#I should have drawn bones as well | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

alygator77 · 14 days ago

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.ೃ࿐ motherhood and matrimony I ch 10 𓆩ᥫ᭡𓆪

ꨄ︎ pairing. au ceo! satoru gojo x single mom secretary fem! reader

ꨄ summary. satoru gojo, the arrogant and irresistible heir to a billion-dollar corporation and the son of your boss, the ceo... but when satoru’s father dies unexpectedly, his inheritance hinges on a stipulation: he must marry and have a child, but the child doesn't necessarily have to be his, right? together, you strike a deal: a fake marriage that promises financial stability for you and corporate control for him. as the lines between business and emotion blur, you must decide if your partnership is purely contractual or if it could evolve into something real.

ꨄ︎ warnings/tags. 18+ MDNI, nsfw, enemies (annoyances) to lovers, opposites attract, fake marriage, marriage of convenience, slow burn, smut, fluff, some angst, reader is single mom who recently broke off her engagement, satoru being a cute step dad, naoya is your crappy ex, triggers of prior domestic abuse » 【NOTE FOR THIS CHAPTER - violence. minor character death. blood and brutality. prior trauma. explicit sexual context: handjob, blowjob, face fucking, swallowing, praise, desperate, needy satoru. he's literally so in love with you.

ꨄ words: 14.9k

ꨄ a/n. hi hi!! it's been a while. i'm excited to share this ch with youuu 🥹 !! please caution !! - there IS violence, read my tags bbs. oh man, here we go... the yakuza don't fuck around ya'll. also, welcome nanami!! see you at the bottom. ♡ (art by 3aem )

ꨄ taglist: open (ao3)

♬ playlist

series masterlist ꨄ︎ previous chapter ꨄ︎ next chapter → pending

ch 10 // ruin and reverence

Blood and money.

Two currencies of power.

One, pooling thick and dark, seeping into the cracks of the aged wooden floor. The other, crisp and clean, slipping effortlessly through Mei-Mei’s manicured fingers. The Zenins have always understood both intimately—one is used to buy power, the other to maintain it.

Tonight though, only one is being spent.

The sickening crack of brass knuckles against bone splits the air, followed by a wet, choking cough. The man kneeling before Toji jerks forward, lungs fighting for air they don’t have room for. His arms are bound behind his back, wrists cinched so tight his fingers have gone blue.

And his face?

Well, not much left of it now. One eye swollen shut—the other, barely tethered to consciousness.

He isn’t alone—two others lie slumped beside him, bodies twisted in the way only pain can shape—blood pooling beneath them like spilled ink. Toji hasn’t glanced at them since they dropped. They’d served their purpose.

This one, though? Still breathing.

The room is dim and airless, the kind that holds onto heat and old violence. A flickering overhead bulb swings gently above, casting shadows that crawl across the walls with every shift of movement. The smell of sweat, blood, and something metallic lingers—heavy, but familiar.

This isn’t a room meant for conversation.

It’s a room meant for remembering your place.

“P-please,” then man rasps, wheezing. “I—I told you everything, I swear—”

His knees scrape the floor as he bows, forehead nearly touching Toji’s boot. Shame, surrender, desperation—it’s all there, thick in the air like humidity before a storm.

But Toji doesn’t blink. He just watches. Shoulders rolling, fingers flexing. The brass glints under the low light. His head tilts slightly—calculating.

“Mm… that so?”

“Yes-yes,” the man nods desperately, breath hitching. “I swear. Please, I swear.”

Toji’s lips curl slightly, not in amusement, but in something far less kind, and with no warning, he fists a hand into the man’s blood-matted hair, yanking his head back like a drawn bow.

“Wait—p-please!” the man jerks, his good eye wide with panic, spine pulled tight.

Arching a brow, Toji observes him like a purchase that didn’t hold up.

“You were in his house,” he states simply.

“Y-yes,” a frantic nod. “I—I was—”

Toji hums. “Breathing his air...”

The man nods again, breath shuddering with a quiet sob, his shoulders convulsing involuntary.

“Walking his floors...”

Another nod, another breathless sob.

Toji clicks his tongue, pondering. “…makes you valuable, doesn’t it?”

