping around your waist from behind, his chest pressing flush against your back as he buries his face in the curve of your neck. you smell like vanilla body lotion and that expensive shampoo he pretends not to notice the cost of, and underneath it all, just you. warm skin and the faint sweetness that clings to your hair, the scent that’s been haunting him for fourteen endless days.

“satoru!” you yelp, startled enough that the wooden spoon goes flying, clattering across the counter and leaving a trail of red sauce in its wake. “you absolute menace, you scared me half to death!”

he makes a sound that’s half laugh, half sob, tightening his arms around you like you might evaporate if he loosens his grip even slightly. his reading glasses bump against your shoulder as he nuzzles deeper into your neck, and he can feel the butterfly clips in your hair tickling against his temple.

“missed you,” he mumbles against your skin, the words muffled and desperate. “missed you so much.”

“missed me?” your voice pitches higher, indignant and fond in equal measure. “satoru, you’ve been ten feet underground for two weeks! i’ve been cooking for you every single day, leaving plates outside your lab door, and what do i find when i check? cold food. stone cold. untouched.”

your hands come up to cover his where they’re locked around your middle, and even through your scolding, your fingers are gentle as they trace over his knuckles. “what have you even been eating? because i know it wasn’t my cooking, and if you tell me you’ve been surviving on coffee and those horrible protein bars, i’m going to—”

“also,” you continue without pausing for breath, your voice shifting into that particular tone you get when you’re gearing up for a proper lecture, ”you will not believe the past two weeks i’ve had. there’s someone who’s been lurking around our house and he who looks like some bizarre teenage version of you?”

satoru’s stomach drops. his grip on you tightens involuntarily, and he feels you notice the tension, your body shifting slightly in his arms.

“he’s been so persistent. yesterday he actually had the audacity to break into our house through the kitchen window—our kitchen window, satoru, the one with the broken latch you keep forgetting to fix.” your free hand gestures wildly, even though he can’t see it from his position behind you. “thankfully, all those self-defense gadgets you made me actually work. that little stun gun you built into my bracelet? absolutely perfect. sent him flying right off our porch.”

the embarrassment hits him like a physical weight. his face burns against your neck, and he has to resist the urge to groan out loud. you’re giving full credit to his inventions, protecting his ego even while describing how you’d defended yourself against him, and the sweetness of it makes his chest ache.

“and the motion sensors you installed last month caught him skulking around the garden at three in the morning,” you continue, oblivious to his mortification. ”honestly, the dedication is almost impressive. stalking behavior aside, you have to admire his commitment to the whole ‘young gojo’ aesthetic. though i have no idea why anyone would want to look like you did in college. you were such a baby-faced disaster back then.”

“i know you know karate,” he blurts out, the words tumbling from his mouth before he can stop them.

you go very still in his arms. the humming stops abruptly.

“what?” your voice is carefully neutral, but he can feel the way your shoulders tense, the slight shift in your breathing that means you’re calculating your next move.

“i know you know karate,” he repeats, his face burning hotter against your neck. ”you’ve been taking classes since you were twelve. you never told me because you like it when i worry about you enough to make you protection gadgets.”

the silence stretches long enough that he starts to panic. then you let out a long, shaky breath.

“how could you possibly know that?” your voice is small now, embarrassed in a way that makes him want to wrap you up and apologize for everything. “i never... i was so careful not to...”

your hands try to pull away from his, but he holds on, threading your fingers together. “because i’m the boy,” he says quietly. “the one who’s been trying to talk to you for two weeks. the one you stunned off the porch and knocked unconscious in our kitchen.”

he feels the exact moment understanding hits you. your entire body goes rigid, and then you’re spinning in his arms so fast he has to step back to avoid a collision with your elbow.

your eyes are wide, your mouth falling open in a perfect ’o’ of shock. the blush that spreads across your cheeks is magnificent and mortifying, and he watches you process the implications with the expression of someone who’s just realized they’ve been caught in the world’s most embarrassing misunderstanding.

“oh my god,” you whisper, your hands flying up to cover your face. “oh my god, satoru, i am so sorry. i thought—when he knew things about us, about our private moments, i assumed he was some kind of corporate spy, or maybe a rival scientist who’d done research on us, or—”

”a stalker,” he supplies gently, reaching up to pull your hands away from your face. “which was a completely reasonable assumption, given the circumstances.”

“i called you a discount version of yourself!” your voice cracks with horror. “i told you that you weren’t as attractive as my husband! to your face! while you were actually my husband!”

despite everything, satoru can’t help but smile at the outrage in your voice. “technically, you were defending my honor. it was actually incredibly sweet.”

“sweet?” you squeak, aghast, your palms flattening against his chest like you’re considering shoving him away. but you don’t. you stay pressed against him, trembling, overwhelmed.

“i knocked you unconscious with a karate chop!”

“you have excellent form,” he says solemnly, unable to suppress the tilt of his lips. the memory of you, so fierce, so protective, haunts him in the sweetest way—a blurred flash of your nightgown fluttering as you moved with such lethal grace. he remembers the precision, the practiced certainty in your strikes, remembers thinking you’d never looked more beautiful than in that moment where you saw him as a threat and chose violence to protect his memory.

it makes his pulse thrum in his throat. it makes him want to sink to his knees and kiss the hand that struck him.

and yet, here you are, groaning, humiliated, burying your face against his chest to escape him—as if he’s not already completely ensnared. his hands settle on your waist, loose but present, fingertips teasing over the soft fabric of your dress, as though reacquainting himself with the privilege of touching you.

he tilts his head, blue eyes gleaming behind his glasses, drinking you in with a reverence that borders on obsession. he catalogues the way you fidget, the way your lashes kiss your cheeks as you refuse to meet his gaze, the heat blooming under your skin.

there’s a little crease between your eyebrows now—he’s put it there, just as you’ve placed a permanent one on his.

his thumb brushes the edge of your jaw, coaxing you to look at him. “you kept it from me,” he murmurs, savoring the tremor that passes through you, ”because you wanted me to keep making you gadgets.”

it’s not a question. he already knows. you told him, so sweetly, so earnestly, when you believed he was a stranger, and he will hold that secret like a pressed flower tucked into the pages of his heart.

“you think my overprotectiveness is cute?” his voice softens into something breathless, incredulous, dripping with adoration. “you think it’s cute that i lose sleep making things to keep you safe? that i forget to eat because i’m too busy worrying about you?”

your blush deepens, scorching, and you tug at his shirt like you want to disappear into him. “you make me the most amazing things when you’re worried about me. and you get this little crease between your eyebrows when you’re focused, and you forget to eat or sleep, but you always remember exactly how i like my coffee, and—” he watches you falter, your words disintegrating into a strangled sound of mortification. “this is not making me sound less ridiculous. is it?”

“it’s making you sound perfect.” his forehead drops to yours, and he cradles your face like you’re breakable, like you’re the finest piece of machinery he’s ever built.“ it’s making you sound like the woman i fell in love with—the woman who’s been taking care of me, worrying about me, defending my honor against discount versions of myself.”

his grin sharpens, unable to resist, “and you defended me so well, baby. ‘not my husband.’ ‘my husband is a genius.’ ‘my husband smells better.’ ‘my husband has better posture.’”

he leans in, nipping at your bottom lip, playful, intoxicating. “my sweet wife. i’ve never felt so protected.”

your laugh bursts out of you, watery and full-bodied, your hands rising to cup his cheeks, thumbs brushing over his cheekbones in trembling circles. “i can’t believe i spent two weeks beating up my own husband.”

“i can’t believe i spent two weeks watching my wife talk about how amazing her husband is while she was actively rejecting me.” his lashes flutter as he leans into your touch, like a cat, like something basking in warmth it had been starved of. “do you have any idea how confusing that was? i was jealous of myself. i was genuinely, pathetically jealous of the man you married while being the man you married.”

it’s a confession scraped raw from his chest, but you’re laughing properly now, bright and breathless, like you’ve been untethered from something heavy. you pepper kisses over his face in rapid, dizzying succession, your lips skating over his brow, his temples, the tip of his nose.

“you’re such a dork,” you murmur, still cupping his face, like you can’t bear to let go of him.

“i’m your dork.”

his voice is rough with want, his pulse tripping over itself as he lets the weight of everything crash into him all at once. his mouth brushes over yours again, lingering, reverent. “and i missed you so much. missed being able to touch you. missed you looking at me like you’re looking at me right now instead of like i’m some creepy teenager with questionable motives.”

“you are a creepy teenager with questionable motives,” you shoot back, but your words crumble under the softness that creeps into your voice. ”you invented a time machine just so you could spend more time with me.”

“and then immediately wasted two weeks because i’m apparently the only genius in history stupid enough to de-age himself by accident.”

his thumb slides over your bottom lip, unable to resist, unable to stop touching you now that he’s allowed to. his whole body hums with the need to consume you, to drag you inside his bones, to make up for every second he’d lost.

“not wasted,” you whisper, fierce and tender all at once. “never wasted. not if it brought you back to me.”

those words detonate inside him, and suddenly the kitchen feels too small, the air too thin. he’s been existing on stolen glances and careful distance for two weeks, watching you from afar, aching with the need to touch you, to kiss you, to prove to himself that you’re real and his and finally within reach again.

“we’ve been trying for a baby,” he says hoarsely, the words spilling out before he can stop them. “for months, and i just—i wasted two weeks, and i can’t—i need—”

you silence him with a kiss, soft and desperate and tasting like the tears you’ve both been crying. your hands fist in his shirt, pulling him closer, and he responds by lifting you, setting you on the counter so you’re at eye level, his hands spanning your waist, thumbs tracing circles over the soft fabric of your dress.

“i love you,” you breathe against his mouth. “i love you so much, and i’m so sorry i hurt you, and i missed you, and—”

he kisses you again, deeper this time, pouring two weeks of longing and frustration and desperate love into the contact. you taste like home, like forgiveness, like everything he’s been craving. your legs wrap around his waist, pulling him closer, and he can feel the exact moment you stop thinking and start just feeling, your body melting against his.

his glasses fog up. he doesn’t care.

your hair comes loose from its bun, the mechanical clips clattering to the counter, and he tangles his fingers in the silky strands, angling your head to deepen the kiss. you make a soft sound that goes straight through him, and he’s just starting to contemplate the structural integrity of the kitchen counter when—

ding.

the oven timer cuts through the moment like a bucket of cold water.

you break apart, both breathing hard, your lips swollen and his hair thoroughly mussed. the pink dress is wrinkled where his hands have been gripping your waist, and there’s a dazed look in your eyes that makes him want to forget dinner entirely.

“the pasta,” you say faintly.

“forget the pasta,” he growls, leaning down to press kisses along your neck, finding that spot just below your ear that makes you shiver.

ding. ding. ding.

“it’ll burn,” you protest, but your head tilts to give him better access, and your hands are still fisted in his shirt.

he doesn’t let you go. not when you say his name, not when you push at his shoulders, not when the oven timer chimes over and over like some petty background character begging for attention in a scene it no longer belongs to.

”don’t mind it,” he breathes against your throat, and it sounds less like a request, more like an instinct, as though there is nothing in this world more irrelevant than a meal when you’re in his arms again.

his lips move along the curve of your neck with reverence, brushing over your pulse, slow at first—a sweet drag of his mouth, the soft, wet pull of his tongue where your skin is most sensitive. he feels the flutter of your pulse beneath his lips, feels the way your body leans into his as though your bones have decided they’d rather trust him to hold you upright.

his breathing is uneven, shaky, like he’s on the edge of something he’s been chasing since the day he woke up in that younger body and couldn’t touch you the way he needed to. the memory claws at him now, vivid and bitter, that helpless ache of looking like himself and yet being nothing you would want to take in your arms.

you murmur something about the oven again, the protest barely formed, already dissolving into a sigh as he scrapes his teeth lightly along your skin. your hands remain curled in his shirt, not pushing anymore, just clutching—desperate, familiar, your fingers twisting into the fabric like you’re scared he might slip away again. his shirt bunches beneath your grip, your nails pressing half-moon shapes into his chest, but he craves the sting of it, the grounding pain of knowing you’re clinging to him, needing him just as much.

”it won’t burn,” he murmurs against your skin, his tongue following the line of your collarbone, his glasses slipping slightly down the bridge of his nose. ”it’s a timed self-shut. i programmed it myself. knew this might happen. knew i wouldn’t be able to let you go.”

he pushes his glasses up with a quick, practiced nudge of his wrist, never pulling his mouth too far from your skin. he needs to see you. needs to see every part of you. his hands are too busy, too greedy, sliding up the sides of your dress, pushing the soft fabric higher and higher until his fingertips brush the bare skin of your thighs. the dress pools around his wrists as though the fabric is surrendering to him, letting him through.

he feels you shudder when his thumbs trace slow, possessive circles just beneath the hem. he slides his hands further, the cotton dragging over your skin as if the dress itself is a barrier he’s grown to despise. ”been thinking about this for two weeks. touching you. feeling you. not some memory—you. this body.”

the tremble in your breath is sharp, palpable, sinking into his bones. your voice hitches when he catches your earlobe between his teeth, when he sucks lightly, as if tasting something he already knows belongs to him. his hands splay wide over your thighs, his touch more sure, more demanding now as though every second he isn’t inside you is unbearable. his fingertips trail along the curve of your legs, memorizing the heat and texture of your skin with the same focus he gives his research—meticulous, thorough, consumed by the need to understand everything.

he pushes his glasses up again, quick and automatic, the weight of them a familiar anchor as his vision sharpens, as though seeing you this clearly makes the need inside him all the more unbearable. he tilts his head just enough to see your lashes flutter, to watch your lips part around his name, and the sight burns into him with perfect clarity.

when his hands find your waist again, he isn’t gentle. his grip is firm, grounding, as though if he doesn’t hold you tight enough, you might vanish all over again. he tugs you back against him, hips flush to yours, and he can’t suppress the groan that punches out of him when he feels how warm you are, even through his jeans.

the heat of you burns into him, through the thin fabric, the kind of contact that makes his head spin. his cock twitches against the rough denim, aching, pulsing, a frustration that’s been building since the second he lost the chance to touch you properly.

“you’re not gonna let me feed you first?” you manage, but the breathless curl in your voice betrays you.

”you’re feeding me now,” he says, dragging his hands to your hips and grinding against you, slow and deliberate, a filthy drag of friction that has you gasping into his shoulder. he’s gone two weeks without this—without your heat, without your weight against him, without the sweetness of your mouth pressed to his.

his mouth captures yours again, the kiss messy and open-mouthed, his tongue chasing yours as though he might starve if he stops. he can’t get enough of you, can’t bear the distance, can’t stand the thought of pulling away, not even to breathe.

“but dinner—”

“it’s fine,” he murmurs, almost a laugh. “it’ll shut off on its own. you can’t burn anything while i’m loving you. made sure of it.”

his mouth moves lower, down the line of your throat, tasting the salt on your skin, the way you shiver when he noses along the curve of your shoulder. he kisses the delicate dip where your neck meets your shoulder, over and over, as though he could mark you with nothing but his mouth.

his hand slides beneath your dress again, impatient now, pushing your panties aside without ceremony. his fingertips graze your folds, and he sucks in a breath through his teeth—wet, already, and his chest tightens with something ugly and possessive because you’ve missed him just as much. the feel of you, the heat, the slick glide of his fingers dragging through your arousal—it short-circuits something in him. his jaw clenches, his breath stutters, and he presses his forehead to your shoulder to anchor himself.

“fuck, baby,” he whispers, his voice breaking apart, “look at you. missed me that much? couldn’t wait?”

his touch lingers there, gentle for a moment, tracing, teasing, his middle finger dipping to circle where you’re already aching for him. his other arm curls around your waist, holding you firm against him when your knees nearly give out. he rubs slow circles until you’re grinding into his hand, chasing the friction like you can’t stand the distance anymore. you’re warm and soft and trembling under his touch, your hips rolling helplessly, your breath hitching every time he circles just a little harder.

“satoru,” you whimper, half a plea, half a warning, but you’re already folding into him, already falling apart.

“’m here now,” he murmurs, guiding you to turn around, pressing your hands to the countertop, his body crowding you from behind. “i’m right here. gonna take care of you. gonna fuck you just like you need.”

he kisses your shoulder, slow and lingering, as though tasting your skin could imprint you deeper into him. the curve of your spine rises beneath his mouth, the faint tremble under his lips pulling something raw and animal out of him. he presses into you, his chest solid to your back, his hands smoothing over the fabric of your dress as if his touch alone could brand you as his, as if holding you like this might anchor him to this moment forever.

his jeans rasp against the softness of your thighs, each rock of his hips a little rougher, a little more desperate as he grinds against you. the friction is maddening. it makes him hiss through his teeth, makes his fingers dig into your waist like he needs to memorize the shape of you beneath his palms. when he reaches for his belt, it’s with the shaky impatience of a man on the edge of breaking. the buckle fights him, the leather dragging through the loops in a way that feels insufferably slow, and his breathing stutters, uneven, desperate.

“hurry,” you pant, your voice wrecked and pleading, your hips grinding back against him in small, frantic circles. “please, satoru, please… i need you now.”

he lets out a low curse when he finally frees himself, the tip of his cock dragging through your slick folds with a helpless groan as though even that brief touch is too much, too good, too long overdue. “fuck, baby, you’re soaked,” he breathes, half-crazed, his chest pressed tight to your back. “missed me this much, huh?”

“missed everything,” you gasp, your hands fisting around the edge of the counter, nails digging into the wood. “missed you. your voice, your hands… your cock. please, please don’t tease.”

he doesn’t wait. he can’t. he pushes into you in one, long, slow thrust, inch by aching inch, feeling you stretch and give around him, until he’s seated as deep as you can take him. the tight, wet squeeze of you makes his breath falter, a shudder wracking his frame, his body folding over you as his hands scramble for your waist, clutching like you’re the only tether left holding him to the earth.

“fuck… so full,” you whimper, your voice breaking on a gasp. “god, satoru… so good… i needed this… i needed you.”

he adjusts his glasses with a quick, shaky push, his vision sharpening just in time to burn the sight of you into memory—the delicate arch of your spine, the way your fingers clench around the countertop, the way your hips fit perfectly in his hands like you were carved just for him. the view sears itself into him, and the weight of it nearly drives him to the edge.

“shit… you feel like home,” he rasps, his voice fraying at the edges, his hands tightening until his knuckles ache. he pulls out slow, savoring the sweet, unbearable friction that drags along every nerve in his cock, only to slam back in with a force that steals his breath. again. and again. a steady, greedy pace that grows frantic under the pressure of his need.

the wet slap of skin against skin fills the kitchen, tangled with his ragged breathing and the soft, gasping sounds you make beneath him, each one sinking into him, winding tighter and tighter inside his ribs.

“oh, fuck, satoru…” you cry out, each thrust knocking the air from your lungs, your body meeting his with a desperate rhythm. “don’t stop… please, don’t stop… you feel so good, so deep… i can’t think… i can’t think when you’re fucking me like this.”

he leans over you, his chest pressed to your back, his breath hot and ragged against your ear as he drives into you with desperate force. his lips brush over the shell of your ear, trailing kisses down your neck as though his mouth can’t bear to leave your skin for more than a second. he mutters your name between each kiss, like a mantra, like it might steady him.

“you’re mine,” he pants, his words shivering with the strain of holding himself together. he kisses along your shoulder, his pace only faltering when his hips grind deep, seeking more, always more. “i��m not wasting another second, baby. i’m gonna… fuck, i’m gonna… i’m gonna make you feel me for days.”

“i already do,” you sob, your head tipping back against his shoulder, tears blurring your vision as you clutch his hand where it grips your waist. “you’re everywhere… you’re all i can feel… all i want… please, satoru, please don’t stop…”

his hand snakes between your thighs, his fingers circling your clit with practiced pressure, coaxing you to squeeze around him, to shatter for him. “come on, baby… let me feel you… let me feel you fall apart for me.”

“satoru… satoru, please, i’m so close… fuck… fuck… don’t stop, i need… i need…”

he groans low in his throat when your walls pulse around him, his body bucking forward like the sensation has stolen the air from his lungs. his other hand glides over your stomach, over the dip of your waist, greedy for the heat of your skin beneath the thin barrier of your dress. he wants to memorize every inch of you, wants to claim you in ways his body can’t quite articulate.

he buries his face in the curve of your neck, his lips brushing against the frantic pulse at your throat, his nose pressed against your skin as he breathes you in like oxygen. “talk to me,” he breathes, desperate, hoarse, the words scraping out like they cost him. “tell me you missed me. tell me i’m the only one who gets to touch you like this. tell me you’re mine.”

“yours,” you cry out, wrecked and breathless. “i’ve always been yours… satoru, fuck… you’re the only one… i missed you… i missed you so much… i can’t… i can’t do this without you… please, don’t let me go.”

“fuck, you’re so good for me,” he groans, the sound ragged and raw, and he ruts into you harder, the snap of his hips relentless as he chases you both toward the inevitable edge. “you’re perfect… fuck, baby, you’re perfect.”

“i’m… i’m coming… satoru, please… i’m—”

he doesn’t stop. he can’t. not until he feels you clench around him, feels you fall apart, your body trembling as you come, your voice cracking on his name like it’s a prayer you’ve been holding in for days. the sensation of you pulsing around him, pulling him deeper, drags a broken groan from his chest, and only then does he finally let go.

he thrusts deep, emptying himself inside you with a raw, gasping sound, his entire body shivering with the force of it. his release comes in thick waves, like his body refuses to let you go, like it’s been waiting for this, for you, to finally come home to him.

“don’t… don’t pull out,” you whimper, your voice small and trembling, your hands covering his where he grips your hips. “please, i want… i want to feel you… please, satoru… please stay…”

he doesn’t pull out. not yet. he stays there, his chest heaving against your back, his hips pressing tight to yours, as though his body could fuse to yours if he just holds on long enough. his hand slides over your stomach, his thumb brushing the fabric of your dress, his heart thundering against your spine. he wants to stay connected, to keep his body wrapped around you until the heat subsides, until the trembling quiets.

he kisses you there, the soft curve of your shoulder, his lips dragging lazy, reverent paths over your skin, savoring the tremble still coursing through you. “gonna keep you like this,” he murmurs, his voice low, thick with something that sounds almost reverent. “gonna keep you full, baby. not wasting anything.”

his hands rub slow, soothing circles into your hips, but his cock still twitches inside you, the heat of you pulling him under all over again. he presses his mouth to your spine, trailing soft, possessive kisses up to the back of your neck, his body vibrating with the hum of restless energy that refuses to ebb. it’s not enough. it’ll never be enough. he wants to keep going until the lines between you blur completely, until you forget where he ends and you begin.

he leans in, his voice breathless but steady now, a vow he lays against your skin. “this…” he pants, rolling his hips slowly, deliberately, still buried deep inside you, “this is just the start. not letting you go. not for the rest of the night.”

“don’t let go,” you whisper, arching back into him, your fingers sliding over his as though you might trap him there. ”don’t stop… please, satoru… don’t stop…”

his grip tightens, grounding you to him like he’s afraid you might dissolve between his fingers. “baby, you don’t even know how much i’ve missed you yet.”

he rolls his hips again, savoring the drag, savoring the stretch, savoring the way you arch back into him like you’re already craving more. it’s a promise—a warning—that he isn’t stopping any time soon. his hands smooth over your sides, up to your ribs, coaxing more sounds from you, coaxing more of you to open for him. his lips hover just behind your ear, his breath brushing warm against your skin as he begins to move again, slowly building the next wave, chasing the next collapse.

he hums against you, pleased, almost smug, as you tremble beneath him. ”let me make up for lost time, baby. i’m not done. not even close.”

