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envy-of-the-apple · 7 months ago

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Ruptured Amethyst; Splintered Tanzanite

Dark!Satosugu x reader - Yakuza Au

Synopsis: In hopes of paying off your debt, you start working for two dangerous men. Soon, you realize they want more than money.

Word count: 9.2k

(Warnings: dark content, sexual coercion, dubcon, noncon, oral sex, piv sex, threesomes, gun, blood, violence) Ageless blogs will be blocked. Minors DNI

In this job, you quickly learned that it's better to just keep your head down.

Do what you were called for and leave. Do nothing but sit on your computer and look at numbers. Stepping out of your makeshift boundaries led to nothing but trouble.

It worked perfectly like that for the first few weeks you were brought here. The other workers never bothered you, and it took you a moment to realize they were in the same boat as you were: owing a debt. You wouldn’t quite say things were peaceful; every so often, one of Geto’s men would hurl someone through a table, but things were manageable.

And then Gojo came back.

You hadn’t met Gojo, yet. He was overseas on a business trip when Geto brought you in. You hadn’t met him, but you’d heard enough to make you want to stay away from him. Ijichi had told you enough stories to make you want to sink into the floor altogether. You just had until the end of the year until your debt was paid. It was the beginning of September, right now. Surely, you could avoid him until then, right?

“Ah, you’re the one Suguru was talking about.”

It was your fault. It was entirely your fault. Ijichi had begged you to stay after work for a bit longer and desperate to pay the debt off, you had agreed. No one else was supposed to be in the office besides you and him.

But Gojo didn’t follow other people’s rules. It'd take you a while before you fully understand that.

You could do nothing but stand there, wobbling in your heels as Gojo loomed over you. His sunglasses were tilted, cresting over his nose as he scrutinized you. You clutched the laptop closer to your chest, as though it’d save you somehow.

Gojo didn’t look dangerous. If you had seen him on the street, you would have assumed he was a model. Tall, long hands, pretty features. Gojo doesn’t look dangerous. Gojo is dangerous. He doesn’t need the gun (casually on his side, right in your line of sight) to prove it.

You say nothing. You don’t know what to say. So far, you’ve only dealt with Geto. Geto with his fake smiles and soft words of thinly veiled threats. As intimidating as Geto was, you felt safe enough with him to answer his questions. Speak when spoken to.

Gojo was uncharted territory. Should you speak? Should you greet him? Should you get on your hands and knees? Gojo was new. You had to deal with something new, alone.

You opt to stay silent, hoping that’s the best move. It’s not. Above you, Gojo’s clicking his tongue. He leans down, stooping his head low to get a better view of your face. You stare at him until it gets too much and you’re turning away. He likes that even less, grabbing you by the chin so you’re facing him again.

“You mute or somethin’?” He asks, tilting your head like he’s assessing you.

“No,” you finally murmur. It was a question, correct? He won’t get mad if you answer his questions.

He doesn’t seem mad. But he doesn’t seem happy, either. If anything, he looks a little disappointed.

“I really don’t get it,” he’s talking, but it’s more like he’s saying his thoughts out loud, “Suguru would not shut up about you. Thought I was gonna see something more exciting. You’re so...”

He trails off as though even describing you would be a waste. The thought that Geto speaks about you to his partners scares you, but you’re wise enough not to pry. Instead, you wait. Waiting often works. You’ve been cornered by Geto’s men (before they knew he was the one who brought you), most just want to intimidate you, they get a kick out of fear. When you give them what they want, they usually leave you alone.

Gojo doesn’t leave, even when you’re sure your horror is printed on your face. Obvious to even the blind. Instead, he leans back, eyes trailing down your outfit. Despite how most of the stuff done here was off the record, Geto still prioritized a professional workplace. You were expected to put on a clean blouse and skirt every day.

You yelp when Gojo tugs on the fabric of your skirt, bunching the material on your thighs. Forgetting where you are, who you’re with, you grab his wrist.

“Don’t be like that,” Gojo chides as though you were being the unreasonable one, “I just wanna look. Seriously, what was that guy going on and on about—”

“Satoru.”

Geto’s voice stops the both of you. He’s leaning against the wall, watching the two of you with a less than impressed look. You’re relieved when he’s more focused on Gojo than you.

“Sugu!” Gojo cheers, a complete 180 from his past demeanor. He lets you go and you sink against the wall in relief. “I’m home!”

“I can see that,” Geto retorts, but there’s an odd fondness laced in his tone that you’d never heard before.

The kiss they shared was violent. Tongue and teeth and messy. Gojo reached up, scrunching Geto’s hair, dragging him closer. Respectfully, you glanced away. You don’t yet leave. You know better than that, especially now that Geto is here.

“How many times have I told you to stop harassing our employees?” Geto sighs, once he’s pulled away. His tone is filled with exasperation, as though he were talking to a child.

“I didn’t do anythin’,” Gojo responds. When you finally turn back, Geto is shaking his head.

He smiles at you.

“Apologies, my dear,” he states, “you can leave. Remember to tell Ijichi you’re going.”

You eagerly nod before scurrying away. You can hear Gojo scoff, another murmur from Geto. You couldn’t care less what they’re saying, more than happy to grab your things, bid Ijichi goodbye, and leave.

Keep your head down, and don’t ever bother with what they are doing.

⟡

Technically, you weren’t in debt, your father was.

He had close ties to the underground. You weren’t sure of the details, you were so young when your mother left with you in tow. She was always stingy with the details, but she never failed to remind you that your father was a stupid man who worked with dangerous ones. She passed away right after you graduated from college. You’d mourned her.

Now, a part of you felt grateful she passed just before she saw your life fall apart.

They came in the middle of April. You remember that day purely because of the flower blossoms littering the sidewalk, the first sign of blooming spring.

There were three other men besides Geto that day, and you hadn’t known his name back then—just the man with long, pretty hair. They were all waiting for you, loitering right beside your home. When you hesitated, slowed to a stop, the man with long hair smiled at you. Geto calls your name. When you don’t respond, his smile widened.

“That is who you are, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” you nervously said, “sorry, but—but who are you all?”

He introduces himself. The other three don’t bother. You don’t yet realize that they’re only henchmen, mere puppets for Geto.

“Apologies, but this is a rather sensitive subject. Can we talk someplace private?”

You don’t want to let these men into your home, but his soft words and intimidating company coax you into agreeing. You lead them up the steps, praying to God that you were wrong about this—whoever they were. When you unlock the door, only Geto follows you. The rest wait outside. You don’t know if that’s better or worse.

He seats himself right on the sofa. It’s your apartment, and yet his mere presence makes you feel like he’s the owner. You loiter next to the door, twiddling your thumbs.

“Would you like tea?”

He tilts his head. “Aren’t you a polite one?”

It was more for you than for him—scurrying to the kitchen, away from his searing purple eyes. It’s a reprieve to start the burner, pour water into the pot. You take as much time as you can, but eventually, you have to come out.

Geto says nothing when you place the cups down. He takes it, humming at the taste. You don’t touch your cup.

His tone is soft. His words aren’t.

Your father did far worse than work with dangerous men. He’d stolen from them. He was already dealt with, his punishment had sent him careening off the Earth far sooner than your mother. Still, the topic of the missing money was still there.

Something that had fallen onto you, his next of kin.

You were already crying once Geto finished. Your body is wracked with sobs. You can barely suck in a breath.

“Please—please,” you’re already saying, “he—we—I swear we never received any sort of money from him.”

He takes your hand within his own, curling his fingers around them. Coming from anyone else, it would have been a nice gesture.

“I’m aware,” Geto comforts, “we know you haven’t been in contact with your father for more than a decade.”

His fingers are warm. They trace your cheek as he gently wipes away your tears.

“But in this line of business, family matters, no matter how estranged, my Dear.”

You look at him through your tears. He’s beautiful. Long black hair. If you touched it, you bet it would feel like silk within your fingers.

It’s his eyes that truly suck you in. Purple. It’s a rare eye color, you’ve never seen someone with purple eyes until now. They resemble amethyst, unpolished, but still just as beautiful.

“My partner would have much less...humane ways of dealing with this situation,” Geto continues, “but I think you could be far more useful warm rather than cold, do you agree?” You shrivel in your spot, already having an inkling to what he’s saying. It’s not like you haven’t already figured out where this was going. You’ve heard the stories of what dangerous men do to those who’ve wronged them—to the vulnerable girls who accidentally trip and fall into their trap, forced to work in brothels and debase themselves all for the sake of keeping them rich.

He laughs right then. It’s rich, deep, startling you out of your misery.

"Come now, it's the 21st century."

Geto smiles. Fake. Unsafe.

"Women are worth far more than just their bodies."

It turns out that even the Yakuza had paperwork.

It was a menial deskjob, on the surface, at least. If you don’t think too hard about who you’re working for, it could be a regular office. It’s not like any of the work you are provided with is illegal, but you doubt you’d put it down on your resume.

Your education had saved you. Ironic that it was your father who instilled your desire to learn.

If you don’t think too hard about it, your new ‘job’ wasn’t horrible. As notorious as they were, your new employers weren’t downright cruel. You still got paid. You had a contract. Things could honestly be a whole lot worse.

It was still very hard to get used to, especially in the beginning.

Something you learned very quickly was that the men around here did not like it when women had an attitude. You were far too meek to have one, but the other few women who worked with you became your teachers, showing you exactly what the men would do if you didn’t stay in line. You were more than happy to listen, and even then, your eagerness to learn didn’t help. In order for the lesson to truly sink in, you needed trial and error.

You stepped out of line exactly once. And then you never did it again.

It had been an accident. You’d forgotten that Geto had an important meeting that day. You knocked on his door, shuffling some documents in your hand. It was muscle memory to just go in because he’s never said anything but come in before.

They’d all stared at you, eyes lingering up and down your body. One of them grins. Immediately, you look at Geto. Horrified. Ready to grovel at his feet if need be.

His eyes flashed dangerously. Purple turned into sharp magenta knives. Geto tilted his head.

“Come here, dear.”

You take one step. Another. Then another. The way they look at you makes your stomach twist and sink but Geto only looks at you expectantly. When you linger at his side, his lips quirk.

His grip on your waist is gentle as he guides you into his lap. Your cheeks burn, but you don’t dare move, not even when the men start laughing at the free show. Geto only curls a hand on your waist, keeping you in place as he leans back again.

“Continue, gentlemen.”

The rest of the meeting continues with you on Geto’s lap. You don’t look at any of them, hands balled into fists at your sides. You feel naked. The air within the room is stifling. You refuse to look anywhere else but the floor.

The conversation goes back to business. Despite the compromising situation, he put you in, Geto’s hands don’t wander. He's content to keep his fingers on your waist until the room filters out and everyone leaves.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Geto.” You murmur, your voice barely louder than a whisper.

He doesn’t answer, at least not to that. He just sighs, sinking into his seat. Still, Geto doesn’t let you get up. Not yet. He waits until you’re looking at him, still smiling that fake smile.

This had been a punishment. The next time you made a mistake, you doubt you’d be let off so easily.

“Learn quickly, my dear.”

You nod. You apologize again. When Geto finally lets you go, you are quick to stumble away, pushing your way out the door. Purple eyes follow you out. You don’t think they stop looking until you’re out of the room, curled into your desk, steadying your heartbeat.

You stepped out of line exactly once. You never did it again.

Despite being under Geto, technically, Ijichi is your direct superior. You thanked the Gods for it. Ijichi was the only person here you were certain didn’t have blood on his hands. He was in a similar situation as you were; stuck working off a debt that he didn’t owe. You two bonded on your shared misery. He was the one reprieve you had in your new life.

Unfortunately, now that Gojo was back, Ijichi was far busier. It gave you little time with him. You suppose you were always welcome to join them, but considering your first encounter with Gojo, you’d much rather not.

It’s not like you hadn’t had similar encounters before Gojo's arrival. In the very beginning, one of Geto’s men tried something remarkably similar. You can still remember his hand on your hip, his other hand slowly unbuttoning your shirt while other men stood to the side laughing.

It hadn’t lasted long.

You didn’t realize he was shot until he was already on the ground, twitching in pure agony. He screamed and cried louder than you had. Blood was already dripping to the floor.

Geto had already tucked away the gun, striding away as though nothing happened. He didn’t say anything, the incident was never mentioned. Even to you, his statement rang loud and clear.

You were off-limits.

Clearly, Gojo didn’t care about the unspoken rule.

So far, Ijichi hasn’t acknowledged him. If anything, your superior is hunched behind his computer, typing away, rarely taking his eyes off-screen. You admired his concentration, but it was hard for you to follow suit, considering that Gojo had taken a seat right next to you.

His stare is impossible to ignore. You can feel it even as you desperately try to focus on the screen in front of you. As if he can tell you’re intimidated by his mere presence, he leans over, shoulder pressing against your own. You could practically hear the grin in his voice.

“Watcha’ workin’ on?” He asks as though he can’t already see.

Still, you falter. “Um—”

“Um’” he repeats, “that’s all you’ve been sayin’. Hey, Ijichi—” The man in question jolts up, eyes already panicked.

“Your assistant always this jumpy, or is your personality just that infectious?”

“Sir, uh—” Ijichi starts before getting cut off by a tsk.

“See? Again,” Gojo sighs, “I see why you two get along so well.”

You and Ijichi exchange glances, unsure what to do. When Gojo says nothing more, you decide it’s okay to resume work again, typing away.

Childhood friends, Ijichi told you back when you were still morbidly curious. Gojo had come from a lineage of powerful businessmen. Geto had more or less worked his way up. They became partners somewhere along that time.

It’s hard to imagine them as friends or as anything more. They’re so different. Geto is so controlled, measured with every response he takes. Gojo is more like dynamite, ready to go off at any moment.

You suppose the only similarity is how unreadable they are. To this day, you can’t tell whether Gojo dislikes you or not. Every action you take seems only to disappoint him, yet he constantly hovers around you.

It takes another minute for you to be on the keyboard before Gojo decides he doesn’t like you working peacefully. The chair creaks under his weight as he shifts closer. His head rests against your shoulder. With his new position, you can feel his breath on your collarbone as an arm casually wraps around your shoulders. You don’t dare react, but you send Ijichi a panicked look. He looks sympathetic, but he doesn’t move to help you. You can’t find it in yourself to fault him for his inactions.

“You never answered me, by the way.” He murmurs, quiet enough that only you can hear.

You respond as diligently as you can, making sure you use as few word fillers as possible. It’s clear Gojo doesn’t like that. Or rather, he doesn’t like the nervousness your voice exudes but you doubt you could fix it, especially with his presence around.

“Sounds boring.” Gojo interrupts your rambles. “You don’t do anything else more entertaining?”

“No, sir,” you reply, “I’m only in charge of paperwork.”

Despite the other co-workers you have, you are still an anomaly. Everyone here has had an experience holding a gun—even Ijichi. It’s clear Geto ‘hiring’ you was a change in pattern, something you would always be grateful for. If he hadn't, you wouldn’t want to know what was in store for you.

That’s probably why Gojo was so curious about you. However, considering how close they were, you were now wondering why Geto hadn’t explained it.

“How long have you been working here—hey,look at me when you’re talking.”

You turn, and for the first time, you willingly face Gojo Satoru. His sunglasses are tilted down, and you can see his eyes now. They are blue, so painfully blue, like an ocean, curled up tightly within his eyes. Glittering tanzanite stares back at you—beautiful gemstones that glisten beneath the fluorescent light.

Gojo tilts his head, and you remember that he asked you a question.

“Three weeks, Sir.”

He doesn’t seem all that pleased with your answer. You wonder if you should have lied instead. He’s embarrassingly close, and the position he’s forced you into doesn’t help.

“That quick, huh?” Gojo murmurs, and he sounds a little impressed, “how many times have you and Suguru fucked?”

You gape at him, horrified at even the insinuation. It takes a while for you to even find your voice.

“I—we’ve never. Never.”

Gojo narrows his eyes. “You don’t have to lie to me. C’mon, I'm just curious.”

It feels even worse that Gojo's question isn't even unreasonable. Geto has always treated you differently. Softer. Kinder, if you wanted to be charitable. It isn't a stretch to assume you've been doing favors for the man, in this line of work, it must be a normal occurrence. Yet, you haven't. Apart from that one blunder weeks ago, Geto has never touched you inappropriately.

Still, you shake your head rapidly, feeling heat flush in your cheeks. Being cornered and interrogated like this is humiliating, especially in front of everyone. Ijichi is nice enough to look away while you’re being humiliated, but you know he’s listening. You know everyone’s listening.

Thankfully, Geto intervenes.

“You.” A sigh of exasperation. “Get off.”

Gojo rolls his eyes, but you almost cry in relief when he pushes away and stands up.

“We were bonding,” Gojo argues, though, like everything he says, it sounds like a tease.

Geto’s murmuring something else, and it’s clear that this interaction between them is normal. It's almost a repetition of what happened last time. Both times, you’d been the commonality.

Gojo leaves eventually, shooed away by his partner. The office finally grows quiet when the white-haired man disappears to God knows where. You feel like you can breathe again, but Geto still has not left.

When you look, he’s pinching the bridge of his nose, and you’re strangely reminded of a stressed mother. Finally, he lets out a breath, opening his eyes and staring down at you.

“I apologize for his behavior, my dear,” he says. There’s a hand on your shoulder, mirroring the touch Gojo gave you.

“He’s excitable, like a dog.” You don’t think that part was for you, though you don’t think you could ever even fathom comparing the terrifying anomaly that is Gojo to a mutt. You don’t respond. Geto squeezes your shoulder.

“Come to me if Satoru goes too far. I always take care of my people, don't I?”

He doesn’t leave until you give a nod. His hand finally retracts, allowing you to sink into your seat. You watch him until his figure disappears from view.

“I’m taking a break,” you say, not even a minute later.

Ijichi gives a nod as you push yourself up away from the computer. You spend your break the way you usually do: tucked inside the bathroom, trying to wonder how your life turned out this way.

⟡

Sometimes, you accompany Geto on his trips.

You don’t want to, but it’s not like you can reject his ‘requests.’ It’s part of the job, whether or not you can refuse is up to Geto’s whims.

The trips aren’t too bad. Most of the time, it’s a meeting with other dangerous men. You mainly just sit in a corner, peering down at the ground, trying your best not to be noticed. It works, most of the time. The few perks of this new life is how seldom the people of the underground want to associate with you, especially when you're with Geto. His presence is everywhere, a blanket of protection bestowed only to you. These days, you feel safe even when walking home alone at night.

The trips aren't too bad, but Gojo's insistence on tagging along changed even that.

You should be sitting up front. There's a perfectly vacate passenger seat, right beside Ijichi, the least dangerous man in the vehicle. Gojo had practically dragged you into the car with him, holding you hostage. Geto slid into the seat beside you, effectively trapping you between the two men.

Despite your attempts to keep your body to yourself, every other minute, your thighs brush against theirs. It's a miserable affair, but neither comment on your breach of personal space. They're both too invested in their own little worlds. Geto peers peacefully out the window, enjoying the city life pass by. Gojo is glued to his phone, tapping away every so often.

It's tempting to sneak a peek at them in their natural states, relaxed, unbothered. You don't stare for too long.

Every so often, their worlds will collide. Geto will point out a cat. Gojo would reach over you, showing Geto something funny on his phone. Unfortunately, Gojo catches your lingering eyes.

"Wanna see?" He doesn't bother to hear your response, shoving his phone in your face.

It's a cat video, of all things. You almost wanted to laugh at how normal it is, but you're too intimidated to do anything but give a strained smile, more designed to please. You expected something darker. More blood. More screams. On the screen, the orange kitten lightly bats at a ball of yarn.

"Got a cat?" Gojo asks, tucking away his phone.

"No, Mr. Gojo."

He tsks, but before your blood can freeze, he says, "I told you: It's Satoru."

He's been insistent about it these past few days: Satoru. Satoru. Call me Satoru, as though you'd even dare. Beside you, Geto rumbles out his disapproval.

"Don't be childish, Satoru." He chides.

The car rolls to a stop eventually. The relief in your lungs expands. Ijichi gets out first, followed by Geto. Before you can move, a hand grabs you by the chin, halting your movements.

"You're not leaving this car until you say it, pretty thing," Gojo tells you. "C'mon. Sa-to-ru."

Behind you, Geto sighs, but he doesn't move to stop him. Right, Geto promised he'd step in only when Gojo goes too far. Clearly, this is within his bounds.

You wilt under the hardened tanzanite.

"Satoru." You mutter.

Satisfied, Gojo releases his hold on you, hopping out the car, humming a happy tune.

Geto holds his hand out to you. You'd be an idiot not to take it.

"Bear with him today, dear," he tells you when you step out in the pavement, "he's in a mood."

Amythyst sears into you. You can only nod.

Even then, Geto doesn't release you. He gently maneuvers your arm until your elbow is interlocked with his. He takes his time, walking into the building, mindful of your heels. Ijichi and Gojo are already ahead. Gojo takes a look behind him, spots the two of you, scoffs, but doesn't do much more.