And there it is. That flicker.

Hope.

Thin as thread.

Pathetic, really.

Toji lets it bloom, just long enough to see it shine in the man’s good eye—let him believe. Then, leaning in, his voice drops to a murmur.

“So why?” he asks, almost curious. “Why do you still look so fucking useless to me?”

There’s no time to answer. The man crumples, folding in on himself as Toji’s fist drives into his ribs—sharp, direct. A wet crunch. Then, without so much of a glance, Toji steps over his body without looking down. It’s just dead weight on the floor. The others had figured it out too—right before the end.

They’d begged.

It hadn’t mattered.

With a slow exhale, he approaches the table, where Mei sits, thumbing through yen with that same detached grace. She doesn’t glance up as he reaches for the glass of sake beside her. But as Toji brings the glass to his lips, taking a sip, he catches movement in his peripheral, and behind him, the grunt coughs—wet and raw.

…he’s still trying?

With a tilt of his head, he turns, watching the man drag himself forward through blood and spit. Ugh… it’s always the ones who stay conscious that think they’ve earned something.

“He’s still breathing,” Mei hums, unmoved. Her eyes stay on the cash, more interested in the spoils than the suffering that paid for them. “That’s a bit generous, Toji.”

“Yeah yeah…” he takes a swig of sake, exhaling, “…not for long.”

Suddenly, the door creaks, and Naoya strolls through its opening. Smooth strides, like it’s just another business report. Golden eyes scan the room, moving from the bodies on the floor to the blood smeared across the boards, then to the one poor bastard still crawling like it might matter.

Huh. Nothing unusual.

“Yo,” his hands shove into his pockets, tilting his head with a smirk. “You’re working late.”

Lifting her chin, a smirk plays at Mei’s lips like the edge of a knife.

“Evening, Naoya.”

He returns the gesture with a lazy tilt of his head, but his attention shifts almost immediately to the table—to the scattered aftermath of whatever poor bastard had made the wrong move tonight.

Gold chains. Scattered bills. Watches stripped from the wrists of men who thought they had more time.

Spoils of failure.

“Having fun?”

Reaching for the next stack, Mei hums.

“More than them.”

Naoya drops into the chair beside her, kicking his feet up like this is a poker night and not a graveyard.

“Well, well,” he exhales, gaze cutting toward Toji. “If I knew it was open season, I’d’ve brought popcorn.”

Lifting his sake, Toji watches it swirl in the glass. He doesn’t spare Naoya a look. Doesn’t say a word.

Naoya waits.

And waits.

And… waits?

Eventually, Toji sets the glass down with a soft clink, rolling his shoulders, exhaling. Then, he turns back toward the crawling man—who’s made it, maybe, four inches from where he started.

The fuck?

Naoya frowns slightly, eyes narrowing.

“Psh... not even a hello?” he scoffs, shifting in his chair like he’s brushing off the tension. “Cold, even for you.”

Still no answer.

Just the dull sound of Toji’s boots against the floorboards as he closes the space again.

Then—

A punch.

Then another.

And another.

Each one lands with a dull, final force, like closing a door that shouldn’t have been opened. Bone crunching. Flesh splitting beneath steel-plated knuckles.

As Naoya watches, a subtle unease creeps in—threading through his amusement like a hairline crack in polished glass.

“You’re in a mood…” he offers lightly, rocking his boot idly against the edge of the table.

Toji’s fist drives into the man’s ribs, followed by a wet, wheezing gasp.

“Am I?”

It’s almost conversational.

Almost.

Another hit follows. Harder. Meaner. And Naoya exhales, stretching out in his chair like he’s not watching someone die.

“Yup… quieter than usual,” he muses, clicking his tongue. “Bad news? Or just bad company?”

Toji hauls the man upright, his body sagging like it’s already given up.

“…both.”

Naoya hums, like he’s got a fix for that.

“Well… maybe I can help with that. Got something on Gojo today.”

At that, Toji’s grip loosens—the man dropping to the floor with a heavy thud, and Naoya perks up. Encouraged, like a dog who thinks it’s being tossed a bone.