“please…” it’s the only thing you can form now—broken, breathless. your hands tremble as you try to hold onto him, your fingers sliding helplessly against his shirt like you might fall apart without the anchor of his touch.

he tilts his head just enough to kiss the hinge of your jaw, his pace unhurried but determined. “i’ve got you,” he murmurs, his voice soft even as his body hums with something feral. “all night, baby. all night to love you, to fill you, to put our baby right where it belongs.”

he pulls out with a sharp, deliberate drag, leaving you clenching around nothing, and without giving you a moment to protest, he hauls you up, one arm locking under your thighs, the other cradling your back. you cling to him instinctively, barely able to breathe as he carries you to the bedroom, his grip rough, his breathing uneven, his jaw clenched tight with restraint he’s barely holding onto.

he drops you onto the bed, his hands instantly on you, yanking your dress up over your head in one swift, tearing motion, discarding it somewhere behind him. his glasses slip lower on his nose, his blue eyes molten and sharp behind the lenses, devouring the sight of you—messy, flushed, gasping. you reach for him, your lips parted, your throat working around the desperate sound that tumbles out—a soft, helpless “please…”

his hands slam your wrists to the mattress, his body caging you in, his cock thick and heavy as he grinds against your soaked entrance. “shh, baby,” he whispers, his voice trembling as he tries to gentle himself. “i’ve got you. you’re not going anywhere. i’m gonna take care of you.”

he refuses to take off his glasses. he wants to see everything—every tear that slips from your lashes, every tremble in your lips, every mindless sound that breaks from your throat. his gaze stays locked on you, even as his cock pushes inside you in one deep, devastating thrust.

“you’re mine,” he breathes, voice ragged, the words shivering apart as he bottoms out inside you. he can feel your walls flutter around him, clenching as though your body is desperate to hold him in, to keep him there. your body jolts beneath him, legs wrapping instinctively around his waist, dragging him deeper. your moan punches out, breathless, pleading, the only thing you seem capable of now. your hands cling to him, fingers clawing at his shirt like you’re trying to root yourself to him, as if the only thing anchoring you to the world is the brutal drag of his cock inside you.

his glasses slip slightly down his nose, fogging at the edges, but he refuses to push them up. he needs to see you, needs to burn every detail into his memory—the way your eyes glaze over, the tremble in your lips, the tear that slips from the corner of your eye. he wants to remember this: the raw, unguarded way you fall apart for him, the mindless way you beg him, the frantic rise and fall of your chest as you gasp for breath.

he drives into you again, harder, faster, each brutal thrust forcing the breath from your lungs, forcing more of those broken, needy noises out of you. the sound of skin slapping against skin echoes in the room, tangled with the ragged rhythm of his breathing and the choked cries that tumble from your lips. your hands scramble at his arms, your nails clawing into his sleeves, but you can’t find the words anymore. all that’s left is “please…” and the sobs that fall apart between the sharp snaps of his hips.

“i know, baby,” he pants, his breath hot and frantic against your skin, his voice frayed with restraint that’s slipping fast. ”i know what you need. you need me to fuck my baby into you, right? need me to keep you so full you can’t think of anything else? need me to fill you until it’s all you can feel?”

“please…” it spills from your throat again, almost a cry, your body tightening around him as though your own muscles are begging him to stay.

“i’ll give it to you,” he promises, soft, reverent, though the brutal rhythm of his hips betrays him. “i’ll make you a mama, baby. gonna make sure you can’t hold anything but me. gonna make sure you’re mine forever.”

he shifts, pulling your knees up to your chest, folding you underneath him, locking you into a perfect mating press. the angle punches another sob from you, your back arching, your legs trembling around his ribs. he presses his chest to yours, his mouth dragging over your ear, your jaw, his voice trembling with sweetness that contrasts the feral rhythm of his body.

“you’re doing so good, baby,” he breathes, kissing your temple, tasting the salt of your tears. “taking me so well. you want it, don’t you? want me to fill you? wanna be round with my baby? wanna feel me every time you move?”

your answer is a mindless moan, another tear slipping from the corner of your eye, your lips barely able to shape the one word that’s left in you: “toru...”

he hums against your skin, his cock grinding impossibly deeper. “that’s it, sweet girl. i’ll fill you up… keep you so full you won’t even remember what it feels like to be empty. i’ll make sure you’re carrying me by the time i’m done. i’ll fuck you so deep that my baby won’t have anywhere else to go.”

his hips slam into you harder, faster, sharp and bruising. you sob beneath him, clutching him, helpless against the rhythm that’s shaking you apart. his voice stays painfully soft, cradling you through it. “not wasting a single drop. i’m gonna fuck you until you’re mine. until you’re pregnant. until there’s nothing left but me inside you.”

“want it…”

his mouth crashes over yours, swallowing your cries, his kiss frantic, messy, desperate. you’re shaking under him, the overstimulation shredding your mind, your body trembling violently, your sobs trapped against his tongue as you beg him wordlessly to keep going, to never stop.

“that’s it,” he whispers, his voice breaking as he chases his release. “that’s it, baby. take it. take it all. take everything i give you.”

he folds you even tighter, pressing so deep you can feel him in places you didn’t know could ache. your orgasm crashes over you again, sharp and blinding, your body convulsing around him, your voice lost to the desperate gasp that splits from your lips. and he breaks with you, thrusting deep as he spills inside you, his cock pulsing hard with every grind, his breath faltering, his voice catching as he pants, “gonna make you mine… gonna make you a mama… gonna keep you full… keep you right here… where you belong.”

but he doesn’t stop.

he keeps grinding, his cock still thick, twitching inside you, his hands trembling where they hold your legs open, determined to keep every drop right where it belongs.

“not done,” he breathes, kissing your cheek, your temple, his voice sweet and low, shaking with the weight of how much he still wants you. “not done with you yet, baby. not until i know. not until i’m sure. not until you’re really mine.”

he rolls his hips again, deliberately, drawing out the stretch, dragging out the feeling, coaxing more choked gasps from you. your body arches weakly into him, clinging, helpless to do anything but take him.

“shh, sweet girl, i’ve got you. i’ll give you everything. i’ll fill you over and over until you can’t hold anything but me. i’ll give you so much you’ll feel me dripping down your thighs when i finally let you go.”

he drags his cock out slowly, savoring the sensation, just to slam back in, forcing another sharp cry from you, your legs trembling where they bracket his ribs.

“you feel so good like this,” he murmurs, his words melting against your skin. “so good and warm and perfect. i’m gonna keep going, baby. you can take it, right? you’ll let me, won’t you? you’ll let me make you mine, over and over, until there’s no space left for anything else?”

a needy whine is all you can give him now, but it’s all he needs.

he smiles against your cheek, soft and breathless, his glasses slipping lower as he kisses you again, his lips trembling against yours. “i know, baby. i know. i’ll take care of everything. i’ll make sure our baby takes. i’ll make sure you’re mine… i’ll make sure you’re full. i’ll keep going until you can’t think about anything but me…”

his pace builds again, steady, deep, his hands stroking your sides, his voice staying low, unbearably tender as he destroys you beneath him.

“i’ll give you all of me, sweet girl,” he promises, his voice cracking even as he drives for more. “all of me. again and again. until you’re carrying me… until you’re round with our baby. until you can’t breathe without thinking about me inside you.”

he shifts his weight, dragging his cock out just enough to thrust deep again, coaxing more desperate cries from you, his breathing rough as his chest brushes yours, his glasses fogged and slipping. his hands tremble where they hold you open, where they keep you pinned beneath him, where they swear to never let you go, as if letting go would unravel him entirely.

“i’ll fill you until you can’t take anymore,” he whispers, his voice raw, his lips dragging along your jaw, his breath hot and uneven. “i’ll give you so much you’ll feel me for days, baby. you’ll feel me dripping out of you every time you stand, every time you move. you’ll feel me inside you every second, every breath, every heartbeat. there won’t be a moment you’re not full of me.”

he slows down just enough to let you breathe, just enough to kiss you, just enough to hear the soft, breathy whimpers that melt into his skin. his glasses are crooked, fogged, his hair clinging to his forehead in damp strands. his lips brush yours, tasting of desperation, tasting of love, tasting of the ache he’s carried through endless nights, his body pressed flush against yours as if he could sink into you, as if he could live inside you if he tried hard enough.

“baby,” he pants, voice trembling, his hand brushing your cheek, lingering there, “roll over for me, yeah? wanna see you all pretty on your hands and knees, wanna see your ass all messy for me, wanna watch you fall apart just for me.”

his words make you shudder beneath him, make your thighs twitch, but you listen, your limbs shaky as you roll over, his hands never leaving you, his palms gliding down your waist, over your hips, steady, grounding, helping you position yourself just right. he murmurs soft praises as he lines you up, kisses pressed to the nape of your neck, to the soft curve of your shoulder, to the swell of your back as you settle on all fours, your face buried in the pillows, your breath already ragged.

“that’s it, pretty girl,” he croons, his voice thick with awe, his eyes roving over your trembling form like he can’t believe you’re his. “look at you, taking me so well. made for me, baby, yeah? your body was made for me, just to take me, just to fall apart on my cock.”

his hand slips between your thighs, his long fingers gathering your slick, coating them generously before pressing two inside you alongside his cock, working you open, stretching you around him until the burn makes you sob into the sheets, makes your hips jerk helplessly, makes you whine from the fullness, from how stuffed you are, the overwhelming stretch making tears prick at your lashes.

your knuckles turn white where you grip the sheets, trembling under the weight of him, under the delicious ache of him, your breath hitching with every slow curl of his fingers inside you. your thighs twitch, thighs spread obediently despite the tremble overtaking them, your skin fever-hot where his palms ground you in place.

his other hand steadies your hips, thumb tracing slow, grounding circles against your skin, his palm firm, his grip sinking into the plush of your waist like he’s afraid you’ll float away if he loosens it even for a second. his hair clings to his forehead in damp, clumpy strands, his cheeks flushed a lovely pink, his glasses slipping lower on his nose, fogged to uselessness but still perched stubbornly there, framing the feverish glint in his eyes.

his lips brush kisses to the curve of your spine, down to the small of your back, each press soft and lingering, like he’s tethering you to him with every touch, like he needs to brand himself into you, to make you feel him everywhere, in every breath, in every heartbeat.

“shh, you’re doing so good,” he breathes, his voice trembling with restraint, placing a tender kiss to the dip of your waist. “so good for me, baby. you’re perfect, y’know that? so perfect when you’re stuffed full of me. i love watching you stretch around me, love feeling you clench when i’m this deep inside you. it’s like your body was made to hold me. you were made to be mine.”

he slides his fingers out slowly, savoring the slick sound, savoring the way your walls flutter around him like you’re begging him to fill you again. your thighs tremble, your hips rocking back in search of him, your breath shuddering as you whine, pitiful and overwhelmed, lips parted, drooling onto the pillow.

the needy arch of your spine makes his chest squeeze, makes his cock throb painfully, makes him press flush against you as he grinds back in, deep and unhurried, pushing as far as he can go, his pace slow but devastating, each thrust a deliberate drag against every sensitive spot that makes you gasp, makes you sob into the pillows.

“that’s it, baby,” he groans, his head falling forward, his damp fringe sticking to his temple, his glasses slipping to the very tip of his nose before he finally pushes them off and tosses them blindly aside. “every time i fuck you like this, you just take me so good, like you’re meant to. you were made to take me, weren’t you? made to fall apart on my cock, yeah?”

his kisses grow more feverish, his lips dragging across your shoulders, the plane of your back, his tongue flicking along the salt of your skin as he grinds deeper, sinking lower with each thrust, each snap of his hips making you whine, making your hands claw weakly at the sheets. he listens to every gasp, every cry, every broken plea you bury into the pillows, savoring the tremble of your thighs, the collapse of your arms, the desperate way you push back into him, chasing the delicious pressure.

then he leans over, his chest pressing against your back until his lips find yours, capturing you in a desperate, clumsy kiss. it’s messy, wet, more panting and whining than kissing, but he drinks every sound from your lips like he’s starving, like he can’t bear to be separated from any part of you. his tongue traces yours, coaxing you into the kiss even as his hips grind into you harder, even as your knees threaten to buckle beneath him, your soft whimpers muffled against his mouth.

“don’t hide from me, pretty girl,” he murmurs between kisses, his breath hot against your lips, his voice honey-sweet and reverent even as he rocks into you deeper. “wanna hear you, wanna feel you, wanna kiss you while you fall apart on me. every sound you make is mine. every little sob, every little plea, mine.”

he chases your orgasm with grinding thrusts, with soft praises that melt into your skin, with kisses that sear into you, that drag along the curve of your spine, that brand you as his. his hands roam across your waist, your sides, your belly, squeezing and caressing as if memorizing the softness of you. and when you come, when your body clamps down around him like a vice, when you tremble and sob against his mouth, he doesn’t stop. he swallows every desperate sound, his pace never faltering, his grip on your hips tightening as he drives through the aftershocks, pulling even more cries from your swollen lips.

“you can take it,” he pants, fucking you through the tremors, his voice shaking with the force of his own unraveling. “you’re doing so good, baby, you’re perfect, you’re perfect, fuck, you’re made for me. made to take me, yeah? you can give me another, can’t you? just one more, pretty girl. just one more.”

his hips snap forward harder, more erratic, his sleeper build fully activated as his fingers dig bruises into your waist, as he holds you steady even as your arms give out, even as you collapse onto the bed, your cheek mashed against the pillow, your body trembling with every rough, desperate thrust. your breath hiccups, your body limp, overstimulated, but he keeps going, keeps coaxing more from you with each deep grind, dragging out your high until your thighs shake uncontrollably.

but he doesn’t stop. his grip doesn’t falter. his praises don’t cease.

he kisses the sweat-slick skin of your back, he whispers against your shoulder, he keeps telling you how good you are, how you were made for him, how he’ll fill you until you’re overflowing, until you’re leaking with him, until you can’t hold it all, until you feel him dripping down your thighs, until it’s all you can feel.

“so good, baby, you’re so good,” he breathes, his voice cracking on the edges, as if your name is the only thing keeping him tethered to this moment. “my sweet girl, my pretty baby, taking me so well. fuck, you’re made for me, you’re perfect.”

he chases his own end with frantic, desperate thrusts, with the wet, obscene slap of skin against skin, with the ragged breath of a man who has no intention of stopping until he’s poured every last drop of himself into you. his fingers flex against your waist, his lips never leaving you, his rhythm a frantic, beautiful mess, his voice breaking with every curse, every sweet nothing he pours into your skin.

and when he finally shatters, when his body tenses and he spills inside you, he groans your name like a prayer, like a curse, like a plea, his hands trembling where they clutch you, his kisses never stopping, his words still tumbling in a broken, reverent stream.

“so good, baby, you’re so good, you’re mine, you’re mine, you’re mine. gonna keep you like this, gonna keep you full, just like this, just like you’re meant to be. wanna see it drip down those pretty thighs.”

his body finally stills, but his hands never leave you, his lips never stop pressing soft, lingering kisses to your back, to your shoulders, to your waist, holding you close as if you might slip away if he lets go.

he stays inside you, buried to the hilt, his breathing shaky, his heart hammering wildly against your spine, his hair clinging to his damp forehead, his cheeks flushed and glowing, his arms curling around your middle to hold you tight, to anchor himself to you, to prolong this feeling of being so deeply connected.

he whispers to you softly now, praises spilling between kisses, his touch gentle but insistent, a man desperate to stay connected, to stay tethered to you in every way he can. his fingertips trace slow, lazy circles against your belly, memorizing the feel of your skin, of your warmth, the little trembles that still ripple through you.

“i’ll fill you up again,” he promises, his voice hoarse and full of love. “i’ll give you more, baby. you can take it. you always take me so well. i’ll keep you like this all night if you let me. just wanna keep you close, keep you mine.”

slowly, he shifts, carefully pulling out, his breath catching at the sight of his spend slipping out of you, leaving a glistening trail along your thighs. he groans softly, pressing a kiss to your lower back, savoring the tremble that runs through you. his thumb brushes over the mark he left there, tracing lazy circles as if to soothe the ache, as if to seal his touch into your skin.

he gently turns you over, cradling your waist, lifting you like you weigh nothing, his strong arms wrapping around you as if you’re something precious. he sits himself at the edge of the bed with you settled in his lap, your shaky thighs straddling him, your chest pressed to his, your breath still hitching as you try to find your footing in the aftermath, your arms barely strong enough to wrap around his shoulders.

his cock, still heavy, still hard, nudges against your entrance, and he shudders at the heat, at the way your body clings to him instinctively, like you never want to let him go. his hands slide over your hips, steadying you, his thumbs brushing slow circles into your skin, his touch reverent, patient, as if savoring the weight of you in his lap.

“come on, pretty girl,” he murmurs, his breath hot against your lips, his voice thick with sweetness and filth, his cerulean eyes glazed with adoration and hunger. “sit on me, yeah? just like this. let me keep you full a little longer. let me feel you, just a little more.”

he guides you down onto him, slow and patient, his large hands warm and steady on your waist as he lowers you inch by inch, savoring the sweet stretch, savoring the tremble that overtakes you as he fills you again, deeper this time, more deliberate, until his hips meet yours with a satisfying press.

your breath hitches, a sharp whimper escaping you, your head falling heavily to his shoulder as you struggle to accommodate him, your body straining around the overwhelming stretch, your fingers digging desperately into the firm muscles of his shoulders, clinging to him like you’ll drown without him.

his breath stutters at the heat of you, at how impossibly tight you are despite how many times he’s already filled you tonight. his pale hair clings damp to his temple, the ends curling from sweat, his cheeks flushed a tender pink, his lips parted and trembling as he exhales shaky, desperate breaths against your ear. his lashes flutter, his throat bobs with every ragged swallow, his entire frame taut, his biceps trembling where they hold you steady, straining to keep his composure, to keep his pace slow, to savor every second inside you.

his hands never leave you, one sliding to cradle your waist, the other splaying wide across your trembling back, as if to press you closer, to anchor you to him, to mold you to his body, to ensure that not even a breath of space separates you. he peppers kisses along your temple, the shell of your ear, your hairline, your jaw, his lips soft but insistent, his voice a low, reverent murmur that vibrates against your skin, as though he’s reciting a prayer only you can hear.

“look at you, baby,” he breathes, pulling back just enough to cradle your cheek in his palm, his thumb brushing away the stray tear that slips down your flushed skin. his ocean eyes are hazy, glassy with tenderness, with something so raw it tightens his throat and makes his breath stutter. “fuck, you’re so pretty when you’re falling apart for me. gonna let me keep you here all night, right? yeah? just like this, full of me. can’t let you go. don’t want to.”

his other hand curls into the nape of your neck, fingers threading through the damp strands of your hair, guiding your forehead to his, breath mingling, lips brushing as he steals soft, lingering kisses between his words, as if he can’t stop, as if he’s starving for you, as if kissing you is the only way he can breathe.

you can only whimper in response, the weight of him, the stretch of him, too much and not enough, your body trembling with the need to give him more, to feel him deeper, to be good for him, to make him proud, to belong to him.

his hands slide back to your waist, his grip steady but gentle as he begins to guide you, controlling your pace, moving you over him in slow, agonizing rolls. his thumbs draw slow, grounding circles into your heated skin, coaxing you to move, to ride him, to fall apart for him again. each time you rock your hips, you shudder, your breath catching on a sob, but he holds you steady, keeps you grounded, murmuring sweet words against your skin.

“shh, i’ve got you, baby. you’re doing so good,” he praises, pressing his forehead to yours, his breath shaky, his lips brushing yours between soft, trembling kisses. his silver lashes flutter with every slight tremble of his hips beneath you, his whole body trembling with restraint, with devotion, with the overwhelming need to stay inside you, to keep you close, to never let you go.

“you can do it, pretty girl,” he whispers, his voice low and rough, savoring every inch, every trembling grind of your hips. “just like that. take your time. i’ve got you. you’re mine. my sweet girl. let me take care of you. let me feel you just a little more.”

your thighs quiver, your movements sluggish and shaky, your whole body threatening to collapse from how sensitive you are, but he holds you, supports you, his hands never faltering as he coaxes you through it, guiding you with soft murmurs, with kisses pressed between your brows, against your fluttering eyelids, against the damp corner of your mouth. his hands roam your back, your ribs, your hips, memorizing the tremble of your skin, the heat of your body, the way you melt so completely into his lap, pliant and sweet.

he watches you, breathless, overwhelmed by how perfect you are, by how much he wants to keep you like this, forever tethered to him, wrapped around him, so utterly his. he savors the little gasps you give him, the soft hiccups in your breath, the desperate way you cling to him even when your body begs for rest, even when you sob softly into his shoulder, overwhelmed but unable to stop, unwilling to pull away.

when you finally falter, too sensitive, too overwhelmed to keep going, your movements slowing to weak, trembling shifts of your hips, he wraps his arms tightly around your waist and takes over, holding you close, keeping you flush against his chest as he grinds up into you in slow, deliberate rolls of his hips, savoring the sweet friction, savoring the little broken sounds you spill against his skin.

his pace is gentle but insistent, dragging sweet friction between your bodies, pulling broken moans from your lips, savoring the way you clutch at him, your fingers knotting in his damp hair, your head buried in his neck like he’s the only thing keeping you whole, the only place you feel safe, the only place you want to be. he feels your nails dig into his skin, your body trembling in his hold, but you don’t pull away. you press closer.

“that’s it, baby, i’ve got you,” he breathes, his voice cracking, trembling with the force of his own need, his own love. “just let me take care of you. just hold on to me. we’ll come together, okay? just like this. i’ve got you. i’ve always got you.”

his forehead presses to yours again, his lips parting to steal soft, desperate kisses, his hands trembling where they clutch you, his chest heaving as he rolls his hips deeper, slower, grinding against every sensitive spot inside you, savoring the desperate whines you spill against his mouth, savoring how you melt completely in his arms.

his voice is little more than a whisper now, ragged and broken, his praises melting into your skin as he rocks into you, chasing the edge with you pressed so sweetly against him, his breathing erratic, his kisses clumsy and endless.

“come with me, baby,” he pleads, his voice thick with love, with need, with desperation, his lips brushing yours as his hands tighten around your waist. “please. just like this. i need to feel you. i need you. just like this. don’t let go.”

you fall apart in his arms, your sobs trembling against his lips, your fingers tangling desperately in his hair as you cling to him, as you come so sweetly, so completely, your body shuddering in his hold, your thighs twitching, your hips stuttering as you grind against him, desperate to draw out the bliss.

he follows soon after, groaning your name like it’s a prayer, like it’s the only word he knows, his hips stuttering as he pours into you, as he holds you impossibly closer, as if he could fuse you to him, as if he could keep you here forever.

when you finally go limp in his arms, when your soft, exhausted breath fans against his neck, he holds you there, cradling you against his chest, his fingers stroking soothing lines along your spine. his hands slide to your thighs, rubbing slow circles, grounding you, savoring the weight of you in his lap, the softness of you, the way you fit so perfectly in his hold, the way you feel like home.

he presses soft kisses to your temple, to your hairline, to your shoulder, his breath warm against your skin, his lips tender and slow, as if he could never kiss you enough, as if he could never hold you long enough.