It's another thing you don't know how to feel about. The two have always instigated less than friendly gestures toward you. Yet, neither of the two have expressed any kind of jealousy. You know they are clearly lovers, yet the way they allow their significant other to behave with you makes you feel a bit nauseous.

Most likely, they see you as a pet. Not even a threat to their relationship. It makes sense. In their eyes, you're probably a scared gazelle in the middle of a lion's den. Cute. Something to play with.

There's another theory in your head that you're pushing away.

You follow the same procedure you've always followed. You stay still and silent, like a doll, right beside Geto. Strange men come up to him, greeting him with smug smiles. They barely give you a glance. That's good. It means they know you're one of Geto's.

Gojo being there changes the dynamic. He's more serious, in this setting. You sit right next to Geto's side, listening as Gojo talks. They both do that a lot. Talking. Negotiating. Scheming. You're a bit disappointed in yourself at how easy it is to let the words swirl around until there's nothing left to understand. It's easy to ignore them now. The horrors they partake in. The horrors you are indirectly part of.

Are you allowed to be innocent now that you work under these people? You've never pulled the trigger yourself, but is that an excuse? Morally speaking, you're the same as the men you are terrified of.

How laughable. You came to that conclusion right when they were discussing the price of narcotics.

Sometime later, you find yourself alone, roaming down an unfamiliar hall. It's foolish to be out without Geto or Gojo or even Ijichi, but Geto had an errand he wanted you to run. Now that it was complete, you needed to return back to him.

Except, you had no clue where he was.

You were lost. You should have known this would happen. Why didn't you pay more attention to where you were going? This wasn't any old building. Dangerous men lurked around, even the weaker ones carried guns and weapons.

It was only a matter of time before one of them caught you.

"Hey. You."

You were considered one of Geto's, but without him in sight, you were nothing. You knew that. It's why you cower immediately.

"I'm busy," you speak quickly, "My boss, Mr. Geto, he's—"

His hand is rough and scared and filthy on your skin. You are basically thrown against the wall, cornered against this stranger. He smiles. His teeth are yellowed and filled with tarter and plaque.

"C'mon, there's no need to rush. 'Just wanna have some fun. How much?" Disgust rolls off your tongue, but you don't have the courage to reveal it.

"I'm not like that," you mutter, "I'm not for sale."

But, aren't you? You've sold yourself to Geto, haven't you? Underneath his thumb, his whims. What makes you so much different from a hooker?

"Sure." And then there's a shift in his eyes. His face scrunches up, like he's just tasted something sour.

"Hold on...you're—you're that bastard's kid, aren't you?"

He says your last name, the name your father gave you with so much spite that you nearly flinch. In that moment, you realized that your father had messed with a lot more people than just Geto.

"Yeah yeah, you're a spitting fucking image!" He gripes you harsher. "Your daddy fucked me over while you're sitting over here nice and pretty? What the fuck?"

He's dead. He's dead and you hadn't spoken to him in over a decade, but his ghost still wants to punish you for being his kin. And this man is his executioner.

You're expecting something violent. Something that hurt more than his hand's squeezing your bicep. Perhaps he was, perhaps he would. Unfortunately, for him, Gojo interupted his plans.

You didn't even know that it was him, at first, on the floor, on top of the man. Gojo, despite his hungry smile, eager eyes, was always so angelic. He isn't supposed to be using his hands. He isn't supposed to inflict violence, not by himself.

He's punching him. The man isn't a man anymore, reduced to a mere punching back. Gojo doesn't stop until he breaks skin. He doesn't stop until you can hear a distinct crack.

Satoru doesn't stop until Suguru tells him to.

"Don't kill him." Geto warns. "It'd breach the agreement."

You can feel his presence, always silent, never revealing himself until he wants to be known. So unlike Gojo, who is hungry for even a second of attention. More than happy to spill blood over it.

Gojo grits his teeth, as though he's debating to even listen. He stands up eventually, chest heaving. His knuckles are caked in blood. It's not his. His glasses are off. His eyes are blown wide open like he's just hit the greatest high of his life. Geto calmly hands him a clean towel. You don’t want to know how many times this situation has repeated.

"Who gives a shit." Gojo bites out, his eyes , trailing to you, and you flinch away. He looks like a wild animal, growling and spitting. You don’t want to be next on his plate. Geto steps in front of you, barricading you from his sight.

The man on the ground had recovered enough to pathetically crawl away. It such a stark change to how he was just a few minutes ago, when he was lording over you, drunk off of his power.

Gojo steps on his calf. The broken thing gives a strangled scream. It only makes Gojo’s manic grin wider.

"Let him go. You made your point," Geto says, "calm down."

Firey blue eyes. Bright and violent. You don’t know how Suguru is able to withstand the intensity. Even you’re wilting when it’s not even directed towards you.

"Calm down?” Satoru asks. “You want me to calm down? Did you see what that bastard was gonna do to our—"

"Satoru." You've never heard Geto use this tone before. "Not here. Not now."

A silent battle warred between them. Tanzanite bore into amethyst. Which gem would rupture first, splinter into defeat?

Eventually, Gojo looks away, cursing. He glares down at you, as though he were blaming your weakness of all things. In a way, he’s not wrong to.

"I'll wait outside."

And then he's gone, striding down the corridor. Geto watches him go, before glancing down at you.

"Did he hurt you?" He asks.

You're not supposed to lie to him. You nod.

Geto pulls on your sleeves until he can see the imprints. Light bruising, nothing too horrible. You'll survive. Geto looks less than pleased. He glances down at the remnants of the man, the imprints of blood on the floor. You pitied the person who'd have to clean it up.

"I apologize, dear." He sighs. "I should have kept an eye on you."

He stares at the blood some more. Then, he smiles.

"Perhaps, it's better if I just let things run its course, this time."

You blink at him. He ignores your silent question. Instead, he wraps his arm around your shoulders, gently leading you outside. The car is already running. This time, Geto silently ushers you into the passenger seat. You take it immediately. Gojo hadn't taken his eyes off of you. You're grateful for any barrier.

This time, the car ride was silent. You don't relish in it. If anything, it just feels like the calm before the storm.

⟡

Soon, what Geto was talking about became apparent.

The man who had nearly been killed by Gojo had talked. You don't know what your father did to these men, perhaps you never will, but they didn't let you forget his crimes. If they couldn't get to him, then clearly, his kid was the next best option. You know it was them. It would be no one else.

Someone broke into your apartment one weekend. Everything was ruined. The TV was shattered and broken. Your mattress was tossed onto the floor. Every plate, cup, and bowl was smashed onto the floor. They took nothing, but they broke everything.

You hadn't been home that night. Ijichi needed more work from you. If you had, if you had come home that night, alone, locked the door, slept in that bed, then what would have—

Geto finds you on the stairs of your apartment, curled into a ball. You watch with bloodshot eyes as he observes the damage, clicking his tongue. He doesn't look particularly shocked.

You do nothing when you feel his hand on your shoulder, brushing against the sleeves, a feign of sympathy. You don't even care to ask how he came even though you never called him. Geto has a keen sense for you.

"It'll get worse." His voice comes. Soft, and sure.

Yeah, you knew that. You'd been naive, following after Geto with wide eyes. You thought that if he was untouchable, then so were you.

He speaks about an enemy group, people with debts with your father, just as he did. Of course, he knows who did this to you. You’d be more surprised if he didn’t.

You don’t care. His words go in one ear and out the other. The reasons don’t matter. Your home is still destroyed. It’s no longer yours.

"They got my phone, too," you mention to your discarded cell phone. "My emails, messages."

You're trapped, with nowhere else to turn. All the doors are shut and bolted, and only one remains open.

You turn to the devil.

"Can you...help?"

The angler fish uses its darkened habitat to its advantage. Hundreds of miles beneath the water's surface, it produces its own light as an olfactory bulb. It's an excellent predator, swinging its bio lantern around in the dark sea, the only light around for miles.

Geto tilts his head, a smile on perfect pink lips.

"You want my protection? It's a steep price, darling."

You feel like an empty well, forced to give and give until you're all dried up. Who could be so greedy? Who could be so willing to take?

"I've given you everything." It's barely a whisper. "What else do I have left to offer?"

He doesn't say anything to that, not at first. Geto kneels in front of you, a slender hand lifting your head up by the chin. Fingers trail down to your neck. Not choking, just holding. His thumb lightly presses into your throat.

"Not everything," Suguru says quietly.

He's right. You hadn't given him everything. So far, you have always been one of Geto's people. You were Geto's employee. You were indebted to him, but you weren't conquered by him.

Not yet.

He's kneeling in front of you, holding your soul in his hands and demanding for your heart. In a way, you find it a bit funny. You just don’t have the will to laugh anymore.

He's smiling again when he can tell you're finally starting to understand. "We couldn't have been that subtle, were we? Satoru never failed to express, at the very least."

No, they never tried to hide it. Even in the beginning, when you first met Suguru, you saw the hunger. You just tried to ignore it. You tried to keep your head in the sand, hoping it would pass. It makes you wonder if you had just agreed on that very night, led him into your bed, and bared it, would things have been different?

"I can leave. We can pretend this never happened," he coos, "it's all up to you, sweetheart."

He's making it seem like you had a choice. In a way, you did. You're choosing between two monsters. A known and an unknown. It takes longer than you'd like to figure out which one scares you more.

You take the bait. The angler fish siezes its prey.

"One night?" You're trying not to beg but it's coming out anyway. "Just—just one night?"

Geto leans forward, pressing a kiss on your forehead. It’s not an answer.

⟡

Despite the many months you've worked with him, you've never been to his home before.

It's not a house. A villa maybe. The property stretches itself stretches for miles. Filthy rich. Bleeding gold.

Geto—

("Suguru," he corrected you in the car, "considering this isn't really business, anymore.")

—had ushered you throw a double-door entrance. You couldn't even admire the architecture. Not when Gojo was already standing there. His eyes were hidden away, tucked underneath his glasses, but you still felt his stare. And all too wide smile stretched on his lips. He greeted Suguru with a kiss. For the first time, you looked down at their hands.

Matching rings.

You felt sick.

'It's all up to you, sweetheart' Suguru's voice rings through your head all through a dinner that's really nothing but a flimsy padding for the rest of the night. Food was served, wine was poured, all in a bid to ease you into it. As of right now, it's still your 'choice'. You know, without a doubt, if you backed out now, they'd let you go without a fuss. Suguru or Satoru themselves might drive you home. You'd crawl into bed without a scratch.

But you don't. You stare at your plate, picking at it when they ask questions. Satoru's in such a good mood he offers to feed you.

It's mostly because it doesn't feel real yet. You feel like you're watching yourself go through the movements. Eat. Speak when spoken to. Smile when prompted. Empty.

You only come back when you're standing in their room, and the door locks with a click.

The window blinds are drawn, but there's no light to seep in. The moon is already out. You wonder how many hours you've already spent here.

You take another step towards the bed. Then, you turn around.

Satoru and Suguru stare right back. You feel their heavy gazes immediately, flicking your eyes down to your feet, playing with your sleeves.

Satoru laughs, perceiving the terror as shyness, or maybe he doesn't care. He steps forward first.

"Don't be like that." He lightly chastises you, tucking one arm around your waist. "We'll be nice. Promise, baby. We're gonna be so so good for you."

He finds your lips, then. Satoru kisses like the sun, all fire and passion. Sinking into you, wanting to melt. It's impossible to turn away and ignore his presence. He gropes at your chest, your waist, trying to feel all of you at once. When he finally lets go, you feel dizzy.

Suguru's kisses ground you, makes remember where you are, who you're with. He's like the Earth you're crashing back into from your high. You hurdle through the atmosphere as his hands grasp at your throat. He never squeezes, but it's more than enough to sober you.

"You smell so nice, baby," Satoru says from his place at your neck. You flinch when teeth sink into your sink, but you don't complain.

"That's creepy, Satoru." Suguru chastizes him.

Serpentine eyes stare into yours. You don’t get the chance to hide before you feel his breath on your cheek. Suguru tugs at the hem of your dress.

“Take this off.” He whispers into your skin. “And get on the bed for us, sweetheart.”

This is the lesser monster. It’s a mantra you repeat in your head as you pliantly nod, hesitantly gripping the fabric of your dress. It’s horrifically easy to take it off and let it drop by your feet. You can’t bear to look at them anymore.

The soft duvet sinks under your weight. It looks expensive. Silky pillows. On either side is a nightstand covered with trinkets and personal items. You spot one of Suguru’s shirts on the floor, and it takes you a second to realize this is their room, not an impersonal guest room they use to fuck the less fortunate.

They stop paying attention to you. Satoru moans loudly into Suguru’s mouth. Suguru fiddles with the buttons on Satoru’s shirt, close to ripping it off entirely. Satoru palms at the tent in his pants as he unbuckles his pants. Suguru loosens his tie. They’re so violent with each other. Dread soaks through your palms, and you curl even further within yourself. You prayed this was all they wanted from you—someone to just watch, someone less interactive.

It’s not. When they pull away, their lips are swollen. Satoru leers at you, licking at his busted lip. You can’t seem to cry anymore.

They’re both half-naked. You can see the tattoos spread on Suguru’s hand, crawling up to his shoulder. Another peeks just behind Satoru’s neck. You only get a glimpse before he’s on top of you, eager for a continuation.

“Shit, you’re so soft.” He hisses as he squeezes your bra-covered breast. It doesn’t stay on for long. You wince when his fingers trace over your sensitive tits.

Your hands squeeze into fists, because you choose this, choose them. Satoru’s more than happy to sink into your breasts. His warm tongue swirls around a nipple before fully taking it in his mouth.

“Like a baby,” Suguru says. Satoru scoffs, tossing him an impressed look.

“Shut up.” Satoru releases your breast with a wet-sounding pop. They’ll be marks there tomorrow.

His fingers trail down your breasts, your ribs, your stomach. They linger on the band of your panties.

You can’t help it. It’s instinct.

He freezes when your fingers snap around his wrist. There’s no strength behind your grip, he pauses more out of surprise than anything.

His eyes, filled with hardened tanzanite, shoot up to yours. You think, if they’d be anyone else’s, you would have envied them.

He doesn’t say anything. Neither does Suguru. The silence is crushing.

“Sorry.” You feel pathetic apologizing, but it’s outweighed by the fear. “I—I’m sorry. I was just—”

“It’s okay, dear,” Suguru coos. “Satoru just scared you, hm? He’s such an idiot, isn’t he?” He violently smacks Satoru on the head. You flinch at the sound. Satoru just whines, rubbing at his temple.

“Mean.” Satoru childishly says, but he’s slower now, rolling down the hem of your panties.

Suguru is quick to distract you. He’s busy with his own bottoms before he’s taking you by the chin.

His cock is already leaking precum. He’s big, and you don’t think you’ll be able to do want he wants. Suguru smiles down at you, he doesn’t need to say anything. You’re swallowing down your self-hatred before opening your mouth.

You take him in just when Satoru buries his face between your thighs. The two of you have very different reacts. Satoru just hums, finding your clit to lick. You gasp, your legs jolting as you accidentally take Suguru even deeper.

He’s nice enough to let you go at your own pace. There’s a hand on your head, petting you, easing you through the process. Even then, your mouth is stretched uncomfortably wide. Tears prick at your eyes. Suguru’s face gets blurry. You don’t think you want to look anymore.

Below you, Satoru is enjoying his meal. He’s slobbering on your pussy, eating you out like it’s his last meal. His hot tongue finds his way into your sopping hole. You squeeze your eyes, a muffled whine comes from your mouth. The only loss of control Suguru shows was how he ever-so-slightly gripped your head.

By then, you’re unintentionally squeezing Satoru’s head in between your thighs. It’s so much. Pleasure tingles up your spine as Satoru continues to worship your pussy. His nose grinds into your clit and, for a moment, you’re wondering how he’s even breathing.

Suguru’s close. You can feel it every time his balls slap your chin. He’s speaking now, words stilted and heavy. It’s the only hint you get that he’s only holding his control by his teeth. That thought scares you. At any moment he’d snap, choking you with his cock, let you suffocate while he fills your dying mouth with his cum.

“Good,” he’s hissing out, “so good—good for me. C’mon, baby, take it.”

Satoru’s hand squeezes your ass, urging you to arch off the bed. You come like that, pressing your thighs around Satoru’s head, moaning around Suguru’s dick.

Suguru barely gives a grunt before something salty fills your mouth. You have to swallow it down. It burns your throat.

The air tastes sweet by the time Suguru’s cock leaves your mouth. You’re sucking in deep breaths, breasts heaving. Incidentally, you hadn’t suffocated Satoru. He’s kissing his way up your body. A trickle of Suguru’s cum had escaped your lips. His tongue presses against your chin before he pushes it back into your mouth. You can taste your tangy essence on his lips.

“Gotta’ swallow it all,” Satoru says with a teasing lilt, “he gets mad when it’s wasted.”

You can only nod. He gives you another wet kiss before he pulls away.

They switch places, Suguru moving over until he’s between your thighs. His large cock lays on your cunt. He’s still hard, his cock twitches when he angles his hips down, letting the head run over your leaking slit.

“The only reason he's going first is ‘cuz he’s been pining for you for months.” Satoru murmurs into your ear. Strangely enough, Suguru doesn’t comment. Your brain can’t work fast enough to comprehend what that means.

You hold your breath just as he presses himself inside. You’re almost grateful Satoru took the time to prepare you. His salivia, and your stretched walls make it easier for Suguru to bury his length inside you.

It doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt. You hiss. Satoru feels enough sympathy to coo at you, kissing your neck, trying to distract you from the pain. It doesn't help, not even when Suguru presses light circles into your clit, easing his way through.

Suguru’s giving a harsh laugh when he’s fully seated inside, his hips meeting yours.

“Feel good, hm?” Satoru goads, reaching up to nibble on Suguru’s ear.

“Shit, so tight—fuck.”

Your hips twitch and you’re clenching down on him. Suguru doubles over, gritting his teeth.

“Oh, darling.” Scarred hands grasp your neck. “I’m going to ruin you, aren’t I?”

Your bottom lip wobbles. He’s eyeing you like a piece of meat. A gazelle in the lion’s den. To them, to men like them, you suppose you’re nothing more.

“Suguru.” You whisper because your voice is failing you. “You-you promised you’d be nice.”

Silence. And he’s laughing so hard his shoulders shake. They both are.

“We did promise that, didn’t we?” Suguru glances at Satoru. “Next time, then.”

He pulls his cock out of you slowly, dragging his head through your cunt. He’s so slow and deliberate that you think it’d feel better if he just went ahead and fucked you already.

And he was, technically. His hips rolled back into you, his cock disappearing inside your wet pussy with each thrust. It’s so much that you’re willingly arching your back, trying to do anything to alleviate the intensity.

Beside you, Satoru is pulling out his cock, his eyes never leaving the lewd sight of Suguru fucking himself into you.

“Fuck fuck fuck,” he’s cursing under his breath, fisting his cocl in one hand, “so fuckin’ hot.”

Suguru growls, grabbing Satoru’s stiff cock, crudely pumping his hand up and down. His movement are getting more erratic losing his pace, his patience. You’re at your end too, almost crying when someone squeezes your sensitive tits.

“How does it feel, darling?” Suguru asks with a ragged breath. His eyes are blown, you don’t even think he’s looking at you, anymore.

When you don't give an answer fast enough, Suguru snaps his hips punishingly in response. You give a sharp wail.

“I said.” Suguru hisses through his teeth. “Tell me how it feels.”

You can barely suck in a breath. You’re losing oxygen too fast.

But you’ll die if he keeps doing this.

“Good.” You tell the truth. “It—it feels good, Suguru.”

He grins, serpentine. You’ve lost a game you didn’t even know you were playing. His fingers descend on your clit.

“That’s my perfect darling.”

You sob when your walls clench around his cock, milking him dry. Your orgasm triggers his own. He curses, and something is spilled into your used cunt. Out the corner of your eye, Suguru and Satoru are kissing, going together like rabid dogs. Satoru shudders, and then all three of you are a panting mess.

You take in deep breaths, barely caring when Suguru lets out an exhausted laugh, collapsing into your chest. He licks at your sweaty skin. You just sink your head further into the pillows

It was over. It was finally over.

“You got it everywhere.” Suguru suddenly says, disgusted. He wipes Satoru’s cum off your stomach.

Satoru just snorts.

“I didn’t have a hole to dump it all in.” He snarks back. “Twice, by the way. So selfish, Sugu.”

“Quit whining.” Suguru groans. “You have your chance now, don’t you?”

What? Exhaustion blinks away.

Suguru stays by your side. Gojo is the one moving, rising from the blankets. He places his hands on either side of your hips, spreading your legs.

Geto catches your panic, easily catching you before you can even do anything. He hushes you while Satoru settles himself between your thighs, his cock pressing right at your slit.

“The night’s still young, dear.” He sounds almost sympathetic. “Be good for just a bit longer.”

By the time they’re finally done with you, it’d been hours. You can’t count how many positions they put you in, how many times your holes were filled by their cocks or their fingers or their mouths. You’re barely coherent by the time Suguru is tucking you under the soft duvet.