“Heh… thought you’d appreciate it,” he leans back, legs stretching further, “y’see… I took a little… initiative.” He says it like he wants a fucking gold star. “Dropped by Gojo’s place. Figured I’d get ahead of things.”

Toji’s back stays turned, but he tilts his head, barely—just enough to feed Naoya’s ego. Mei raises a brow, knowing better.

“Gotta say… his security wasn’t much,” Naoya goes on, waving a hand lazily. “Paid them off. Walked right in,” he pauses, his smirk stretching. “Got into his office and poked around. Grabbed a few files… contracts, statements… stuff that’ll sting once we’re in court.”

Toji nods. Slow. Thoughtful.

Too thoughtful.

“That so?”

Naoya’s grin grows—he can’t help himself. “Yup. Even got photos of everything. There was a safe I didn’t crack, but we can go back. Who knows what kind of dirt’s buried in there?”

Toji hums low in his throat. Like he’s thinking. But he’s not.

Why? Because he already knows.

Without warning, his fist swings again—one final, devastating blow. The man’s body jerks violently. Then stills. Toji grabs him by the collar again, lifting him halfway—checking.

But there’s nothing. No breath. No twitch.

Dead.

Behind him, Naoya’s smirking like an idiot.

“Damn. Poor bastard…” he says, half-laughing. “Can barely even tell he had a face.”

“Huh… you’re right,” Toji muses, giving the corpse a second look. Then, he drops it without ceremony, wiping his knuckles off on his shirt, slow and methodical.

“Guess you can’t even tell he was one of yours.”

Naoya blinks.

“…huh?”

Toji finally looks at him, flashing a smug grin. “Oh, yeah,” he nudges the body onto its back with his foot, revealing the ruined mess of a face. “Didn’t you know? These are your men.”

Something shifts—not the blood, not the bodies, but something else, something that had been slowly, steadily unraveling and Naoya had missed it.

“…w-what?” he blinks, speechless, forcing out a dry laugh. “The hell you mean, my men?”

Toji says nothing. Just begins rolling up his bloodied sleeves—one fold at a time—like he’s getting ready to mop the fucking floor.

“Gojo fired his entire staff tonight.”

A pause, because that’s it—that’s enough. Enough to let Naoya know how deeply, irreversibly he’s fucked up. The men Toji beat to death were Gojo’s old employees—their moles.

But Naoya just scoffs. “Tch… you’re fucking with me.” he leans back, arms crossing like he’s trying to hold something in place. “I mean… c’mon. Gojo fired his staff?”

Toji looks at him, gaze flat. “Did I stutter?” An unnerving pause. “All of them,” he adds casually. “Kept Remi though.”

Jaw ticking, Naoya’s fingers twitch against his bicep.

“Paranoid bastard…” he mutters, too dry, too short. He swallows. Tries to laugh. “Doesn’t mean shit. Just means he got spooked. We knew there was a risk.”

Toji’s head tilts a fraction deeper, a shadow passing through his expression.

“…we?”

That word is a hammer. Naoya stills, because Toji’s voice is calm, but the weight of it drops like a fucking lead pipe.

“Let’s see… if I recall correctly…” he says, stepping closer, voice steady, cold, “I never fucking asked you to go into Gojo’s house, isn’t that right?”

“Well… but…” Naoya stammers. Then tries a shrug, rolling his shoulders like it’ll shake off the weight. “I did what needed to be done. We needed leverage—”

A cruel laugh cuts him off.

Toji shakes his head in amused disbelief, then moves—snatching the dead man by the collar, hauling him up like a ragdoll and slamming him down onto the table in front of Naoya.

The table jolts. A stack of yen shifts slightly. Leaning in, Toji presses a hand to the corpse’s face, twisting it toward him.

“…honestly?” his voice drops to a razor-thin edge. “This is how your fucking face should look right now.”

He holds it there, letting Naoya see every ruin of it. Then lets go, letting the corpse slump back into the table.

“But…” Toji sighs, wiping the back of his hand along his jaw, smearing blood like it’s no more than sweat. “Lucky for you… I need you lookin' pretty. So they don’t catch on.”

Naoya is stunned, frozen, desperately trying to piece together what the fuck to say, while Mei hums, still thumbing through her cash, unfazed. He tries to roll his shoulders back, to remember who the hell he is, but the tension sits thick in his bones.