“so good, baby,” he whispers, his voice thick with tenderness. “my pretty girl. my sweet girl. we can stay like this, yeah? just like this. just you and me. i don’t need anything else.”

he buries his face in the crook of your neck, his breathing finally beginning to steady, his arms curling tighter around you, his whole body relaxing, melting into you as though he could sink into your skin and stay there forever.

you nod weakly, nuzzling into his neck, your lashes damp, your body pliant and warm against him. your arms loop lazily around his shoulders, fingers brushing the nape of his neck, and he presses one last kiss to your temple, one last kiss to your hairline, and he smiles against your skin, utterly content, utterly in love.

neither of you move. neither of you speak. you’re both too tired, too soft, too wrapped in each other to care about anything else, not even the cold dinner waiting in the kitchen.

“we’ll eat later,” he hums, his lips curling against your skin, his voice warm, tender, content. “just wanna stay here a little longer. just wanna keep you close. that’s all i need.”

his arms tighten around you as he buries his face in your shoulder, breathing you in, his body melting into yours, savoring the weight, the warmth, the softness of having you so completely, so entirely his.

[captainsophiestark]

Oblivious

Damon Salvatore x Reader

Masterlist - Join My Taglist!

Written for Fictober 2024! Requested by @elenavampire21 - hope you like it! Thanks for being patient while I got it done!

Fandom: The Vampire Diaries

Day Thirty-One Prompt: "It's always been you."

Summary: You've always felt like the lowest priority out of everyone in the Mystic Falls group, but Damon disagrees.

Word Count: 1,905

Category: Fluff, light Angst

A/N: That's a wrap on Fictober baby! Woohoo! And Happy Thanksgiving everybody!

Putting work into an AI program without permission is illegal. You do not have my permission. Do not do it.

I hummed to myself as I scanned my bookshelf, trying to decide which one to grab. Since moving into college at Whitmore, I'd mostly just brought my favorites, since I didn't have much book space to spare in my single dorm room. But bringing all of my favorites made it a little hard to decide what to read on any given day.

I'd just about made up my mind, actually reaching out to grab one when the door to my room went flying open, smashing into the opposite wall.

I whirled around, my fight or flight response kicking into overdrive as I tried to remember where the nearest stake was in my room. I'd been dragged into the supernatrual drama just by being tangental to a certain friend group in Mystic Falls, which meant I was on high alert for supernatural threats. This weekend in particular, everyone I knew was back in Mystic Falls for a visit and a party.

At least, they were supposed to be. As I whipped around towards the door, I came face to face with none other than Damon Salvatore.

My heart started a very annoying gymnastics routine. I'd had a crush on Damon for a long time, despite knowing all his supernatural secrets, but with Elena around he'd never bothered to give me the time of day. I'd made my peace with it, more or less, but suddenly finding him standing in the doorway of my room, his piercing blue eyes fixed absolutely on me, still sent my heart racing.

"Hey! What are you doing?" I demanded, fixing Damon with the fiercest glare I could muster. Probably not very fierce at the moment, but I did my best.

"You should really keep this locked," Damon drawled instead of answering me. I scowled as he closed the door behind him, then took a few steps closer to me.

"We're in a crowded student dorm hall. It's normally not a problem."

"Well, it's a problem now."

Damon grinned at me, making a point of flashing his fangs. My scowl deepened.

"Do you not have to be invited in to student housing?" I asked, trying to deflect and distract Damon from paying any attention to my heartbeat. His grin only widened.

"Nope. I've used that to my advantage many times."

I tried to keep a grimace off my face at that. I knew enough about Damon and his history to realize he was refering to past hookups as much as anything else. Not my favorite subject to get into with him.

I cleared my throat, trying to push the thoughts out of my mind. I met Damon's gaze again and raised an eyebrow, going for casual and just hoping I could kind of pull it off.

"Why are you here?" I said. "Aren't you supposed to be hosting a party in Mystic Falls?"

"Aren't you supposed to be at that party with me?" Damon asked, voice low as he took another few steps towards me. I let out a little huff and looked away.

"Believe it or not, I'm not in the mood to go running back home every weekend that I'm at college. I have work to do and people I want to spend time with this weekend, both of which require me to stay here."

Damon stepped even closer to me, getting in my space and moving to try to see my expression. When I continued to look away from him, he took my chin in his hand and turned me to face him. I scowled, but didn't pull away.

"I don't believe you."

"What do you mean 'you don't believe me'?"

"I mean, when you explained your reasoning to me just now, your heartbeat told me you were lying." I frowned, but Damon just leaned in a little closer, his grip still tight on my chin. "So why aren't you in Mystic Falls?"

I huffed and rolled my eyes, finally pulling back and out of his grip. He let me go, but took a few steps to follow me across the room as I walked away.

"I'm just sick of all the supernatural drama," I said. "It's been nice to be here, building something separate from which vampire we're trying to kill this week, or which werewolf is trying to kill us. I'm happy here, and I don't want to blow all that up by going home and finding myself in the middle of the supernatural drama again."

Damon hummed. Nothing I'd said was a lie, technically, so he couldn't call me out like he had earlier. I kept my back to him so he couldn't read it in my face either.

"I guess that's the truth," Damon said, his voice way too casual. "But I know you well enough to know it's not the whole truth."

I snorted, then whipped around to face Damon with a scowl.

"Why do you care? I gave you an explanation, and it's the truth, so it's all you're getting."

Damon shook his head as he stepped even closer to me.

"Not gonna work for me, sweetheart. I'm not leaving here without the whole truth."

"Why? Damon, seriously, why is this so important to you?"

"Because. Now are you going to tell me, or am I going to have to compel it out of you?"

He wiggled his eyebrows at me, but I just rolled my eyes.

"We both know I'm on vervain, so knock it off. Just go back to Mystic Falls. Flirt with Elena to mess with your brother, whatever! Just leave me alone!"

"I don't want to flirt with Elena," Damon said, taking another step towards me. His voice was low, and more serious than I usually heard it, as his eyes locked onto mine. "I want to flirt with you, no one else. It's always been you."

Everything about Damon's tone and body language told me he was serious, but I knew what a good actor he could be when he wanted to. I scoffed and rolled my eyes, crossing my arms and squaring my shoulders to face Damon.

"Oh please. It's always been Elena, from day one with you! And the handful of times it hasn't been Elena? It's been just about anybody else in our group besides me. Caroline, that reporter Andie, the vampire Rose who kidnapped Elena... hell, even Rebekah Mikaelson! But never once me, Day."

Damon's frown had deepend, and he actually looked a little wounded. He took another step closer, almost putting us chest to chest, and opened his mouth like he was going to speak, but I put up a hand to stop him before he could get a word out.

"It's fine, Damon. Seriously, it's not a crime for you to not reciprocate my feelings. And I'm not avoiding Mystic Falls all because of some one-sided crush. But, seriously. Bonnie, Caroline, and Elena were supposed to be in a triple together. Nobody even checked with me, if I might want to join them in a dorm, since we were all going to Whitmore. I know I got sucked into the group by accident and not really by friendship, but for fuck's sake, I've thrown myself headfirst into this world and trying to help you guys, and still, it's like I'm barely even present. So I decided to say screw it, and I've made a bunch of great friends here outside of all this vampire shit, and I'm happy with that. So just go back to your party and leave me alone. I'd say pass the message on, but I doubt if anybody else'll notice."

Damon's frown had been steadily deepening the whole time I'd been speaking, and now he looked truly upset. I'd confessed a little more to him in the heat of the moment than I'd been planning to, but my words were still true. Maybe it was time for a full break from the rest of the Mystic Falls gang, and maybe this was how I got it done.

"Are you... absolutely blind?" Damon demanded, reaching out to take my hands before I could stop him. "I'll admit, when I first met Elena, she looked so much like Katherine that I was a little hung up on her. But I got over her when I got over Katherine. All I've been doing since a few weeks after I met you is trying to flirt with you! You've always shut me down!"

"What? Damon, you're crazy-"

"I abandoned Ric at the bar to buy you a drink and play pool. I blew off Stefan to go to some stupid Mystic Falls festival with you. For god's sake, I even asked you on a date after your graduation!"

"No no no, that was playful flirting. And the date thing was to make Elena jealous!"

"The date thing was not to make Elena jealous!"

I laughed, mostly out of panic, shaking my head and stepping back from Damon. He didn't let me get far. He followed me across the room until my back hit the wall, and then stepped into my space again. I looked up at him with wide eyes, and I knew he could hear just how fast my heart was beating.

"Damon, come on. You're... you. If you'd had a thing for me for over a year, there's no way I wouldn't know about it!"

"That's what I kept telling myself," he muttered. The faintest possible smile made its way onto his face. "I'm actually a little relieved it turns out you're just oblivious."

I snorted, but my heart had picked up speed again, which honestly shouldn't have been possible. If Damon were lying... well, it didn't make sense for Damon to be lying. There was no reason for him to come all the way down here, especially while everyone else in our group was throwing a party at his house, all for a lie with no real motivation.

I searched Damon's face, this time without a scowl. He smirked back at me and let his gaze slowly, clearly wander down to my mouth. I laughed.

"You're serious, aren't you? You're telling the truth."

"Of course I'm telling the truth," he said. His voice was more sincere and serious than it had been since he'd walked into my room as the smirk on his face became more of a smile. Slowly, he let one hand wander down to rest on my waist. I bit my lip, considering for just a second, then surged forward and kissed him.

Damon wasted no time pushing me against the wall and kissing me back. I wrapped my arms around his neck, letting myself get lost in the moment.

"Are you sure you don't want to go back to Mystic Falls?" I breathed between kisses as Damon moved along my neck and jaw. "You're missing a party in your own house."

"I'm sure. I hid all my good booze before I left. And I hate to rub it in, but..." Damon pulled back just enough to look me in the eye and let a predatory grin spread across his face. "I'm pretty happy you ended up in a single dorm room right now."

I laughed, something I honestly never thought I'd be able to do about the way I'd ended up in this single dorm room. Leave it to Damon to find a way to make it happen, despite the odds.

It'd taken a lot more drama and heartache than it should've to get here. Still, as Damon wrapped his arms around me and pulled me tight to his chest, I got the distinct impression that it would be worth it.

****************

Everything Taglist: @rosecentury @kmc1989 @space-helen @misshale21

TVD/TO Taglist: @elenavampire21

[fancyfeathers]

Imagine Daughter!Reader pulls a "I'm gonna fake a crush on my brother's best friend so I can make them ALL uncomfortable" but it backfires and the best friend actually likes her back😭? (obviously daughter!reader's age will depend on the batboys bestfriend so no weird stuff going on in this ask dw) Like for Dick, Wally West. Maybe she asks the question "What else can go fast?" or something odd. Then for Jason, Roy Harper she asks him to teach her archery. Jason probably trusting her(maybe) he let's it go on but then catches Roy looking at her differently. Then for the others the same thing, like Tim- Conner. Something like REALLLLLLLLY kid-ish for Jon Kent if you feel like adding Damian's best friend. (These are all separate so no harem thing going on thank god.) Thank you for reading!!!!!<3

Yandere Batfam w/ Wife/Mother!Darling & Daughter/Sister!Darling Masterlist

YES OH MY GOD I WAS JUST THINKING ABOUT THIS!

So realistically because she is the youngest, her crush would be on either Jon because he would only be a year older than her, or Connor who may be a bit older (physically, cause he was a lab child) but still within that reasonable age. Then in actual canon she has a boyfriend, who may be a lot little crazy, but they’re in love… right?

But anyway for this let’s say her age differs on each scenario in this okay

Okay Dick is just sitting there the like what the hell the moment he walks back in living room to see his little sister laughing and chatting with Wally, sitting way too close for comfort. Dick tries to show some self restraint, give the benefit of the doubt, but let’s be honest when Wally West falls in love it is head over heels and it is something that happens in an instant, basically love at first sight, she wouldn’t have to say anything to him, she just has to walk into a room. Then cue Dick ending up as a third wheel for the rest of the day, it probably gets to the point where Dick comes up with some excuse of why Wally needs to leave early and then as Wally is leaving he might ask about Dick’s sister and Dick gives him the biggest side eye ever and he just drops the topic. Then Dick goes back inside and his sister’s hair is all messed up, like a strong wind brew by and she is just holding her phone when she wasn’t a second ago…

“What…happened?”

“I think Wally put his number in my phone…”

“Son of a-“

With Jason and Roy, they are going on a mission together and training beforehand. Sister!Darling just handing around because Bruce and the rest of their siblings are gone and Alfred is out running errands that day, so until they get back Jason has to watch her which Roy thinks is weird because she is a few years younger than them for the sake of this post, but okay. So she is just sitting in the cave, reading a book Jason gave her because she not allowed down there so she’s not allowed to touch anything. Jason walks off to go find a different type of bullet and asks Roy to keep an eye on her because she is not allowed anywhere near the weapons or gear, and Roy just looks at her and waves her over…

“Cmon’ wanna try taking a shot?”

“Um… I don’t know-“

“I can teach you.”

So he does, and I really don’t know how to describe it besides this scene from Princess Diaries and just imagine when Jason comes back and found his best friend holding his little sister from the back, his cheek practically pressed against hers. He just loudly clears her throat and tells her that he needs to talk to her and he takes her out of the cave and sends her to her room, locking her in and sends a note to Bruce or whoever going to be home first what happened and where she is. Then he does back downstairs and Roy has the guts to ask if she is single and Jason just can’t…

“Fuck off Roy, she’s off limits.”

Now Tim has a harder time shaking off his friend, and I mean going by Connor in the comics (cause we don’t talk about Connor in Young Justice here) he is a bit of a headstrong personality and cocky, so if Connor and his sister are chatting and teasing each other he doesn’t really think much of it literally until he finds them kissing, a hand on her thigh and on the back of her neck and Connor is slightly levitating. Tim waits until Connor leaves and then he questions his sister about it, and she fesses up to basically trying to get on Tim’s nerves by flirting with his best friend but Connor ended up actually liking her, like a lot and one thing led to another and they were making out and have been texting for weeks and Tim didn’t think of it twice because it was Connor.

So then Tim asks Bruce to try to intervene by asking Clark for help but Connor has already gushed about his situationship with her to literally everyone in the Kent Family, and Clark has already gave Connor advice to ask her out and ideas for dates and it even got to the point where Ma and Pa are asking about when they can meet her because she sounds like a sweet girl. She just dug herself in a hole with this one, platonic Yandere!Superfam anyone?

Then Damian, well this is just kiddy love with his sister and Jon, and Damian knows that but it doesn’t mean he is okay with it. Whenever Jon is is over they are always talking, and Jon is just trying to impress her with his (half) kryptonian powers. Meanwhile Damian is giving Jon the side eye and really it’s nothing but that doesn’t stop him from running to go tell Bruce about it, what if it evolves into something more when they get older. So Bruce goes to talk to Clark about it and Clark doesn’t think it’s a big deal, they’re just kids and this is how kids are and so Damian just has to watch while Jon pushes her on the swings and deal with the fact that she just wants to spend time with Jon Kent and not him. Ugh.

[whore-ibly-hot]

Answer if you're still in Writers block lol

What if

Y/N sees Jerry's drawings of her??

(Still in a writers block, but thought I'd answer this to try and jump start myself.)

"These are uh-" You swallow, cheeks hot as you look at the scribbled drawings in the worn journal that rests in your hand. "Very detailed? You left your journal at Bill's, I really didn't mean to look but it had kinda fell open when I found it-" You're rambling, but almost none of it makes it's way into Jerry's head.

He's distraught, face red and palms sweaty. Jerry feels like he's on the verge of a heart attack. He's not much of an athlete, but even if he was, he doesn't think his heart would be racing this fast if he was running a fucking marathon. "No." He Kurt's.

"Huh?"

"N-no! It's not you, not you at all. Maybe the resemblance is there, but I promise it isn't supposed to be an illustration of you." He rambles, snatching the journal from you. He feels bad, that felt a bit aggressive, but he didn't want you looking to deep into it.

"Of course, sure!" You nod your head, shrugging. At this point, you just want this over with. Jerry has always been the most normal one in the group, and you want to believe he will continue to be that way. "Coincedence."

"Coincidence." He repeats, looking down as he rocks on his heels. "Um... please don't hate me. I know some of them are kinda- uh- sexual, but its just art." His shoes scuff the floor beneath him. "I mean, artistic nudity is a thing! Like sitting chapel-"

"Sistine." You correct.

He smiles a bit, cracking a grin for the first time during this horrible conversation. "Yeah, sistine." He repeats. "You always know so much stuff."

"I get it, its okay. I mean, it's not like- degrading stuff. And if you say it isn't me I believe you." You assure. "Besides, if I can put up with Pete, I can put up with one of my friends drawing the human form."

Now he breaks into a full on smile. You are always so understanding, so nice. "Yeah, yeah! You get it. Thanks, by the way, for returning my journal. I really don't want the guys finding out about all this. Um- you won't mention it, right?"

You shake your head, and as you wrap up chatting, he watches you walk off, back towards your next destination. His heart has slow in its patter, but its still very obvious. "Close call." He mumbles, turning to his room to drop off his journal. Would it be gay to get one of those girly diary locks?

All in all, this would probably only strengthen Yan!Jerry's obsession. You just get him, you don't ridicule or mock; you try to understand. And... surely a part of you liked it? I mean, you didn't freak out, so you must be kind of into that sort of stuff? He's embarrassed, but this is a minor delusion compared to the other boys, so let him rest in it.

[timesadored]

please I'm begging anyone to write this

WARNING: Suicide/self-harm, death, murder(?), idk lol

Lately I got hyper-fixated on a MLP grimdark called Diary of a Time-Looper -- (here's the link to it if y'all wanna read it lol)

NOW HEAR ME OUT

Imagine Batfam x neglected! time-looper reader

the angst it would give omg

All of it would probably play out just like the grimdark with the only differences being that

They're human

Reader would probably find a way to use a laptop as a digital diary instead of an physical diary

Lastly, Reader would also have gotten out of the loop

BACK TO MY IDEA

Reader gets stuck in a time loop, forced to wake up and deal with the same day over and over and over and over and over

It resets and no matter what changes she makes- no one remembers it nor does it stay. just completely resetting once it hits midnight

She would probably accidentally find out a way to keep a digital diary that doesn't reset with the day and logs everything to help keep her sanity

She doesn't know why this started and she has no idea how to end it- Completely and utterly stuck to this day

She would slowly fall into despair- her mind breaking with every reset

Her desperation cause her to try and convince anyone- anything that shes stuck in a time loop

ofc they don't believe her -- I mean you're stuck in a timeloop? Don't make me laugh we would've noticed if we were in one

The Batfam wouldn't notice her sudden change, I mean, they barely know her. shes just the normal one. Alfred might notice but he's busy and she must've been tired or something

The worse part is that this day was quiet, no villains, barely any crime

its just boring

if there was a villain attack maybe she could have stopped it, after all its the same script with the only changes being caused by her

To help herself keep sane, she just does whatever and anything

Using Bruce's money to buy anything

hell at this point she might as well as do drugs, maybe they'll help they don't

Eventually, probably around the 10 year mark of being stuck, an accident would occur

She swears she didn't mean to but she was just over his damn taunting

Something just snapped, she just snapped

It was amazing how easy it was to kill him with him being trained as an assassin guess Ra's Al Ghul and Talia Al Ghul didn't train him that good-

He's alive the next loop, of course

She wasn't surprised, yet she couldn't help the guilt

She hugged him, sobbing apologies and such- how weird it was to Damian

A few loops later she did the same thing, not to Damian, no it was Jason

She almost expected him to stand up again after she shot him

Loop after loop, she accidentally kills each family member

She couldn't help the excuses that left her, after all she never meant to hurt any of them but she's just so done with the same damn script and the same fucking day

Then she just stops leaving her room, after all she couldn't hurt them if she didn't leave

Her desperation of finding a way out carved her inside out

Slicing its name into every fiber in her being

So of course she decides to finally end this loop at the cost of her life

Staring down at the camera while apologizing and explaining why she made this choice its been a year and a half in this loop

She wakes up, same day, same script

So she tries again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and-

Shes completely stuck in this hell

Its almost funny

She now understood the Joker in a way

She understood his insanity

His craze that broke others

Maybe she should try it

just one loop

or two loops

She hates this mansion and she hates these people

She just can't stand them

Its been years in this prison

How unfair

She's killed and destroyed everyone and everything at one point-

She's died in almost every way she could think of

Not because she was suicidal but because she was desperate to end the loop

Her hope with every death that one would eventually take her out for good slowly goes away

So she locks herself in her room, doing nothing because there was nothing at this point

Its a different date

Its actually a different day

So why is it a different day? Why isn't she stuck in a loop?

Why didn't it feel different? It's a different day now

She's free so why doesn't she feel like it

She's free after 20 years of the same day

When she looks in a mirror she doesn't recognize herself

Those wild and crazy eyes, they almost mimic the joker's if he was even more insane

She doesn't know what to do

She doesn't remember how to be sane anymore

She lost herself years ago in that cursed loop

She tries to fix herself, try to act how she thought she would've acted

No one says anything at breakfast yet they noticed how different she was

In their mind she was fine two days ago, so what could've happened when she locked herself in her room yesterday?

She kinda reminds them of the Joker-- Only with those eyes

So the Batfam does what they normally do

Investigate

Tim found it easily, the digital diary

How horrified they were to watch the entries

How with every loop, she changed worse and worse

Actively watching her lose her sanity

Watching her desperation grow more and more just as guilt ate at her

Horrified as she explained to the camera- herself really- how she killed them

How she killed herself

The videos progressing from sobbing apologies to an blank expression

One video catching their eye of her manic giggles and laughs as she describes how she understands the Joker now

Anyways that's all I have so if anyone would like inspo or smth please take it

I'll love to read it

also I will not write this into an actual story as everyone will be out of character cause I suck at personalities lolol

be prepared to see me enter dms, requesting this btw

[lovemepartly]

mornings with...  ˖ . ݁𝜗𝜚. ݁₊ 

featuring: choi seung-hyun, kwon jiyong, kang daesung

warnings: none except i was too lazy to proofread

a/n: first of all, sorry that this is short and sorry for generally being so inactive :(( i have exams for the next two weeks and my senioritis is so bad i just wanna arghsjbdf

also, i know i haven't written for sg in so long that's mb 🙁 i have so many wips for lots of characters that i just haven't had the motivation to finish but i will lock in soon trust me 🙏 anddd i may start posting for skz soon!

finally, i've really liked writing these headcanons for bigbang so if you have any requests i'll probably do them :')

choi seung-hyun ⋆⭒˚.⋆

• seung-hyun either wakes up extremely early (and once he does he can’t fall back asleep) or he wakes up at like 2pm. 

• when he wakes up early, he quietly slips out of bed, not wanting to wake you. he’ll spend some quiet time to himself - i definitely see him as the kind of guy that has a diary and meditates and does yoga and whatnot. 

• around the time you wake up, he’ll make some breakfast for the two of you. he’s not the best cook but can make something simple and honestly the gesture is so sweet you wouldn’t care even if the food was bad.

• seung-hyun usually wakes up late on the weekends. he’s definitely a heavy sleeper, so he probably wouldn’t even notice when you wake up, kissing him softly on the forehead.  

• when he finally stumbles out of the room at 1pm, rubbing his eyes groggily, you can’t help but laugh quietly to yourself. he has markings all over his cheek from the bedsheets and can barely open his eyes as he stumbles over to you, kissing you lazily.

kwon jiyong ⋆⭒˚.⋆

• jiyong sleeps in late, but not too late. he loveees sleeping with you and is definitely a cuddler. it doesn’t matter if he’s the big spoon or small spoon, he just loves to be near you and sleeps so much better next to you.