You feel sore and used and dirty. His soft words, filled with praises, just make you feel worse. Despite how exhausted you feel, you’re just waiting until they finally get bored of seeing your body and kick you out.

You’ll call a cab home. You’ll cry yourself to sleep. You’ll be okay.

They’re taking a while to get to that part. They’re mumbling soft words too each other, it sounds too intimate to be something you should be overhearing. Satoru’s at your back, hands curling around your waist, another brushing Suguru’s mussed hair. You can feel his soft breath at the nape of your neck.

Suguru’s eyes are on you. Amethyst watches you intently.

"Satoru,” he finally says, “go uphold our end of the deal."

Gojo groans, annoyed. He snuggles closer to you. "Why me? You go do it."

An adoring smile crinkles on Suguru’s lips. It makes him look younger.

"Because I don't trust you alone with this one for the night. Go."

“Ass.”

He sighs, but Gojo sits up, letting the covers shift off his naked body.

"Stay right here for me, baby, 'kay?" He leans over, pressing a delicate kiss on your hairline. Despite everything that happened tonight, this was the most intimate thing he'd done to you. It's too...loving.

When Satoru leaves, you wait for a few moments. Suguru had yet to tell you to go. It probably meant that he didn’t want to waste his breath dismissing you. You take the hint, rising from the bed.

His fingers snap around you wrist just as your feet touch the floor.

“Where are you going?” His voice doesn’t sound accusatory, but you flinch anyway.

A wobbly smile makes its way across your face, you hope it comes across as submissive. Weren’t you done? The deal was made, that meant you could leave now, right?

"I—I need to go home?" Suguru gives a doting smile, as though you said something adoringly naive. He barely pulls on your hand, gently leading you back under the covers.

You follow because the gun glints by the nightstand.

“Is that the best idea right now, dear?” He asks, “Who knows if those men have come back? I’d hate to see them find their target, wouldn’t you?”

He draws you into his chest. Your head is tucked underneath his chin.

“And besides, Satoru will be disappointed if you left without saying goodbye. It’d be horrible to deal with one of his tantrums so late at night.”

He buries his face into your hair, inhaling your scent.

“Why don’t you leave in the morning? I’ll be sure to drive you back myself. By then, I’m sure Satoru will have made the proper arrangements. Don’t tell him I told you this, but—” Suguru drops his voice as though he’s scared someone might overhear”—he tends to be more efficient when you’re in the picture.”

You don’t know what he means by that, and you don’t think you want to know. Still, you lift your head, finding the courage to stare at him.

His eyes are such a beautiful color. Glittering purple in the moonlight. You’d stare at them all night if you could.

“I can leave in the morning?”

Suguru hums, kissing your forehead.

It’s not an answer.

#yandere jjk #yandere #dark jjk #dark gojo satoru #dark content #yandere gojo satoru #non con touching #yandere geto suguru #dark geto suguru #dark satosugu #yandere satosugu #tw:blood #tw:noncon/dubcon

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thef1diary · 2 months ago

Text

Yes, Sir | L. Hamilton

Kinktober 2/11 ~ Sir Kink

Summary: Lewis’ dominant yet tender energy sets the tone of the night, which meant one thing, you’d only refer to him as “sir”

warnings: 18+ smut, soft dom!lewis, sub!reader, blowjob

wc: 1.7k

kinktober masterlist

You stood by the window in his luxurious hotel suite, gazing outside. Though the city below is alive with muted sounds—people stumbling out of bars, traffic gathering on the roads—the night feels silent from your perspective. None of it really registers as you’re lost in thought, your mind elsewhere. The room feels empty without him, but you know that will change soon.

The soft click of the door opening pulls you from your reverie, and as you turn, it’s as if the entire room suddenly comes to life. Your eyes lock onto him immediately. There he is—Lewis, exuding that effortless charisma, his tailored suit hugging his athletic build in all the right places.

“Hi, sweetheart,” he greets, his voice a smooth velvety drawl that sends shivers down your spine.

“Lewis,” you respond, your voice barely above a whisper, already breathless. It’s as if you hadn’t expected him to be there, yet you were undeniably waiting for his return.

You can feel your pulse racing as removes his blazer, and undoes a couple buttons of his dress shirt. He steps closer, his presence filling the space between you, making the room feel smaller. There’s an energy to him tonight, a tension that you can feel thrumming in the air. He closes the distance between you in a few confident strides, stopping just inches away from you. His gaze is piercing, studying you with an intensity that makes your knees feel weak.

“You’ve been thinking about me,” he murmurs, his tone low, almost predatory. It’s not a question—it’s a statement.

You can only nod, your voice caught in your throat. There’s no point in denying it; he always knows. He’s always had that effect on you.

“Good,” he says softly, reaching out to brush his fingers along your jawline, the touch is tender yet possessive. “Because I’ve been thinking about you too.”

The words sent a jolt of desire through you, pooling heat low in your belly. “You were?” You manage to ask, your voice barely steady.

Lewis raises an eyebrow, a look of disbelief crossing , but then his gaze darkens, and he tilts your chin up with a single finger, forcing you to meet his eyes.

“Of course, sweetheart,” he replies, his voice firm, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “You’re always on my mind. You have no idea how tempted I was to leave the party, knowing you were here waiting for me.”

His words hang in the air, laden with unspoken desire. The thought of him, mingling with others while his mind was fixated on you, sends a thrill through your body. The way he looks at you now—like you’re the only thing that matters—makes your breath hitch.

“I couldn’t wait to get back to you,” he continues, his voice dipping lower. His fingers trail down from your chin to your throat, then lower, teasing the edge of your collarbone. “The whole time, all I could think about was being here with you, alone.”

“Tonight,” he murmurs, his voice wrapping around you like a velvet command, “you’re going to listen to every word I say. Understood?”

“Yes,” you breathe, the anticipation thrumming through you like a live wire, electrifying every nerve.

His eyes narrow slightly, and he doesn’t move, waiting, his silence expectant. The moment stretches, taut with tension, until his hand suddenly finds your nipple through the silk of your robe. He pinches it just hard enough to make you gasp, the sensation sharp, a clear punishment for forgetting something crucial.

“Yes, Sir,” you whisper, the words feeling both thrilling and dangerous on your tongue.

A satisfied smirk tugs at his lips, his eyes glinting with approval. “Good girl,” he purrs, and the praise sends a wave of heat through you, your body humming with need, your breath catching in your throat.

Lewis leans in, his lips brushing against your ear, his breath hot and teasing against your skin. “You know what I want, don’t you?”

“Yes, Sir,” you reply again, your voice quivering with a heady mix of arousal and nerves.

His hands slide down your sides, firm and possessive, claiming every inch of you. He guides you closer to the bed, his hands resting on your back, fingers splayed out, the warmth of his touch seeping through the thin silk of your robe.

When you reach the bed, Lewis turns you to face him, his tattooed hands deftly undoing the silk knot of your robe. The fabric parts, revealing the delicate lace lingerie beneath. His eyes darken with desire, his gaze devouring you as you shrug the robe off your shoulders, letting it fall to the floor in a silken pool at your feet.

Without a word, he guides you down, his hands firm on your shoulders as he lowers you to your knees in front of him. The plush carpet feels soft beneath you, grounding you as the world seems to narrow to just this moment, to just him.

Lewis sits on the edge of the bed, his eyes never leaving yours. He leans back slightly, his legs spreading just enough to give you space. The look on his face is pure authority mixed with a desire that makes your mouth go dry.

Eager to please him, you reach for the waistband of his pants. With careful precision, you undo the button, your fingers grazing his skin as you pull down the zipper. He lifts his hips as you tug the fabric down his legs, revealing the black boxers that cling to his body. Tossing the fabric aside, you gaze up at him and your lips part in awe. The sight of him, so powerful and commanding, makes your mouth water with anticipation.

You inch closer, your eyes still locked on his as you press a soft kiss to the bulge straining against his boxers. The warmth of him seeps through the fabric, and you can’t resist the urge to nuzzle against him. Your lips and nose brush against the outline of his cock as you shift your head slightly and close your eyes.

A low groan escapes him, and his fingers tighten in your hair, a silent encouragement that sends a thrill through you. Emboldened, you continue your exploration, mouthing at him through the thin fabric, feeling the heat and hardness beneath. The scent of him fills your senses, intoxicating and unmistakably him, and it makes you dizzy with desire.

You glance up at him, your eyes wide and filled with need, seeking his approval. He looks down at you with a smirk playing on his lips. "That's it," he murmurs, his voice a deep rumble that vibrates through you. "Show me how much you want it."

The praise sends a jolt of pleasure through you, and you respond by pressing your lips more firmly against him, your tongue darting out to taste him through the fabric. The texture of the cotton is soft against your lips, but you're craving more—craving the feel of him, bare and hot, in your mouth.

“Take them off,” he orders, his voice low and commanding.

“Yes, Sir,” you murmur, pressing a final kiss to his bulge before hooking your fingers in the waistband. Slowly peeling the fabric down, you feel his muscles tense beneath your touch as you free his cock.

Without hesitation, you lean in, taking him in your mouth. The heat of him against your tongue is intoxicating, his taste driving you wild. You work him slowly at first, savouring the way his grip tightens in your hair, the subtle groans of approval spurring you on.

His hips begin to move in time with your rhythm, his control slipping as you feel the tension build in his body. His deep, commanding voice cuts through the air as he moans your name, mingling it with that title you love to hear from him. "Just like that, sweetheart. Don't stop."

You nod slightly, your eyes never leaving his as you continue, the intensity between you growing with every passing second. His praise, his control, his approval—it all drives you, fuels your need to please him, to be his good girl. The words "Yes, Sir," become a mantra in your mind, guiding your every move as you push him closer to release.

When he finally reaches his climax, the sound of his deep, guttural moan sends a wave of satisfaction coursing through you.

You swallow every drop, feeling a sense of pride in knowing you've given him exactly what he wanted. As his breathing slows, he pulls you up onto his lap, his arms wrapping around you in a possessive embrace.

“You’ve been such a good girl for me,” he murmurs against your ear, his voice filled with warmth and satisfaction. “Putting my pleasure before your own.”

You shake your head, a slight smile on your face. “I like pleasing you, Sir.”

Lewis hums in approval, his hand finding its way to your cheek. He pulls you in for a kiss, his lips warm and demanding against yours. The kiss is slow at first, almost tender, but there’s an underlying hunger there, a promise of what’s to come. You melt into him, feeling his strength, his control, the way he guides you even in something as simple as a kiss.

When he finally pulls back, his thumb strokes your bottom lip. “You’ve been so patient, so good for me.”

His hands trail down your body, caressing your skin as if memorizing every curve, every dip. “I think it’s my turn to make you feel good, to take care of you.”

You shiver in anticipation as his hands move lower, slipping beneath the delicate lace of your lingerie. The fabric feels fragile under his touch, like it might tear at any moment, but he pauses, connecting his gaze with yours.

“What do you say?” He waits for your approval, and you obey instantly, nodding with your bottom lip trapped between your teeth.

“Yes, please, Sir,” you nearly whimper, causing a smirk to tug at his lips.

“That’s what I like to hear,” he murmurs, placing tender kisses down your throat, while his hand unhooks the clasp of your bra.

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#di’s kinky fics #thef1diary fic #f1 kinktober #f1 smut #f1 one shot #f1 fic #f1 fanfic #f1 imagine #f1 x reader #lewis hamilton x you #lewis hamilton x reader #lewis hamilton smut #lewis hamilton fanfic #lewis hamilton fic #kinktober #kinktober 2024 #smut #divider creds: djarrex

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daisynik7 · 10 months ago

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cw: established relationship, explicit sexual content, smut - cunnilingus

Author's Note: Barely proofread, completely horny. Enjoy. Divider credit to @/cafekitsune.

When Nanami comes out of the bedroom for breakfast, he notices you’re already set up at your work desk, expression serious as you face the monitor.

“You have a meeting right now?” he asks, giving you a quick peck on the cheek.

You relax a bit from his loving smooch. “Yeah. I don’t even need to be in this. My boss just said to hop on and listen in. Said it’s a learning opportunity.” You make air quotations with your fingers at those last two words, rolling your eyes.

He hums, massaging your shoulders, which are stiff and tense with stress. “I’m sorry.” His thumbs work out a knot; he always knows how to put you at ease at times like this.

You lean back, tipping your chin up to catch his gaze, smiling. “Thank you, honey. I’m just…annoyed.” Glancing back at the screen, you sit up straight, muttering, “Oh no, it’s starting.” With a click of your mouse, you’re in. A few of the attendees are already chatting, so you keep yourself on mute, not bothering to greet them.

Instead of heading into the kitchen for his morning cup of coffee, Nanami remains behind you, bowing down to whisper, “Do you want a distraction?” His mouth grazes your ear, his hands gliding up and down your arms.

Although you’re on mute, you mouth a silent, “What?” to him.

His voice gets lower, sultry. “I’m hungry. And I’m craving my favorite treat right now.” He nuzzles his nose to yours, flashing that lazy smile of his you love so much. “I’ll be quick.” Too much.

“Kento, are you serious?” The rational part of you knows this is crazy, especially while you’re actively attending a meeting. However, the horny part of you, which seems to supersede everything else, wants your husband’s distraction so badly. The temptation to do something you shouldn’t be doing is too alluring to resist. And besides, you’re virtually non-existent in the conversation happening in front of you. Might as well do something else productive.

He nods, pressing his lips to yours in a soft kiss, just enough to tease a moan out of you. “Baby,” you whine. “We shouldn’t.”

And the two of you know what that really means.

Soon, he’s under the desk, sliding your pajamas bottoms off one leg at a time while you pretend to pay attention to whatever nonsense your coworkers are discussing. Your panties are already wet and Nanami takes his time peeling them off you, biting his lip at the way it glistens with your arousal.

He wasn’t lying when he said he was hungry. In fact, he’s starving. He proves that with how voraciously he eats you out, your legs open wide for him to spread his tongue all over you. His grip is firm on your knees, keeping you split apart, licking and sucking on your clit, coaxing every drop of cum out of you. You can go the entire meeting with his face buried in your wet cunt, his drool mixing in with your slick.

Suddenly, and to your absolute horror, your name gets called by your manager. “Any questions?”

You try to shove Nanami away, but he’s relentless, latching onto you tighter, sucking on your clit harder, louder. You squeeze his cheeks tightly with your thighs, practically smothering him, but it doesn’t do anything except make him hum, the vibrations only adding to the divine sensation.

Before this long pause gets any more awkward, you swallow all the saliva pooling in your mouth and unmute yourself. “I’m good, thanks!” you blurt out, muting yourself once more as you let out a drawn-out moan, coming for the fifth time on your husband’s tongue.

The meeting is dismissed shortly after. You shut your laptop closed, scolding your husband, who’s now kissing the plush of your thighs, chin and nose shiny with your cum, a wickedly charming smile on his lips. “Thought you said you wouldn’t have to say anything,” he teases, trying to feign innocence.

You run your fingers through his hair, tugging on the strands gently. “Thought you said you’d make it quick.”

He comes up from beneath the table, meeting your face with his. “You know nothing is ever quick with me, sweetheart.” Then, he kisses you, pulling you close to him, cock stiff against you, leading you into the bedroom.

#nanami smut #nanami drabbles #nanami kento smut #nanami kento #nanami x reader #nanami x you #nanami kento x reader #nanami kento x you #kento nanami smut #kento nanami x reader #kento nanami x you #jjk smut #jjk x reader #jjk x you

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the-winter-spider · 8 days ago

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Invisible | Part 17

Pairings: Bucky x reader AU 🥰🥰

Word Count: 4.1k

Warnings: Sad steve, a little angst, fluff 🫶🏻🫶🏻🫶🏻🫶🏻

A/N: ugh finally is all i gotta say

Masterpost

Steve stepped into the apartment quietly, the door clicking shut behind him. The living room was dimly lit, a single lamp casting a soft glow. Sam was sprawled out on the couch, a bowl of popcorn in his lap, the TV playing a muted rerun of an old sitcom. He looked up as Steve entered, his brows knitting together in concern.

“Did you find her?” Sam asked, sitting up and setting the popcorn aside.

Steve nodded, his expression unreadable. “Yeah. She was sitting on a park bench not too far from here.”

Sam leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees. “And? She okay?”

Steve hesitated, rubbing the back of his neck before walking over to the couch. He sank down beside Sam, exhaling deeply. “She knows,” he said quietly, his voice heavy with resignation.

Sam froze, his jaw tightening. “Knows what?”

Steve looked down at his hands, clasping them tightly as if trying to hold himself together. “That I’m in love with her.”

The silence that followed was deafening. Sam sat back, his expression unreadable as he processed the weight of Steve’s words. Finally, he cleared his throat. “And what did she say?”

Steve let out a bitter laugh, shaking his head. “She said she doesn’t love me back. I asked her if she thinks she ever could, and…” His voice cracked, and he swallowed hard before continuing. “She said at one point, maybe. She believes she could have. But now, with everything going on with Bucky…”

Sam nodded slowly, his eyes softening with sympathy. “Man, I’m sorry.”

Steve leaned back against the couch, closing his eyes as the ache in his chest deepened. “It’s eating me alive, Sam. Knowing that if I’d just made a move sooner, she could’ve been with me. Maybe she wouldn’t be so hung up on Bucky. Maybe we could’ve been happy.”

Sam let out a slow breath, choosing his words carefully. “Steve… you can’t do that to yourself, man. You can’t sit here and play the what-if game. Trust me, it doesn’t help. And honestly? If I’m being real with you, this was always going to happen.”

Steve frowned, his eyes opening to meet Sam’s. “What do you mean?”

Sam gave him a sad smile, his tone gentle but firm. “The universe was always gonna have it be her and Bucky. You’ve gotta know that. They’ve got that messy, complicated, meant-to-be kind of thing. And yeah, it sucks for you—it sucks for anyone standing on the outside looking in—but some things just… are.”

Steve looked away, his jaw tightening. “It doesn’t make it hurt any less.”

Sam nodded, understanding the weight in Steve’s voice. He leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees as he stared at the muted TV. “No, it doesn’t. And it’s not gonna for a while. But you’ve gotta find a way to live with it, man. Letting it eat at you? That’s not gonna do you any good.”

Steve’s shoulders slumped, and he let out a heavy sigh. “I thought… I thought maybe if I just held on, if I waited long enough, she’d see me. But she never has, not like I see her.”

Sam leaned forward again, his tone firm but not unkind. “Steve, you can’t do that to yourself. I know it hurts, but you’re stuck in a shitty situation. The universe has always been rigged for her and Bucky. That’s not on you.”

Steve’s lips twitched in a faint, bitter smile. “You think so?”

Sam nodded. “Oh, I know so. Hell, I figured it out back in college.”

Steve glanced at him, his brow furrowing. “What do you mean?”

Sam gave him a pointed look. “Remember when I asked her out that one time?”

Steve’s eyes widened slightly, the memory rushing back. “Of course, I remember. You came back, said it wasn’t gonna work, and then you two were best friends from then on.”

Sam chuckled, shaking his head. “Yeah, well, that’s because thirty minutes into the date, I realized she wasn’t just talking about Bucky—she was glowing every time his name came up. I sat there thinking, ‘How the hell did I not see this before?’” He paused, his voice softening. “Doesn’t matter what she says or doesn’t say about him. She’s always been his, Steve. And I think he’s always been hers too. They’re just too damn stupid to admit it.”

Steve sighed, leaning back in his chair and staring at the ceiling. “You’re probably right.”

Sam smirked, shaking his head. “Oh, I know I am. You should’ve seen Bucky that night I took her out. He didn’t say anything, but the guy didn’t sit still for hours. He kept pacing around our dorm like he was waiting for her to come back. And once I started hanging out with you and Bucky more, it was even clearer. Bucky looked at her like she hung the stars, and she was over there looking at him like he was her entire world. You couldn’t miss it.”

Steve leaned back, rubbing his hands over his face. “So why didn’t he do anything? Why didn’t she?”

Sam shrugged. “That’s just who they are. Stubborn as hell, both of them. And I think part of it is fear, you know? They’re both so scared of losing what they have that they’ve been too chicken to reach for more. But, Steve, that’s not on you. It’s not your fault they’ve been stuck in this endless loop.”

Steve’s lips pressed into a thin line, his blue eyes clouded with doubt. “Doesn’t make it easier to watch.”

“No, it doesn’t,” Sam agreed. “But here’s the thing—you’re not second best, Steve. You’re not just a fallback option, and you shouldn’t let yourself feel like one. If it wasn’t meant to be with her, that’s on the universe, not you.”

Steve let out a small, bitter laugh. “That’s easy for you to say.”

Sam gave him a pointed look. “Not as easy as you think. But I’ll tell you this—there’s a world of people out there who would give anything to have someone like you in their corner. Someone who sees them the way you see her. And maybe one day, you’ll find someone who looks at you the way she looks at Bucky. She may be closer than you think….You deserve that, Steve. Don’t sell yourself short.”