C’mon now…

He didn’t mess up. Right? Not really.

He was just doing what needed to be done. That’s what he tells himself—over and over, even as his gut twists tighter. After all, breaking into Gojo’s house wasn’t a mistake. It was necessary.

Strategic. Calculated.

He had to find something to use against that smug bastard. Had to find something to remind you what happens when you step out of line.

Clearly it's not because he cared. Not because he gave a shit about what you were doing. Just leverage. Just... business.

That’s all it was.

…except it wasn’t. Not really.

Clenching his jaw, Naoya hates the flicker of truth that stirs under the layers of justification. Because he hadn’t been looking for evidence. He’d been looking for you.

For proof you were miserable without him. For proof you hadn’t actually slipped free. Because Naoya was a man who didn’t lose. Not women. Not anything. It was second nature—the way they folded. Under his voice. His anger. His hands. And you—you had been no different.

Until you were.

Until you walked out without permission. Until you looked him in the eye and told him no.

The thought curdles hot in his blood.

You were supposed to be broken without him. Begging. Waiting. Not smiling. Not building a life. And sure as hell not fucking Satoru Gojo.

So… maybe he hadn’t gone into Gojo’s house for leverage after all. Maybe he’d gone in because he needed to remind himself he still mattered. Still had power. Control. Because if you had really moved on—really slipped away—what does that make him?

Weak? Forgettable? Nothing?

Naoya grits his teeth so hard his jaw aches.

Fuck no.

Naoya Zenin doesn’t lose. Not to you. Not to anybody.

The silence lingers, and as Toji straightens slowly, his gaze drops, catching on something—just a flicker of red lace peeking from the edge of Naoya’s pocket. He shifts.

“What’s this?” and Naoya tenses as he reaches down, two fingers hooking the fabric from his pocket.

Panties.

Holding them up, Toji’s lips press together in a flat, humorless line.

“…this what you brought back?” he asks, voice dry, tossing the panties onto the table, inches from the corpse’s hand. “Jesus fucking Christ, Naoya…”

Across the table, Mei’s brow lifts, flicking through another bundle. “Classy,” she hums, amused.

Naoya straightens abruptly, chair scraping across the floor. “It wasn’t like that,” he blurts. “I—”

“Don’t.” Toji raises a hand, palm open. His voice doesn’t rise, but it slices through the room.

He looks down at the lace again.

“Let’s see if I’ve got this right…” he says slowly. “…you break into Gojo’s house without my permission… stir up shit we weren’t ready to stir—” His gaze snaps back to Naoya, seething. “And you come back with that?”

Naoya scoffs, brittle and defensive. He fumbles for his phone, tapping the screen like it proves something.

“Look, ‘cuz—this wasn’t about her. I got real shit. Photos. Documents. Things we can actually use. I know we needed leverage—”

“We didn’t need shit.”

Toji’s voice is like ice. He snatches the phone from Naoya’s hand, tossing it onto the table with a heavy clack. It spins, landing crooked against the corpse’s elbow.

Leaning in, the weight of him towers above Naoya, like a shadow.

“We agreed to use her to take him down. Clean. Quiet.” He pauses. “You went off script.”

Naoya shifts, stiff, shoulders tense.

Toji doesn’t back off.

“This isn’t about Gojo anymore,” he says, quieter now. “It’s about you, Naoya. You can’t see straight. You’re too caught up in your fucking toy.”

Blinking, Naoya opens his mouth, only to close it again—jaw flexing. He’s speechless, and Toji nods slowly, as if confirming something to himself. Pulling away, he exhales—running a hand through his hair, contemplating.

“…you know why I’ve let her stay breathing this long?”

Naoya’s brow furrows, “…why?”

Toji’s mouth curls into something that isn’t quite a smile. “Because you wanted her.” He shrugs. “Just me being a nice cousin, I guess.” He leans a knuckle on the edge of the table. “Plus… figured letting Gojo have her would keep you focused. Make it personal. Y'know... keep your edge sharp.”

Mei doesn’t stop counting, but there’s a faint twitch at the corner of her lips as Toji lets the silence stretch. The room holds its breath.