• if you wake up early to go to bed, good luck getting jiyong to let go of you. when your alarm sounds and he feels you stirring in bed, he’ll tightly wrap an arm around your waist and bury his face in your shoulder, sleepily mumbling, “five more minutes.”

• on weekends, when the two of you can both wake up late, he loves cooking breakfast with you. picture the most cliché couple that makes breakfast together in silly aprons - and that’s you guys. you love it, though. 

kang daesung ⋆⭒˚.⋆

• daesung wakes up early. he has his alarm set and everything and loves sticking to his schedule. if you try to get him to stay in bed, cuddling up next to him, he’ll happily comply, staying with you for a couple more minutes before insetting that he really does have to get up.

• he’ll make breakfast for you, though, and when it’s finally time for you to wake up for work, he’ll plant a soft kiss to your forehead to wake you. 

• on weekends, he still likes to wake up early, but if you’re really insistent, he’ll stay in bed with you a little longer. he’ll hold you tightly, stroking your hair, letting you sleep in his arms and i just know it’s the best feeling ever.

[ququb444hm]

★ bf! keiji akaashi hcs ˙ ̟⪩⪨ !!

i wanna eat him up thank u vv much. random hcs, i js kept jotting them down (im prepping myself for writing practice/drabbles later :p). did not proofread

𖦹 type of bf who refuses to let you tie your own shoelaces/put on your own shoes when ygs are with each other. like he WILL kneel down and do it for you!!!

𖦹 likes to pick flowers that match your outfit whenever the two of you are out + takes candid photos of you with said flower in the frame

𖦹 definitely the type of bf who randomly sends pictures throughout the day to show you things that remind him of you. even if sometimes it's deadass two ladybugs bugging it out, he's like "us🩷"

𖦹 "play fights" your plushies when he's in your room. "begone foul beast!" he'd say before fucking chucking it to the other side of the room and then body slamming you onto the bed when you try to get up to retrieve it

𖦹 this man religiously uses pinterest idc. he has a whole board of things that remind him of you, pose ideas he wants to do with you, outfits he thinks you would absolutely body, literally loves that app

𖦹 he takes letterboxd and goodreads SERIOUSLY.

𖦹 loves keeping pictures of you/the both of you together literally everywhere and anywhere. behind his phone case, in his wallet, on his fridge, every daily mirror he uses ever. there's probably one in the little pockets of his notebook he brings to lectures

𖦹 ^^ each picture has a poem he wrote/saw that made him think of you in the back

𖦹 chews on your hair

𖦹 plays the harmonica in his free time (i cannot stop thinking of michael from the princess diaries when akaashi is the topic at hand) (are they not one in the same???)

𖦹 if you have any pets, he brings treats in his bag when he knows he's gonna stop by your house. sometimes he tries to teach them how to do a backflip or smt

𖦹 likes playing with your fingers, but he always does some weird shit with it. like i'm talking twisting and turning and putting them through each other idfk

𖦹 plays the sims and made put both of you in it (you guys are married with 4 kids)

𖦹 ^^ but when he plays he makes up some crazy lore about your characters like how he was actually a fucking alien sent to earth on a mission to like obliderate you or something, but during his journey to earth he got amnesia or something and couldn't remember his goal until the two of you bumped into each other at your great grandmother's 2nd cousin's daughter's nephew's guinea pig's birthday party (don't ask me how he got there) and when you guys locked eyes, he instantly remembered what he was supposed to do but you obviously didn't wanna get obliderated so instead the two of you went into hiding from the aliens and lived happily ever after

𖦹 he collects a bunch of pretty rocks and has his own rock collection, which is right by his coin collection because he's a big history nerd

𖦹 he knows how to embroider and embroiders your guys' initials into the hem of his boxers (hell yeah)

𖦹 gives you the most STANKIEST side eye if you refer to him as anything other than a pet name. "who is bro...? try again."

𖦹 likes to lay his head on your lap while you massage his temples

𖦹 is literally an only child so sometimes when he buys snacks and you ask to share he sighs SOOOOOO fucking loud and is like "well i GUESS i can give you a FEW...."

i love when people depict him as a silly guy like the world needs more silly and he is literally right there. ok bai

[bradleysass]

key - @into-the-jeggyverse - wc: 778

James stares at the object on the floor like it’s a cursed artifact. It’s a small key, old-fashioned, bronze, and dainty. It wasn’t there last night when he tossed his clothes across the floor with his usual flair. Now it gleams near the edge of the rug like it wants to be found.

“Reg,” James calls instinctively, only to remember Regulus left for work hours ago. With a groan, James drops to his knees and picks up the key. It’s light in his palm, unassuming—but it burns with the weight of mystery.

He tries the obvious first. Desk drawer? No. Jewelry box? Nope. Old lockbox under the bed? Nada. The spice cabinet, for reasons even James doesn’t fully understand? Still no.

“Bloody hell.”

He flops onto their unmade bed and lifts his phone.

james [9:43 AM]: found a key james [9:44 AM]: in our room james [9:44 AM]: REG james [9:45 AM]: you’re ignoring me on purpose james [9:46 AM]: are we in a mystery relationship now james [9:47 AM]: if i die bc of cursed key i’m haunting you first

No response. Classic Regulus. Probably swanning about in a pristine suit, tormenting interns, sipping overpriced coffee, while James spirals.

He stares at the key like it’s mocking him. Then he does what any desperate man does.

He calls Sirius.

Sirius arrives twenty minutes later, still in pajama pants and sunglasses, holding two iced coffees like this is a beach day.

“Reg’s not answering, so you called me?” he asks, handing James a drink.

“You’re his brother. You’ve probably seen this key before.”

Sirius inspects it like he’s on Antiques Roadshow. “Looks like one of those fancy diary keys. Remember when he was a kid and had that black leather journal with the lock?”

James’s eyes widen. “Do you think he still has it?”

Sirius shrugs. “Wouldn’t put it past him. Reg hoards emotions like a dragon hoards treasure.”

They spend the next hour tearing through drawers, closets, under furniture. Sirius finds a half-eaten granola bar in Regulus’s sock drawer and gets distracted for five minutes.

Finally, James opens the bottom drawer of Regulus’s bedside table and—bingo.

A worn black journal, aged around the corners, sits beneath a pile of spare bookmarks and a feather quill (because Regulus is nothing if not dramatic). The lock on the front is exactly the size of the key.

James hesitates.

“Am I about to break some sacred trust?” he asks.

Sirius scoffs. “You live together. He’s seen you sob watching Paddington. I think you’re past sacred.”

With a deep breath, James turns the key. The lock clicks.

Inside are pages filled with tidy handwriting, quotes, musings, and—

“Oh my god.”

Drawings.

Of him.

James flipping pancakes. James asleep on the couch, a book on his chest. James laughing, face scrunched and eyes squeezed shut. They’re good—delicate strokes that capture moments with surprising clarity. Regulus had sketched him like he was trying to memorize him.

Notes scrawl the margins, soft and devastating.

He never remembers to take his shoes off but I don’t even care anymore.

I think I knew I loved him the moment he burned toast and blamed the toaster like it was personally attacking him.

I wish he could see himself the way I see him.

James presses his hand to his mouth.

Sirius, quiet now, peeks over his shoulder. “Okay, wow. Didn’t know he was this sappy. That’s disgusting.”

James laughs, but there’s a tremble to it. He traces one of the drawings with his fingertip.

Regulus had locked all of this away. Not hidden, not forgotten—but tucked safely somewhere just his.

His phone buzzes.

regulus [11:13 AM]: forgot to tell you—if you find the key, don’t open the book regulus [11:14 AM]: actually, do regulus [11:15 AM]: i was kind of hoping you would

James smiles. The kind that starts in the chest and pulls at his ribs until he’s full of it.

He grabs his phone and types back:

james [11:16 AM]: it’s too late. you’re busted. james [11:16 AM]: you’re obsessed with me james [11:16 AM]: i’m never letting you live this down

A pause. Then:

regulus [11:17 AM]: bring me coffee and i’ll allow one (1) teasing remark regulus [11:18 AM]: but i get to draw you again tonight. properly. from life.

James turns to Sirius. “You think Reg would let me pose dramatically on the couch like one of his French girls?”

Sirius stands up. “I’m leaving. You’re unbearable.”

James watches him go, diary clutched to his chest, smile soft and stupid and infinite.

[renku]

A Diary Confession

Asa's POV

8:03 P.M.

I blame this guy I met the other day for what secret I'll confess in these pages.

He's so fly. I can't stop thinking about him that it turned me on so much. As soon as I got home—not a soul is around, thankfully—I went straight to my room and locked myself.

I went straight onto my bed, still wearing my shirt and black skirt, along with my white long socks. Gosh, I hate myself for doing this again but I can't help it. Maybe it's my hormones acting up but it's driving me crazy.

AC was on and I was ready too. Ready for doing this thing again that might shock my parents. Never in their life that they would think I can do things like this. But, at this point, I don’t care.

I laid on my back, pulled my shirt up just right to expose my breasts with already hard nipples, starting to fondle them while I think about the man that I wish doing the job for me. I pinch both nips with my fingers, elicting soft moans, imagining how his lips are exploring my neck, going down to my shoulders, and then starts to suck my nipples. God! I moaned his name out loud just with the thought of it! I continue to fondle myself, savoring the sensation it gives.

I picture him whispering words, dirty, yet ones that I crave to hear. Words that will push all the right buttons in me to unleash my sluttiness. Yes, I'm willing to be his slut! What I'd give to have him right now. Fuck!

My left hand stayed on my left tit still doing its job, while the other starts to crawl its way down. Slowly. Taking its time to trace my curves thinking it's his that does it. I feel panties were getting wet just by the thought of it. In just the right time, my hand reached inside the waistband of my skirt, tracing the piece of undergarment that's already wet from my juices.

I placed my middle finger on top of the fabric to my sacred entrance, tracing its folds right on the middle. Up, down, up, down and again, repitition sending goosebumps in my body. Shit! I feel so hot! Add the fantasy that my dream guy is already topless with his fine body, doing this for me, hearing him ask 'Do you like this, baby girl?' in a sultry way, making me more horny than I am earlier, even thirstier to feel his presence on my body. The things—unholy things—we'd do to this perfect room of mine. Oh, fuck, fuck, yes!

Enjoying myself more would be absolutely good but I need to get off before my parents get back. My panties landed somewhere in the room. Will probably easy to find since my room is always clean.

Oh, to see how drenched my pussy was! Will he eat me out first? Play and suck it? Fantasizing things is far from what I'd experience first hand but that's where the fun lies. The unknown, the excitement of possibilities.

My two fingers already went inside, spreading my legs wide even more, letting the cold air brush against my cunt. Strokes and strokes made me writhe in pleasure, hitting my spots, while his name escapes my lips in such a lewd way that I wish it was his cock infiltrating my pussy, coating it with slick juices. Letting him feel how tight I am for him and him only. Moaning and screaming his name letting him know how I feel. Oh boy, he will sure know. He continues to feast on his prey, leaving his mark, making me his slut the moment his cock entered my cunt.

My digits upped the tempo and my thumb attacked my clit more. I feel it. That familiar sensation, but this time it will be stronger with him in my thoughts. My feet served as lever to lift my ass off the sheets.

Muffled moans, shorter breaths, distorted face of pleasure. I'm close. Oh, how I wish he's fucking my brains out. How I long to hear the words with his deep voice, 'Baby, I'm close, and I'm gonna fucking cum in you.' How beautiful and sinful is that?

With one last push, I came. And I didn't just cum, I squirted. Hard. My legs trembled in pleasure, my chest heaved, catching for air. My fingers stayed inside for a few seconds, extract any residue of pleasure before all of it went down. So good. A perfect night session of easing myself. Do I feel guilty? A bit, yes. But all of these will stay with me.

Now, I better clean myself and my room before my mother come barging in without knocking first.

I can't wait to see him again next week!

[tomriddlehyperfixataion]

Through time and space; you're mine- part 2.

Summary/requested; part 2 to the alt ending of 'the girl who shattered time'. (y/n) is sort've, lost, in this timeline where Tom never became the dark lord-but still made horcruxes, which were then 'born' to logically be with her in her era. and now; core Tom, or as he's now known, Voldemort, and his 'son' Thomas, want to see her.

she doesnt get a choice.

warnings; major age gap(like, 50ish years give or take for (y/n) and voldy/core Tom), unprotected sex, PinV sex, intentional baby trapping from all 3 Tom's, intense obsessive Tom's, read at own risk.

The girl who shattered time

Through time and space; you're mine.

=

Soon after ‘reuniting’ with Tom. She learns that ‘she’ and Tom had been dating for a long while. This timelines version of her had so many pictures of them together, hanging out every summer, him with her parents, her family, on dates.

It was cute, but also horrifying.

He’d planned it. He planned it all. Dating ‘her’ until she returned from the old timeline, just so it wasn’t strange when he suddenly began fixating on her, because to everyone-they’d already been dating for-what seemed like-four years at this point.

She swallowed harshly, closing the photo/scrapbook of ‘her’ and Tom’s relationship from this era. She jolted as a pair of arms wrapped around her, pulling her back into a warm chest. “they want to see you,” Tom murmured into her shoulder, his lashes pressed against her neck, breath ghosting on her skin.

“They?” (y/n) asks, her heart in her throat. She knew exactly who, they, were. Him. Voldemort, core Tom-the one she knew-and the other born horcrux, Tom’s “father”.

Tom hums in acknowledgment, nodding against her shoulder, he tugs her into his lap as he sits on the bed beside her-how’d he even get in her room? she thinks for a moment before she’s completely in his grip, closing her eyes as he kisses at her neck and jaw.

“Do I have a choice?” she asks, and he bites her earlobe.

“No.”

-July 1998-

(y/n) walked up to the grand manor that belonged to the minister of magic, hand in hand with Tom Riddle, or well-the version of him born from a diary just to be with her. She stopped up the stone pathway towards the manor, shaking. Tom moved to stand in front of her, cupping her cheek with his free hand, speaking softly.

“There's nothing to be afraid of darling, it’s just me, just us.” He murmured, brushing his thumb across her bottom lip, dipping down to kiss her for a moment and then he tugs her hand once-twice-then she moves, feeling like she was walking into an open bear trap.

Her breath feels caught in her lungs as Tom opens the grand door, pulling her inside. Its-nice-not as oppressive as one would envision but still, (y/n)’s scared, unconsciously moving closer to Tom as he guides her through the manor, the manor he and his ‘family’ lived in.

He guides her up the stairs in the main foyer, down one of the many corridors, and into a large sitting room-where the two older men were sitting. Voldemort, as he was called once more-the core Tom, the Tom she’d known-and his ‘son’, a horcrux, born to only give reason for the Tom holding her hand to be with her without anyone looking oddly at them.

The two older men look up and the oldest, Voldemort, the one she knew, is up on his feet in seconds, his gleaming scarlet-brown eyes locked onto her. He’s older, late 60’s, black wavy hair streaked with silver and far from the pale bald snake man she’d been terrified of in the original timeline.

He’s handsome, face lined with age and many other things she can't say or name right now.

She feels nailed to the spot as Voldemort, Tom, comes close to her. The one who had come with her to the manor steps away-allowing the core version of the three of them to stand before her. Voldemort stares down at her-he’s taller than she last saw him, probably the same height as the dark lord version of him. She looks up at him, shaking, her hands clutched at her side.

“No, do not be afraid,” Voldemort, Tom, coos, his hands cupping her face and brushing his thumbs over the curve of her cheeks. The fear in her eyes is familiar-the same fear he saw when he discovered she knew of his plans-who he planned to be. He hates it. “I may share the name of the dark lord from your time, but I only share the name-there are no death eaters, there is no war, no dark lord. Just, us.” Voldemort said with a slow smirk, and his ‘son’, also Tom, stands, making his way over to (y/n) and Voldemort.

“There's nothing to be afraid of anymore darling,” Tom, in his late 30s it seems, maybe early 40s, hums as he draws close, his hand fitting in the small of (y/n)’s back, drawing her close. Voldemort glares for only a moment, his hands still on (y/n)’s face. “the memories of what you experienced, everything that happened to you, will eventually fade.”

(y/n) knows he means to say that as a comfort, but it’s horrifying, she was eventually going to forget it all; forget the dark lords horrifying acts, forget what happened in her original time-even forget how and why she was standing before the three Tom’s at this very moment. Eventually her fear would fade because-why would she fear the minister for magic? Why would she fear his son, or grandson-why would she fear her boyfriend’s family?

She swallows harshly and Voldemort leans down to kiss her forehead, an achingly familiar gesture from the time she spent with him in the 40s. “come, let us make you comfortable my dear,” Voldemort murmurs, he and Tom, the older one, take her hands and pull her to sit on the couch-Voldemort sits in the love seat as the youngest Tom, the one her age-made from the diary-sits next to her-while older Tom sits on the other love seat beside the couch.

“You’re not…mad at me?” she finally asks, having also feared his-their reaction, when she left, he had been angry, heartbroken really. Voldemort only smirks as Tom, the older one, chuckles.

“I was, at first,” he says, stirring milk into his tea. “but age allows for one to look back and review, eventually; i understood why you left, why you were scared.” At this, older Tom stood up, sitting on (y/n)’s other side, cupping her face again, bringing her so close she could feel his breath on her face-smell his cologne and the tea he’d been drinking.

“But now you don’t have to be, there is no war, no dark lord. Just, us.” He murmurs, moving closer to her and before he can get way too close she flinches back, falling towards Tom-the one that’s her age. He wraps his arms around her, cooing softly as she shakes.

“It’s all right my love,” Tom chuckles, kissing her temple as he pulls her into his lap, his arm completely wrapping around her waist to keep her close-jealously clear in Voldemort’s and older Tom’s eyes. Older Tom’s hand wraps around her ankle, her feet in his lap now.

(y/n) doesn’t know what to think, or do. She’s trapped, trapped in a manor with three versions of Tom, one her age-that has her in his grip, the second old enough to be her father, who holds her legs in his lap, and the third staring at her, his gleaming scarlet brown eyes staring at her from the love seat, his fingers steepled under his chin.

She stills as older Tom’s thumb traces her fading scar from her uncle, her eyes snapping shut as his thumb goes over her eye. “It’s fading, good.” He murmurs and Tom-the one holding her-squeezes her tighter, burying his face in her neck and breathing deep.

“Wh-why?” (y/n) asks, swallowing harshly as she hears Voldemort speak. “Why stop your uncle from ever touching you? Why not? Why allow such a disgusting excuse of a pureblood to harm such precious life? Why allow him to even think about taking your mother for his own, or think about you in such a disgusting way.” Voldemort sneers, disgust clear in his voice. (y/n) feels chills down her spine and up to her heart. She never knew her uncle…thought about such things.

She had been told by a family friend, who really shouldn’t have told her at 12, that her uncle had attempted to blackmail her mother to marry him to make her pureblood again. Gross, but incest was quite…normal in pureblood families. At least back then.

To think her uncle possibly…when she was so young…it was horrifying and she shook, hands covering her mouth as she stared off at nothing. Voldemort stands and joins his younger horcrux selves on the couch, cupping her face in his hands. “it is all right dear,” he coos, kissing her head. “he’s gone now. He never hurt you, and soon this conversation will fade too.”

(y/n) jolts at the very thought-how much was she going to forget? Would everything she was experiencing now fade? Turn her into something, someone, she was not? “I don’t want to forget-I don’t want to-“ she babbled and Voldemort shushed her again, wiping her tears with his thumb.

“shhh shh my love, it’ll be okay, some day this will all be a forgotten dream, you’re core self will not change, only memories will.” He said in a soft tone, then he scoops her up from Tom’s lap. She lets out a choked yelp her arms automatically wrapping around Voldemort’s neck as he carries her through the halls of the manor, the younger Tom’s following very close behind.

Voldemort enters a well-lit room, the curtains open to let sunlight in, it’s aesthetically different from the rest of the manor, lighter blues and whites, golds and bronzes with a large rug spanning the floor and a very large bed with a white-grey canopy and a chaise lounge at the end with a throw blanket tossed over it.

Voldemort lays her on the bed, older Tom takes off her shoes and the youngest-the Tom her age, kneels on the lounge at the end of the large bed, resting his elbows on the end of the bed, staring at her. “Rest for now, allow yourself to come to terms with your new reality,” Voldemort hummed, brushing her hair back-her fading scar visible.

He kisses her forehead, older Tom kisses her cheek, and Tom crawls up to kiss her fully, kissing her quickly once more before all three leave the room.

She waits for a few minutes, breathing quickly before she throws off the heavy, comfortable, quilt and rushing to the large window-but it’s charmed shut and she’s still underage-and if she tried to uncharm it-it would no doubt alert Voldemort. The door is locked as well-the bathroom window as well-but that was too small for her to fit in.

She feels lost-trapped-she sobs and crawls back onto the bed-the room was clearly meant for her. It’s not his style, it’s blue like her Hogwarts house and full of comfortable items that only she would’ve picked out.

And what sucks no one knows she’s trapped.

According to everyone else, which was once true, she was here willingly. Happily. Because this timelines version of her had spent the last four summers in this manor, which is this room has her clothes, her favorite shampoos, her preferred toothpaste.

She curls up on the bed, feeling lost.

-

She leaves the room later-the door unlocks for her, it must’ve been charmed to not let her escape-but allows her to leave when she doesn’t plan to escape. She goes down the hall, shoes left in “her” room. She explores. Theres a massive library, the garden is huge too, she finds several lounges and the other bedrooms, all three rooms open a tad-as if inviting her inside but she doesn’t.

She roams more, finding a sunroom, where a large snake was resting in the summer sun-she does not bother this snake.

She also finds a dining room, an actual ballroom,  a music room, there's an astronomy tower, of course; a kitchen, and then a very fancy bathroom meant for guests.

Finally, she comes upon a study that’s near the astronomy tower. Voldemort’s there-the door opened just enough for her to see him and she attempts to go by but the door opens completely, his eyes on her. “do not be afraid love,” he coos, gesturing her inside.

She glances down the hallway, and steps into the study, standing in the doorway for a long minute. Voldemort smiles softly, setting down a ministry-stamped stack of papers, turning his chair-summoning her towards him. Her feet feel like they move on her own and then she’s in front of him.

She stares at him as he takes her hands, rubbing his thumb across her knuckles. Her vision flickers in her mind, Tom-the one she knew in the 40’s, appears before her for a split second-that stupid handsome smile on his face. Voldemort flickers back into her vision and she pulls her hands out of his, holding them to her chest.

His brows furrow, he looks hurt.

He makes himself seem, smaller, curling his shoulders in as he leans towards her, looking up at her. “I’m sorry I scared you,” he whispers, his hands now on her hips-one drawing down to her thigh. Her brows furrow. “the day you left, I scared you; again. That wasn’t my…goal.” He swallows, drawing his eyes down, then closing them-leaning forward to press his forehead against her stomach. “I, did, mean what I said. You’re mine.” He whispers, (y/n) tenses, and then she’s pulled into Voldemort’s lap and his lips smash into hers-her eyes snap shut.

Disgust should be what she feels. It isn’t.

She hesitates yes, but she doesn’t feel like she should smack him and run-no, she…lets him tug her closer, his lips move against hers, tongue on her bottom lip-its reminiscent of their first kiss, in the restricted section-Voldemort-Tom-tastes cold and feels warm, she smells sharp cologne-a scent that hadn’t changed in the 50 years it had been since he’d last seen her.