Steve’s chest tightened at Sam’s words, but he nodded slowly, the truth of them settling in. “Thanks, man.”

Sam clapped him on the shoulder, giving him a warm, reassuring smile. “Anytime. And hey, remember—there’s plenty of fish in the sea. You just gotta let yourself cast the line.”

Steve let out a weak laugh, but there was a hint of hope in it. “I’ll try.”

“Good,” Sam said firmly. “Now, ill grab us a beer and lets figure out what the hell we’re doing tomorrow because I’m pretty sure the group’s about to implode.”

Steve rolled his eyes but couldn’t help the small smile that tugged at his lips. “Sounds about right.”

The two friends settled back into the couch, the weight of the conversation still lingering but lighter now. And as Steve stared at the muted TV, he couldn’t help but think that maybe, just maybe, Sam was right.

College First year

It was a crisp fall evening, the kind where the air had just enough of a chill to make you wish you’d brought a scarf. The campus was alive with chatter and laughter, students hurrying to and from the dining halls or bundling up for late-night study sessions. You’d agreed to go on a date with Sam, mostly because Wanda and Natasha had been relentless about it.

“Come on,” Natasha had said, practically throwing your coat at you. “He’s great. He’s charming. And let’s be honest, he’s got arms that could carry you out of a burning building.”

You’d rolled your eyes but agreed. Sam had always been easy to talk to, Steve said he was the better roommate out of him and Bucky, so that was a good sign and you figured if nothing else, it would be a fun night.

When he showed up to pick you up, he greeted you with his signature warm smile, a casual button-up, and a bouquet of flowers that was just the right mix of thoughtful and not overly formal. “Ready to go?” he asked, offering his arm.

The two of you ended up at a cozy Italian restaurant just off campus. It was charming, with string lights and the soft hum of an acoustic guitar playing in the background. The warm glow of the string lights outside the building made it feel like a scene straight out of a rom-com. Sam opened the door for you with a playful bow.

“After you, milady,” he said, flashing that signature grin that had most girls on campus swooning.

You rolled your eyes but smiled back. “Don’t push your luck, Wilson.”

Sam was, as expected, funny and kind, and the conversation flowed effortlessly. You laughed about your classes, swapped embarrassing stories about your friends, and commiserated over the sheer insanity of trying to balance everything college threw at you. He was cracking jokes and telling stories that had you laughing so hard you nearly spilled your water more than once.

“So, let me get this straight,” you said, trying to keep a straight face as Sam recounted an embarrassing story from his freshman year. “You really thought sneaking a chicken into your dorm room was a good idea?”

Sam held up his hands defensively. “In my defense, it was my chicken. His name was Nugget, and he was a gift from my uncle. You don’t just abandon family.”

You snorted, shaking your head. “I don’t think a chicken counts as family, Sam.”

“Clearly, you’ve never owned a chicken,” he quipped, leaning back in his chair with a smug grin.

As the food arrived, the conversation shifted to classes, mutual friends, and campus gossip. Everything felt easy—until Sam tilted his head, his playful smile fading slightly.

But somewhere between the second course and dessert, Sam tilted his head, his brow furrowing slightly. “You know, I’ve noticed something about you.”

You blinked, caught off guard. “Oh no. What? Is it the way I hold my fork? Natasha said it’s weird.”

Sam snorted, shaking his head. “No, nothing like that. It’s just… you talk about Bucky a lot.”

Your fork froze mid-twirl, and you blinked at him. “I do not,” you said quickly, your voice a little too defensive. “Do I?” you asked, trying to sound nonchalant as your heart skipped a beat.

Sam nodded, leaning back in his chair. “Yeah. I mean, I get it—you’ve been friends forever. But it’s not just that. It’s the way you talk about him. And the way your eyes kinda… linger when you bring him up.”

You felt your cheeks flush as you quickly looked down at your plate, twirling spaghetti around your fork. “It’s not… I mean, Bucky and I, we’re just friends. Best friends, that’s all we’ve ever been.”

Sam gave you a look, one that was both knowing and a little amused. “I'm sensing that maybe someone, not naming names, is feeling a little more than just friends?” He paused, his smile fading into something more serious “Does he know?”

Your stomach twisted, and you set your fork down, your appetite suddenly gone. “No,” you admitted softly, your voice barely above a whisper. “And please don’t tell him. I don’t even know what I want, and the last thing I need is for him to know that I’m…”

Sam raised an eyebrow. “In love with him?”

Your head shot up, and you glared at him, though there wasn’t much heat behind it. “I never said that.”

“You didn’t have to,” Sam said gently, a small smile tugging at his lips. “I don’t know how I didn’t put two and two together before, but it’s written all over you.”

You sighed, leaning back in your chair and rubbing your temples. “Well, great. Now you know my secret. Are you gonna tell him?"

Sam laughed, reaching across the table to gently tap your hand. “Hey, I won’t. But… you should probably figure out what you want. For your sake, not his. I don’t think I’m the guy you’re supposed to be out with tonight.”

You felt a pang of guilt, but Sam’s easy grin quickly soothed it. “Sam, I’m sorry—” You sighed, your fingers gripping your fork tightly. “It’s not that simple, Sam. Bucky and I… we’re complicated. And I’m not even sure he thinks of me like that.”

Sam let out a low whistle, shaking his head. “Man, you’re both blind as hell. But hey, that’s not my business.” He reached across the table giving your hand a squeeze “Don’t be, I’m glad we did this. I mean, it’s not every day you go on a date and realize the person you’re with is completely hung up on their best friend. But hey,” he added, his smile widening, “I can already tell we’re gonna be the best of friends.”

You couldn’t help but laugh, the tension easing from your shoulders. “You think so?”

“Absolutely,” Sam said with confidence. “You’re stuck with me now.”

He leaned forward, a mischievous grin spreading across his face. “Now, if you’re done breaking my heart with all this Bucky talk, I have an important question for you.”

You frowned, tilting your head. “What question?”

“Do you believe in ghosts?” he asked, completely serious.

You blinked at him, caught off guard. “What?”

“Ghosts,” Sam repeated, his grin widening. “It’s a make-or-break question for me. We can’t be friends if you’re one of those ‘ghosts aren’t real’ people.”

You laughed, the tension from earlier easing slightly. “I don’t know, Sam. I’ve never seen one.”

“Classic ghost-denier response,” he said with mock disappointment. “But it’s okay. I’ll convert you.”

“Oh, please,” you shot back, rolling your eyes. “What are you, the Ghost Whisperer?”

“Exactly,” he said, winking. “And by the end of the semester, you’ll be a believer too.”

The rest of the evening was spent walking around campus, talking about everything and nothing. Sam made you laugh so hard your sides hurt, and by the end of the night, you felt lighter—like you’d gained not just a friend, but someone who truly understood you.

As he walked you back to your dorm, he gave you a warm hug, whispering, “Don’t wait too long to figure out what you want, alright?”

You nodded, feeling both grateful and a little overwhelmed. “Thanks, Sam. For everything.”

“Anytime, Ghost Denier,” he teased, pulling back and giving you a mock salute. “Now go figure out your complicated Bucky situation before I have to knock some sense into both of you.”

You laughed, shaking your head as you opened your door. “Goodnight, Sam.”

“Goodnight, Y/N” he said , turning and walking down the hall. “And remember—ghosts are real!”

As you closed the door, his words echoed in your mind. Figure out your Bucky situation. If only it were that simple.

The city was quieter now, the usual hum of nightlife softened as you made your way back to your apartment. It was late, the chill in the air biting at your skin as you wrapped your coat tighter around you. Natasha’s words echoed in your head, their weight pressing heavily on your chest. Stop wasting time.

When you reached your building, your hands were shaking—not from the cold but from the uncertainty of what waited for you inside. You hesitated for a moment, staring at the door, before finally gripping the handle and pushing it open.

The apartment was dark, save for the faint glow of the lamp in the living room. Bucky was still there, sitting on the couch in the same spot you’d left him hours ago. His posture was slouched, his elbows resting on his knees, his hands clasped tightly together. But now, his eyes were red and puffy, the streaks on his cheeks betraying the tears he’d shed.

His head snapped up when he heard the door close. For a moment, neither of you said anything. You couldn’t bring yourself to meet his eyes, your gaze fixed on the floor as you tried to steady your breathing.

You swallowed hard and turned back toward the door, pressing your back against it as you shut your eyes tightly for a moment. You inhaled deeply, gathering the courage you needed, and when you finally opened your eyes again, you faced him.

“Do you mean it?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper, trembling with the weight of everything unsaid.

Bucky blinked, his throat bobbing as he swallowed. He stood slowly, his hands hanging at his sides, and took a tentative step closer. His voice was hoarse when he spoke, raw with emotion.

Bucky’s voice cracked as he answered, “It’s the only thing I’ve ever meant.”

His words hung heavy in the air, the weight of them wrapping around you like a second skin. You stared at him, your breath hitching as every wall, every defense you’d built, threatened to crumble under the sincerity in his voice.

He stepped closer, his movements slow, like he was afraid any sudden motion would shatter the fragile moment between you. “I love you,” he repeated, his voice breaking. “I’ve loved you since the day you tied your shoe in kindergarten and told me you’d be my best friend forever.” A hollow, broken laugh escaped him. “I think I loved you even before I understood what love was.”

Your lip quivered as tears pricked at your eyes, threatening to spill over. “Bucky…” you whispered, your voice trembling.

“I mean it, doll,” he said, his hands twitching at his sides like he wanted to reach out but didn’t dare. “Every girl, every date, every time I tried to move on—I couldn’t. Because none of it felt right. None of them were you.”

His words hit you like a tidal wave, the sheer honesty in his gaze cutting through every doubt, every fear.

Your voice broke as you finally said, “You can’t just say this now, Bucky. Not after everything.” You wiped at the tears streaming down your face, frustration mixing with the flood of emotions. “Do you know how hard it’s been? To watch you with other girls, to convince myself that what I felt didn’t matter because you didn’t feel the same?”

He winced like your words physically hurt him. “I know,” he said softly, his eyes shining with unshed tears. “I know, and I’m sorry. I’ve been such a coward. I’ve spent years too scared to say it, too scared to ruin what we had, and instead, I ruined it anyway.”

You shook your head, tears spilling over as you looked away, your voice rising. “You didn’t just ruin it. You hurt me, Buck! You let me believe I was just your backup, your best friend who didn’t measure up to everyone else.”

His voice cracked as he took another step forward. “You were never my backup. You’ve always been my first choice—always. I’m just an idiot who didn’t know how to show it.”

You let out a sharp laugh, the kind born from heartbreak and exhaustion. “And Steve?” you asked, your voice trembling. “Did you ever think about what telling me about him would do? How I’m supposed to face him now, knowing what I know?”

Bucky ran a hand through his hair, his jaw tight. “I know I shouldn’t have said it. I know it wasn’t my place, but I was desperate. I couldn’t stand the thought of losing you again—to Dean, to Steve, to anyone.”

“Steve doesn’t deserve this,” you said, your voice softening, your heart aching for the friend who had loved you quietly and selflessly for years. “He’s been nothing but good to me.”

“I know,” Bucky said, his voice barely above a whisper. “And that’s why I hate myself for saying anything. But I couldn’t hold it in anymore. I couldn’t watch you slip away again.”

You pressed your hand to your chest, feeling the frantic beat of your heart as his words washed over you. “You don’t understand what this does, Bucky. To us. To all of us. What if this destroys everything, friendships...”

He closed the distance between you, his hands reaching out but stopping short, hovering near yours. His voice was low, desperate. “Maybe it will. Maybe we’ll burn everything to the ground. But I can’t lie to you anymore. I can’t pretend I don’t feel this—don’t feel you—like a part of me I can’t live without.”

The dam finally broke. You couldn’t hold it in any longer. “I love you too,” you cried, the words spilling out in a rush, raw and unfiltered. “I’ve loved you for so long it hurts. But I don’t know how to trust this, Bucky. How do I know you won’t hurt me again?”

“You love me” He breathed out like it was his last breath, he blinked away the tears of relief his hands finally found yours, his touch warm and grounding. “You don’t,” he admitted, his voice trembling. “But I swear to you, I will spend the rest of my life proving I won’t.”

The tears were falling freely now, both yours and his, as the weight of everything settled between you. His hands tightened around yours, and he looked at you like you were the only thing that mattered. “I’m all in, sweetheart,” he whispered. “No more games. No more running. Just us.”

The room felt like it was spinning, your heart pounding so hard it hurt, but when your eyes locked with his, everything else disappeared. In those piercing blue depths, you saw it. The truth. The love. The promise. The years of unspoken feelings and tangled emotions were laid bare between you, and for the first time in so long, you let yourself believe it—believe him.

Your body moved before your mind could catch up, surging forward, your lips crashing into his with a force that nearly knocked the breath out of you. It wasn’t just a kiss—it was a release, a culmination of years of pain, longing, and unsaid words. Your hands gripped the front of his shirt, clutching him like a lifeline, while his arms wrapped around you, pulling you in so tightly it felt like he was trying to meld you into him.

The kiss was messy, frantic, and raw. His lips were warm, firm yet trembling with emotion as they moved against yours. His hands roamed, one tangling in your hair while the other settled on your waist, holding you steady against him. You could feel the desperation in the way he kissed you, the silent plea for you to believe him, to stay, to never leave again.

You broke the kiss for a second, gasping for air, but Bucky didn’t let you go. His forehead pressed against yours, his breath mingling with yours as you both stood there, trembling. His hands cupped your face, his thumbs brushing away the tears you hadn’t even realized were still falling.

“Doll…” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. “You and me… we can make this work. We have to.”

The intensity in his voice, the sheer vulnerability in his gaze, made your chest tighten painfully. You nodded, your tears blurring your vision, but a soft laugh escaped you—shaky, but real. “You and me, Buck. Always.”

A flicker of a smile broke across his face, small but genuine, as if he could barely believe this moment was real. His arms tightened around you, pulling you so close that you could feel the steady thrum of his heart against your chest.

“I’m never letting you go,” he murmured, his voice low and hoarse. His lips brushed yours again, this time slower, softer. It was as if he was trying to memorize the feel of you, the taste of you, as if he couldn’t quite trust that you were truly his.

Your hands slid up to cup his jaw, your fingers grazing the faint stubble on his cheeks. You deepened the kiss, letting it linger this time, savoring every second. His lips were gentle yet unyielding, like he was pouring everything he couldn’t say into the way he kissed you. It wasn’t just a kiss—it was a promise.

When you finally pulled away again, your breathing uneven, he rested his forehead against yours once more. His voice was soft but resolute, every word laced with a quiet, unshakable certainty. “We’ll be okay. We’ll always be okay. It’s us.”

You closed your eyes, letting his words wash over you, and for the first time in years, you felt truly whole. “It’s us,” you repeated, your voice a whispered vow.

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky x reader #bucky barnes #bucky barnes x y/n #sebastian stan x reader #bucky x you #bucky barnes fanfic #bucky barnes angst #bucky x y/n #bucky barnes x reader angst #james barnes x you #bucky barnes au #bucky fanfic #james bucky buchanan barnes #james bucky barnes #the winter soldier #the winter solider x reader

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topzsun · 3 months ago

Text

TRUST THE CHANGE

── ♡ KENMA KOZUME

❝ life is variable. you are convinced kenma is your constant. ❞

You realise quickly that being Kenma’s friend means sitting at a weird dichotomy of knowing you are his friend, or not having a clue at all. This confusion isn’t helped by the fact that the teenage boy functions under disinterest and reservation, words sparing and any forms of expression even less so.

The first time you laid eyes on Kenma Kozume, it was the first day of the first year. A cliche beginning, for someone who is considered so unconventional. You had arrived late, late enough that unofficial seats had already been reserved and taken, and your only choice remains next to a hunched figure with long inky hair and a PlayStation Portable in hand. It wasn’t a wild assumption to make that she must be the introverted and distant type. You can work with this.

You sit your stationary down on the open seat, and your new seatmate only tilts her head long enough to catch a glimpse. Within that split second, you quickly register your mistake that your new seatmate was not a girl and that he had the most gorgeous eyes you’ve ever seen. The moment ends much too fast for you to catch your bearings, as he’s already absorbed back into his video game. You aren’t sure if he’s making a deliberate effort to not look your way. Before you can open your mouth to at least introduce yourself for courtesy’s sake, the homeroom teacher has already walked in, the clicking of her heels against the tiled floor being the first warning that you should be in your seat. You plop down next to him, absentmindedly busying yourself with arranging your pencils and pens on your desk. You miss how he spares a secret, second glance at you through his dark tresses.

(i)

The first year goes by almost uneventfully. It didn’t take long for you to learn your seatmate’s name, not when he’s been reprimanded so many times for having a console on his person during class hours. He’s not the type to greet you good morning, and you’ve learnt not to bother either because Kenma seems to have little care for the traditional Japanese code of etiquette and you felt silly being formal around him as well. Despite his mentioned apathy, he still manages to acknowledge your presence with a stiff nod, which you return with a smile.

You think the first time things had begun to shift is when you arrive at class, much earlier than usual on a humid Tuesday. You almost drop to your seat, sickened from the weather, and your eyes distractingly follow the screen of Kenma’s console, the boy so absorbed into the game he doesn’t bother even glancing up to see who is beside him. When you recognise the familiar graphics, you don’t think twice when Monster Hunter escapes your lips. That seems to be the trigger to catching his attention, as he quickly pauses to look at you. He still seems to avoid eye contact, but at least his head is turned in your direction.

“Do you play games?” He asks, and when you give your affirmative answer, he only lets out a muted him. With the lull of silence, his attention is drawn back to his portable console. However, he shifts an inch closer, as if inviting you to watch him play. There is a flutter in your stomach the rest of the morning you watch over his shoulder because you think you’ve successfully become acquainted with your aloof seatmate.

(ii)

You’ve never seen Kenma outside of classroom hours, and you blame it on your vastly different schedules. You ignore your friends’ teasing when your eyes scan the hallways during lunch, as they are convinced you harbour a crush on the raven-haired student. That’s not it, you’ve tried to explain, he’s the only person you know who likes the same games as you. This did little to dissuade your overzealous friends, so you leave them with their wild imaginations. They were right, however, when they say that your mood visibly deflates when you can’t catch hide nor hair of Kenma. You blame your disappointment on your curiosity, you are just nosy to know what he does in his spare time that doesn’t involve a screen.

It’s during the evening when your first wish comes true. You had opted to stay back to study for an upcoming test, and the hours blended together till you were leaving the library at the same time club activities were being dismissed. Your walk back home is unusually exhausting and strenuous today, and you fault it in the hours you’ve sat cramming for knowledge. As you pass by the local river, your daydreams of relaxation are cut short when you spy a figure sitting crouched on the cobbled staircase leading to the bourn. This alone isn’t what gave you pause, but the sight of familiar locks of dark hair and Nekoma’s red tracksuit. His name appears instantaneously in your mind. Before you can second-guess yourself, you have already strolled over to your classmate, eager to see what game he will be conquering today. It comes as a surprise when you find him empty-handed, his arms instead wrapped around his legs pressed against his chest. He is instead watching the peaceful flow of the water, uninterrupted by the slow breeze or the dawning clouds. You don’t think you’ve ever seen him so contemplative.

Common sense would alert you that maybe this isn’t the moment where he wants to be bothered, but your body moves to the command of your heart rather than your brain, and you’re already standing two steps behind him. The sound of your footsteps draws his attention, and he glances over his shoulder curiously. For a brief moment, you think shock crosses his expression, but before you can be sure he has already returned to a neutral expression. He doesn’t say anything, and you realise he is waiting for you to speak first.

“Are you okay?” sounds reasonable. A show of appropriate concern.

“Do you want to talk?” an invitation for him to air out what is on his mind. Considerate and inviting.

“Can I sit here?” You ask with a baited breath and he blinks at you, sharp eyes scanning your figure almost curiously.

“Okay,” He answers and shifts aside enough for you to take a seat. You drop your bag and stretch your feat over the steps, silent, and Kenma doesn’t attempt to fill in the space with conversation either. The river looks nice painted in gold.

(iii)

The second year begins in spring, and some things remain constant, like how you are still seatmates with Kenma and that you still have the same pencil case as you did in your first year. However, as destined, the new year also brings about changes, like how Kenma has decidedly gone blonde and that you’ve learnt of a senior named Tetsuro Kuroo. Meeting Kuroo felt inevitable now, not with how much more time you spend with his childhood friend, but you can’t find yourself interacting with him like you did Kenma. Kuroo isn’t a bad person at all, and it wasn’t his fault you didn’t know how to talk to him, but that doesn’t stop the third year from trying to relate to you in other ways, mainly revolving around Kenma Kozume.

“You still haven’t seen him play, have you?” The spiky-haired student asks you during a slow Friday afternoon, the both of you loitering in the hallways as you wait for Kenma to return with his neglected gym bag. You answer the senior with a shake of your head, to which he only raises a brow in question. Maybe your hesitance to watch Kenma play volleyball could be chalked down to a silly reason, but in your mind, you have rationalised it as a boundary. Kenma has talked about games with you and has even slipped trivial complaints when you ask him about his day. In comparison, volleyball was kept behind a locked key, and you aren’t sure of the significance of the sport in his life. If it’s his secret haven, reserved for his close friends, could you really go over and brute force yourself into the scene?