“Buuut… she’s clouding your judgment that badly, huh?” he mutters, rolling his neck, slow and lazy. “…maybe I should just kill her.”

Naoya jerks forward so fast the chair scrapes across the floor again.

“Don’t,” he snaps. “She’s mine to—”

Toji’s fist is moving before his last word is even fully out—straight to Naoya’s chest—brass knuckles biting deep.

Gasping, Naoya doubles over. The air rips from his lungs in one crushed breath, and he grabs the edge of the table, knuckles white, wheezing. But Toji doesn’t even look angry. He just brushes a drop of blood from his wrist, flicking it to the floor.

“That’s the last time you raise your fucking voice to me…” he says quietly, leaning one hand flat on the table. “Get your shit together. Start thinking with your head—not your fucking dick. You’re not the one who makes the calls. I’m the one running this clan, are we clear?”

Naoya doesn’t answer. Can’t. He’s still wheezing, hunched over the table like the air might never fully return to his lungs. Straightening, Toji refills his sake glass—slow, unhurried—as if the conversation’s already over. And across the table, the red lace sits exactly where it landed. Bloodied, silent—still sitting in plain sight.

Mei picks up a ruby ring, turning it under the low light.

“Well…” she sighs, slipping it onto her finger, “if we’re taking votes, I’d love to kill the bitch. She’s getting a little too cozy in my house.”

Taking a slow sip, Toji doesn’t answer. His eyes are still locked on Naoya’s crumpled figure—like he’s weighing whether this was a warning or the warmup.

Propping her chin in her palm, Mei watches the ring flash red as it catches the light.

“She walks the halls like she owns them,” she murmurs. “Like she thinks she’s safe.”

Toji’s gaze flicks back to the lace on the table.

“She won’t be for much longer.”

A deep breath pulls through Naoya’s teeth, rough and shaky. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, then plants an elbow against the table—trying to think.

There’s blood in the air, metal in his teeth. The corpse on the table is already cooling, but the heat in Toji’s glare hasn’t faded.

You die if he slips again. And… if you die before he wins—before you look him in the eye and regret leaving—before he gets to make you need him again—then he loses forever.

And Naoya Zenin doesn’t lose.

Straightening, his breath finally steadies, and he forces the words out like they were always part of the plan.

“…she agreed to meet me,” he mutters.

Toji glances at him. Just a flick of the eyes.

“Did she?”

“Yeah…” Naoya nods once. “Tomorrow. The park by the river.” A pause. “She… thinks I want to talk.”

It sounds steadier than it should.

Because the truth is? He’s not sure what the fuck he’s doing anymore. He tells himself this is strategy. A setup. Another angle in the plan.

But in reality?

It’s need. It’s obsession. It’s him clawing at the fraying ends of something he used to hold in his hand like a leash.

Mei hums, unimpressed, setting the ruby down again.

“If she’s dumb enough to show up,” she shrugs, “she’s dumb enough to disappear.”

Naoya scoffs, jaw twitching.

You'll come.

“I never said she was smart.”

Mei smiles faintly, flipping a coin between her fingers. “No. Just smart enough to run before you tightened your leash.”

Leaning back, Naoya’s chair creaks under him.

“She still listens when I talk, doesn’t she?” His voice is low, mean. “Still flinches when I go quiet. Means she remembers her place.”

For a second, he almost believes it.

Mei glances at him, sideways.

“And yet… here you are,” she says. “Fumbling for control like a man who’s already lost it.”

Naoya’s glare snaps sharp, hot.

“Fuck you, Mei. She’ll come crawling back. Just you wait. She still wants me.”

Toji exhales through his nose, sharp and tired—like he’s heard this all before and it’s not worth the energy anymore.

“Oh, shut the fuck up—both of you.” He sets his glass down with a soft clink—a sound that lands heavier than any fist. His gaze cuts to Naoya—sharp, certain. “So. Tomorrow. You set this up?”

Hesitating, Naoya’s hand tightens around the edge of the table. The tension in his shoulders is like a drawn wire.

“Yeah…” he says finally.

Toji watches for a beat—then nods, like the final piece has just slotted into place.