Her hands shake as she lifts them up-and then rests them on Voldemort’s shoulders, he hums-pleased, and tugs her closer to him, his arms wrapping around her completely; pulling her even closer, her body completely snug against his as their lips move together.

“My love,” he purrs as he pulls away, lips already red-peppering kisses down her jaw-she lets out a soft sound, tilting her head back-it’s an automatic thing, something she now did out of reflex when he kissed her like this. “never be afraid of me again, please, I, none of us, would ever hurt you.” he whispered against the hollow of her throat.

She knows he isn’t lying.

She swallows harshly, clinging tight to his shoulders, creasing the fabric of his ironed button-up. “Swear it?” she whispers, looking down at him and he smiles, resting his chin on her chest, looking up at her.

“I’d make the unbreakable vow,” he whispers and she bites her lip, she’s unsure still-she’s still nervous and scared. He leans up and kisses her gently, his hands moving up-pressing against the small of her back-the other between her shoulders.

She kisses back.

It feels, very odd, deep down. Yes, this is the Tom she knew when she time-traveled into the 40s, the one she dated, the one she discovered was the young Voldemort. But now he’s in his 60’s, still handsome, but old enough to be her grandfather.

He deepens the kiss and all thoughts go out the window, especially with the way his hips roll up against her, the fabric of his trousers catching against the fabric of her underwear-she’d worn a skirt for once. She gasps into the kiss and his tongue invades her mouth-somehow he’s even better at kissing then he was “50” years ago.

She’s lifted up and put on the desk, a flick of his hand make papers and other desk objects fly off and go into their proper places when not being used. She gasps again as he leans over her, pressing her down against the desk, standing between her legs, rolling his hips against her again.

She shudders, gasping for breath as he kisses and nips at her jaw and neck, his hands drawing up to the top button of her shirt-starting to undo it but stops, breathing deep. “Not yet.” He murmurs, looking down at her with dark lustful eyes, taking in her disheveled state. “not yet.” He murmurs again, kissing her forehead and sitting her up, helping her off the desk.

She furrows her brows, panting and then shuddering as he kisses her gently, easing her down from her ruffled state. “What?” she asks, confused. He chuckles lowly, smirking. “you’re underage darling, and while I’m confident no one but, well, me, would catch me fucking you,” she shudders at the way he says it, his smirk widens. “I want you to be fully ready for it, I want you to be completely sure of it, and legal.” He adds, almost as an afterthought. He kisses her cheek and sends her off with a gentle pat on her butt. “Go, the one your age should be in his room.”

(y/n)’s face flushes and she leaves the study, going back down the hall towards the bedrooms, looking through the open doors till she finds Tom, sitting on his bed with his back towards the door, a book in his lap. He’s dressed casually, wearing plain green sweater with the sleeves rolled up, a white button up beneath it, and black trousers; his hair free of gel or any sort of hair products, so it’s loose and wavy, his bangs falling into his eyes so he keeps brushing them out of his face, huffing each time.

(y/n) stepped into his room, the door creaking. He perked up and turned, smirking at her, patting his bed to invite her closer. “Good evening love,” Tom purred, his smirk widening as she comes closer, willingly. “How are you feeling?” he asks, genuinely, but he needed to know if she had calmed down, accepted her new reality.

(y/n) bit her lip, her brows furrowing a bit before sitting next to him. Tom wraps his arm around her, book discarded as he pulls her closer, resting his chin on her shoulder. “i…” she swallowed harshly, biting her inner lip before sighing, rubbing her face. “I don’t know, it’s all so confusing.” She admits and Tom hums, pulling her into his lap and she lets him, turning to hide away in his arms.

She lets herself believe for a moment, that she’s back in the 40s with him, before she found out about who he truly was, that they’re alone in the common room, wrapped up in each others arms, enjoying the fire.

For a moment, she lets go of her fear and anxiety.

-

(y/n) thinks quite a lot through the next two weeks she stays at the manor, about her morals, her beliefs, the past, the present, how things changed, what didn’t change.

Finally, she comes to terms with it all.

There was no Voldemort. Not the dark lord anyway, yes he still killed people to create his horcruxes, but with the…strange promise that he hadn’t killed any…innocents to create the Diary and Ring that made up the two Tom’s.

There was no war, no death eaters, no insane blood purity politics. There was no boy who lived-only Harry Potter, a normal boy with no lightning scar with loving parents.

Things were okay, changed yes, but okay. She…did not need to feel guilty about it all, she didn’t need to fear him, them, at all. She had told him that she could not love ‘him’, Voldemort the dark lord. So he wasn’t one, he was Voldemort the minister for magic, with two “son’s”, Thomas, and Tom.

She could…relax, accept it, he’d changed, for her. He was intense, possessive of her, obsessive even, all three of them were but…they loved her.

She walked into the sitting room where all three of them were, Tom looks up at her right away, attention instantly off the book he’d been reading, Thomas and Voldemort look at her next, wondering what she needed.

She walks further into the room, sits right next to Tom, and curls into him. He smiles and wraps his arms around her, holding her close-Voldemort and Thomas watch, jealous but curious-she’d yet to do something like this-to purposefully seek them out.

“I’m okay with this,” she admits quietly and she feels Tom smile against her cheek, the others lean closer-hoping she meant what they thought she meant. “with…all this, you three, me, us.” (y/n) says, stumbling through her words slightly and Thomas takes her from Tom’s side-Tom complains audibly but Thomas already has (y/n) in his lap, kissing her cheek.

“Are you sure love?” Voldemort asks, kneeling in front of her, taking her hands gently. (y/n) nods, her cheeks flushed. “I wasn’t for a while, but…I am now. Theres no war, no dark lord, and…you stopped my uncle from hurting me, stopped him from hurting my parents i…I suppose I can't argue that it’s all wrong, when-even if its selfish-you guys did the…right thing,” she admits and Voldemort leans up to kiss her gently, she kisses back, Thomas making a sound from behind her-he hadn’t gotten to kiss her at all yet.

That night, she goes to bed with Tom holding her, his arms tight around her as his face presses against the back of her neck, breathing softly against her skin. For the first night since getting back to the present, she sleeps soundly.

-

Her birthday comes up right before summer break ends, her parents are there at the manor for her birthday party hosted by the Riddle family-she learns this is an annual thing, ever since ‘she’ and Tom had started dating and gotten serious.

Deep down she does find it a bit odd her parents are so, okay with her just-spending a whole summer at this manor filled with men-one of which being her official boyfriend, but she figures Voldemort probably did some manipulation and while she feels uncomfortable with the idea, she knows she cant do anything about it.

She gets presents, like a well-tailored suit just for her-since she wasn’t much of a dress girl- from her parents, a necklace from Tom, a book from Thomas, and earrings from Voldemort. Her parents are non-the wiser to anything going on beyond what is shown to them, so when they leave the manor-without (y/n), she’s drawn into Voldemort’s bedroom by all three Tom’s.

“Come here darling, I think its time we show you just how much you’re adored.” Voldemort purred, sitting on the bed on his knees, and she swallows harshly, climbing onto the bed as Thomas and Tom climb on with her-watching her with sharp eyes filled with desire, all for her. “just thinking of it as a birthday present, from all three of us,” Thomas purrs from her left.

She’s sure she’s blushing heavily, closing her eyes as Voldemort’s hands cradle her face gently, lips beginning to trail from up her neck to her jaw, and then to her lips. His lips press against hers and she kisses back-letting out a small yelp as she’s tugged to lay down on the bed, all three hovering over her-Tom’s hands are on her legs, Thomas holds her waist, and Voldemort’s hands are still on her face-still kissing her.

Tom takes her shoes off while Thomas undid her pants and shirt, Voldemort’s hands thread through her hair and then he takes off her bra, smirking against her cheek as Thomas begins to fondle her breasts-making her gasp-and then he softly kisses her breast, then her nipple-taking the hardening bud into his mouth and swirling his tongue around it, his other hand fondling her breast.

Her hips lift as Tom slots himself between her legs, leaving soft kisses on her thighs, his fingers dipping beneath the fabric of her panties, slowly pulling them down to reveal her cunt. “beautiful,” he groaned, his eyes fluttering as he leaned in, kissing her clit and then circling his tongue around it-smirking at the way her hips jumped in response.

Tom spreads her thighs wider, burying his face in her cunt and lapping at her while Voldemort nipped at her jaw, leaving marks all along her neck and jaw before kissing her again, his hands in her hair.

(y/n) could hardly handle it all, gasping and moaning as the three lavished her with sensual attention, her breath catching as Tom sucked at her clit, his fingers pushing inside her to prepare her and bring her closer to orgasm. “shit-“ she gasped aloud when Voldemort sucked on her pulse point. “that’s it love-give it to us,” Voldemort purred in her ear and she let out a long whining cry, feeling it crash over her in an electric wave-her hips bucking down against Tom’s mouth as he helps her through it.

Soon she was twisted around, legs hooked around Voldemort’s-the other two complain-they wanted to be her first but Voldemort quiets them. “silence. I’ve waited much longer for this than either of you,” he hisses, in parseltongue so (y/n) didn’t understand anything but watched as Tom and Thomas sink back, huffing as they crowd around her upper body, Tom holds her hand as Thomas caresses her collarbone with his fingers, trailing up to her face to gently trace her fingers.

She looks up-Voldemort leans close, kissing her softly as his cock presses to her virgin entrance, and then he’s pushing inside-she can feel every inch-making her gasp into his mouth as he slowly rocks inside her till he’s completely inside.

It’s not painful, just new and vaguely uncomfortable, but he stills when completely inside, kissing her cheeks to ease her tension as Tom kisses her knuckles, Thomas rubs her thigh, moving his hand to rub her clit slowly to ease her further. “any pain?” Voldemort asks her, massaging her hips as she shifts, letting out a small quick breath as she shakes her head.

“You-you can move,” she murmured, gasping as Voldemort pulled out slowly, and then slowly pushed back inside, doing that slow rhythm over and over again-watching as she gasped and moaned softly, clutching Tom’s hand as he kissed her forehead, his other hand holding her waist as Thomas watched, one hand on her thigh as his other hand strokes himself, the three watching her enjoy the pleasure-a vision they’d waited years to see. Especially Voldemort, who couldn’t believe he was finally feeling her tight warmth after so long, he wanted to pound her into the bed, to make her go dumb and cry out in pleasure-to hear his name on her lips, but he didn’t want to scare her, so he went slow.

“F-f-aster-please.” (y/n) moaned softly and Voldemort groaned lowly, he’d been waiting to hear that-leaning over her to fuck into her a bit faster, the sound of his hips smacking her inner thighs getting louder as gets a bit rougher-smirking when (y/n)’s moans got louder, a low whine escaping her as Thomas rubs her clit while Tom kisses her cheek, so many sensations at once that she can’t focus.

Voldemort pushes her knees towards her chest, a perfect position he thinks, watching her body bounce and his cock disappear inside her-no protection-biting his lip as she whines and moans, the wet sound of her pussy accepting his cock such an intoxicating sound that he never wants to stop fucking her.

“You like it darling? Do you like my cock inside you?” Voldemort purred, leaning over her, pinning her down with his hands and hips, pressing fully into her, grinding his hips against her-hitting that sensitive part inside her that made her gasp and writhe. “you don’t know how long I’ve dreamed of this my love, of being deep inside you, so close to you-with no barriers between us. I could get you pregnant right now-bound you to us for eternity.” Voldemort murmured, the other two groaning at the very thought while (y/n) tried to catch her breath, not even paying attention to his words, her brain too fuzzy to focus on anything but the tip of his cock against her inner sweet spot.

Voldemort smirked at her face, leaning down to kiss her as he rocked his hips again, fucking her deep and fast, making her moan and whine as he kept hitting that inner sweet spot again and again. Her breath got faster, her body writhing as she felt her orgasm approach again-this time harder, quicker. “i-i-im gonna-ah!” (y/n) moaned, Voldemort consuming her voice as he kissed her, swirling her tongue with his as he angled his cock right into her sweet spot, smirking as she clenched tightly around him-cumming hard.

He let out a low groan, shuddering as he came, spurts of cum filling her as he thrust a few more times, biting his lip as he pulled out, watching as it dripped out of her. “my turn,” Thomas murmured, grabbing her waist and twisting her around, laying her down on her stomach and kissing her shoulders down to her waist, putting her hips beneath a pillow as he kicked off his trousers. “you ready darling?” Thomas purred against her shoulder and (y/n) let out a small whine, Tom moving to lay her head in his lap, she looked up at him-closing her eyes as he leaned down to kiss her.

She gasped as Thomas pushed into her, sliding in easily with a groan. “fucking-perfect cunt.” Thomas moaned, his head falling between his shoulders as he gripped (y/n)’s hips, moving one hand to her lower back as his hips began to fuck into her, smirking at the sound of his hips meeting her plush ass. “that feel good darling?”

(y/n) twitched and moaned, panting hard as she already felt her 3rd orgasm rising-still on the high from her last one, her hips bucking back into Thomas as he pulled her hips higher to get deeper inside her, letting out low grunts and moans as he watched his cock disappear into her cum slicked pussy.

He leaned down, wrapping his arms around her waist and putting a hand on her neck-tugging her up against him, making her bounce as he fucked up into her, grinning against her neck as her moans reached a new pitch-her eyes clenched shut as she felt him roll into her just right and she shuddered, clenching tight around his cock as he bucked his hips up-hitting that spot inside her again and again till she came hard, letting out a hoarse moan as he bit her shoulder, thrusting into her twice more before cumming deep inside her.

(y/n) let out a weak groan, shivering as Tom took her in his arms-pulling her off of Thomas-she shuddered as he slid out of her, his cum running down her thigh. “You okay love?” Tom murmured against her cheek as she slumped against him, she breathed heavily and then nodded after a few moments, letting out a harsh breath as his cock pressed against her, sliding up and down the length of her pussy before pushing inside, sitting her down on his hips, her body arching back as his arms wrapped around her, his lips pressing to her neck. “Just let me do the work darling,” Tom purred against her throat, thrusting up into her-the sound of his cock pushing into her cum filled pussy making a loud noise that echoed in her ears-making her whine as he began; slow and easy.

He watched her face as he rolled his hips up, his mouth opening at the feeling of her tight warm cunt around him-the feeling of cum only making her wetter for him, making it so easy to slide in and out. “You feel heavenly love,” Tom groaned, kissing her neck as Thomas and Voldemort got closer, Voldemort kissing her upper waist as Thomas rubbed her shoulders, pressing his lips to her nape. “So good, made just for us, for me.”

(y/n) let out a sharp pant, her head falling forward as Tom’s hips began to move faster, his hands finding her hips to help her bounce on his cock, her belly tightened and she clenched around his cock, making both of them moan as his hips bucked-hitting that spot inside her again, making her squirm. “Too much darling? Cumming so many times-with all three of us fucking you?” Voldemort cooed against her ear, massaging her breasts, Thomas’ hand moving to cup her lower belly.

“So much of our seed inside you, it’s bound to take, you’ll be ours-forever, giving the Riddle family a proper heir.” Thomas said in a low groan, (y/n) too far gone to listen. Tom brought her closer, nosing her head to turn it so he could kiss her properly, swallowing her moans as he rolled his hips just right, smirking against her lips as she shuddered and let out a harsh breath-her brows furrowed as her 4th orgasm came rushing up and she bucked away from Tom.

“T-too much-s’too much-“ she moaned, putting her hands on Tom’s shoulders as that coil in her gut tightened again, this one more intense and she tried to escape it-Tom wouldn’t let her, kissing her jaw as Thomas reached around to rub her clit, smirking as she let out a small shriek. “-ahh-hahh!!”

“Let go love-cum on my cock-let me fill you up again,” Tom groaned against her neck, smirking as she writhed and bucked against the feeling-before her body tensed and she came hard-moaning weakly as he pinned her to the bed, thrusting inside her quickly until he came inside her.

“Good girl,” Voldemort purred, leaning down to kiss her forehead as her vision faded in and out, before it all went blissfully quiet.

-end-

[adult-kinda]

#NeedThat

Warnings: idol! Sunghoon, gf! Fem Reader, suggestive, smut references, yeah this is obviously based on his Weverse post

In which you are down bad for Sunghoon…

You were pretty discreet. The guys thought you and Sunghoon made a great couple because you matched each other’s energies. Most of the time he read your mind so you never had to say too much. But online you were different.

So maybe you weren’t the most discreet behind the wall of pixels. Your comments under Weverse posts and TikToks were no-holds-bar. Like any other thirsty engene your comments held some random fantasies and thought that were probably best in a diary somewhere, with a lock. And the worst part, Sunghoon finally caught on.

It was a really good gym day. Him and Jay hit arms together and the pump was solid. The dopamine was high and his muscles were looking pretty good. So of course he thought to casually post a mirror pic flexing a bit. Why not? Engenes would love it and it boosted his ego just enough.

He posted and casually scrolled through comments. For the most part the comments were pretty standard; the typical “marry me Sunghoon” and “oml so fineee” as well as other comments with entirely too many vowels added to the words. Nothing stood out all the comments were the typical cute and thirst comments.

Then he came across the account Hoonie’sWifey111703. It caught him off guard because that was your birthday. Of course you would have a Weverse account, but surely this could be anyone. Sunghoon couldn’t have just casually found your account amongst the millions of fans. So he did some research while in the car heading to your place. And boom, on Engene selca day there was your photo. Bingo. Sunghoon smirked when he scrolled through your comments. Yeah, he was gonna get real annoying.

The moment the door opened you smiled. You were so excited for Sunghoon to come back from gym because you were craving affection from him. Oh your poor oblivious mind.

“Hi Hoonie!” You greeted with a smile.

Sunghoon held that smug little smile and walked over to plant a kiss on your forehead. “Hi baby.”

“How was your workout?”

“Oh nothing crazy.” He started as he went over to the kitchen. “Lift was good and everything. I posted on Weverse.”

You nodded and bit your lip thinking about the post. “I saw.”

“I know.”

That made you turn around from the couch to look at him. You were confused. What did he mean by saying that he knows?

“Hm?” You questioned.

Sunghoon smirked and looked at you from the kitchen island. “Yeah, I saw a couple of interesting comments on my posts. Stuff like ‘I’m talking ‘bout in it’ and ‘raw next question.’ You know anything about that?”

You blushed red. There was no way he found your account out of all the fans he has. Even though your face gave it away you shook your head no.

Sunghoon chuckled and took out his phone. “See I thought you’d say that. So I took some screenshots of these comments. Let’s read them, yeah?”

“Hoonie you don’t-“No let’s look at them together! Since it’s not you this should be whatever.” He said as he walked over to sit with you on the couch.

“Let’s see, we have ‘until the gynecologist knows it’s him,’ very creative by the way. Then there’s ’Niagara Falls in my pants rn.’ This one’s from a few months ago, it says ‘Tiffany is nothing compared to this necklace’ that one might be my favorite.”

You shoved him and Sunghoon just laughed. You were so flustered. Never in your years of dating Sunghoon did you think he would’ve found your account. Yet here you were sitting on your shared couch while your idol boyfriend read off your thirsty ass comments.

“Enough!” You shouted.

Sunghoon rolled his eyes and kissed your cheek. “Why’re you so embarrassed? Of course you’d have an account nothing to be embarrassed about.”

You huffed and crossed your arms ignoring the feeling between your legs. “Boy leave me alone. How’d you even know it’s me?”

“The username has your birthday and you posted of selfie day. And I’m flattered that you’re so public about being my wifey!” He said with a smile.

If the universe would just listen and open up the ground for you! This is the prime moment to just sink into the earth’s core. The last thing you needed in your world was your boyfriend noticing your comments on his various Weverse posts.

“You know which one is my recent favorite?” He asked.

You looked at him with those eyes that screamed I’m annoyed get tf away from me. But that didn’t sway the idol.

“You commented #NeedThat. Do you need it, baby?” He teased.

You pursed your lips and turned away from him. But Sunghoon wasn’t having it.

“Nuh-uh. You don’t get to be shy now, baby. You were so open and nasty in those comments, what changed?”

Sunghoon brought an arm around your waist and kissed down your jawline and neck.

“Don’t know why you waste your time on those comments anyway. You’ve got the real thing right here. You need that? Well I’m right here. Take it.”

His words were impacting you more than you’d like to admit. But even if you didn’t say anything your body was going to. Those legs Sunghoon loved so much started to part subtly and your breathing pattern was off. He smirked knowing what he was doing to you.

“Come on baby. Admit it was you and I’ll do anything you want. I’ll make my hands a necklace for you. I’ll put you in that headlock you want so badly. Hell I’ll make you cum so hard your doctors will know exactly who you belong to.” Sunghoon teased as his lips created hickeys all over your neck.

You let out a frustrated huff and nodded. “Yes it’s me! Damn it Sunghoon take me to the bedroom!”

He chuckled and stood up. Sunghoon tossed you over his shoulder like you weighed nothing as you giggled your way to the shared bedroom.

Yes Sunghoon was an idol. He had fans around the globe and of course his comments were going to be thirsty. But you? He was going to make sure you had no need to leave comments ever again. You got the real thing every day, all you had to do was ask and take it.

[cipheralucardd]

The Clan Head's favourite Maid

Summary: I wrote this in class during school, while my bestie/co-writer Kelly was talking about Vampire diaries, so it gave me a bit of an idea. This is basically a shit post so idk if y'all want me to continue this lol

Yandere!Clan head Gojo, who just became clan leader, the responsibilities of his new title now bearing extra weight on his back besides being a sorcerer.

Yandere!Clan head Gojo, who needs something new, something exciting & you were just that thing...

Gojo sat in his bedroom, laying on the silk futon pondering on his new responsibilities.

He was the Gojo clan's new head now, which meant he had to handle almost all the affairs...what a bore. He sighed at that, fiddling with his black cotton blindfold that covered his eyes, either out of irritation, or boredom, there was no telling honestly.

He was about to do something, which he now forgotten when one of the servants opened the door.

Her head was bowed, “ Gojo-san, you're needed downstairs. ” he just looked at her before sighing, “ Tell them I'm coming. ”

She nodded, before scurring off like a little mouse. He kept quiet & just exited his room, walking down the hallways that were marvellously decorated, from paintings to sculptures, to doors that led to other rooms.

It was vast, yet lonely.

He opened the large door to the main living room, his family members sitting & chatting as if nothing.

“ Satoru, there you are! ” his father grinned, his mother gave him a soft smile. “ Come on in dear, we want you to meet someone. ”

Oh great, they probably had a suitor for him already...it didn't even make a week yet since he became clan head.

He just quietly entered, looking at the girl that sat on the couch across from his parents.

She was fairly smaller than him in height, with [color] locks that feel slightly over her face. He stared at her with intrigue.

“ Who's this? ” he asked calmly, still standing. “ This is [Y/N] your personal servant. ” his father answered.

“ It's...nice to meet you, Mr. Gojo ” she muttered softly.

His sotic expression then crept to a cocky smirk, “ Nice to meet you too sweetheart...” he answered, sitting on the couch.

This was gonna be fun...

Yandere!Clan head Gojo, who from the moment he laid eyes on your shy, reserved figure, he knew he needed you as more than a personal Maid.

Yandere!Clan head Gojo, who immediately clings onto you like a child when you get comfortable being his servant. Where ever you are, he's sure to follow like a lost puppy.

Cleaning the kitchen? He's sitting on the chair by the kitchen island staring at you.

“ Can't you let another maid do this~? ” he whined with a huff.

“ Sir, aren't you supposed to be doing something else, besides annoying me? ” you asked him. He feigned hurt, putting a hand over his chest like the dramatic little shit he was. “ I'm annoying? ” he gasped.