You were too scared to know whether Kenma considered you a friend or not.

At your silence, Kuroo goes to poke at you further but the languid arrival of Kenma dissuades further conversation. You are about to bid your standard farewell to the pair and head home for the day until you are frozen in place by a sly glimmer in Kuroo’s hazel irises. Before you can shoot him a warning, he has already dismissed you by casually turning to Kenma.

“Hey, why don’t they watch our practice match today?” He suggests innocently. You falter. Kenma blinks at the taller boy, clearly conveying ‘Why are you even asking me?’ with a quirked brow and an unamused frown. For a second, his eyes flicker to your struck expression, and it seems some sort of understanding dawns over him as he simply shrugs.

“Sure,” Is all he says, and he reluctantly heaves his duffel bag over his shoulder, making the familiar trek to the gym without looking back at you and Kuroo, as if he’s already gotten bored of the two of you. Kuroo only smiles smugly when you stare at him accusingly.

“You’ll see how cool he is when you watch him play,” He states confidently, making sure Kenma is out of earshot. There is affectionate pride lacing his tone and your mild irritation deflates upon his obvious care for his close friend.

“I think he’s cool already,” You respond absentmindedly, and it doesn’t dawn on you the implication of your bold words until you see Kuroo’s smile only widened. Things are changing.

(iv)

You’re surprised it took you this long to meet Shohei Fukunaga and Taketora Yamamoto, thankfully the two weren’t hard to befriend. Fukunaga kept a similar quiet disposition to Kenma, but where Kenma was evasive, Fukunaga merely bided his time before he made his presence known in the form of a timely joke. On the opposite side of the spectrum sat Yamamoto, who always speaks as if he’s making a purposeful effort to strain his throat. Loud, proud and hot-blooded. The four of you formed an odd sort of group when school time is over and all that remains is volleyball or leisure. You have also begun spending your evenings in the school gymnasium rather than running straight for home, seated on a bench as you watch volleyball practices till the sun threatens to set. Kenma had only asked you once why you stopped by all the time to watch them play, but when you aren’t able to answer him he drops the subject and never questions it again. You wonder if he picked up on your hurt expression.

On a lifted note, you think you’ve officially cemented yourself a permanent place in Kenma’s routine, so it really shouldn’t have been that much of a surprise when he invites you over to his house to pick up a game title you had been wanting to play, and that he conveniently owned. Yet, once you are standing in front of the Kozume family residence, you are still smoothing down the invisible wrinkles in your clothes and double-checking the state of your hair in the reflection of your phone screen. If your friends were here, they’d laugh at you acting like you are going on your first date rather than just picking up a game disk. At the second ring of the doorbell, the door creaks open to reveal Kenma. His usual uniform is traded in for a baggy white hoodie and comfortable track pants, coupled with fluffy house slippers and expensive-looking headphones sitting snugly around his neck. It should feel embarrassing how you think he looks nice, even in an attire so casual.

“Uh, come in,” He moves aside allowing you entry into the quiet abode. You trail after him as he navigates to his room, and in your teenage mind, it feels scandalous to be here without his parents being home. However, your concerns begin to take a backseat when your attention is drawn in by Kenma’s shelves on shelves of video game covers, and you realise you severely underestimated how much of an enthusiast he really is. You busy yourself scanning through all the different titles he owns, forgetting about your real objective for today until there is a stifled cough from next to you. You whip your head around to find Kenma awkwardly standing, the CD he intends to loan held out with an outstretched hand. Before you could apologise, Kenma opened his mouth first.

“Do you wanna play some games?”

You don’t think you’ve ever said yes so fast.

(v)

The months pass by far too quickly, and you’ve found yourself at the bleachers, cheering next to Alisa Haiba and Akane Yamamoto till your throat threatens to go sore. From the Spring High tournament up until nationals, your eyes have never left Kenma’s figure. Even up till the moment when the ball first fell, and Kenma resigns himself to the floor in exhaustion while tears cloud your vision amidst the noise of the court. Even with your short time watching this team, their loss after a string of wins had admittedly hit you hard.

(A part of you can’t help but think you are bidding farewell to something special.)

When you see the team later, hustling their tired bodies to their accommodations, you join Alisa and Akane in praising the group and their efforts thus far. The rest of the teams respond with their gratitude, some of it mixed with tears, and it's only Kenma who shuffles away from the sudden attention. When your eyes meet his, you aren’t sure what force urges you to throw your arms around him, the past two years of memories with him swarming your mind all at once.

(What is wrong with you?)

You take expressed care in not letting your desires come to fruition, instead merely smiling widely at him hoping it’s enough to convey how you feel. You are surprised that despite his visible fatigue, he still manages to give you a small smile in return. It takes you aback because you swore it felt gentle.

(What is he to you?)

Despite the third years officially retiring from the volleyball team in pursuit of their plans for the near future, you still visit the club often. Kenma is still a fixture in your life. It feels like nothing has changed after the final match, but it has, and you can’t put your finger on it. This haunts you more than you care to admit.

Whether Kenma notices your newly odd behaviour and has chosen to ignore it is beyond your knowledge, but right now you are in his room, resting against the footboard with nothing but a stray pillow to support you. Kenma lounges directly opposite you, back against the headboard as his fingers tap away at his handheld game. You have a matching one in hand, but you’ve long since abandoned concentration, opting to instead stare absentmindedly at the colourful screen. Perhaps he’s noticed the lack of movement on your part, because he looks up to stare at you, inquisitive and cautious.

“You aren’t playing,” He states bluntly, and long enough time has been spent for you to pick up on his silent follow-up question, “What’s wrong?”.

“It feels off,” You mumble, and there is a sudden silence on Kenma’s end as he pauses his game, the background music dying to show you that you have his attention. “Like… I don’t know if I can conceptualise my own future. Isn’t that weird? Most people usually have an idea where they wanna be when they're older.”

Kenma doesn’t respond immediately, and before embarrassment and regret can fester, he speaks up.

“It’s not weird,” His game unpauses, and he’s back to clicking away at his controls. However, he continues talking. “You don’t have to have every inch of your future planned out. That’s way more unrealistic and weird.”

There is a beat of silence.

“I don’t have anything planned either,” He says plainly, but to you, it feels like he’s letting you in on a secret. “It’s fine to figure it out later. It isn’t a race.”

“But if there is a race to worry about now, it’s this one. I’ve already won the last few rounds,” A smirk suddenly dons his lips, subtle and sly and you blink in surprise as you hurriedly tap back into your screen only to confirm that indeed, Kenma has won yet another round of virtual street racing. As attention is once again drawn back into the game, you can’t help but feel your heart beat rapidly against the cage of your chest. You wonder if he can hear it.

Your second year ends with Kenma’s leg brushing against yours.

(vi)

You blinked, and it was already graduation day. Students carry their diplomas proudly, taking pictures with their friends or their families who stayed back after the ceremony. Yours is clutched tightly in your fist, and your family and friends have long since bided you congratulations and tearful farewells. Your attention now is preoccupied by thoughts of Kenma, and how you hope he hasn’t already headed home after the ceremony, no matter how characteristic it is for him to do so. You pass by the glossy-eyed Yamamoto and the smiling Fukunaga, to who you share your congratulations before they point you in the general direction of where they had last seen Kenma. You move on autopilot, briskly walking past countless bodies to spy a familiar head of blonde hair. Surprisingly, you find Kuroo first, with the alumni towering over most of the other students with his spiky hair. You see Kenma next to him, seemingly conversing with each other. Your heart rate picks up.

It seems Kuroo’s eyes land on you as well, as he interrupts his conversation to grin and wave you over. He is a welcomed sight, despite the fact you both never got to be close even before his graduation last year. Kenma, confused by what caught Kuroo’s attention, turns over his shoulder. You rush over to the pair.

“Hey, you! Congratulations on graduating,” Kuroo is the first to greet you once you walk over, and he pats you gently on the shoulder in a gesture that feels akin to a grandfather’s. You decide not to point this out on such a day.

“Congrats,” Kenma doesn’t meet your eye, fingers tugging at the ends of the paper in his hand. You’re slightly taken aback by the sudden reservation but still manage to return the greeting. Amidst this sudden development, Kuroo seemed to have taken it as an excuse to dismiss himself, perhaps to find his other underclassmen or to spare himself from the sudden tension in the air.

“I dreamed of this day for years, but now that it’s here, I’m not sure how to feel,” You laugh awkwardly, and when Kenma doesn’t respond you grow quiet. “Kenma?”

“What are you going to do after this?” He suddenly asks, surprising you with the sudden question. It doesn’t feel like something he’d ask.

“You mean… what I’m going to do after now, at this moment?”

“No, I mean,” He seems to be growing frustrated, and you aren’t sure if it’s with you or himself as he runs a hand through his hair. “Later in the future.”

You hesitate.

“I think I’ll study more,” You say with some confidence. “I don’t have all the details but… I’ll figure it out, right?”

Finally, Kenma seems to relax a little, and you wonder if he picked up on you parroting his words back at him.

“Yeah, that sounds nice,” He mumbles out and there is a pregnant silence, where the both of you wait for the other to break it.

“But what I do know is that I still want you to be my friend. Is that fine?” You bite the bullet, and this is probably the most resolute you’ve been around the blonde. He looks at you, a little startled by your uncharacteristic declaration, and his usually sharp eyes soften.

“Sure, that sounds fine,” You don’t notice how his fingers loosen their grip around his diploma. There is a faint smile on his lips, but his demeanour radiates something cunning. “We’re heading to a sushi place later, Kuroo’s treat. You wanna join?”

Even when Kuroo reappears to yell at Kenma for his poorly disguised plan to empty his wallet, your heart refuses to calm down. The breeze in his hair and the glimmer in his gold eyes confirm what you’ve always been afraid of.

You are in love with Kenma Kozume.

(vii)

You kick away your heels, exhaustion and frustration being the only driving forces that got you through the front door. At the sudden noise, a familiar head pokes through the doorway, and Kenma greets you with a raised brow.

“Another one?” He asks, and despite the curt words his tone is not accusatory, unimpressed at best. However, that doesn’t stop the groan that leaves your lips as you walk past him to practically dump yourself onto his couch.

“Tell me about it,” You speak in a single fatigued breath, grabbing onto a cushion that you can squeeze against your chest as a makeshift stress toy. “He told me forgot his wallet, so I had to pay for dinner, then he had the nerve to ask me for gas money when he only drove me two minutes down the road so I could catch a taxi home! Who is birthing these degenerates?”

Kenma, perhaps afraid you might launch the pillow at him in misplaced anger, decides to sit next to you instead of in your direct line of vision.

“Sounds like it sucked,” He says the obvious, and you don’t blame him for his aloof response despite wanting a bit more comradery. Kenma never cared for the dating scene, and it's this fact that has driven you into a world of blind dates and dating apps. Anything to escape the fact that you love Kenma in a way that he cannot reciprocate. Anything to convince yourself you can move on, despite how unsuccessful you have been for the past eight years. You’re aware you’ve already leaned onto his side, and it's years of knowing each other that lets you be this close to him despite his usual aversion to physical touch. Sixteen years old you couldn’t have even dreamt this up, you think humourlessly.

“I’m probably gonna end up alone with six cats,” You say miserably, and yelp when you are flicked on the forehead, lifting a hand to frantically rub at the reddening spot. “Hey!”

“Ending up with six cats is better than marrying a trashy guy,” He states, probably the closest show of annoyance you’ve gotten from him. “I’m ordering takeout. Do you want anything?”

You nod, and he doesn’t need to ask for your order, your usual is already memorised. You unlatch your hands from the fabric of his hoodie so he can get up and phone the restaurant, with you quickly growing to miss him by your side, left to find warmth in your discarded cushion. Despite you not technically living here, it goes without question that Kenma’s place is practically yours. It’s as concrete as the spare house key that rests in the depths of your purse.

It’s one of the benefits of being Kenma’s friend. Just his friend.

Hell, if you could go back in time, you’d tell your teenage self that their biggest concern wouldn’t be their career. It would be their innocent crush on Kenma spiralling to whatever confusing mess this is.

When Kenma returns, you’re already scrolling through his selection of games on his PlayStation, to which he joins you, returning to his previous seat beside you. Throughout the years together, the both of you have changed. Some aspects for the better. Some aspects for the worst. Ultimately, there was nothing more unifying than loading up a game and playing together. It reminded you of those nostalgic evenings when you’d lounge in Kenma’s room with him when the both of you were too beat from school and club activities to bother with conversation. Gaming had always been your guy’s silent language.

The doorbell rings timingly, signalling the arrival of your food. Amidst dinner you regaled him in the latest happenings at your controversial workplace, while he listens silently, only interjecting once or twice with a hum. Before you know it, dinner is finished and Kenma is stretching his tired limbs.

“I’m heading to bed,” He informs, and you bid him goodnight as you take custody of the guest bedroom, as you usually do when staying over. Perhaps someone with more common sense will tell of the implications of leaving a toothbrush, a charger and spare clothes at his place, and how his guest bedroom’s only occupant seems to be you. However, these are thoughts you busy yourself to not entertain. Getting your hopes crushed is far more ruthless than stewing in the middle ground of not knowing what you are to Kenma.

You’ve donned your spare night-time clothing, and you are caught in surprise by the sudden strong draught in the room. You shiver instantly, turning your attention to the curtain drifting alongside the open breeze. You rush over, thinking Kenma must have forgotten to close the window, but when you draw aside the curtains, you're baffled to find the window in its entirety completely missing. Did someone steal Kenma’s window?

You are already at the gamer’s bedroom door, with some hesitation since you feel guilty for interrupting his sleep considering his busy day tomorrow. Within your second knock at the door, it opens and you find a dishevelled Kenma leaning against the door, sleep-ambled and his long hair free from its usual bun. You take extra care in not letting your eyes travel to his low-waist pyjama pants. You hurriedly explain the situation for the window, which he manages to comprehend while slapping a hand to his forehead.

“Ugh right, I forgot I was getting that window fixed,” He grumbles. “Uh, you can take my bed. I’ll take the couch.”

“Woah, wait, no!” You hurriedly stop him with an exaggerated show of hands. “This is your house, you should be sleeping in your bed. Plus, you’ve got work tomorrow!”

“The couch isn’t wide enough for you to sleep comfortably,” He states plainly.

“The same goes for you then!”

There is a terse silence, where the both of you stare each other down, not confrontationally but to think of a solution. Hazed with sleep, Kenma reaches a conclusion first.

“Fine, we’ll both take the bed. We’ll just stay at our sides,” His suggestion almost made you choke on air, and you are barely able to stifle your surprised reaction, however, Kenma isn’t known for being unobservant, as he merely sighs.

“Look, I can seriously stay on the couch it’s fi—”

“Okay! We’re sharing,” You have already briskly walked, not letting Kenma see your frazzled expression as you feel your face heat up. You weren’t about to let him sleep on his couch in his own home. You wish you could describe the nerves that feel you when Kenma slowly closes the door behind you.

Even getting into bed had been an awkward ordeal, in which Kenma refuses to look your way while you decide to put your absolute best efforts into getting into bed without seeming like you want to bolt out of the room at a moment’s notice. When your head finally hits the pillow, some of your internal complaints have disappeared, relishing in the comfort of finally relaxing your tired body on a comfortable mattress and pillow. You are quickly snapped back into reality when you feel the bed dip in weight from where Kenma gets in. To his credit, he’s laying as close as possible to the edge as he could, giving you the most distance possible in a queen-sized bed. It doesn’t ease the pounding in your chest, and the flutters in your stomach. You feel like you’re seventeen again, back when your heart used to dance if Kenma did something as simple as brush his hand against yours when you reach for the same thing. Except, this is a whole other level of closeness you have never covered with him. It makes you excited. It makes you want to throw up.

“Your leg is shaking,” He mutters, and you whip around to find Kenma facing you, eyes tired but you can spy a glint of concern even under the room's darkness. “I can still take the couch if you’re nervous, it’s fine.”

Damnit, you wished he’d get flustered instead of you for once. You wish he’d show a lick of interest, so you can finally stop these horrible first dates and yearning glances when he isn’t looking. You wish he’d just reject you, so you can finally put to rest the sheer love you hold for him, the man who has reserved a special type of fondness for you that you can’t tell if it should belong to a friend or not.

“Do you like me?” You don’t even register your lips these words escaped from, not until you see Kenma’s eyes widen under the dim LED light of his monitor. It’s too late to take them back, and you can’t stop how your breathing threatens to stop as you wait for his answer.

“... Yeah,” He answers, “You’re here all the time.”

He didn’t get it. He didn’t get it at all.

“Sorry, yeah, never mind it was a stupid question to ask,” You manage to splutter out, and you quickly turn around to hide yourself from Kenma’s confused gaze. “I kept you up enough already, let’s just sleep.”

The room goes quiet again, and you will yourself to hold back the tears that threaten to blur your vision. There is no way you’re going to cry of all things. You screw your eyes shut. You can deal with this in the morning when he’s not around. You just have to make it through the night.

The mattress shifts in weight again, and you assume Kenma is trying to get more comfortable, but your heart drops when you feel an arm, hesitant and shy, reach around you. Slender fingers rest on your hand, and a clothed chest presses against your back.

“Saying I like you like everyone else isn’t enough,” You hear Kenma’s voice behind you, mumbled but you can pick up the slight tremor of his hesitance. “I like you in a different way than others do. More than they ever could, probably.”

You turn your body around, and Kenma’s fingers retract from its hold. You latch onto the sleeves of his nightshirt, and you try to breathe normally so you can get your words out.

“I really like you, Kenma,” Your hand clutches his. “Since we were in high school. Since I used to watch you play games. Since I used to come to your volleyball matches. Are you saying you like me the same way?”

“Yeah,” It’s a simple and definitive answer, and he squeezes your trembling hand. His lips are quirked upwards at the corners, eyes narrowed in affection. “That’s exactly how I like you too.”

Some would enthrall that moments like these are when fireworks erupt in the air, and a romantic and desperate kiss is shared between lovers. However, that is not your Kenma, who is not romantic, but instead observant and tactful and has put you through the wringer for almost an entire decade. He moves closer to you and lets his head rest into the crook of your neck, his lips tracing your skin as he speaks.

“Goodnight.”

The sun will rise again.

#haikyuu #haikyu x reader #haikyū!!#haikyu fluff #hq x reader #hq #kozume kenma #kenma x reader #haikyuu kenma #hq kenma #haikyuu x reader #x reader #reader insert

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bindeds · 9 months ago

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⊹・° ｡ㅤ BOYFRIEND VOX / LUCIFER / ALASTOR X FEM READER HEADCANONS ! — now i know alastor is aroace so i am once again making a post that acknowledges that as much as possible, meaning his headcanons can also be seen as platonic and his nsfw section doesn’t involve him engaging in the act of sex. i also made an aroace friendly headcanons post on alastor if you wanna check that out!

contains nsfw (+18) and it will be in a separate section <3 please credit me if you use these gifs!

mlist. request status.

VOX.

this man pampers the SHIT out of you and you cannot tell me otherwise. if you’re out walking in the streets of hell and you so much as look at a branded purse for a second longer than usual, it’s in your hands within the next five seconds. same goes for literally anything—clothes, shoes, sunglasses, books, anything you could want that isn’t a gadget, because he already gives you his latest models—only the finest for his girl.

he teleports to your phone screen whenever you ignore him, and you don’t tell him that you find it particularly endearing. the way he’s just so whiny for your attention that he’d act all petty and crash all your apps so you’re forced to look him in the face.

has the most funniest fucking pet names for you i just KNOW IT HAHA like think shrek’s prince charming. i just know that when you call him from a different room he’d definitely say shit like “just a second honey kisses!” like HAHAH I CAN’T GET THIS OUT OF MY HEAD

DEFINITELY loves having you sit on his lap while he works. i just know this man is a thigh grabber.

he loves when you dress in sweater vests, preferably in brighter colors but it’s cute when you use more muted colors as well.

relating back to my first point, this man loves taking you to extravagant AND I MEAN extravagant dates. i imagine one of them would be getting the both of you a literal floating table in the red skies of hell so you can see the entire pentagram from where you dine. he would have the food freshly delivered from the finest chefs he knows but he also seems like the type who would forget your favorite food, then demand that the food switched out with a snap of his fingers.

i’m judging this purely off of ‘stayed gone’ but he has a TON of terrible jokes up his sleeves, and they border on dad jokes at this point. you simply roll your eyes and kiss him for being so silly.

i just know this man comes home to you and WHINES. like, no matter what it is, he’ll always have something to complain about from work and you’re happy to listen to him bitch and moan about the smallest things ever. he also lays down on your lap and you to rub his shoulders and console him, whatever it is. you know he appreciates it because he usually always responds with something along the lines of “you’re right, baby, i do push myself too hard!” and you coo at him while continuing to console him further.