“Alright. Then we’ll use it.” He steps forward, planting both hands on the table—casual, but weighted. “You show up. Smile. Play the part. Whatever version of ‘sorry’ she still falls for.”

Leaning in, Naoya’s eyes narrow. “Okay… sure. And where will you be?”

Toji smirks. “In the trees.” he rises, adjusting the cuffs of his sleeves. “We take her. And once she’s gone, Gojo will lose his goddamn mind.”

Mei perks up slightly, glancing up from her stack of bills.

“That’s the fun part.”

Toji nods. “If there's no mother, there's no custody. She vanishes—and before the hearing? The court eats that shit up alive. They’ll label her unstable. Reckless. Unfit.” He looks at Naoya. “Haru goes to you. And so long as you don’t fuck this up, you’ll get to keep your toy.” A beat. “And Gojo? He’ll fall apart trying to find her. Every camera. Every connection. He’ll tear his whole fucking empire down just to get to her.”

Naoya’s lip curls. Smug. That’s what he wants. But Toji doesn’t let it breathe.

“And when he’s desperate enough…” Toji steps closer. His voice drops. “He bends. He crawls. For her. For the kid.”

Mei smirks faintly, thumbing through another bill.

“Break the girl, break the man.”

Toji nods once. The final move in a game he’s already won. His eyes drop to the red lace still crumpled between the yen and the corpse’s elbow.

“Once you say the word, Naoya. We move.” He straightens, pulling his jacket off the back of the chair and sliding it over his shoulders. “We’ll be sure to wire you in the morning.” His voice is cool. Measured. “I’ll be listening in. Just give me the signal—

a pause

—and I take her.”

ꨄ

A knock at the door.

Haru stiffens beside you, her small fingers curling tight into the hem of your hoodie. You’re still barefoot, still warm from sleep, but something in you mirrors her instinct—your spine straightens, breath pausing at the thought of who’s on the other side.

“That’ll be them,” Satoru is already rising with a low stretch, dragging a hand through his hair as he strides toward the hallway.

The door swings open a moment later.

Nanami Kento.

He stands framed in the entryway like a man sculpted from stillness—tall, clean-cut, his suit so crisply pressed it looks like it could cut glass. Blonde hair swept neatly back, glasses catching the light, his expression unreadable.

Reserved, but not cold—the kind of man who makes silence feel like structure.

Surveying the room, he nods, stepping inside with measured ease, placing his suitcase down by the door. A moment later, Suguru follows behind him, all relaxed posture and familiar warmth—scarf loose, coat half-buttoned, hands tucked casually into his pockets.

“Mornin’,” Suguru greets softly, a quiet knowing nod.

You nod back. “Morning…”

Satoru shuts the door and leans into it, grin already tugging at his lips.

“Well, shit,” he drawls, eyes sliding toward Nanami. “You actually came.”

Nanami exhales like he’s already regretting it. “…you texted twelve times.”

Satoru pushes off the doorframe with a little whine, his steps lazy and exaggerated. “Yeah, well. You weren’t answering your phone,” he pouts. “I was starting to think you finally blocked me.”

“If that worked,” Nanami says dryly, “I’d have done it ten years ago.”

“Aww, you say the sweetest things, Nanamin~” Satoru beams, clapping a hand around his shoulder, giving him a warm, too-familiar shake. “Still stiff as a board, I see. What gives, Malaysia didn’t loosen you up?”

Exhaling, Nanami adjusts his jacket, like he’s resetting the moment.

“…I thought I was retired.”

Behind him, Suguru hums, unwrapping his scarf and hanging it over the rack.

“Was.”

Satoru’s grin broadens, playful as ever.

“You love me too much to stay gone.”

“I regret it already…” Nanami mutters.

“You should,” Suguru adds, smirking as he slips off his coat. “But we’re grateful you showed up.”

“Yes… well,” Nanami smooths a crease from his sleeve, voice quieter now. “…you said it was important.”

Satoru pauses, his smile shifting—quieter now, less playful.

“It is...”

His gaze flicks to you. Then down to Haru, still clinging to your leg like a koala. Straightening, his cocky smile returns—just enough to cut the weight in the room.