“ Yes, very, now leave...” you told him.

He just pouted, but didn't move an inch.

Yandere!Clan head Gojo, who always leaves expensive trinkets & little gifts around the estate for you. You always picked them up, but never exactly wore them, which, pissed him off a bit

Yandere!Clan head Gojo, who would get irritated whenever a male servant talked to you. Why're you talking with him?? Is he not good enough? He's definitely more handsome than that plain ass bastard...

Yandere!Clan head Gojo, who fantasises about all sorts of hints when it comes to you, touching you, claiming you as his. He just can't get enough of you at all.

Yandere!Clan head Gojo, who would go to any & all lengths to make sure you're his, even if it means ignoring his duties...

Tags!: @braindeadgrl

[gladiatorcunt]

patrick probably whines when you bounce on his cock.

cw: 18+ mdni, au of the ending where patrick wins (no infidelity btw, he and tashi never did anything), implied drug use, car sex mention, riding, afab reader, reader is naked/patrick is fully clothed, lowkey gross & nasty, breeding kink (i’m ovulating rn), unprotected p in v sex, slight degradation, unedited

You’re just so proud of your boyfriend, you can’t help but jump his bones immediately. You see Patrick running towards after his match, and you race to vault yourself into his arms. He laughs wholeheartedly and spins you around, partly happy because you seem to be so happy for him. He’s still in a state of shock, to be honest. Everything was leading up to Art cementing his place in his career, but Patrick had managed to beat him in the end. No one could believe it, Patrick’s hope had been almost completely gone by that point. But he did it, and maybe now he can leave behind the needles and scrimping pennies.

He still hasn’t processed anything, but your lips and giggles are too good to ignore. You gasp as he picks you up by gripping onto your thighs and hoisting your legs around his waist. You rock your clothed core against his abs for a second, in dire need of a little friction. Patrick makes the kiss messy, pushing more of his spit into the intense lip locking. He flicks away the string of saliva that connects your lips when he ducks back to look at you. You grin, eyes wide and cheeks blazing with heat. It’s a stupid decision, but you throw your body weight around to get Patrick to fall onto the bed with you.

“Fuck!” He shouts, darting his hands around the back of your head and digging his knees into the mattress so he doesn’t fall out. “Couldn’t have waited a little bit, are you a greedy whore all of a sudden?”

You shrug, “Maybe, but you’d like it if I was. Now come here, we have to celebrate.”

With that, you leg your legs fall open and put on your most convincing pout, beckoning your boyfriend to get a move on already. Seeing him sweat in those slutty shorts and hearing him grunt whenever he hit the ball really gets you going, something that you didn’t think was possible until you got an athlete boyfriend. It’s a competition to find out who can be the most insanely horny in the relationship at this point, and if Patrick ever got a hold of your diary, he’d agree that you win by a landslide.

Patrick latches onto your shoulders and spins to lie flat on his back with you on top of him. You adjust your position, jostling your hips until you’re positioned right over his hard bulge. You’re too busy getting lost in a flurry of clothes as you both kind of awkwardly undress on the bed, but eventually his pants are pulled down enough for his cock to spring free while you’re fully naked. You look like a porn star to him, teasingly swiveling your hips in the most seductive way possible.

He smirks and throws his arms behind his head, “I thought you were supposed to be my prize, what happened to making me feel like a winner?”

You bite you rlip, digging your nails into his pecs, “It’s not my fault you’re too keyed up to not cum immediately, savoring this is possible, you know?”

Patrick rolls his eyes and smiles, not picking a fight with you on that. Sometimes you like to get yourself worked up too, with his thick cock gliding in between your folds and mixing your juices together.

You lift your ass and throw a certain look towards him, and he tries not to be too smug as he wraps a large hand around the base of his hard cock. He holds the rigid length upright so all you have to do is hover over it and plop yourself right down on it. He doesn’t pump himself while he waits, he wanted to fuck before the match but you wouldn’t let him. You said it’d be better for him to have all this energy stored up.

You get restless and start to sink down on his cock, the stretch always takes some breath out of you but you were the one that decided to wait until now. Once he’s bottomed out, you’ve given up on teasing him until he breaks you entirely. You lift your hips until the tip of his dick catches on your hole and then slam down, starting off with a realsitically unattainable fast pace.

His fingers dig into the fat of your bouncing ass cheeks, “You’re inflating my ego too much, making me feel like a big shot getting fresh pussy in his hotel room.”

You moan, keeping eye contact as you fuck him into the mattress, “You- You are a big shot, babe. Shit- Just lie back and relax…”

The smell permeating in the room is already so pungent. Patrick’s natural musk intertwining with your own, if anyone else walked in they might faint, but to you two, you could cum from the scent of your sex by now. Being the same kind of freak in that regard brought you both so much closer if anything. You grind your pubes down against his, clenching on his dick on purpose. The friction is delicious for your clit, so you do it again.

He throws his head back, reaching up to curl one of his hands around your throat as you ride him, “Uh huh, that’s my dirty slut, so wet and tight for me.”

His words trail off into a squeaky whine as you speed up, truthfully losing stamina a bit but still determined to celebrate your boyfriend properly. You lean to press your sweaty tits right up against his own, and you whisper in his ear about this being a repeating occurrence.

“Maybe someday we’ll have a baby to put to bed first before we can do this, get them to wave at you from the stands and then pass them off to you when we’d see you after you win.” You lick the shell of his ear as you speed up, ignoring the embarrassing wet smacks of your slick ass against his hip bone. “Wouldn’t it be cute, me with a chubby baby on my hip that looks like you and another one already in my belly?”

“You’re a fuckin’ demon, i swear.” Patrick moans, giving you little whines here and there when you seem to really hit the spot. “Yeah, it’d be cute.”

What better way to celebrate than by having a baby?

He pulls you down by your neck to french kiss you, his tongue twisting around yours. The sheets are soaked by now and you don’t want to even imagine what the staff who have to clean his room will find. Random bits of fluid and the stench of sex heavy in the air, you’ll have to remember to leave some cash for a tip to ease your conscience.

You tighten your walls around him in short bursts until he’s clawing at your ass and smacking it extremely hard as he cums inside you. The stinging is a pleasant catalyst for your own orgasm soon after. You can’t wait to see how dirty you get his car seats.

[yanderetheumbrellaacademy]

Five in a time line where reader doesn't know him? Kind of like Klaus and what's his faces relationship???????

YESSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS Haven't written this in ages

He doesn't take it well at all

He's never loved someone the way he loves you, so when he does go into a time line where you've never even met him, he freaks out internally

Though, then he starts to think that maybe this is a good thing

He knows everything about you. Your likes, dislikes, embarrassing memories, insecurities, hobbies, etc [I think you get my point]

^ He can use this knowledge and use it to make himself seem like the perfect guy/boyfriend

While you did like him in his timeline, there were moments where he wasn't the best boyfriend, but now he has a second chance

He'll 'accidentally' run into you and see you holding a book/sketchbook/notebook/journal [Whatever your interest is] and he'll pick it up before being like "Oh, you like ____? I like it, too. I can never find anyone else who likes _____"

He knows you're shy and easily scared/introverted, so he knows this is a hit or miss, but thankfully you take it really well. You were excited someone shared the same interest as you. You start babbling about it, while asking if he wanted to get a drink or food

He's quick to take up the offer. He didn't want to waste a second with you

You do think he moves incredibly fast. You never had a guy like him show such an interest in you, so you're taken aback by his enthusiasm

He doesn't want to scare you, but he can't help himself

He does begin to scare you when you realize he knows everything about you

He doesn't tell you about his powers, until you start to avoid him in fear

You're surprised when he appears in your room, going through your drawers, before tossing you your journal/diary

"You should put a lock on that"

"How- What are you- How did you get into my room?"

He sits on your bed, ignoring you

"Hello? Five?"

He looks at you, holding one of your stuff animals in his hands. If you had known he would sneak in your room, you probably would have hidden that.

"Why have you been avoiding me?"

"What?"

He gets off the bed, stepping closer to you, until your back hits the wall. He throws the stuff animal over his shoulder, before making direct eye contact with you. "Why. Are. You. Avoiding. Me?"

"I-I-I ha-haven't be-been doing that- Avoiding you I mean-" You stutter over your words, causing him to deeply frown

"Don't patronize me. I'm not fucking stupid."

"I've been busy," You quickly lie, mentally applauding yourself for coming up with that so quickly

"Doing what?" Five humored you, deciding he'd try and let you defend yourself. Maybe you weren't avoiding him. Maybe he was being paranoid

"Things?"

He groans, looking away from you, annoyed. Why were you really avoiding him? He thought things were going great? But apparently he was wrong...

What he didn't realize is that he was coming on to strong

There was silence in the room and you were scared, because he still hasn't said anything and he's not looking at you

Finally, after what feels like eternity, he speaks

"Can I tell you something-Well, let me showing something."

You were a little confused, but he pulls you towards the bed and pushes you down. He takes a deep breath, before making direct eye contact with you.

"You can't freak out. Promise me?"

"It can't possibly be that bad-"

"I'm serious. Promise me"

''Fine. I promise."

You think he's over exaggerating and blowing this out of proportion, until he fucking disappears

You look around the room confused and then he suddenly appears behind you, holding a soda. It was the one you had downstairs that you had been waiting all day to drink

"How did you do that???"

"It's complicated," He tells you, rubbing the back of his neck

"That's so cool!"

You ask him to do his talent over and over. At first he was annoyed, but then he realizes that you were probably going to break up with him, but now you were more interested in him than you've ever been

You practically become obsessed with him

He doesn't mind, in fact he finds it hot. His timeline version of you was never obsessed with him. You were just a lovely couple, but this version of you was practically as bad as him and god he loves it so much

He wants to keep you forever

And he will. You're never getting away from him

[luvztodd]

DRINKING UP YOUR WORDS

GRIEVING! Jason Todd x FEM! Reader

In which you still haunt his thoughts.

“I read your diary every line, i wanna drink your words like wine.”

tw: mentions of death, self-harm if you squint, blood, injuries

au: where jason never died during the explosion, but you did

part one. part two.

dividers courtesy of @cafekitsune

Punch after punch, hit after hit. Blood seeps down from his head, a nasty mixture of blood and spit dripping from his mouth. His ears are ringing, the crowds chants and yells warbled. But even so, he can make out a distinct voice. A sweet, soft, familiar voice.

Jason. Jason. Jason.

She’s calling out, but from where? He stumbled around the ring, his opponent yelling in triumph. Jason turned and he saw the same hallucination he’s been having since he was fifteen. You.

You were standing there in your Batgirl costume, a costume that was short-lived on you. You looked the same as the day you put it on, your hair pulled back and out of your sweet face, your hands by your side, your nails even painted your favorite shade. But your smile was missing. That bright smile he can remember so clearly. Gone.

Jason. You called out again.

Smack.

He got distracted. His opponent punched him, rough, hard, sending him sliding into the concrete wall that lined the ring. Jason tried to get back up, pushing himself up on his bloodied palms, only to fall back and hit the hard dirt with a thud.

“And your winner is Taserface!”

Ugh. Did he seriously lose to some asshole named Taserface? He groaned as he got up while the crowd dispersed. People yelled at him, heckled him, demanding their money back for betting on him but he didn’t care. He staggered his way out of the ring and into the makeshift locker room to collect his earnings. He slung his duffel bag over his bruised shoulder and stumbled home to his shitty apartment.

Home sweet home, he guesses. He locks the door behind him and drops his duffelbag onto his creaky oak floor. He staggers off to his bathroom and turns on the shower. When he steps in, he lets the steam envelop him, healing his broken body. He didn’t like to bandage himself up after matches. He’d just sit in his pain, tell himself he deserved it.

For what he did to you.

He laid his head on his pillow that permanently stayed without a pillowcase. His gaze drifted over to his nightstand, he told himself he wouldn’t, that it’s only hurting him. But he couldn’t resist. He reached over, one hand steadied himself on the bed, the other reaching for a small book, engraved with your name. He laid back and gently opened the book with his scarred hands.

It made him cry every time. Your words written down on each crinkled page. The only thing that’s left of your hopes and dreams, splayed out on a paper, bared out for him to read without you there to scold him like you used to when the two of you were teenagers. How you wrote about how sad you were for Barbara, how nervous you were to fill in her shoes as Batgirl, how excited you were to work alongside him and Bruce.

It was your last entry that usually got to him because you had no idea you’d never write again. You had no idea that the next day Jason would make a stupid mistake and it’d cost you your future, it’d cost you everything.

The way it was written, in your sloppy handwriting, your childish abbreviations and your recount of your day at school, just hit him hard. You were only fifteen. Your sixteenth birthday was days away when it all came crumbling down. You wrote about how excited you were, how Bruce definitely had something special planned because he was acting ‘funny’.

God, it hurt so bad. His tears dripped onto the paper, it had always felt like his fault, like he was the reason you were gone. If he hadn’t went after the Joker that day, if he had only listened to Bruce, listened to you, maybe you’d still be alive. He closed the book, clutching it to his chest as he tried not to sob. He would probably spend the rest of his life reading your diary every night. It was the only piece of his best friend that he had left. His best friend that he loved and lost.

He would spend every night, for the rest of his life, drinking up your words.

[xzaddyzanakinx]

Not That Kind of Guy

Part Thirteen: Stalker!Anakin Skywalker × femme reader series

Warnings: stalking, weirdo behavior, psychotic/delusional behavior, possessive/protective, sexism/misogyny, sexual content/fantasizing, pervy behavior, panty/scent kink, mask kink(Ghostface), gaslighting/manipulation, public/semi-public, spitting, cumplay, nude vids/pics, masturbation, oral, PIV, dick piercing, forced orgasm, bondage/blindfolds, biting/slapping/spanking/cutting, rape kink, NONCON/DUBCON/CNC, Somno, blood, knife, GEN. SMUT [Be sure to pay attention to future warnings in the series]

Info: Ghost is getting careless, Ghost is sick and tired of the way you make him go off script, post murder sex spree [diary entries from Ani] extremely not proofread. MDNI 18+ [ani wears a vulvodynia tshirt, this song is so vader coded; enjoy]

DATE

1:27 am August 29th

After the initial shock of Ghost’s demands, you quickly realized he was serious in his request. He lunged at you, just to spook you into running because you’d stood frozen like a deer in the headlights.

If only you could’ve seen the absolutely feral grin on his face. His little doe had fawned.

You swung open the bedroom door and shut it behind you, instinctively holding onto the doorknob and using your body as a counterweight to keep the door shut while Ghost laughed and barely tugged at it. Each quick pull made you jolt forward and only proved further how scared you really should be, knowing he was pulling the door open with your full weight on it with just one arm.

If he was serious, really, truly, serious. You wouldn’t have a chance, he’d demolish you in minutes.

You made a decision and made it quickly that your best bet would be to run to the living room and loop around, back to the bedroom and lock him out. At least there was a window in there you could probably climb out of if you actually needed to. The bathroom would just be a death trap.

You hoped that if you let go just as he was opening the door he might stumble, so you tried exactly that. It didn’t work the way you planned, but it did give you a second or two advantage. Though he quickly made up the time after he recovered from pulling the door into his shoulder at full force.

“Ow.” He gritted through his teeth, flipping out the decorative butterfly knife in his right hand, rolling his shoulders back as his towering frame strode across the small living space toward you.

“Ghost what the hell are you doing?” You squealed, grabbing the nearest book to you on your shelf, a paperback romance novel, and chucked it at him.

“Oh no.” He gasped, knocking the book away from him, his gloved hand flying to the gaping maw of his mask. “You gave me a paper cut.”

He twirled his your knife and lunged forward to grab your arm.

“I just want to have some fun, don’t you?” He chuckled, watching you wiggle and squirm to get away from his firm one-handed grip. With a quick motion and a rip of fabric he sliced a hole in the side of Anakin’s t-shirt he’d made you wear.

“Oh my god! What- you could’ve cut me!” You screeched, smacking at his arm with your free hand.

“If I wanted to I would’ve.” He growled, letting go of your wrist and allowing you to stumble backwards.

“I don’t know what I did to make you mad but I’m sorry!” Your voice shook as you backed away from him, scrambling back toward the bookshelf.

“Doe, you didn’t make me angry.” He said, his filtered voice oddly soothing in comparison to the way he was aggressively closing in on you. “You made me hard.”

“And now I’m gonna fuck you like I should’ve out in that dirty alleyway.” He gritted out.

“You ruined it for me you know?” He grumbled kicking the paperback weapon from earlier out of his way.

“What?” You squeaked, “What do you mean? I thought-“

“Yeah, you thought.” He snarled, reaching forward to grab you by the front of your shirt. “That’s the problem.”

“I wanted-“ He huffed when you jolted away from him and grabbed a slightly heavier book off the shelf to hit him with. “Do it. See what happens.” He barked.

He produced a second knife from seemingly thin air, one second his left hand was empty and the next the silver flash of the blade caught your eye. You panicked, two sharpened blades in the hands of a madman did not bode well for your very near future. Choosing purely out of instinct you swung the book at him, hoping to hit him square in the face.

You were too slow, or maybe he was just too fast. Either way, the book connected with the knife in his left hand instead of hitting the mark you’d set out for. He snickered, seeing your frustration and surprise at having speared your own belonging on his blade, your expression quickly fading to a blank-pale faced shock.

His hand shot out in continuance of the fluid sideways stabbing motion. His knife, along with your book, sunk into the wall, getting pinned there until further notice. The drywall cracking from the force of the side of his fist driving in the blade as easily as a pushpin.

“Now, as I was saying,” he sighed, clapping the drywall dust from his leather gloves. He moved quickly to grab you by the hair and drag you to the couch. “You thought, and that ruined my fun.”

“I wanted to pin you down on the nasty pavement and fuck you hard like the useless cocksleeve that you are,” his teeth clenched tightly. “but no. You had to be you, didn’t even give me the chance to offer you a safe word.”

“You’re such a slut that you just let me do it with no fight.” He snorted. “You let me drag you down a dark alley and fuck you. You wanted it so bad you hardly questioned it at all.”

“If I wanted to fuck you nice and slow, if I wanted to give you a choice, real or not... I would’ve done it in that cozy little love nest.” He said angrily, turning your head in the direction of your bedroom and pointing with his rose handled blade.

“See, I’ve got this thing,” he grunted, stabbing his knife into the couch cushion and locking the handles in a fixed position so he use both hands. “you’ve probably heard of it.”

You wiggled and squirmed against his firm grip on your hair, each strand felt like it was ripping from your skull. You reached back and elbowed him in the ribs, making him take a sharp inhale.

“You stupid bitch.” He snapped, spinning you around and grabbing you right beneath your jaw. He squeezed tightly, lifting you up so that you were struggling to stand on your tiptoes.

“You gonna be mad if I smack you?” He asked, his voice low and gravely.

“Yes! What the fuck?” You coughed, your hands gripping his wrist in an effort to keep yourself from choking.

“Will you hate me though?” He asked, tipping his head to the side, a slightly more playful tone in his voice like he knew your answer.

You shook your head ‘no’, holding your breath while a fire lit in your lungs, your vision burning black around the edges. Finally he sat you flat on your feet, if you weren’t light headed before, you sure as hell were now. All the blood rushing back to where it belonged cause your body to momentarily malfunction.

Ghost kept you upright, letting you slump against him for a second before encasing the back of your neck in his firm leather grip, pulling you back far enough away from himself to deliver a rough *smack* to your cheek.

Your eyes flew open, suddenly more alert as he shocked your system back into working order. Plunging you back into dizziness when he threw you forward and bent you over the arm of the couch.

“Hey.” He said gruffly, crouching next to you and pushing your hair from your face. “I gave you a safe word.” He reminded you, “I’m not an ass. If you need to use it just say so, I’ll stop.”

“N-no.” You shook your head, your hands coming up to push your chest off the couch.

“No?” He chuckled. “Never thought I’d find me a girl who likes to get raped.”

“What!? I never said-“

“Nope, shut your fucking mouth.” He said quickly. Taking off his belt at cracking it over the backs of your thighs.

“Fuck!” You screamed, crying out into the couch cushions. “What was that for!?”

He snorted, whipping you with the hard and unforgiving leather again. A shiver running through him when you whimpered and squeezed your thighs together.

“I want you to fight me.” He leaned down, his gritty voice rumbling in his chest against his back. “I know you got it in you baby, you’re just as sick as I am. You’re just not ready to admit it yet.”

“No! No, I… that’s not something-“

“Before you embarrass yourself further,” he sighed, reaching beneath the boxers you wore, he ran his middle finger up your slit. “feel that?”

He was gloating, enjoying making you squirm uncomfortably from your own desires. Ghost wiped your arousal onto your cheek, leaving a slick trail in its wake that gave away how you really felt.

“My pretty pussy is telling on you Doe.” He chuckled. “Now be a good girl and tell me you got wet at the thought of me raping you on the couch you just fucked your boyfriend on. Tell me you wish you weren’t such a cockslut and desperate for dick so I could’ve raped you up against a fucking brick wall.”

“Ghost…” you whined, wiggling to get away from him, but his full body weight was pinning you in place. “Fine!”

“Fine, okay? Yes!” You grumbled, shooting him a glare over your shoulder as he stood up.

“There we go.” He chuckled, “It’s okay princess, I know you have trouble understanding big words.” He taunted.

“Listening, silence, obeying, submitting.” He cooed, looping his belt around your neck and tugging it like a leash. “Very big words for a very stupid whore.”

He took the knife from the couch cushion and brought the flat side of the cool steel to the burning blush of your cheek, lightly scraping the tip across the apple of your cheek and the delicate skin beneath your eye.

“Getting me a fresh kill of venison for dinner tonight baby.” He chuckled, you envisioned a devilish grin, full lips curved upward.

“Maybe you ought to bite down on this.” He said, smacking you with the tail end of the black leather belt before putting it in your mouth for you. “Hate for you to fuck up those pearly whites.”

He grabbed the collar of your shirt, stabbing the knife through the fabric and ripping a hole down the short sleeve. The blade never came close to your skin but the motion was so quick that you felt a rush of air following behind it that may as well have been just as sharp.

You reached back to smack at his hand, spitting out the leather to scowl and yell at him.

“What is your problem today!? I like this shirt!” You kicked at his shin, connecting your heel to the bone in his leg.

“Goddamnit!” He growled, yanking you up by your leash and holding the tip of the knife to the vulnerable flesh above your Adam’s apple.

“That’s better.” He moaned… he moaned. “Fuck, you feel me Doe?” He asked, pressing his cock of steel against your ass.

You answered with a choked ‘uh huh’, trying not to turn blue in the face from the thick leather necklace he’d given you. He removed the knife and dropped the leash, your hands immediately going to claw at it while you coughed.

“Don’t.” He barked, tugging your hair to get your attention.

“I’ll tell you my ‘problem’.” He growled, using his hands to rip the fabric further, exposing your left shoulder blade.

“My bitch.” He snapped, “fucked her boyfriend on this couch. Right in front of me.”

He brought the knife back down to the fabric and this time he allowed the tip to pierce the skin ever so slightly, letting a bead of blood bubble up on your smooth skin as you cried out in a sharp yelp. Lifting the knife he cut another hole in the shirt, repeating the process until it was less than a rag.

“I’m sorry okay?” You yelled, trying to turn yourself over onto your back, hoping that even if it was an awkward angle that maybe you could get a punch in. If he wanted you to fight, you sure as hell were going to.

“What am I supposed to do? Not fuck him?” You shouted, twisting in his grasp until you were able to push against his chest with one forearm.