VOX NSFW !

i know he definitely gets irritated when someone interrupts his work but would be so into having sex on the job, and even loves ignoring calls from the vees for you. but of course doing it one too many times has its consequences, and he laughs nervously the one time he backs out. i can just imagine him going, “oh, haha, uh—sorry baby, i uh—listen i know we usually—it’s—FUCK um—just—just five minutes okay baby?”

i know this man’s hickeys feel like tiny zaps on your skin, and the marks reflect that instead of bruises

regarding the ‘sitting on his lap’ thing … you tried riding his thigh once and he DID NOT like that. seconds after you were sitting on his cock, crying his name from how he was just pumping into you mercilessly.

“still wanna tease me on my own fucking thigh, sweetie?” he clicks his tongue and grunts right after, his hands on your waist was enough to leave bruises.

that being said, he makes sure valentino never catches sight of you. the things you do to this man is beyond anything he could have thought and somehow, he feels uneasy at the fact that the way you have sex with him was DEFINITELY porn worthy and the thought of you being on camera in that way makes him want to wrap all of himself around you like a blanket to cover you from all of hell.

LUCIFER.

ironically, this man does NOT give you the world. instead, he gives you casual nights out turned into nights where you share all your secrets with him, and he tells you everything might not be okay now, or ever, but whatever it is, he’ll be right there with you. think going to your favorite diners, cruising and carpooling along the quieter side of hell, screaming at the top of your lungs. this man is all about authenticity. he wants the bond, not the experience.

that doesn’t mean he doesn’t spoil you every now and then—he definitely does research on the best bars in the ring and takes you out every month during your monthsaries and gets you at least 10 different gifts—half of which are little trinkets you and him picked up from your little adventures together.

unironically so fucking good at picking out jewelry for you. you don’t know how he does it, but every time you both visit a jewelry store, you always pick out necklaces and rings and he always comes to you with pieces that just look way more stunning on you. he always insists on being the one to slip the rings onto your fingers or chain the necklaces at the back of your neck, and he always flies up to do it.

he sometimes visits you as a bird and flies through your window. you like stroking his little cheek and it always causes him to transform suddenly which catches you off guard, and he uses this opportunity to kiss you.

he makes rubber duckies modeled after you!! all of them have different outfits from all the times you spend together.

forehead touches. so important for him, he does it so often and it’s nothing short of endearing.

this man COOKS and he COOKS WELL. every now and then when you both stay home he always whips up five-star restaurant grade steak for you, same goes for his carbonara, fish and chips, ramen, fried rice, stew—whatever it is, he loves making it with his own two hands and loves cooking for you.

lucifer makes his own clothes seeing as his hat has a gold snake and an apple on it which only really related to him, and he also has a unique circus vibe to his clothing. he made his clothes out of magic but after meeting you he wanted to get into sewing to make you something from scratch.

LUCIFER NSFW !

i absolutely agree with a lot of lucifer stans on him being a definite switch BUT i just know that if this man tops, he tops HARD. i mean, we’re talking about the angel who successfully seduced not just the FIRST WOMAN to ever exist, but the SECOND TOO. WHILE SHE WAS LOYAL TO ADAM. I FEEL LIKE THAT SPEAKS FOR ITSELF

he’d definitely do a multitude of things while trying out a few kinks to see just what kind of top flusters you. if you like service tops, he found out when he insisted on fingering you right after he’d brought you to orgasm with his tongue. dominant top? he found out when he crawled on top of you and said, “take it off for me, lovely.” all while leaving a trail of hickeys all from your jaw all the way down to your collarbone. the list goes on.

no matter if he tops or bottoms, this man begs, and its especially orgasm-worthy when he does it as a bottom. you’re riding him to your own climax and he’s close too and he goes, “ohhh god fuck please let me cum honey—let me cum please fuck! can i cum can i cum my love? i won’t until you say so oh fuck please baby—”

he knows when you’re pent up. apparently you give of a certain set of cues through body language only he sees and he’s observed it from you in all sorts of situations; going out with friends, sitting in bed with a book, tapping a pencil to your lip—it doesn’t matter what you’re doing. he can tell. and he never tells you how.

seeing as he usually has to fly up to kiss you on the lips, he takes every opportunity he has in bed just to kiss you. he could be going so damn rough on you that the neighbors can hear and he’d still be making out with you so damn hard.

definitely prides himself on cunnilingus. i know everyone mentions this because of the v he made to his lips but it just makes sense for him to do that if he’s good at it! he becomes a grunting, begging, whimpering mess when you suck him off but when he eats you out? you compare it to how restaurants have a signature dish—lucifer’s is whatever miracles he can perform with his tongue.

ALASTOR.

i think this is obvious because he literally hosts possibly the most famous radio broadcast in the entire ring, but this man has a way with words.

“to put it simply my dear, i just never thought the stars could walk on dirty streets, let alone ones that belong in hell,” he sighs with an almost dreamy tone to it as he rested chin on his knuckles, leaning closer to you from the other side of the table with his elbow propped up on it. “but it seems you’re living proof of that.”

you took that as his way of explaining his aromanticism and asexuality to you, even if he isn’t fully aware of those terms yet.

“how did a lovely thing like you end up with a gruesome animal such as myself?”

nonetheless, you and him are partners and he owns it, even if he’ll never admit that it is daunting for someone who has never felt this way about anyone else before. someone who has never liked anyone romantically before. he owns it because he doesn’t want the one person he’s ever loved to slip from his grasp. not when he was just so used to getting what he wants using his own bare hands.

seeing as he is aroace, he doesn’t kiss you directly on the lips but hugs you all the time and maybe kisses cheek-to-cheek.

he listens to your gossip and even arranges dates for you both to properly get together and just dish. he gossips back sometimes too, but not too much as he feels like that would be like treating you like the other friends he has. he’d rather spend this time he has with you focusing on, well, you, not other people’s foolish mistakes. but he sees how excited you are to tell him these things sometimes so, he listens still.

regularly slow dances with you, especially to old romantic songs the both of you like. it’s one of the rare times physical contact doesn’t feel foreign to him as he’s danced with many women, and he actually finds it endearing when you press your head on his chest. it shows that you feel safe around him, and that’s the best thing that could happen for him when you’re dating one of the most feared and powerful overlords in hell.

always does house chores with you even though he could use his powers to just speed up the process. something about cleaning up together just feels so intimate to him compared to physical touch.

ALASTOR NSFW !

he hates being touched, no question about that—but he also doesn’t like to see you pent up. he understands that everyone has their own desires, however filthy they might be—but your own are as good as sacred. you’re the one thing he treasures beyond all others and just as you can’t change the fact that he’s aroace, he can’t change the fact that you have needs.

so he comes up with something just for you; he asks if it would help if he talked you through it. praising or degrading you, whichever you prefer. telling you how much he misses having your hands on his, feeling you close to him. when he says this, he imagines you both dancing as you usually do, but of course, as you masturbate, you’re thinking of something else. this happens when he’s not in the room but he leaves his mic behind to act as a phone for the both of you.

“are you close, love? will you finish for me?” “y-yes …” “good girl.”

i imagine after a while of being with him, he would have seen you naked a few times on accident but he brushes it off well because there’s never anything sexual tied to it. so, when he is in the room while you get off, he’d use his powers to have a glowing green chain around your neck as he pulls your face closer to his.

“do you like it when i do this to you, hm? tell me just how much you relish being my good girl.”

#hazbin hotel fanfiction #hazbin hotel fandom #alastor hazbin hotel #hazbin hotel alastor #hazbin alastor #hazbin hotel lucifer #hazbin hotel gifs #hazbin hotel #hazbin lucifer #hazbin vox #hazbin hotel vox #vox headcanons #vox hazbin hotel #lucifer hazbin hotel #◟𓂅 𓄹 splash zone.#( ✮ hazbin. )#( ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 hazbin hcs. )

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amostimprobabledream · 5 months ago

Text

Subterranean Affairs (Homelander x Reader)

I love how seeing Homelander in normal clothes sent everyone completely unhinged lol. Also available on Ao3! https://archiveofourown.org/works/57191485 Applause rained down like thunder, spotlights and the dozens upon dozens of cameras flashing brightly. Almost as brightly as the sharp-toothed, megawatt smile on the Homelander's face.

"We cannot overstate enough the heroic efforts of the Seven in their latest daring rescue!" a reporter was saying into her microphone, a safe distance from the disaster zone, the victims being escorted off the bus and bundled up into shock blankets in the background, but the camera focused on the heroes standing front and center. "All hostages are safe and accounted for, and we're told repairs for the damage of the bridge will be minimal, so hopefully it should open within a few short weeks!"

A few cheers erupted, whistles and people clamouring, stamping their feet. Homelander, A-Train and the Deep were lapping up the attention, the latter smiling and waving. Behind them, Queen Maeve stood with her usual disinterested, sulky expression and Black Noir was, unsurprisingly, silent. Starlight looked like their little sister who had unwittingly tagged along, her costume spotlessly white, not a hint of grime or debris touching her. The reporter approached The Seven, making a beeline for their leader.

"Homelander, reports state that this terrible event was the handiwork of the self-professed vigilante, the Raven. Is this true?"

Homelander’s eyes found the camera immediately.

"That's right, Carol - a video of the hostages was sent to us at Vought, as well as the companies the Raven was demanding the ransom from. We knew we had to act and do it fast. Innocent lives were at stake!”

"Of course, no doubt your fast thinking saved so many lives!" Carol gushed.

"Yeah, uh, nobody's getting blown up today, guys!" The Deep put in helpfully, giving a thumbs-up and a wink to the camera, which perhaps wasn't quite the right tone to be striking, but nobody thought to say that over the shrieking of the crowd.

Starlight pursed her lips, squinting against the glare of the flashing cameras. She still wasn't used to being stared down by so many of them at once.

"Vought has also pledged one million dollars towards the reconstruction of the bridge!" A-Train said, gesturing behind him with an expansive sweep of his arm. "Can't stop people from just trying to live their lives! That's not how we do it in America!"

"And what about the Raven? Are you guys any closer to catching this guy?" another reporter spoke up.

Homelander gave a languorous blink and a small silence settled – even the clicks of the cameras seemed muted.

“Arrests have been made of suspects in this terrible attack. Remember that this…criminal has evaded the very best law enforcement in the whole country. This isn’t just a normal lawbreaker, folks. This…is a villain.”

The word rippled, spreading on impact, and gasps surged forth from the gathered crowd, and Homelander raised a finger, wagging it as he paced back and forth, cape billowing importantly behind him.

“But know this! It doesn’t matter what threats he makes, or who he tries to use against us. I- we, The Seven, will always stand against criminals like him, and always fight back! America will stand strong!”

Applause exploded forth, cheering and screaming the names of The Seven, and the camera went wild, flashing like little explosions. Homelander’s smile widened beneath the endless clicking of shutters, basking in the worshipful gratitude of the adoring public, their need for him to save them washing over him in a wave.

“Stand strong! Stand strong! Stand strong!”

You fuckin’ cocksuckers.

Your room was lit up by a multitude of screens, your eyes flicking from each of them, missing nothing.

Images of all different news stations made a cacophony of murmuring voices in the living room, though you keep the volume low so you could listen to the music drifting through your laptop speakers. In your hand you held a milkshake, sucking on the straw and enjoying the creamy, tasteful thickness of it. You’d never been much of a milkshake fan before, but in the past couple of months you’d been…converted.

A knock sounds at the door, one you’d been waiting for all evening, and your heart jumps in your chest.

“Come in,” you call, setting down your drink and swivelling in your chair so you faced the door.

You’d left it unlocked because you didn’t want it broken again, and the door swung open silently to reveal a man standing there in plain clothing, baseball cap jammed low over his face. Even though he looked smaller without his usual suit, more slender, the look in his eyes stayed the same. He leans his head back to stare at you imperiously, his gaze commanding attention.

Homelander cocks his head.

“You’re still working?” he asks as he steps inside, shutting the door behind him. It seems odd not to see a cape trailing behind Homelander, like a bird without its plumage.

“Crime never sleeps.” You reply in a deadpan, before smiling. “That was quite the motivational speech back there. ‘America will stay strong’, jesus – how long have you been dying to use that tagline?”

“Not every day I get to face my nemesis on national TV, right?” he replies in a drawl, stepping closer until he’s standing between your parted legs. “A bus full of kids? Seriously?”

You roll your eyes at his tone.

“People get so sentimental when children are involved.” You say mockingly, smirking. “It makes them pay attention.”

Homelander’s lip curls at your cavalier reply, amused, his eyes going half-lidded as he looks down at you, his hands settling on your thighs.

“And what if I didn’t get to that bus on time, hmm? We’d’ve looked like a bunch of fuckin’ amateurs.” He says, in a mock-scolding voice.

“No, you’d look like martyrs.” You correct him, watching his hands slide further up your legs. “People would have felt so sorry for you and how terrible you must feel. And I’d look like an even bigger threat, everyone feels just a little more unsafe in a world where little Billy or little Sally can go kaboom just like that, and everyone turns to you, desperate for you to swoop in and save them and knowing there’s a chance that even you might not be able to. That this time, they could get very unlucky. You get to swear great justice and vengeance and I get to make the corporations look like the sociopathic conglomerates they are for not paying the ransom, and next time I can demand even more money because they know the Raven doesn’t bluff. Everybody wins.”

“But we did save them,” he points out, tongue perched on the very edge of his bottom teeth, almost sticking it out but not quite, as he leers down at you with his eyelids lowered. “Everyone loves me even more now. What do you get outta this?”

“I still got some of the money, remember? The companies weren’t willing for me to expose them on national television if it meant coughing up a little. And more importantly, notoriety. The next one, when I win, will make everyone more afraid. More desperate to pay for safety. Fear is very profitable, you know.”

“And how d’you know you’ll get your way next time, hmm?” he says with a smirk, a hint of a purr entering his voice.

“Because that’s how it works. You don’t want your nemesis to be a total fucking loser, right?” you remind him in a singsong. “The bigger of a threat I am, the more people love you when you foil my dastardly deeds. Ergo, next time, you let me win.”

You rise to your feet and press a kiss to the underside of his jaw, punctuating it with a little teasing lick, and he chuffs like a big cat.

“I should be punishing you, you know…” he croons, hiking you up like you weigh nothing – to him, you don’t – and plonking your ass down on the desk, nearly sitting on a keyboard so you’re at a more accessible height for him to play with you. “Hmm? Drag you down to the police station or to Vought Tower and let them deal with you. Or maybe I should get a little rough…”

He's kissing your neck as he says this, his words colliding together in eagerness, breath hot on your skin. One hand was clamped at your thigh, kneading the flesh beneath his bare palm. You hiss and arch your back as his teeth clamps on the skin of your neck, putting those fangs of his to good use.

“Should teach a bad girl like you a lesson.” He murmurs in a low voice, dripping with promise, right in your ear. “Maybe I should put you over my knee and spank you, hm? Make that pretty ass raw until you say you’re sorry…”

Something in you clenched at the very suggestion, heat crawling over your body. His hand snakes up your dress, brushing against the flimsy material of your panties, which are already slightly damp from anticipation of his arrival. Homelander traces the outline of your cunt through the fabric, a lazy smile spreading slow and smooth as honey across his face.

“Or, I could fuck you how you like it, nice and deep, and just when you’re about to come, I’ll tie you up and leave you here. All fuckin’ desperate to finish yourself off…”

He's not bluffing, and you know it. The thought of how easily he can overpower you is one hell of an aphrodisiac – his plain clothes may hide who he is, but you know what strength lies beneath his little disguise, and knowing there’s someone who isn’t scared of you, the Raven and all your clever machinations, is thrilling.

“Mm, fuck…” you mutter, reaching up and batting his silly baseball cap off, tousling his hair between your fingers and taking pleasure out of rumpling it from its slicked-back state. “You wanna play the hero, huh? Vanquish the evil villain?”

Homelander growls, tugging your panties down like they've personally offended him. His hand skims up your thighs, and you twitch as his finger tease at your crotch.

“You’re pushing your luck, missy.” He mutters darkly.

"Mmph...but I'm so good for you." You remind him, panting as he brushes your clit, massaging it with an infuriatingly feather-light touch, refusing to give you the friction you want.

"You'd - hmm- be so bored without me..."

Homelander hums in acknowledgement. You’re his dirty little secret, one he holds close to his chest. He’s the only one who knows who you really are – everyone else thinks the Raven is a man, all thanks to a simple voice-changing modulator and never showing yourself on camera – the few times you’ve had to address anyone directly, you go Black Noir and wear a mask. When Homelander tracked you down after you’d taunted Vought one too many times for his liking, he was surprised to find a young woman masterminding the attacks, and even more surprised that you had a proposal.

“I can boost your precious ratings better than anyone can. You’re bored, aren’t you? Catching me has been one of the most thrilling things to happen to you in a long time. I’m right, aren’t I? Doesn’t every hero need a villain?”

You hadn’t been wrong.

So, fast forward to the present, whenever you set up one of your plans, usually involving extorting a ludicrous amount of money from people who need a lot of nudging to give it up, you make sure to give Homelander a head’s up. You don’t always tell him every single detail, you insist that it’s better if some of it is a surprise, so his reactions are authentic, so he can still experience the thrill of the chase, but he knows enough. He gets to swoop in as the world’s strongest man and save the day, and you get to antagonise some very dangerous people and walk away without a scratch on you. Homelander finds ways of giving you funds, should it be his turn to thwart your plans and you have requirements to be met. All secretly taken from Vought’s coffers, of course.

The best part is that Vought have no idea who the Raven is. No-one, not one of the Seven, or Ashley, or Stan Edgar or the shareholders, knows what your next move will be.

In exchange for this, you have intel on who in Vought is working on tracking you down, (apparently there’s a whole department dedicated to you now, which you find hilarious) and Homelander can easily get info on the police too if need be and your schemes get national – sometimes international, attention. In a way, you’ve become a bit of a celebrity, yourself. And you have your own personal hitman on speed dial. If you need something or someone out of your way, Homelander’s number is on your burner phone, and he has no issue with taking out the trash every now and then. And if he can’t do it himself for whatever reason, he can always point a finger and send Black Noir like his own personal phantom. The masked Supe never asks questions.

Perhaps, then, the other arrangements were simply inevitable. A natural occurrence, if you will. Having such dangerous, intimate knowledge of one another is a surprising shortcut to sexual attraction, of knowing the other person in a way nobody else does. And you’d be a dirty little liar if you said you weren’t curious about what fucking America’s golden boy would be like.

You’re firm about these little trysts, though. You haven’t gotten away with your shit for so long for nothing, and there’s a reason it took a man with flight and super senses to finally catch you. If anybody saw The Homelander flying to where you live, seemingly for no apparent reason and roughly around the time either The Raven makes an appearance on TV or after “his” schemes are thwarted…well, then there might be questions, and you’re not willing to risk it.

Hence, the civvies. Plus, there’s something hot about an incognito Homelander, without the mantle of being the face of the Seven and symbol of America weighing him down. It’s illicit, forbidden, the man behind the curtain.

“You think I need you?” he sneers, pulling back to show his pointed fangs, but his affected disdain is unconvincing when he has his fingers buried deep in your pulsing cunt, and you can feel every ridge of his knuckles, his breath excited hot puffs on your neck.

“We’re good for each other,” you reply hoarsely, wrapping your hand around the back of his neck, leaning up to bite his bottom lip and he growls in approval – he likes a little rough play. “Don’t pretend it doesn’t feel good…knowing something nobody else does…being the one in control the whole time and nobody is any the wiser?”

You know you’ve hit the nail on the head as he plunges his fingers as deep as they can go inside you and you throw your head back, keening out loud. The truth is that nothing beats that rush, setting off these earthquakes and watching everyone else scramble to gain their footing, people falling as predictably as dominos. Having the man who swoops in to save the day visit you in the cover of nightfall for a quick fuck afterwards is just the cherry on top of it all, and you know he’s riding some of the aftershocks of his own, knowing he has everyone eating out of the palm of his gloved hands.

“Oh, fuck…” you hiss as he curves his fingers inside you in a come-hither motion, sending shivering jolts through your body, and your body automatically tilts your hips forward for more friction, more motion, without you having to even think of it. “Homelander…like that…”

“Yeah? This what you want?” he asks, half amused and half horny, doing the motion again and watching as your eyes get a glazed look about them, the usual sharp, wary gleam giving way to a fog of pleasure. “Greedy little brat.”

He doesn’t stop, though – he loves the look on your face as you lose yourself to it, swallowed up in sheer, undiluted lust. Your inner walls flutter around his fingers, making him slide them in and out, teasingly.

With his free hand, Homelander rips open the front of your dress as if it were made of wrapping paper and you make an indignant noise – perhaps a little dramatic given it’s not like you don’t have the cash to buy fifty dresses if you want, but your annoyance dies a quick death when his free hand palms one of your breasts.

“Mm…you wore your slutty lingerie for me, huh?” he says, a grin like a highschooler looking at his first Playboy curving his mouth as he traces over the lace detailing that skims the cups of your bra. “Very nice.”