“He loves you!” Ghost shouted back and you felt your face fall. “Do you- you love him?” He asked, changing the grip of the knife in his hand to prepare for downward strike.

“Wait! Wait- stop!” You squealed, kicking and squirming away from him.

“Ghost! Stop it. Please!” You whined, your voice getting high pitched and squeaky.

“Tell me.” He barked, dragging you down to the coffee table and forcing you down on it, he kneeled with one knee keeping you pinned there, his other foot firmly on the ground.

“No! I’m not-“ you shouted, thrashing around and landing a solid punch to his stomach. “I won’t tell you that!”

He groaned, the sensitive area of his abdomen felt a dull but consistent throbbing. No time to congratulate you on knocking the wind out of a grown man though, he had to get right back to business.

“You won’t?” He laughed, taking the knife and gliding the flat side over the tender flesh of your inner thigh, quickly jerking his wrist and leaving a thin line of red behind.

You swore you saw him physically shudder at the sight of your blood, you are certain however, that you saw him palm his cock.

“Why don’t you wanna tell me?” He asked, his tone sounding cheeky disguised as menacing.

Ghost ripped through the seam of the boxers you wore, pulling them off and exposing your his pussy for his eyes to feast on.

“It’s not your business!” You snapped back and immediately felt the punishment inflicted on your most sensitive area. His gloved hand smacking your pussy with a wet *clap* that drew a scream from deep within the depths of your chest.

“Like hell it is!” He yelled back, barely controlled rage was beginning to ooze from his eyes behind his mask.

“Do you love him?” He repeated, smacking your clit and sending a sharp jolt from your head to your toes while you gritted your teeth and dug your nails into your palms.

“Fucking whore.” He groaned, looking down at your quivering legs and dripping cunt as a new wave of arousal drenched your pussy.

“You don’t have to tell me you love this.” He grumbled, “I can see it.”

You felt something hard and cool circling your entrance, the temperature contrast causing you to gasp and Ghost took that as the perfect opportunity to slide the twin handles of his knife deep into your cunt. His leather glove encased the sharpness of the blade, but that didn’t stop the streak of pure fear that flooded your senses.

The panic was slowly replaced with a new kind of pleasure, one that was dull and curling. Tugging at the muscles encasing your most intimate organs, as if he were trying to ‘cut’ his way into your womb and stake his claim before Anakin could.

It was embarrassing the way you so quickly switched up your attitude. Formerly angry and mouthy, now your brain was too muddled to feel anything but submissive. Ghost was behind you, filming the filthy act with the flash on, acting as though he might suffer a heart attack before he could make you cum. His filming hand was shaky and his chest was heaving in an uneven rhythm.

“Fuck. You’re- I...” He breathed out, “Gods, what the fuck have you done to me?” He asked in a higher pitched voice that almost dropped out of the voice modification.

“C-can’t even stick to my own plans, y-you just…” he grunted, withdrawing the knife handles, watching your cunt clench around them as if trying to suck them back inside.

“Don’t you move, you hear me?” He barked, kneeing you in the side when you didn’t answer him.

“Ow! Fine!” You snapped back at him, trying to turn your head to look at him behind you when his foot came up and gently flexed forward to push your head back to the side.

“You wanna see what I’m doing?” He asked, not waiting for you to answer as he walked in from of where you laid, crouching down and resting his elbows on his knees lazily.

He pinched the knife by the blade between his forefinger, middle and thumb to waggle it in your face. He chuckled at your reaction to seeing your creamy juices coating the handles. He lifted the chin of his mask up slightly, still being careful not to show the slightest sliver of skin as he brought the handles to his lips and sucked them clean. His groan of approval came out distorted, not quite modified, not quite natural.

“Shit.” You whispered, resting your forehead on the cool wood of the coffee table.

“Alright.” He stood up. “Listen, listen good okay?”

You nodded, “Yes Sir.”

“That’s more like it.” He laughed, “Get your ass over there and bend over like I had you before.”

He pointed to the couch with one hand and absentmindedly twirled and flipped the knife in his other while he watched you do as he asked.

“I’m going to do what I want. For as long as I want.” He said plainly. “This isn’t about you. This is about me.”

“Do you understand?” He asked in a tight, clipped sentence.

“Yes Sir.”

“If you want to cum, do it yourself.” He grumbled, “better bite down on that belt baby.”

He stalked over to you and pushed his jeans down around his knees and pulled out his angry red tipped cock. Without hesitation, with no forethought, he plunged himself deep into your cunt and started off with a deep and hard pace. It might’ve been pleasurable had he not decided he’d try to fuck your guts.

He, nor had anyone else, ever pushed so deeply past your folds. Yes he’d kissed your cervix with his cockhead before, so had Anakin. But this? This was beyond that.

In his right hand he gripped your hair, using it as leverage while you futilely tried to stop yourself from jostling around so much by holding onto the backrest of the couch with one hand and the front end with the other.

It was quite useless in Ghost’s opinion, he laughed as he watched you struggle. Each thrust was so forceful that by the end of this brutal punishment you believed he’d have rearranged your living room furniture. The couch scraping across the floor inch by inch.

“Fuck.” He grunted. “I fucking needed this.” He breathed out, his upper body wracked with a shudder as he moaned loudly.

“Perfect little painslut.” Ghost gritted out, you imagined from the way the words left his lips he might need the belt between your teeth more than you did.

“I could fuck this hole- fuck it till it’s raw and sore and bleeding.” He groaned, “And even then, I wouldn’t be finished with you.”

“Shit-“ he gasped, leaning forward he put you in a headlock, his muscles constricted around your throat.

Ghost rested his forehead against the back of your head, looking down your curved back to see your ass rippling with each slap of skin on skin.

“Gonna fuck my cum so deep inside you,” Ghost’s hips stuttered. “so damn deep that stupid little pill will be useless.” He barked out the last part, the true aggression in his voice sent a shiver through you that made a cold sweat break out on the back of your neck.

“Hmph… oh damnit.” He shuddered, slowing down for just a moment to savor the high he felt from feeling your cunt milking him dry.

“You keep moaning like that and your boy across the hall will hear you.” He chuckled, releasing you from the headlock and pushing down on the small of your back to keep you in place, hearing the swish and click of him closing the rose handled knife, feeling it pressed against your hip bone as he held on.

“S-slow please.” You choked out while drooling down the belt between your teeth, feeling as though he might split you in half if he carried on this way.

“I told you to lay here and take it didn’t I?” He grunted, smacking your ass punishment.

“My pussy. My rules.” He barked.

“W-what?” You moaned out, trying to focus your mind on those words, rather than the way he sped up and stole your breath.

“Christ, you’re stupid.” he muttered to himself.

“Shut up, I don’t want to hear you speak unless it’s your safe word.” He growled, shoving your head down into the couch cushions.

Using quick shallow strokes he leaned back to change the angle slightly, making him choke out a half sob at the way your cunt gripped him. His hand left your hip again to flick out the knife blade and drag the cold steel down your spine. He stopped halfway and veered off to the left, digging the sharpened edge of the blade into the thin skin stretched over your ribs.

“Holy-“ you chomped down on the leather belt in your mouth so hard that it squeaked.

“So fuckin’ pretty.” He breathed out, for the first time quiet enough that his modifier didn’t catch it… and neither did you.

“You liked that didn’t you?” His chest rumbling as he spoke. “I felt you squeezing me.”

He didn’t wait for an answer, instead he thinly smeared the blood in a line across your back with the flat side of the blade until he found a suitable spot for a slight nick that had you jolting in surprise.

“Nasty girl.” He chuckled, “you like being fucked dumb and sliced up?”

“Uh huh.” You whimpered, gripping the couch cushions while Ghost leaned back to watch his cock plunging hard and fast into your pussy.

Creamy white cum and your slick coated the base of his cock, he desperately tried to hold himself back from another orgasm but it was damn near impossible when you had just openly admitted to liking his blade on your skin.

Your right ass cheek seemed the best place to cut next, he wanted to feel the warmth of your life dripping from the wound and down his thigh. He wanted to stain his body red in hopes of forming a blood bond, could he convince you to try that?

A surprisingly throaty moan left your lips and tumbled out in a long release of breath, his blade carving a diagonal line that leaked deep ichor down your beautiful skin. The sight of it being smeared and splattered with each piston of his hips had him buckling at the knees.

“Oh my-“ Ghost moaned, his knife clattering to the floor as he grabbed both your hips, purposely spreading the gorgeous red liquid across your skin as he went. “Didn’t think you could get any prettier.” He whispered in a hoarse voice.

He tightened his grip and listened to the squelch and slap of his cock bullying your insides, to the sweet sounds leaving your lips. He basked in the warm drip of your blood and the feeling of your pussy wrapped lovingly around him.

It was all so much. Too much.

With a few more brutal thrusts he came hard, his breath being stolen from his lungs as he shot his load into your depths.

“Fuck yes.” He gritted out, needing some kind of extra outlet for the intense adrenaline and endorphin rush he was experiencing, he punched the wall beside him without a second thought, denting the dry wall and smearing blood. “Hell fuckin’ yes baby.”

“Ghost!” You gasped and flinched at the *crack* of his fist making contact with the wall, “Can you ju-“

“Face down and close your fucking eyes,” he growled, shoving his cock back in his pants and tugging his jeans up. He saw you begin to part your lips and he interrupted. “that wasn’t a question goddamnit!”

You obeyed, closing your eyes and pressing your face into the couch cushions, hearing rustling coming from behind you. Ghost tossed his mask on the coffee table and took off his sweatshirt and tshirt, scrunching the shirt to create a makeshift blindfold, there was no time to go to your room and get the nice pretty silk handkerchief he’d bought for this purpose exactly. He needed this now.

He slipped it over you head and tightened it, then you felt the weight of his body push down on the couch cushion beside you, his still-gloved hands grabbing you by the shoulders and manhandling you over to sit sideways in his lap.

“What are- oh my god.” You gasped quietly feeling his bare skin for the first time, leather gloves guided you out of what was left of your shirt.

“Gh-“ You wanted to know why. Why was he doing this? Why now? But he shut you up by pulling you flush against his chest and descending upon your mouth.

He kissed you like his life depended on it. He kissed you like death when he lifts your soul from your lips. Ghost kissed you like you were the one who was consuming him. It was messy, desperate, and horribly quiet. The only noises being that of your lips and tongue clashing together and the sound of your mixed heavy breathing.

He was maskless. He couldn’t speak, he didn’t even want to let loose a single moan. So you did, you made enough noise for the both of you. Breathless gasps and whiny ‘mhhhhmm’s pierced his skull and wormed their way into his brain to take up permanent residency.

He had a tongue piercing… unexpected but definitely not unwanted. The metallic clicking was hypnotic in a way, tongues dueling carelessly between the two of you, so eager to taste more, to feel more. You know now that the strange, smooth thing that had accompanied his tongue while he had licked at your folds to wake you up, was the same jewelry that ran across the roof of your mouth while you felt up every square inch of bare skin on his body.

You never imagined that flesh could be such a sexy thing. Of course, it’s nice to look at on the body of someone you’re attracted to. Though feeling the flesh of a man who’d deprived you of seeing it, touching it; it was better than any drug on the market. With your brain fuzzy and addled with repeating thoughts of Ghost, he only made it worse by bringing your hand down to feel his half hard cock.

He had explored you in endless ways, countless times and now he was finally giving you the opportunity to do just alittle bit of the same for him. It didn’t last long however. Soon enough he was back to the domineering presence you’d come to know.

Slower this time, more carefully, he laid you back down on your stomach on the couch. Ghost pulled both your palms up to your ears to encourage you to create a sound barrier between you and whatever it was that he was about to do.

His tender lips caressing your back in feathery kisses, gentle and loving in a way you’d never received from Ghost before. His lips then made their way to your still trickling wounds, licking up the blood around the nick mark, a simple and tiny cut that was easily cleaned up. The longer, deeper wound across your ribs prompted him to get down on his knees in front of the couch.

Ghost leaned forward and licked the length of the bloody split in your flesh. A deep, rumbling moan left his unashamed lips. He was so unashamed in fact, that he found himself instantly rock hard again.

That just wouldn’t do. This is about him after all.

So he pulled himself free once more and spit a mixture of your blood and his saliva into his glove, setting to work on his throbbing and greedy cock. As he pumped his shaft his lips sucked and pulled at the wounded skin on your side, draining it of blood only to pull back and watch the pretty red reappear.

“That stings!” you whined as you pushed his head away.

A puff of air from his nose was your only response before he swatted your hand away and returned it to your ear. He did listen though, choosing to gently lap it up until the flow stopped almost completely.

Languidly stroking himself he held his breath for a moment, afraid he might let out a whimper more embarrassing than he ever had before. He moved behind you once more and licked up the blood from the last cut he’d made. He lapped up the last trickles of blood from your soft skin and kneeled behind you. Tapping your hip he signaled you to arch your back and lift up so he could get a better view of your poor abused cunt.

The pink and puffy folds looked even more enticing as he spit a fat glob of your bloody mixture at your center.

“Can’t… Ghost please.” You whined, your body sore and aching from overuse. “No more, I can’t.”

There was no verbal answer. Ghost ignored your pleas and left them unpunished, repositioning himself at your sopping wet hole. He easily slid in, letting out a shaky breath at the feel of your heated gummy walls. Slowly he rocked his hips into you, gently as though he were trying to soothe you after all the rough treatment.

You let yourself relax and accept his tender touches and unspoken apology. You were shaking from exhaustion, your mind too blank to do anything other than breathe and feel the pleasure of his cock moving inside you. With your ears still covered Ghost took the opportunity to tell you something that he’d been terrified of doing.

“My little doe.” He whispered as quietly as he could, “It’s me. It’s Anakin.”

Diary Entry: August 29th

Honestly doll. I don’t know how you survived yesterday, if my dick hurts… I can only imagine how your poor little pussy feels.

You handled it so well. Taking inch after inch, over and over again for me. All. Damn. Day.

The best part? You loved every second of it just as much as I knew you would. You loved the rough way I fucked you as myself. The loving way I made you mine.

But the way you took Ghost… after tucking away that little piece of Anakin that lives in him, (the bit that won’t fucking stick to the goddamn plan because you’re so… there’s not even a word for it. You know what I mean though.) I got to do what I needed.

Damn I desperately needed it. Don’t get me wrong little doe, I love regular sex with you. You know, the normal kind of kinky. A bit of hair pulling, some spanking, a little spit, the baby steps to the bigger shit.

The kind of kinky last night is the kind of shit that would get me committed if my mother found out about it. But is it really my fault that you’re so fuckable? No. It’s not. It’s not my fault that your pussy just so happens to fit the handles of my knife. It’s not my fault that you liked it either.

You can’t even be mad, so don’t go pretending you are next time I see you as Ghost. You can’t be mad because you leaked that sweet pussy nectar down my cock for two hours and 13 minutes, last night. Never heard the safe word and I’m not convinced that I will ever hear it.

You freaky bitch.

If I wasn’t already as depraved as I am, I’d be a bit concerned. You really tried your best to fight me, you tried your best to listen, you put in the effort. But your tiny little brain can only handle so much cock before it turns to mush. That’s my favorite, when I feel you start to relax, feel your breath change, see those pretty eyes go hazy. My perfect sex doll.

I like it when you go limp.

You know what I really liked about last night? I could feel the exact moment that I pushed you past a ledge you’d never even seen coming on the horizons of your imagination. You started to *shake*. You were limp and shaking beneath me, so exhausted you couldn’t muster up the strength to hold yourself up anymore. So drained that you couldn’t even moan correctly anymore.

And you still let me keep fucking you.

I can officially say that I have fucked you awake, I have fucked you in your sleep and I have fucked you to sleep.

I joked about it as myself with you, made you take your meds early and everything, I held you in my arms and let you wean yourself off my fingers and fall into dreamland.

But Ghost was relentless in his efforts to make you go unconscious via dick. I decided I earned a little treat for that. I haven’t decided what it will be yet but I’ll make it good. How many men can say that they’ve lovingly fucked someone into unconsciousness?

Oh! Just me? Nice.

So, you know I love the way your pussy tastes, but let me tell you something I never thought would leave my lips. I found something that is almost a tie for first place.

You bleed so beautifully. It’s truly a spectacle to behold, the crimson just compliments your skin so well. Next time… I’m taking off my gloves. I need to feel it in my hands, that slippery warmth that gives you the radiant life you live. That’s the closest I’ll ever get to holding your soul.

The coppery sweetness was more delicious that the finest wine that money can buy. I don’t give a shit if it’s got notes of birchwood and bullshit. Nothing can compare.

I get it now, the whole thing with people thinking vampires are sexy. What could be hotter than draining the life flowing through the veins of the one you love? What could top that ego boost from the trust you placed in me when I put that blade against your skin? I held the key to your existence in that moment, you’d be gone if I had stuck the blade in and twisted it to unlock death’s door.

But let’s not even think of that, I’d die before I ever let you.

Let’s focus on how rude it is that our blood types are not the same. I would’ve signed myself up for phlebotomy schooling if we shared blood types. Give myself a weekly transfusion. Humane and more socially acceptable vampirism.

Oh well, I prefer to taste it anyway.

It’s like a savory type of chocolate. You know those molten lava cakes? That’s what it’s like to cut into you and have a bite.

P.s. It was so fucking cute how you reacted to my bare skin and kisses. I used to be the one on the verge of collapse at every slight touch, seems like we’ve switched places.

P.p.s. I will be replacing your book and fixing your walls. I’m not sure what came over me when I punched the wall, that was like very uncalled for. Oops.

DATE

August 29th

When you awoke after your night of… activities, you were sore and tired in a way you hadn’t ever been before. Like the will to stand on your own two feet had been forcibly taken from you. As much as you wanted to get up and be productive, the ache between your legs refused to allow you any relief from the discomfort you felt. You needed to go to the hardware store and find something to fix the walls before Anakin came over later.

It would be difficult enough to come up with a cover story for the cuts across your back, but impossible to give a reason for the cracked drywall and the knife blade shaped slit in the opposite side. Once you finally gathered up enough determination to brave the wobble of your knees you stood up and exited your bedroom.

Ghost was too busy chatting, flicking the end of Boogie’s tail while he waited for your coffee to brew, to notice you’d waddled out of your bed to go to the bathroom. You could barely make out the faint white of his mask in the dim, curtain-blocked, morning light of the kitchenette, out of instinct you flipped the light switch and screeched in surprise.

You’d truly thought you might’ve just imagined him standing there and were shocked to realize he was flesh and bone. A flash of pale skin and black ink disappeared behind the counter top and re-emerged covered in leather. He had taken off one of his gloves to give Boogie some good morning pet-pets.

“Sorry doe.” He said apologetically, “I didn’t mean to spook you.”

“What are you doing?” You asked, your hand still resting on the light switch.

“Having a philosophical meeting of the minds.” He said, tapping Boogie on top of her head.

You scowled, “Anakin will kill you if he comes here and sees you. He has a key you know.”

“He won’t kill me.” Ghost chuckled, “He’s got a key? Nifty, so do I!” He added sarcastically.

“You didn’t really answer my question. Why are you still here?” You asked, eyes searching the room for anything out of order.

“Mmm yeah, that’s not what you asked me.” He chuckled, pulling open your silverware drawer and grabbing a spoon. “I’m not still here. I came back.” He answered as he scooped an unhealthy amount of sugar into your hello kitty mug.

“Okay… but why?” You held your hand palm up in questioning.

“I have important business to attend to.” He shrugged, pouring your coffee for you and stirring it into the sugar.

You pursed your lips but didn’t argue back, your eyes flicked back down to his now covered hand and back up to his face before turning to finish your initial quest.

“Where ya going baby?” He asked, staying behind the counter with his hands in his pockets.

“I have to pee.” You mumbled.

“M’kay.” His filtered voice rumbled as he turned to stop the microwave from dinging to signal your brown sugar oatmeal was finished cooking.

He did not however catch your cinnamon swirl toast in time and the shrill noise the appliance made sent the cat scrambling off the counter and knocking a few miscellaneous items into the floor. He stooped down and picked them up, placing them back on the counter top.

After your food was ready he sat it at the bar for you to sit and eat at while he got to work on setting out the supplies he’d bought to fix the walls and clean the couch. He walked to the bathroom and knocked on the door with two knuckles.

“Hey, you have some gloves in there don’t you? Like for when you dye your hair?” He asked, having realized it would probably be difficult to spackle the walls in leather gloves.

“Yes?” You responded confusedly.

“Good, open the door.”

“What? No!” You scoffed, standing naked and preparing to hop in the shower.

“Doe just open the damn door.” He grumbled, listening to you rustle around behind the locked door.

“Here.” You huffed, opening it just a crack and thrusting your hand out to drop the gloves into his.

“Thanks. You should hurry, I made you breakfast.” He said in an oddly warm tone.

“You did?” You asked, opening the door just a bit more to look at him.

“Yeah. I know you well enough to know you planned on going straight to that couch and not moving until forced to.” He thumbed over his shoulder. “I also know you well enough that I called in sick for you today.”

You stared at him for a minute, he called your work for you? That means someone at your work must’ve heard his real voice right? A bubble of jealousy formed in your gut at the thought that one of your coworkers heard Ghost’s voice before you did.

“What?” He asked sharply.

“Nothing… thank you.” You shook your head, eyes wide as you contemplated calling the diner to ask if they recognized the voice.

You mulled it over while you were in the shower, weighed the pros and cons while dressing yourself in some lounge clothes, and thoroughly pondered it as you ate your breakfast and watched Ghost work.

It was comical to see him being so domestic, kind of like seeing a documentary about a wolf pup raised as a house pet. It could snap and destroy the house, destroy you at any moment. Just like Ghost.

But there he was, Fixing his mistake in the most calm and collected way possible. It was a soothing process to watch, score the damaged drywall with an exacto knife, break it off in a clean, straight line with a satisfying snap. Cut the mesh to cover the now smooth edged square of missing drywall, **zzzzrrip** the weirdly thin and fabric-y tape to hold it in place. Then came the best part, watching him patch it over with pink spackle, smooth it out as best he could then watch it turn from pink to greyish white as it dried.

“Where’d you learn to do that?” You asked, sipping your coffee and staring at his hands. The thin blue latex was almost stretched enough to make out the blob of the tattoo you’d caught sight of earlier.

“Summer job as a teenager.” He answer shortly, it’s not like he could give specifics. He’d spoken of his handyman work with his god-father to you before.

“So you don’t work in construction or something like currently?” You asked, trying to cross out a few ‘maybe’ identities of people tall enough and lean enough to fit Ghost’s build.

“No.” He snorted and looked over at you, his knowing smile might as well have been visible from the body language.

“Don’t give me that look.” You huffed, “I’m narrowing down my list.”

“I know you are.” He laughed. “That’s why it’s funny.”

“Well I know you don’t work in construction and you have a hand tattoo…” You crossed your arms and scrunched up your nose to accompany a sassy head bobble.

You’d caught his attention, he turned to fully face you, one arm across his chest and the other’s elbow resting on his fist as he held the putty knife covered in spackle away from his body.

“Hand tattoo?” He repeated in low accusatory way.

“Yeah, you have one.” You pointed toward the hand he held the putty knife in.

“What is it?” He asked, walking a few steps forward.

“I don’t know I just saw a blur of it earlier this morning.” You said, shifting uncomfortably in your chair.

He stood and stared, studying your expression and seeking the truth. After finding no evidence of deceit he nodded and turned back to resume his work on the wall. Every so often you caught him taking a peek over his shoulder at you, like he was suspicious after hearing you’d seen a part of him he hadn’t willingly shown you.

“Are you mad?” You asked anxiously, his whole demeanor had changed so quickly that it was a bit frightening and not in a good way.

“No.” The word was clipped and gruff as he cleaned up his tool and put the lid on the small bucket of spackle.

He walked back to the other wall and sanded the, now dry, patch until it was smooth enough to paint over and blend into the wall as if nothing had happened. You walked over and had planned to sit down on the couch but you realized it covered in some kind of weird clumpy power and damp to the touch.

“Gross, what is this?” You whipped your head around to ask Ghost.

“OxyClean and dish soap.”

“Why?”

“You bled all over the couch.” He responded, you hadn’t seen any blood spots, but there were definitely wet patches where he’d scrubbed the upholstery. He’d also… super glued the knife slash in the fabric back together, how very him of him.

“Okay but like why is it still on the couch?” You asked curiously.

“It needed to sit for longer.” He huffed like he was irritated with your questions.

“Oh, well I can finish it then.” You offered, hoping it might appease him.

“No, I started it. I will finish it.” He kept his words clipped, not hiding that he wasn’t interested in speaking to you right now.

“Okay then.” You snapped back at him, turning on your heel and stomping back to your bedroom and slamming the door shut.

The sharp noise startled Ghost and he whipped his head around instinctively. His jaw clenched tightly, upset with himself for being upset with himself. He didn’t mean to be an ass either, he just needed some time to accept that he’d fucked up and almost exposed his identity because he wanted to pet the fucking cat.

He groaned and turned back around, pounding lightly on his forehead of his mask with both fists in frustration. Bending down to pick up his cup but knocking it over and spilling what was left in it.

“Are you fuckin’ serious?“ he growled and gritted his teeth “damnit!”

Lucky for Ghost he wasn’t using a glass cup, no shattered mess to clean up. He instead was unlucky enough to be using a large metal, insulated tumbler, which made a very loud and reverberating *dtink* when he kicked it with his socked foot across the living room. Before the cup had the chance to land he had already picked up his foot and leaned one arm on the wall as he flexed his toes, it fucking hurt and his fist collided with the wall in anger, this time going straight through the drywall and into the wooden bracers behind it.

“Aw- fuck, goddamnit,” he pulled his fist from the wall and shook it out, grabbing his wrist and rolling his hand while flexing his fingers, “stupid son of a-“

“I need a cigarette.” He huffed, not bothering to put on shoes as he stalked over to the window and opened it, grabbing his bag on the way.

Diary Entry: August 30th

Sorry for putting three holes in the wall.

I’ll admit that was alittle bit much. But it’s all fixed now and in the past so let’s not dwell on it. We’ve got more important things to do! Like taking you to the movies for a little date night.

Some kind of comedy thing for girls. I’m expecting it to be like that one with Melissa McCarthy. It looks stupid as hell which is a good thing because it’ll be funny even if it’s not. I don’t really care what we watch, you just told me no romance cause it’s ‘cheesy’.

Which makes no sense because your whole bookshelf is a giant collection of random species bangin’ each other. I mean seriously, I cracked one open cause the cover looked pretty and the first thing I saw was ‘the muscular werewolf thrust his-‘

That’s as far as I got before I went blind from fear.

DATE

August 31st

Anakin whistled low and gave you a cheeky smirk that crinkled the corners of his eyes. Seeing you coming into your bedroom in just a towel, skin still damp from the shower. You popped your head up with a slight gasp of surprise, not realizing he’d come in while you were still in the bathroom.

“Sh-“ you grinned, realizing it was just him and shook your head at him. “You scared me!”

“Boo.” He snickered as he laid back in your bed with his arms resting behind his head, his legs crossed at the ankles.

“Ani, are we going casual or are we going fancy?” You asked, walking over to your closet and flicking through clothes.

You looked over your shoulder to get his opinion and had to do a double take, your cat walked across the bed and kneaded Anakin’s shirt before laying down on his chest. A flash of an image that you refused to see clearly tried to blend with the scene before you.

“Ah-Anakin?” You asked in a slightly louder voice. “Clothes?” You blinked a few times, trying to rid yourself of the lines forming between your eyebrows.

“Oh sorry doll, I got distracted.” He cleared his throat and tossed his phone aside. “Clothes? Whatever you want, you’re pretty in everything.”

“I’m wearing this.” He added gesturing to the ripped black jeans and a Vulvodynia tshirt. “And my TUKs for my tootsies.” He pointed toward the bedroom door where the lace up boots sat neatly against the wall.

“So how about this then?” You held up a shirt and a pair of pants on their hangers.

“I told you whatever you want babydoll.” He chuckled, “although if you really want my opinion I’ll give it to you.”

“I really do.” You nodded, jutting out your hip.

“Keep the shirt… grab that one real long skirt, the one with the open bit on the side.” He said, reaching down to trace a line up his calf to his knee. “Maybe those sandals with the thick bottoms.”

“A skirt?” You asked, making a face.

“Doll, you know I like it when you wear skirts and dresses.” He poked out his bottom lip in a pout. “You’re my girl, my pretty princess no matter what you wear… but you did ask for my opinion.” He tilted his head, toying with his lip ring and nodding toward your closet.

You got out the long black maxi skirt and paired it the shirt and shoes, walking over to the bedside. Anakin shooed off the cat and sat up to swing his lanky legs off the edge of the bed, he reached up to tuck your shirt into the high-hemmed waistband and then tugged it back out slightly to make it alittle loose.

“Damn. That’s my baby.” His voice low and gritty as he stood up to wrap his arms around your waist, his hands pressing you close to his chest to give you a chaste kiss on your forehead.

“C’mon sweet girl.” He patted your ass to get you moving, following behind you to slip into his boots.

“Wait, hold on.” You said, holding up a finger and jogging to your bathroom, re-emerging with a lint roller.

“Really?” He groaned and pulled the hem of his shirt to make the fabric taut.

“Yes really. When you wear all black and live with a cat you have to lint roll yourself Ani.” You rolled your eyes and aggressively rolled the sticky paper over his clothes.

“It’s a waste of paper, it’s bad for the environment.” He mumbled, turning around to let you get his back too.

“Your attitude is bad for my environment.” You muttered under your breath.

“What did you just say?” He snickered.

“You heard me.” You grinned, tossing the lint rolled back into the bathroom cabinet.

“Yes I did. I’m just a bit confused, when did we have children and why are you the father?” He snorted.

“Ha-ha, we’ve both made dad jokes. Let’s go.” With your hands on mid back you pushed him toward the door, making him laugh.

Waiting in line for popcorn with Anakin took much longer than you would’ve liked and he was beginning to get antsy. He stood behind you, his hands on your hips and his chin resting atop your head, clicking his teeth together to the tune of some song stuck in his head. His fingers drumming along as well, tapping across your hip bones.

“Oh thank fuck.” He sighed dramatically, stepping to the side of you and grabbing your drinks and popcorn.

“You act like we didn’t just eat like two hours ago.” You rolled your eyes and gave him a smile, watching him hold both drinks and the huge bucket of popcorn.

He bent his head down and ate a few pieces straight from the bucket, “That was two hours ago, this is now.” He swallowed and went right back in for another bite or two.

“You know I can carry something. So you can eat with your hands.” You laughed, passing by other theater rooms on the way to yours.

“No, I got it sweetheart.” He said softly, giving you a warm look. “I’m pretty good with my mouth anyway. Aren’t I baby?” He teased, licking the inside of his cheek while he watched your cheeks heat up.

“Shh!” You giggled and grabbed his upper arm, steering him into the correct theater room and up the steps to the top row. “Yes, you are.”

“Hands too?” He asked after putting your cups in the cup holders and helping you get settled. He lifted up the armrest between the two of you and snaked his arm behind you, scooting you closer and squeezing your ass.

“Hands too.” You whispered, the blush on your cheeks was red hot by now and you were thankful for the dark and sparse room.

“What about my c-“

“Perfect!” You said quickly, clapping your hand over his mouth while Anakin chortled behind your palm.

“Poor little princess?” He cooed, pinching your thigh and making you squirm. “Feeling all flustered? Out in public? Naughty thing.”

“Anakin Skywalker!” You whisper-shouted smacking at his hand that wandered from your ass to your upper thigh.

“Bet I could make you cum before the previews are over.” He leaned down, his lips brushing your earlobe.

“It’s okay babydoll, it’s just you and me up here.” His voice was soothing and much too convincing to ignore completely. Especially when he sat aside the popcorn in the next seat over and palmed his cock to adjust himself.

His hand gripped the back of your neck and tilted your head toward him, his lips meeting yours in a slow, sensual dance. He bunches up your skirt to your knees, picking up on leg and hooking it over his thigh to give him easier access.

“Need you to be quiet pretty girl, think you can do that f’me?” Anakin’s deep, sultry voice fanned over your jaw as he kissed the side of your neck.

“Mhm.” You nodded, keeping your mouth closed to avoid the moan you knew was going to follow his fingers slipping past your panties and running through the slick mess between your pussy lips.

“Keep that mouth open.” He whispered, smiling when you obeyed, dropping your jaw slightly “That’s a good girl.”

Anakin swirled his fingers around your entrance, twisting his wrist slowly as he gently pushed inside. Scissoring his fingers along the top wall, focusing the varied pressure on the spongey spot that took your breath away.

He smiled, tucking his head against your neck, tilting it to the side as he rocked his hand against you, “Grind on my hand princess, show me how nasty my angel can be.”

The heel of his palm was pressed firmly against your clit to help you get the friction you needed as his fingers worked their magic on your inner walls. Massaging wide circles as you bucked against his hand.

“Ani…” you whispered, grabbing his wrist and trying to move his hand away.

“Shh.” He silenced you with his lips on yours, his tongue laving away at yours. His soft, plump lips cradling yours in a moment of pure brain fog for you. He’d completely erased your knowledge of your surroundings, blacked your vision and muffled the sounds around you until all you could hear was his heartbeat as he put his hand over your mouth and tucked your head against his chest.

“Doing so good f’me,” he whispered into your hair, “you’re gonna cum when I tell you to okay?”

“You think you can handle that princess?” He asked, pressing his warm lips to your temple.

You nodded, tilting your head back to look up at his crystal blue eyes. He gave you a soft smile, kissed the tip of your nose and nudged your cheek so that you’d turn your head to the side. He licked the shell of your ear, nibbling along the curve of the cartilage down to your earlobe, his hot breath fanning over your flesh.

“I love you.” He whispered, telling you again and not expecting an answer, even though you gave him one nonverbally.

Your pussy squeezing his fingers tightly in response to the words, he wasn’t convinced that it could just be coincidence so he said it again, his voice gritty and low.

“I love you, my girl.” He kissed your jaw, his lips curving into a smile when he felt your pussy flutter again.

“Oh, I see.” He chuckled lowly, pulling back to see your eyes rolling back in your head. He shifted his hand over your mouth slightly and pinched your nose, cutting off your air supply completely.

You tried to suck in a deep breath out of surprise, getting choked on nothing as a result, your eyes opened in panic but you calmed slightly seeing the serene and loving look on Anakin’s face.

“Ready?” He asked, watching your face.

“Three.” He whispered, speeding up his ministrations, your hands clenching tightly, nails digging into your fists, your vision getting blurry.

“Two.” His thumb moving your clit and flicking over it rapidly, making you jump and whimper behind his hand.

“Shhh quiet.” He whispered, kissing the top of your head and breathing in your scent as your lungs began to burn.

“One.” His lips brushing across your ear have you cold chills down your back as you willed yourself to stay as silent as possible while Anakin cradled your head to his chest, he released your nose to let you breathe. The rush of lightheadedness made you cum even harder, curling yourself up against him and trapping his hand between your thighs.

You stayed like that for a moment, catching your bearings and recalibrating your senses. After he released your mouth you did the same for his hand, but kept your legs draped over him for the comfort of having him hold you. He sucked his fingers clean and wiped them off on his jeans, picking up his drink and taking a long sip of blue slushee just as the title card of the movie flashed on screen.

“See, told you.” He said casually, his other arm around your waist, rubbing your side languidly.

——————————————————————————

“You look so sleepy.” Anakin laughed, petting your hair as he walked with you up the stairs in your apartment building.

“I am so sleepy!” You pouted.

“Oh poor wee baby.” He cooed, pinching your sides and picking you up to lug you over his shoulder down the hall to your apartment.

“It’s only 9:00pm.” He said, unlocking your door and setting you down in the entryway. “You ready for bed?”

“Yes, extremely.” You nodded, shuffling toward your bathroom to take off your makeup and brush your hair.

“Well shit baby, did I really mess you up that bad?” He asked, following behind you with a guilty look on his face.

It was your turn to feel guilty now. You can’t tell him the truth can you? The lies and omissions were beginning to affect you in ways you hadn’t expected. You were beginning to see things that simply couldn’t be reality, making making connections by snipping threads and tying the ends in an order that forced things to make sense.

You felt your palms begin to sweat and couldn’t meet his pretty blue eyes as you lied to the man who loves you.

“Mhm.” You nodded, your eyes flickering to his brow bone to give the illusion you were gazing into his eyes just as adoringly as he was looking into yours. “You’ve been wearing me out Ani.”

“In a good way? Have I hurt you?” He asked, cupping your cheeks up with his soft, careful hands.

Did you even deserve those soft touches?

“Oh, no Ani you didn’t hurt me.” You shook your head quickly.

‘At least that wasn’t a lie.’

“Okay princess… do you need me to get you anything?” Anakin took the washcloth from your hands and finished wiping the black streaks from under your eyes, grabbing the brush and running it through your hair. The bristles scratching your scalp just the way you like it.

“No, just you.” Your quiet voice floated up to him, he watched your lips moving in the mirror and it was clear to him that something had severely dulled your mood.

“Alright, let’s put you to bed then sweetheart.” He set aside your brush, kissing the top of your head and steering you toward the bedroom.

Anakin squeezed your shoulder and turned away to retrieve a pair of pajamas, a matching set you’d put on and took right back off just a few days ago. The sight of it nearly caused you to burst into tears, it was just fabric, nothing more that soft threads and stitching. Though seeing it in his hands made you feel sick to your stomach.

He handed them to you with a soft smile, slipping from his jeans and out of his shirt until he was left in just his boxers. He flung back the covers and snuggled down under the blankets on your side of the bed.

“What are you doing?” You asked, the corner of your lip twitching into a smile.

“A certain little lady hates cold sheets, so I’m making ‘em warm.” He said as he pulled the covers over his head with a contented ‘mmm’.

He was sweet, too sweet for you. Too kind, too thoughtful, too good. You were right about him in the beginning, he is too good to be true, though it’s no fault of his own. It’s you who is to be blamed.

With the lights switched off and the bedroom door shut, you magnetized yourself to Anakin after he had rolled into his spot and pulled you to his chest. His warmth seeping through your flesh as a balm for the wounded soul that wallowed in the center of your chest.

Diary Entry: August 31st

Have I let this go on for too long?

I feel like I’ve pushed us past the point of no return, your stress around me, my myself… it’s tangible. Like you’re worried you’ll say or do the wrong thing. I never intended for that. I didn’t intend for this to go on as long as it has at all.

I should’ve banished Ghost to The Pit after you’d accepted me into your life. I should’ve hung up the mask and retired my persona. I’ve always had trouble knowing when enough is enough, when to stop. It’s a difficulty that I’ve yet to overcome and probably never will.

It’s confusing for me, I can only imagine how confusing it is for you. You’re in the middle of it all, you are the center of my world, the sun in my star system. And because you are my everything, I will do anything to keep it that way. To keep you.

DATE

September 2nd

Anakin paced the living room of his apartment, his thoughts traveling faster than a bullet train with a nitro boost. You would be arriving any minute now, you called your sister, you called Luke, but you texted him.

Yes he could hear your calls, but that only gave him half the information he needed. Information you were on your way to share with him.

Anakin was disappointed in himself. He should’ve bugged your backpack long ago, you take it almost everywhere. He could’ve caught the conversation you shared with your sister over lunch the day before. He would’ve been prepared for news, he would’ve had time to plan and time to practice.

What other conversations had he missed out on? Who else have you spoken to?

He was so caught up in his pondering and pacing that he failed to notice your appearance at the bottom of the stairwell, showcased on his laptop.

“Shit.” He muttered, palms tingling before beginning to sweat as he heard the doorknob click and turn. Anakin rushed to the coffee table and shut his laptop quickly, just as you entered the room.

You glanced toward his hand on the sleek metal and up to his face, a blank expression met you where there would usually be a wide goofy grin. You started to say something but stopped short when your phone buzzed, glancing down at it as you lifted the screen upward a *ping* sounded on Anakin’s laptop.

You watched as he picked it up and opened it to view the screen, he sat down heavily on the couch and started typing, looking up at you and beckoning you over with and wave of his hand.

“Sit with me sweetheart, s’just mom.” He rolled his eyes, tapping away at his keyboard replying to a non-existent message from Shmi.

He shut it down and sat it aside again, opening up his arms to let you lay against his chest. Giving you a light squeeze as you settled down, running his hands down your back.

“So, this weekend me, my sister and Luke are going out to the lake.” You started, putting one hand on his chest and resting your chin there.

“Oh?” His eyebrows raised, the lower half of his face remained unchanged.

“Yeah! We do it almost every year.” You smiled, “we get a cabin for a weekend and well usually Luke’s sister comes too but you know she just had the baby not too long ago so she’s not too keen on leaving just yet.”

“Sounds like fun doll.” He nodded, “Are you excited?”

“I am…” your smile faded slightly, noticing something about his tone wasn’t quite right.

“That’s good sweetheart, I bet you’ll have a great trip.” He pushed your hair behind your ear and put his palm on the back of your head to flex his fingers and gently scratch your scalp. “No skimpy little swimsuit, this bangin’ body is for me.” He teased, lightly kneading your ass.

You wanted to smile and giggle, to chide him for his comment but it didn’t feel right. His internal light seemed dimmer, a flickering bulb before it burns out with a *pop*.

“Is everything okay?” You whispered, feeling like if you spoke to loudly you might startle him.

“Huh? Oh yeah princess.” He nodded, giving you a little smile. “Sorry, I’m just feeling a little bit too in my head today.”

“Do you want to talk about it?” You asked him, watching his face shift for just a split second into something you didn’t quite recognize.

“Ah well it’s nothing really.” He shook his head, the corner of his mouth turning up.

“No, there’s something wrong I can tell.” You pressed on, a twist in you guts telling you the worst scenario had come to fruition.

“Just- it’s fine okay?” He answered in a curt, snippy tone.

“Ani…” you reached up and played with his lip piercings, tracing them in a feather light touch that he found soothing.

“I’m irritated.” He scowled, picking up a hand from your back and running it through his hair. You opened your mouth to speak and he shushed you quickly.

“You wanted me to talk, I’m talking.” His voice sharp. “I don’t like that you didn’t discuss this with me beforehand. You’re going somewhere without me, somewhere I’ve never been. How am I supposed to know you’ll be safe?”

“This should’ve been a topic of discussion. You should’ve spoke to me before agreeing to it.”

“I go on this trip every year, it’s perfectly safe. It’s very calm, there’s not many people. I’ll be just fine Anakin.” You sighed, not particularly enthused about his attitude.

“I feel purposely left out. I like to be included in decision making when it comes to you, I don’t think you’d be very happy if I decided to go on a weekend trip without telling you until after I had decided I was going.” His voice raising slightly, his heart beat quickening beneath your palm.

“I wouldn’t have told you no.” He scowled, “but now I want to.”

“Anakin.” You furrowed your eyebrows, “I… I should have talked to you. You’re right, I would be upset if you decided to go somewhere with talking to me first.”

“But I don’t think it’s fair for you to tell me I can’t go.” You added, pushing off his chest.

“I’m not telling you that you can’t go.” His voice low and annoyed. “That’s not what I meant.”

“I don’t want to argue before I leave Ani.” You sighed, feeling him recoil after you said ‘leave’.

“Then we won’t argue.” He huffed. “Look at me.” Anakin said, grabbing your chin as you turned away. “You will call me when you get there. You will call me before bed. You will respond to me when I text you. Understood?”

“I’m sorry Anakin I shouldn’t have-“

“Do you understand me?” He asked again, shaking your chin lightly.

“Yes.” You nodded, looking down at your hands in your lap and feeling a sense of guilt.

“Good girl.” He grunted, “Here.” He pulled you back down to his chest, rubbing your back and cradling your head, rocking you in a slow side to side motion.

“I’m not mad.” He whispered into your hair, his cheek pressed against the crown of your head. “I’m worried. I just worry about you sweetheart, I’m sorry if I sounded harsh.”

“N-no.” You shook your head. “No you were right Ani. I’m the one who should be sorry.”

“Always such a good girl.” His voice cracking as his pressed his lips firmly to the top of your head. “Don’t worry bout it baby, I’m not upset with you.”

——————————————————————————

Anakin slammed the trunk of your car shut and pushed down for good measure, turning around and dusting off his hands, he leaned back on your car. Giving you a smile he pulled you in for a hug, wrapping you in his arms tightly.

“You be careful pretty girl.” He mumbled against your forehead before nuzzling into your neck.

“I will, I’ll call as soon as I get there I promise.” You said, nodding your head to solidify your words. “I’ll text and let you know when I’ve picked up Luke.”

“Alright sweetheart.” He smiled, “I hope you have a really good time. I’ll miss you.”

“I’ll miss you too Ani.” You looked away, knowing what was coming next. Anakin cupped your cheek to make you meet his gaze.

“I love you.” His pupils dilated into big black saucers as he stared into your own. Those pretty eyes he adored so much, the eyes that told him what you wouldn’t say out loud.

You put your arms up around his neck, and tip toed to capture his lips in a soft, lax lipped kiss. One meant to be short and sweet, though with Anakin it’s almost impossible to achieve such a thing. He dominated your mouth in a heated kiss, his tongue curling to brush over yours while he hummed in satisfaction.

You slid one hand down his chest to pull back before you both got carried away in the parking lot of your apartment building. Anakin chased your lips with his, earning a giggle from you and plastering a smirk on his face.

“One more princess.” He mumbled, leaning forward to kiss your jaw. “Please? Gotta make you miss me.”

“I’m already gonna miss you.” You laughed, “don’t make it even worse!”

“I need it to be worse.” He grinned. “A whole weekend without you? I need you wet when you walk in the door.”

“Why’s that?” You asked, your cheeks heating up.

“Well it’d be real rude of me not to get my girl wet before I make sweet love to her wouldn’t it?” He spoke against your neck, squeezing your ass hard.

“Mhm. It would.”

“I’m impatient, I want you just as needy as me when you get home.” He nipped says your neck, pressing his bulge against your hip, making you gasp.

“Ani that’s not fair.” You pushed his head away, trying to squirm out of his grip as he peppered your flesh with his lips.

“Mm. Don’t talk to me about what’s fair.” He grumbled. “Why don’t you just let me have a taste huh, princess?”

“I’m gonna be late!” You squealed as he picked you up and sat you down on the trunk of your car, grinding himself against your clothed cunt.

“You think I give a shit?” He asked, his hands sliding under your shirt and lightly exploring your abdomen, his tongue running along your collarbone.

“Anakin wait there’s-“

Before you could finish speaking a horn blared loudly as a car drove by slowly in the parking lot, the driver scowling with their hands thrown up. Anakin jumped and whipped around quickly to flip the driver a double bird.

“Ani!” You smacked at his shoulder but couldn’t help laughing when he turned around with a goofy grin on his face.

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