“And it wasn’t cheap,” you can’t resist saying, tilting your head back like you’re a duchess being showered in trinkets. “All bought and paid for with Vought’s dirty money.”

Homelander laughs at that, delighted, lowering his head to drag his tongue over the sensitive skin and you shiver, his mouth is hot in the cool of your room, and you wrap your legs around his hips. He’s hard, you can see the outline of his dick through his jeans, but you let the moment stretch between you, like pulling bubblegum between the teeth.

He's impatient, snapping the front clasp (he notes you chose an easy access bra with approval), watching the pretty material slide off you to expose your tits to him, and he latches on with just as much greed as he accused you of having.

“I can hear your little heartbeat, you know,” he remarks conversationally, glancing up at you from beneath unfairly lush eyelashes on a man. “Going like a fuckin’ jackrabbit’s. It’s cute how you act like you’re this cold, calculating bitch, but really…you’re just desperate to be fucked.”

You look down at him, teeth sinking into your bottom lip, lust at how he’s playing with you and irritation that he’s calling you out at war with each other, and you can’t quite resist running your mouth.

“Yeah? Well, maybe you should hurry up and fuck me, then.” You throw the words down like a gauntlet.

His blue eyes snap to yours and for a split second, you think his pupils go from black to a sizzling red. It’s gone when you blink and Homelander’s hands wrap around your hips and he hoists you up, holding you, a full-grown adult, up off the ground like a ragdoll. With one hand – the one is busy freeing his cock from the confinements of his jeans, hissing under his breath. Relief skims over him when he pulls it out of his briefs, hot and throbbing in his hand.

“You asked for it, you fuckin’ brat.” He snarls.

You did, no denying that. You let out a groan when he sinks into you, letting you impale yourself on his cock, and he sighs, long and luxuriantly like he’s gotten into a hot bubblebath instead. Your hands tightly grip his shoulders and something about the fact you’re both mostly clothed really gets you going, the rushed, dirtiness of bouncing on his cock for a little while before he’s inevitably called away, before it’s time for him to go shine in the sunlight once again.

Homelander agrees with you - it's delicious, the heat of your snug, wet cunt engulfs him and he groans, nuzzling his face into your tits, which are conveniently right at face-level. You may have an excellent poker face, but your body is so responsive to even the slightest of touches, your nipples hard and flesh covered in goosebumps, either from the chill of the air conditioner or anticipation. Probably a potent mixture of both.

“Ah, fuck, yes…” you pant against him, clinging onto his jacket for dear life, nails embedding in the fabric. “Just like that…fuck me, ah…”

He doesn’t need telling twice – for someone who loathes being ordered around, Homelander is quick to take to instructions and he snarls as he picks up the pace, manhandling you with an ease that sends butterflies taking flight in your stomach. Your thighs clench, hooked around his waist as they are, the balls of your feet digging into his lower back, and you bury your face into his neck, breathing in the scent of his fancy cologne and just a faint whiff of something metallic. His skin is so warm like he’s constantly running a fever and you press little kisses and bites to his neck – you may be a Supe but you’re not strong enough to break his skin, but he seems to appreciate the effort.

“You shoulda - ngh- fuckin’ seen Stan Edgar’s face – when you first showed the hostage video-“ Homelander says, gasping out the words as he fucked you, maneuvering your body up and down with a mere flex of his wrists – all you had to do was cling onto him for dear life. “Shit, I nearly flew right here to bend you over this desk just for that. Got everybody in Vought losing their fuckin’ minds…”

“Glad to know I’m living up to my reputation,” you say against his ear in a thick voice, like you’re trying to speak through a mouthful of treacle, mouth falling open in a silent cry as his cock thrust deeper into you, hitting somewhere deep inside that sent bolts of pleasure zipping up and down your body, and your thighs and cunt clenched around him in tandem. “Fuck-!”

“Yeah,” he growls back, purposefully upping the back to drive more of those needy gasps he loves so much from you, the sound of bodies smacking together loud and clear in his ears even when it’s muffled by your clothing. “Got everything under control, don’t you? Everyone dancing to your tune? All except me. I’m the only one who gets you, only one who knows…”

“Yes, yes, fuck…” you hiss – you’re going to come, you can feel it, if he just keeps going, just a little more…your nails are digging so hard into his shirt you’re sure you’re going to pierce it with them alone, but neither of you care, nothing matters except chasing that high. “Only you, only you, Homelander…”

It's exactly what you know he wants to hear, and he groans in a hoarse way that finishes you off – you can’t hold back the heady kick of exhilaration and pleasure, conjoined and making you throw back your head as you come, a moan rising up to the ceiling fan that’s still whirring away above you. Tingling, throbbing heat engulfed you as you came, slick coating your thighs and you’ve probably gotten some on his pants too. Homelander’s concerns were less on his dry-cleaning and on chasing his own orgasm, his teeth sinking into the spot that joined neck and shoulder, making you give a soft whine. Your thighs tremble with the effort of keeping them clamped around his hips.

“Atta girl…” he mutters against your neck, planting a sloppy kiss against it like a stamp of ownership. Your skin breaks out in fresh goosebumps where his lips touch you, his lips burning like a brand.

It takes you a moment to recover yourself, and Homelander sets you back down on the desk with all the care of placing down a priceless vase. You give a little sniff and wipe your face with the back of your wrist, pushing your hair back off your sweaty forehead.

Homelander, in a surprising moment of decorum, turns away to tuck himself back into his jeans, a smug little smile lingering on his lips, and you pull your bra back into place and fasten the clasp. There’s not much to be done about your ruined dress, but all you have to do is say the word and he’d buy you whatever you asked for as a replacement. Price tags aren’t a concept that high and mighty beings such as himself need concern himself with.

“Ugh. Got a press junket tomorrow morning.” He mutters, giving a bitchy eyeroll. “All this goddamn promoting the brand now roster’s changed. They want another Seven movie too.”

“Jesus, they really don’t believe in letting a franchise die, do they?” you scoff, grateful that you’ve never once been tempted into the glitz and glamour of being one of Vought’s Supes – the red tape and smiling would be unbearable. And all those selfies with fans. “They sure do keep you busy.”

He scoffs, eyeing you out of the corner of his eye, watching your lip curve in a smirk as he matches it with one of his own.

“Yeah, well.” He says, in a sarcastically breezy tone, a can-do Boy Scout voice. “Anything for our fans.”

You laugh and shake your head. Rather you than him.

“I’ll send a bomb scare to set and make everyone evacuate for a few days,” you say, fluffing your hair. “Give you a little me-time.”

He eyes you, like he’s trying to work out if you’re joking or not, but you simply give him an enigmatic smile – you know he likes the mystery, so you keep quiet on if you’re actually planning on following through. He shakes his head.

“I’ll see you next time then, my pretty little criminal.”

He leans over and tilts up your chin, one last kiss before he goes, and you give it to him, enjoying the feeling of his mouth pressed hungrily against yours. He pulls away with obvious reluctance, but you force yourself not to invite him to stay – you have to keep yourself somewhat professional, after all.

“Til then.” You reply, running your tongue across your bottom lip, and his blue eyes follow it.

By now, it’s dark enough that he can get away with flying more easily. You watch him step out onto your balcony and disappear, probably landing outside and walking a few feet before he takes off properly, in the spirit of making sure not to draw any unwanted attention.

You run a hand through your hair as you eye your desk – you should tidy up but you’re too wobbly on your legs now to think of doing any more work. Plus, you want to run yourself a nice, relaxing bath after a day of extortion and disturbing the peace.

You go to grab your milkshake and not with grudging amusement that Homelander swiped it just before he left. Asshole. He took your panties too, though you’re less surprised about that – quite a few pairs have gone missing thanks to him, even if he denied it last time you asked.

With a yawn, you stumble to bed, rather more wobbly on your legs than you were about an hour ago. You’ll be sore tomorrow morning, but it will be well worth it. You’ll lie low for a little while, let everybody get comfortable and let their guards down again, get swept up in whatever new media circus captures their attention. Your plans take time to coordinate and carry out, and you like to make sure it’s something unexpected each time. So, for now, everyone can wait until you’re ready to rock their safe little worlds again.

And with any luck, Homelander will return to rock yours.

#homelander x reader #The Boys (2019) x Reader #The Boys (2019)#Fanfiction #Smut #Hero x villain #Except it's more like villain x villain #Reader-Insert

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widowbitessting · 1 year ago

Text

Baby It's Hot Outside - A Sugar Mommies Drabble

Word Count: 1729

Rating: General with fluffy scenes. SFW!

Summary: The One Where MJ cares for you.

Dom!Natasha Romanoff, Dom!Wanda Maximoff, Dom!Carol Danvers x Sub!Reader

You can’t open the door to your own apartment. It’s your first sign that the headache you’ve had for the past hour might be transforming into a migraine. And it sucks. Pain resonates behind your eyeballs and you have to squint to see where the stupid moving lock is so you can get inside.

Has it always been so low down? Surely not.

The key finally does its job and you’re allowed inside your own apartment, near collapsing on the floor as you go.

Definitely too hot today. Seriously too hot.

It’s your own fault really; your classmate in all her wisdom kept offering you caffeine and you, in all of your wisdom, kept accepting.

So now you're coming down from the copious amount of caffeine, mix that with the grand total of 0 litres of water you’ve had as well as the sheer heat of the day, and it’s no wonder you feel like your head is going to explode.

Mistakes have definitely been made.

You somehow manage to get to your sofa, falling onto the not so soft cushions face first. The sudden dark does a lot to sooth your eyes and you don’t know how long you stay like that, only shifting slightly to breathe, until MJ nb udges your leg with her foot.

“Two people live here, y’know. Move over.”

You don’t even try to form a coherent reply, moving your heavy body like she asks, wrapping yourself up into a ball. The shiver that wrecks through your body trembles the entire sofa and MJ doesn’t seem to notice. She clicks on Netflix and settles with her hot chocolate, completely unaware of your dying state beside her.

She glances your way when your phone rings, looking at the picture of Wanda as it flashes up on your cell. You don’t even move, eyes squinting shut against the dim light of the living room. For you, they feel like spotlights.

You shift uncomfortably on the sofa.

Your phone pings a minute later; a text from Wanda, asking you to call her ASAP, she’s having an icecream emergency - aka: she wants ice cream but Natasha and Carol won’t allow her.

You know she’s messaged in your group chat because your phone begins to after every few seconds.

Why didn’t you mute your phone? Why?

It doesn’t take long for MJ to let out a frustrated sigh and kick her feet so they’re under her. Her toes tickle your right foot, making you jerk and when you still don’t make a move to check your phone, MJ does it again.

“Dude, answer them or I’m throwing your cell out of the window.”

It takes all of your energy to move, and even then, you misjudge the end of the sofa and almost faceplant the floor.

With trembling arms, you struggle to hold your upper body weight and here is where MJ finally takes pity on you.

“This is painful, move.”

She snatches your phone for you and goes to pass it when she finally registers your appearance.

“Woah…you’re not about to die on me are you? I’d have three pissed off women on my case if you do.”

You shudder. MJ throws your phone aside and lifts you up by your armpits, settling you back on your original position on the sofa.

“Y/N? What’s wrong?”

You can only shake your head.

“I know this isn’t the time to notice this but that medicated deodorant you’re using really works, you’re bone dry!” MJ lets out a nervous chuckle. “Laugh, Y/N/N. You always laugh at my crappy jokes…even if they are pitiful…get it?”

You don’t even smile as a response and MJ jumps to her feet.

“Oh my god, you are dying!”

“...not…dying…sick…”

“You are sick, you feel sick or you’re going to be sick?”

“...all of the above.”

MJ falls over herself as she sprints into the kitchen. She returns with the anointed “puke bucket” which is a mixing bowl you had ended up using one time after too many shots. No sooner does she place it near your face, do you start to heave, body jerking gags where you think your stomach is going to come up out of your throat.

She touches your forehead.

“You’re burning up. Have you eaten something bad? Drank too much?”

“...not…” You spit out a wad of saliva. “...enough.”

“You haven’t eaten enough?” Something in MJ’s brain clicks. “Please tell me you’ve been drinking water today, Y/N. Please.”

You shake your head.

“I’d hit you if you weren’t so fragile. You’ve not drunk anything? Dude! It’s one of the hottest days of the year!”

“I had…coffee and stuff…”

You grimace and turn away from the bowl.

“You are actually going to die. They’re going to murder you, you know that? And then turn on me because I’m an unknowing accomplice. You’ve only had coffee all day? Y/N!”

“Don’t tell them.”

“How can I not? They��re bound to ask where you are! And what if they make a surprise trip to see you? You’re not exactly in a fit shape to fuck right now, are you, Y/N/.”

“MJ -”

“Fine. If they don’t ask I won’t tell them. Deal?”

“Okay, deal.”

“Right, you - don’t move. Don’t die. I’ll get you some water and a fan. Or something.”

MJ gets your water first, filling it with ice before rethinking and dumping it down the sink; before stopping again and getting slightly less ice for your glass.

“I have no idea what I’m doing.”

Now with a full drink, and a straw because why not, MJ places it in front of you with the strict instruction to “Sip it, don’t inhale it.”

She takes your phone when your head is in the sick bowl and vanishes into her bedroom; unlocking it with your passcode and finding the group chat with your girlfriends.

“Who’s the least terrifying? Natasha, no chance. Carol, maybe…Wanda…you’ll have to do.”

She picks up on the third ring.

“Hi baby!”

“Hey to you too.”

“…MJ?”

“Hi, the one and only.”

“Where’s Y/N? Not that I don’t appreciate talking to you but I’d much prefer to talk to my girlfriend.”

“She’s not…well. I told her I wouldn’t tell you but I’m genuinely worried about her.”

“What’s going on?” Natasha’s voice cuts through your phone speaker and MJ wants nothing more than to throw your phone away and hide under the nearest bed.

“Michelle Jones, talk.”

“I hate it when you do that.” MJ grumbles. “Y/N’s sick.”

“Sick, how?”

“God, she’s gonna kill me…erm,” MJ pinches the bridge of her nose. “She didn’t drink any water and I’m 90% sure she spent most of her day outside and it’s been super hot and she’s not well and I’m worried about her…I don’t know what to do.”

Natasha is silent for a moment.

“Stay with her. We’ll be there as soon as possible, understood? Let her sip, not inhale, at cool water. Not ice cold, it'll shock her system. Is she hot to the touch?”

“She’s hot, yeah. And not in her usual way either.”

“Get a damp cloth, that’ll help cool her off.” Natasha orders. “And MJ? Thank you for telling us.”

“Any…anytime I guess. Not that I want Y/N to get heat stroke or whatever it is again, ‘cos it’s scary and stuff but if she ever misbehaves again, you bet your ass I’ll be right on this phone to rat her out. I’ll even spank her for you if you can't get her fast enough.”

“MJ, breathe girl. Get some oxygen into those lungs. We’ll discuss this at a later date when you aren’t so frazzled. We’ll be there soon, okay? 30 minutes, max.”

“Okay, yeah, okay. Bye.”

“Damp cloth and cool water, MJ.”

“On it.”

MJ’s hands tremble when she returns to you with the items; a regular glass of water in one hand and a semi filled bowl with a wet cloth in the other. She takes the iced water from you and replaces it; ordering you to sip it slowly while she pats your head with the washcloth.

You do little to fight her.

“I’m not well, MJ.”

“I know, Y/N/N, I know. But you’re gonna get better soon, yeah? Just try to relax as much as you can. Google says you should start to feel better in 30 minutes or so.”

She places the washcloth on the back of your neck.

It takes you 23 minutes to feel slightly more human.

It takes 24 minutes for the Trio! to get to your apartment.

You can only stare as they walk inside, eyes locking onto your slouched form on the sofa with a straw between your lips.

You know you’re in for it when you’re better and you nervously swallow, offering them a sheepish smile.

“...hi…”

Wanda stares at your fragile state, a mixture of emotions clouding her eyes, from guilt to a slight twinge of insecurity. She wants to wrap you up and promise to be a better dom; for herself but most importantly for you.

Carol makes a beeline straight for you and starts fussing over you. She caresses your cheek and feels your forehead, frowning slightly, before reaching over for the washcloth. As she dabs at your face, wiping away the tears that tumble from your eyes, Natasha, with Wanda beside her, moves closer and places a gentle kiss on your damp temple.

“Hey there, little kotenok, how are we feeling, hmm?”

They’re there. Your trio. There to finally care for you and you instantly feel safe. Comforted by their presence and you reach out, grabbing the nearest body to drag them down on top of you. Wanda’s scent fills your nose and you nestle into her neck.

“Am I in trouble?” you whisper and you can feel her grinning.

“Oh yes,” she replies, “but not right now. Tomorrow maybe. But for now, rest sweet girl. We’re here.”

You can only nod as Carol gently moves Wanda so she can scoop you up into her arms.

As you’re carried away to your bedroom, you can see Natasha speaking quietly to MJ; and make the mental note to ask her what was said. But for now, you allow yourself to be carried away. Not even five minutes later, nestled against Wanda, you doze off with a smile.

#natasha romanoff #wanda maximoff #carol danvers #reader insert #sugar mommies #spiderbites #sugar mommies!asks #natasha x wanda x carol x reader #smu #sugar mommies drabbles #sugar mommies drabble

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blvefilm · 3 days ago

Text

Let My Song Teach You

Word Count 4805

Warnings Canon-typical violence, profanity

Pairing Agatha x Rio x Fem!oc

Summary The trial continues and Umbra finds herself struggling to maintain balance.

Notes this is part 3! I took some time to plot ahead since I was just feeling this out initially- I hope you enjoy!

Part 1 / Her Shadow Here

Part 2 / If I Can't Reach You Here

The incessant wailing of pained witches is a familiar sound, but it grates on the senses all the same- my shadows writhe at the shrill cacophony.

Agatha, having immediately rushed toward Teen when it began, seizes the record player. She hoists it high above her head with a snarl before slamming it against the wooden planks. The shattered pieces scatter across the floor, but she doesn’t stop there. Even once the noise quiets, she stomps it with a relentless fury.

I’ve always thought Agatha looks magnificent when she’s angry.

Rio and I stand side by side just behind Lilia, watching the chaotic sequence of events with measured calm. For a few beats the only sound in the room is Agatha’s ragged breathing.

“We’ve been cursed.” Lilia states gravely, her eyes looking comically wide with her Liza Minnelli lashes.

A metronome sat atop the dark oak piano begins to tick ominously.

“I think this means the trial started.” Rio chuckles, gesturing to the timer with her blade. I can’t help but grin- her amusement is infectious. Quite literally, in my case.

“Why are you smiling?” Questions Jen, incredulous.

“They’re tourists.” Dismisses Agatha, shimmering gold pants catching the light.

“They’re psychos.” Jen corrects, shooting her a sharp look.

Rio nods, grin spreading too wide, the red lighting casting eerie shadows on her face. Jen instinctively steps back, heeled boots clicking against the floor.

The coven exchanges uneasy glances as they wait for something, anything, to strike.

“...And nothing is happening.” Teen murmurs, voice tinged with tentative hope. “Maybe this curse isn’t so bad.”

Agatha shakes her head at him with a weary sigh.

My attention is drawn to Alice who rolls her shoulders, staring down at herself in confusion. “Does anybody feel...” She allows the word to trail and I can feel the entire room lean forward.

“What?” Urges Lilia, dread thick in her voice.

“I feel…lighter?” She says, tone lilting at the end in question and a shade of relief.

I raise a brow in muted shock when Lilia’s honey colored fur coat begins to smoke. A second later she falls to the ground screaming in pain, an odd tangle of limbs against the invisible fire that could be heard sizzling over her skin.

I despise the smell of burning witch.

“What is it, Lilia? What’s wrong?” Questions Teen as he runs to her alongside Alice.

Rio and I share a glance, my head tilting toward the flailing witch in question when she shakes her head ‘no’ in denial at my request to offer help. I purse my lips in agitation at the senseless theatrics of this whole facade.

She was always the one who enjoyed games.

“What's doing that to her?” Jennifer yells, looking quite frazzled in her flower crown.

“How do we stop it?” Teen turns to Agatha with his question and she can only stare, dumbstruck.

“Alice, protect her!” Kale demands, voice dropping in desperation.

At the sound of her name, Alice jerks away from Lilia’s crumpled form, turning to Rio with a huffed, ”Can I borrow this?”

Rio willingly releases the dagger, and Alice swiftly raises it high above her head, slashing in a downward arc until it thunks into the wooden planks. She makes quick work of carving a circle around the whimpering woman while chanting harshly in Latin.

Lilia’s frame jolts as the curse is expelled from her, and she takes a moment to collect herself before weakly rising with Alice’s help.

“I need you to draw one of those circles around me, right now.” Jen inserts from beside Agatha.

Everyone ignores the comment as Rio glides toward the crescent shaped couch, flopping down and meeting my gaze from beneath her lashes as she leisurely crosses her legs.

“So, uh…Breaking a curse. Smudge sticks? A salt bath?” Teen stutters out, beginning to pace. “What if we locate and reason with the witch who cast the curse?”

I’m tempted to roll my eyes at that, and Rio’s mirth cycles back to me.

“Once vengeance is loosed, you can’t real it back in.” Mutters Agatha, gloved hands curling in agitation.

“So, what do we do?”

“The only way to end the curse is to face it.” Lilia supplies shakily.

The ominous words barely leave her lips when Jen crumples to the ground in a blur of pink, her screams slicing through the air a pitch sharper than Lilia’s. Agatha cringes away from her as if it will jump to her next- which, it might, I suppose.

Alice is at Jen’s side in an instant, frantically carving the protection circle while the potions witch begs for her to hurry.

“Her shoulders.” Teen breathes, horrified, as the circle seals with a faint shimmer.

The cut-out neckline of Jen’s flowing dress reveals her once flawless shoulders, now marred by jagged strips of charred flesh. I let out a low whistle at the damage, and Teen shoots me a disapproving look.

“Do I have one too?” Lilia whispers, tugging at her neckline to expose the same grisly sight etched into her skin.

I feel the electric charge in the air before the deep vibrations of a rumbling growl quakes the floor.

The witches gasp as a sudden torrent of magic spirals through the room, whipping everyone's hair and frilly clothing violently. A demonic screech circles like a predator seeking its prey, the sound drilling into our eardrums.

“What is that?” Someone asks, voice barely audible.

“That’s the curse.” Rio offers, unbothered, her face obscured by a magazine.

Agatha takes a step back, unwittingly colliding into me. The warmth of her frame lurches away just as quickly when my hands automatically find her hips to steady her. Her sharp blue eyes snap to mine, brimming with accusation.

I meet her glare with a slow smile, unable to resist.

“The backwards record!” Exclaims Teen.

Alice shuffles the broken pieces of the record together, exhaling heavily when they reveal the one song that she can never escape.

Agatha, feeling the pressure of the situation and likely wanting to get further away from me, rushes to Alice’s crouched figure and pulls her up by the shoulders- Giving her a shake.

“It’s you isn’t it? You brought it in here!” Her voice is sharp with accusation.

“Leave her alone, Agatha!” Shouts Teen, pulling her back by the arm with surprising strength.

“I didn’t think it was real!” Alice explodes, tears pooling in her eyes as she throws her hands out in a plea for understanding.

“I thought it was me! That it's my fault that I can’t keep a job…that everything I touch turns to shit!” A small sob escapes her, thick with shame. “That I couldn’t save her…”

With trembling hands, she tugs her shirt to the side to show us scars that mimic Jen and Lilia’s burn- Hers deep and mottled like they never healed quite right. “I convinced myself they were birthmarks...Even though she had the same ones.”

I note Agatha keeps a hand against Teen’s stomach, guarding him from the current conflict.

“Wait, are we talking about a generational curse?” Jen questions with a hand out, trying to grasp the situation.

“Oh you poor thing.” Lilia sighs with empathy, I mentally echo her thoughts.

“Poor us!” Jen corrects. “Now we have her family’s old ass curse!” Rio snorts at that, flipping a page.

“I’m sorry.” Alice whispers brokenly.

Before anyone can respond, Teen yelps when an invisible force slams into him.

Agatha surges forward, but it doesn’t matter- before she can reach him, Teen is flung like a ragdoll through the glass window of the recording studio.

The crash can be heard through the room, shards of glass tinkling to the floor. My grip on Agatha loosens- A move I didn’t register making, and she bolts to his side, Alice close on her heels. Groans of pain mingle with the crunch of glass as they swarm him.

I glide toward the shattered window, staring idly as Alice crouches beside him, brushing off shards and muttering words of comfort. Another victim of the curse helped by the ever-dutiful protection witch.

“Hey,” Teen croaks, voice weak but laced with humor. “I got attacked by the curse…Does that mean I’m part of the coven? Blessings and burdens alike?”

His pitiful attempt at levity pulls a faint smirk from me.

“Not a lot of blessings with this group.” Lilia quips, stepping through the door with a dry smile.

I nod, lips twitching in agreement when a voice cuts through the moment.

“Is he okay?”

We all spin to face Jen who has refused to leave her warding circle.

Agatha drifts past me and back into the main room, scoffing with a toss of her hands. “So what? You live in that circle now?”

“Maybe.”

Rio stands, stalking toward her with a predatory gait, as Alice and Teen shuffle their way back toward us.

“So what’s the plan, Agatha?” Rio questions, leaning toward the witch, voice laced with impatience.

She pointedly avoids her gaze, turning instead to Alice who in turn stares at the piano like it might snap at her.

“You’re right. That’s the solution.” She snaps abruptly, jabbing a finger toward the instruments.

“No, it's not.” Alice bristles at the suggestion.

“We have to play Lorna’s Ballad.” Agatha says with renewed confidence.

“I’m not playing that song!” Alice shoots back, crossing her arms defensively.

“All signs point to a jam session.” Agatha mutters, exasperation apparent as she pops a hip and spreads her hands before her.

“What good will it do? The Ballad opens The Road. We did that. We’re here.” She continues to deny the glaring truth.

“Lorna’s version is different, though.” Teen steps in.

“What did Lorna want from The Road?” Agatha questions no one in particular. “What was her intention?”

Rio speaks up from where she is perched lazily at the drum set, “To save her daughter.”

“You should have burnt to a crisp years ago but here you are. Sullen and aimless, but alive. That’s because at any given moment somewhere, someone is playing that song that you hate so much…Lorna’s Ballad is a protection spell…It protects you.” Agatha’s words hang heavily in the air.

I can see the realization wash over Alice- fear, disbelief, guilt. They all flash in rapid succession that I imagine is dizzying for the poor witch.

“And maybe now it can protect us.” Lilia finishes as she comes to the same conclusion.

The hair-raising screech echoing through the room cuts off conversation with a brutal reminder. Time is running out.

“Okay,” Agatha snaps with urgency, “Who’s good with piano? Lilia?”

“No. No, I studied the zils. And a little pan flute.”

“Okay, Jen?”

“Ballet.”

“Oh, come on guys!” Agatha hurls with irritation, chest beginning to rise and fall with labored breaths that only draw my gaze to the deep cut of her top.

“I play guitar. Sort of.” Teen offers timidly.

“Okay, great.” The witch brushes a strand of hair from her face, taking a deep inhale to steady herself. “Jen, you’re on bass.”

“I’m still in the circle…”

“Jen!”

“Well, what do you know? Zils.” Lilia murmurs as she picks up the tiny instruments with a bemused grin.

Ignoring her, Agatha spins to take the mic. The static feedback squeals through the room causing everyone to flinch. I step up to the available mic beside her. Her eyes narrow my way, speculative, before turning to Alice with a sly smile.

“Ooh! Alice, play it right and play it well. Maybe we won’t die.” She drawls, equal parts encouragement and challenge.

The opening notes ripple through the room as Alice begins to play the piano, for a fleeting moment it feels like hope. Then the familiar sound of sizzling snaps everyone’s focus back.

To my horror, the curse attacks Agatha this time. Smoke rises from her clothes and she hunches over with a gasp of pain.

Instinctively, my shadows surge forward, curling possessively around her and wrenching the curse off before it can do anymore damage. Rio’s satisfaction and a thread of warning trickles through my chest at my interference. Agatha stumbles, catching her breath as the black tendrils retreat.

“You could do that the whole time?” Teen gasps, voice a mixture of disbelief and outrage.

I glance at him briefly, but don’t dignify his question with a response. My focus stays on Agatha as I scan her up and down for serious injury, avoiding the confusion in her expression.

Satisfied she is unharmed, I clear my throat before speaking, tone leaving no room for argument. “Keep playing.”

The coven is still for a heartbeat, everyone processing what just occurred with varying expressions of bewilderment and chagrin. Alice places her trembling fingers back on the keys and the melody resumes, each note only winding tension tighter.

I have learned the lesson

Of all that’s foul and fair

Our love was forged in Fire

Water, Earth, and Air

The spell is cast

How long it lasts

I cannot divine

The Road is there

And so I dare

To risk this heart of mine

Down, down, down The Road

Down the Witches’ Road

My gaze locks onto Agatha’s profile as she sings, her voice raw and commanding. The way the light catches her jaw, the intensity in her gaze- it’s magnetic.

Heat rises in my chest, spreading to my limbs with a slow burn and melding with Rio’s own. Beneath that, a whisper of caution. My balance is meant to steady Rio’s chaos, not mirror her yearning- Yet, I feel it.

It’s maddening, this push and pull. The same longing she feels tethered to the woman who has undone us both in different ways.

The little witch is distracting enough that I almost miss my cue to join in.

Down, down, down The Road

Down the Witches’ Road

Down, down, down The Road

Down the Witches’ Road

Follow me, my friend

To glory at the end

Flames burst to life around the room, licking at the walls like serpents tasting the air. They grow hungrily, casting shadows that twist and dance.

“Oh, great! Fire!” Lilia exclaims.

“It’s angry.” Rio warns, continuing her sing-song tone, silhouette haloed by the fiery glow.

“Stop phoning it in! Play like a witch!” Agatha commands, voice escaping her in a growl.

I have known the power

Of midnights in the wood

I’ve danced inside the circle

Of all that’s bad and good

The danger’s great

The trials wait

Tame your fears

A door appears

To love that never dies

As we go

Down, down, down The Road

Down the Witches’ Road

Down, down, down The Road

Down the Witches’ Road

Down, down, down The Road

Down the Witches’ Road

Blood and tears and bone

Together and alone

The room pulses with life while scattered embers glow like stars against the night sky. Our voices rise and fall, melding together in a seamless dance as we weave magic with our song.

Alice’s voice breaks through, raw and thick with emotion. Tears trace silver paths down her flushed cheeks, and the magic around us coils tighter with each note.

If I can’t reach you

Let my song teach you

All you need to keep our love alive

If I can’t hold you

Remember what I told you

It’s the only way we survive

We survive

As we go

The curse itself manifests in a grotesque demonic form, perched above us. Its body is a patchwork of flesh and blood that glistens against the dim light. It seems to parody the shape of a woman, with long stringy hair and a mouthful of unnervingly flat teeth.

The mockery is undone by the wings of thin tissue stretched taut over jagged bone that jut out at unnatural angles. The smell of iron and rot saturate the place.

Down, down, down The Road

Down the Witches’ Road

“The curse. I see it. I can see it” Alice chokes before her voice takes on a raging determination. “...I can kill it.”

Down, down, down The Road

Down the Witches’ Road

Down, down, down The Road

Down the Witches’ Road

Wherever it may bend

I’ll see you at the end

The curse moves with unsettling precision, settling itself upon the witch’s shoulders as if it belongs there. It talons curl into her skin, aligning with her brutal scars- they intertwine in a tapestry of her past and present torment.

I’ll see you at the end

A cloud of fire erupts above Alice as her final note pierces the air, arms flung wide. The curse- a surging flame in a violent bloom, twists inward, then collapses into a swirling void.

As if it never existed.

“It’s gone.” Agatha breathes, hand clenching the mic in a white-knuckled grip as her eyes scan the room warily.

The faint creak of wood draws their attention to the piano, currently groaning open to reveal a narrow, dark passage within.

“The exit!” Alice gasps, relief breaking through her exhaustion.

“We did it. Yay!” Teen mumbles, tone unsteady as he sways on his feet. A second later, his knees buckle, and he crumples to the ground.

“Teen!” Agatha cries, panic cutting through her usually steely demeanor. “What happened?”

“What’s wrong with him?” Lilia’s voice rises in alarm, gaze darting to his torso where blood spreads across his side.

“He’s bleeding!”

“We’ve got to get him out of here.” Urges Alice where she clutches his arm.

The group scrambles to lift him, their movements frantic and uncoordinated. Shuttling an unconscious body through the narrow opening of a piano proves to be more complicated than any of them expected.

Rio, who stands at my side and watches the scene unfold, subdues the desire to laugh when they bang his head against the wood for a second time- Only because Agatha’s eyes have welled with tears of fright for the boy.

“Watch his head!” Lilia yells, voice strained.

Finally, they manage to pull him through, laying him on an elevated slab of stone just outside the passage. His pale face is slack, and blood continues to seep between their fingers as they try to staunch the wound.

“Okay, hold on. Hold on.” Jen says, voice trembling with the weight of the situation.

“There’s so much blood.” Agatha whispers, voice cracking with emotion that she hasn’t displayed in a long time.

“I got it.” Jen reassures, although her demeanor screams unsteady.

“What else can we do? What else can we do?” Agatha croaks, bloodied fingers cupping his face.

“He’s young. He’s strong..” Lilia begins.

“Dont!” Agatha snarls, turning to look at Rio and I, voice falling to a weak plea, “Don’t.”

It feels like a bolder in my gut when her loaded gaze lands on us, and I’m sent back to those hazy memories of her begging Rio…Of my birth.

“Jen!” Agatha barks out, attempting to jolt Jennifer into action.

“Water and moonlight.” She finally stammers.

Alice scrambles to the thin stream a few feet away, falling to her knees to collect water, and being mindful not to slosh it as she hands it off to the potions witch.

Jen cups it in both hands, turning to the thin stream of moonlight breaking through the tangled branches and begins to chant in Latin.

“Three of Swords.” Lilia mumbles airily.

She delicately pours the water against the wound, his body flinches away with a small hiss of pain.

“You’re making it worse!” Agatha accuses fearfully.

“Wait, wait.”

There is a visible sigh of relief when the blood begins to wash away to reveal healed skin. Jen gasps in shock at her own work, using his jacket to wipe away the remaining blood.

“Jennifer…” Lilia breathes. “Look what you did.”

Agatha’s tear stained cheeks reflect the light when she glances our way once more before they clamor together to move him somewhere more comfortable. With far less huffs and grunts than when they shimmied him through the piano, they find him a patch of soft foliage to rest him on.

Agatha sits by his side, gaze not leaving his face. The other coven members stand in the tense silence briefly before stuttering that they are going to start a fire and promptly wander in the opposite direction.

I eye Rio in my peripheral, twirling the damned flower in her hands as she stares despondently at the witch. I urge her to walk away through our connection, ignoring the fact that I haven’t either, but not one to be told no she parts her lips to speak anyway.

“Agatha-”

“Don’t. Not right now.” She lashes out abruptly.

Rio sighs and the hand holding the flower falls to her side limply, before she spins to follow the coven dejectedly. I stretch a bit of shadow to caress the witch’s back softly, she shudders at the contact, but doesn’t look my way. I don’t expect her to.

I take a seat on the log beside Rio once I make my way over to the flickering flames casting elongated shadows of the coven’s figures. She plays with her knife idly as the witches chat, sparing me a fleeting glance at my arrival.

“I never really identified as just a witch…I’m an eleventh-generation root worker and midwife.” Jen murmurs, face reflecting the orange glow.

“A midwife…” Lilia gasps with genuine appreciation.

“How were you bound?” Alice asks softly.

“I was invited to the brand-new Obstetrics Association of Greater Boston. To share my expertise…It was a trap. I still don’t know how he did it. Bound me without magic.” She sighs deeply to clear the haunting memories from her mind. “So much for ‘do no harm’.”

“When mom died,” Alice starts quietly. “I stopped believing everything she ever taught me. I was so angry. Part of me hoped that The Road wasn’t real, so I could stay angry. Because…” She exhales shakily, unable to finish her thought.

“Now you know it was all for you. And that makes you sad.” Lilia hums.

“You’re right.” Alice concedes tearfully after pausing to wipe her face.

“Sad is better than angry.” The divination witch sends her an empathetic smile.

“Here. Put this on your pressure points.”

Jen shifts to hand her a small tin effectively shifting the somber weight that had settled over the group.

“Why?”

“Because it smells nice.” She responds simply.

“Thanks, Jen.” Alice says, tone a shade lighter than usual at the gesture.

“You know the worst part of being a witch?” Lilia states, queuing up another rant. “All the misconceptions and rumor mongering. That we talk to goats. That we’ve all got an extra nipple.”

“You guys don’t have extra nipples? I’m covered in nipples.” Rio states and I can’t help but join in on the antics when Lilia’s lip curls in disgust.

“There’s one shaped like a star on her back.”

“You wanna see?” Rio asks, moving to lift her shirt with a grin.

“No, thank you.” Lilia says, appalled, as the women break out into snickers.

I can see it then, the tentative camaraderie between the witches. They could make a powerful coven if everything about this wasn’t so convoluted.

“Check this out.” Says Lilia once their laughter dies down, pulling her collar low to expose the skin of her throat.

“What is that?” Jennifer asks, leaning in to get a closer look.

“Vampire bite. Right before I knocked out his other tooth.”

“Oh!” The witches both exclaim with impressed tones, and intrigue slithers through my chest. The emotions are not my own, but Rio’s.

“You know, we really kind of hated each other in the beginning. But now…” Lilia dangles the words in the air.

“But now?” the potions witch prods.

Lilia blinks away the fog veiling her eyes. “Huh?”

“Lilia, where do you go?” Jen asks with a disbelieving laugh that sends Alice into another fit at her side.

They quiet down as Agatha shuffles her way toward us stiffly, a blanket of uncertainty rippling through the coven. Rio, who’s moved to the ground, now sits between my legs where I remain perched on the log behind her. Agatha gives us a heavy look before easing down beside us.

“How is he?” Alice’s voice has lost all amusement.

“Mouthy.”

“That’s a good sign.” Lilia breathes.

“Agatha, why don’t you show us your battle scars?” Jen encourages after we fall into a loaded silence against the whispers of crackling flames.

Agatha’s brows twitch upward with surprise before she unrolls her sleeve to reveal her arm. She shares a look with Rio and they both chuckle- I vaguely remember it myself from my time as a flicker in the back of her mind.

“Knitting needle to the elbow.” She remarks in a haughty voice. “You ever hear of the Daughters of Liberty?”

“No.”

“Nuh uh.”

“Exactly.” She affirms with a smirk, her own laugh hesitant amongst the others.

“I’ve got a scar.” Rio finally blurts- I’d felt her teetering on the edge of saying it or remaining silent since Agatha first spoke. My shadows twirl around her legs, as if to shield her.

“No, you don’t.”

“Yes, I do. A long time ago, I loved someone. And I had to do something that I did not wanna do, even though it was my job.” Rio angles her face toward Agatha just slightly and the witch whips the other way as if she might burn her.

“And it hurt them.” She continues softer. “She is my scar.”

Agatha continues to avoid her gaze, hand tucked to her chin in an attempt at a mask of nonchalance. I resist the gnawing temptation to speak up in Rio’s defense- To tell Agatha that she is the reason her very being was torn in two.

“I’m gonna stretch my legs.” She finally spits after a weighted pause that no one seems willing to break, standing with a deep sigh and walking briskly down the trail.

I’m already standing when Rio gets up, together we turn to follow her when Lilia reaches out to halt our progress. “Don’t think for a second I’ve forgotten what you said in the sound booth.”

A scoff escapes Rio as she jerks her hand back with a snarl, I can see the slight edge of rejection in her eyes most couldn't. Very few regarded Death warmly, after all.

I wrap an arm around her waist with a forceful tug, fingers tickling along the exposed skin of her side while she allows me to pull her down the road and away from the campfire bonding session.

Agatha stands rigidly, arms crossed, and her back to us as we approach. I halt as Rio eases forward to tangle her fingers in Agatha’s long hair, the witch’s visible shiver and small moan in response to her touch draws me closer until I’m barely a step away.

She rotates to meet Rio’s soft gaze, visibly melting into her as she caresses her head fondly and clutches her in an embrace. Agatha’s eyes meet mine over her shoulder, face inches from my own. Her irises cloud with a storm of emotion, fondness with a barbed edge.

I hesitate, still unsure where I stand, before gently pressing my forehead to hers in a small show of acceptance. Of affection. My shadows, with a mind of their own, coil around us in a cool hug.

Agatha’s eyes flutter closed with a shuttering exhale, savoring the small bubble of safety in the battleground we have created.

Rio’s relief and raw yearning hits me like a wave, my knees feel weak in its presence. With me torn from her, all the softer parts of herself are closer to the surface- More vulnerable.

Agatha pulls back from our hold, just far enough that her lips are a breath away from Rio’s as her eyes pool with heat.

The dark force that formed me jabs into my mind like a hot poker, causing me to flinch against Rio’s back with the force of it.

You are here to guide. To protect. To collect.

The reminder yanks all the warmth from the bond, leaving it a chilled husk of a thing between us. I retreat backward, one step, then two- Inhaling and exhaling deeply through my nose.

“Agatha…” Rio hesitates to say the words we know to be true, and I almost wish she didn’t when I see the mental walls slamming back down in Agatha's eyes. “That boy isn’t yours.”

The little witch’s shoulders curl inward, the tender parts of her burrowing back into their hiding spots. She nods jerkily as she works to paint her usual sarcastic smile. It doesn’t hold the desired effect- her lips tremble with the effort and it’s hollow of any emotion.

She shoulders past us with a weak scoff, gait weary, but chin held high.

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