“Nanami… meet the only people on earth who still tolerate me,” he gestures grandly, a magician presenting his final trick. “My girls.”

Turning fully towards you, Nanami’s head dips in a small, courteous bow.

“Mrs. Gojo,” he says, voice even. “It’s a pleasure. I’m Kento.”

“Kento,” you echo with a nod, offering a soft smile. “Nice to meet you too.”

Your hand moves gently along Haru’s back, a quiet reassurance she doesn’t take. She’s glued to your leg, her little body half-hidden in the folds of your hoodie, face tucked into the fabric like it’s a shield.

Smoothing a hand down in slow, comforting strokes, you glance up at Nanami with a small, apologetic smile.

“She’s a little shy around new people…” your gaze dips down to her. “Haru? Sweetie… can you say hi to Mr. Nanami?”

Lowering his gaze, Nanami studies her in silence. He doesn’t step forward. Doesn’t crouch. Doesn’t crowd. Just waits—still and calm.

Haru peeks. Then retreats.

“Nanamin, c’mon man…” Satoru groans behind you. “You trying to scare her into a lifetime of therapy?”

Nanami doesn’t even blink. “I… haven’t said anything?”

“Exactly,” Satoru sighs, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “She’s timid around serious people. And you, my friend, look like you do taxes in your sleep.”

But glancing down at Haru, Satoru hesitates—just for a beat.

Because there are still days—quiet, strange days—when he’s unsure how to comfort her. When her small flinches echo louder in his chest than they should. When he wonders if he’s failed before he’s even begun. When her silence makes him feel like he’s still standing on the outside of a door he desperately wants to be let into.

Sometimes he wonders if he’s more stranger than safety.

But then, he breathes out, settling on the rug beside her, careful not to startle. He doesn’t speak at first. Just reaches out, resting a hand gently against the small of her back—steady, grounding.

“Haru…” he murmurs, softer, more measured. “Sweetheart…”

She doesn’t look up.

Leaning closer, he keeps his tone light. “Hey… this is my friend. Nanamin.”

She peeks. Just a flash of her eye.

“…Nanamin?” she murmurs, muffled against the hoodie.

“Mhm,” Satoru nods, grin softening as he gently brushes a knuckle along her cheek. “He’s gonna help protect you and Mommy for me.”

Blinking, her grip shifts, loosening your hoodie slightly.

“He’s not scary,” Satoru whispers, conspiratorial now, as if sharing a very important secret. “Promise. He doesn’t eat kids. Just spreadsheets. And sometimes bad guys.”

That earns the softest giggle—thin and breathy, curling beneath her lips like something fragile finally surfacing. And Satoru’s chest warms with it—like sun cracking through a cloudy morning.

With a heavy breath, his hand settles over her back again, reassuring. She doesn’t flinch this time. Clearing his throat, Nanami brings your attention back to him.

“…may I?” he asks you, removing his glasses, gesturing to the space on the rug in front of her.

“Oh, yes.” You nod, caught a little off guard by his gentle tone. “Of course.”

Crouching slowly, the fabric of his suit whispers against itself as he settles into the space. Not too close. Just close enough.

“Hello there,” his voice is low and warm. “…may I ask your name?”

Hiding her face, Haru grips your sweater tighter. Refusing to answer.

“It’s okay, sweetheart,” you lean down, soothing her. “Go on. You can tell him.”

A pause.

Then, she tentatively whispers, “…Haru.”

Nanami nods, like she’s given him something sacred.

“That’s a beautiful name, Haru.”

She doesn’t respond. Not with words, at least. But her fingers loosen, and her eyes lift—still cautious, but no longer retreating.

From it, Nanami reaches into his coat pocket. There’s something about the gesture—precise, but quiet—that draws Haru’s attention. When his hand reemerges, he’s holding a folded crane. Pale blue paper patterned with tiny clouds. He sets it gently on the rug between them, like it’s always meant to be there.

“I made this on the train,” he says simply. “I thought you might like it.”

Haru blinks, slowly lowering herself to her knees, studying the crane with wide eyes.

Still crouched nearby, Satoru raises a brow. “Wait. You made that?”

Nanami doesn’t look at him. “Yes.”

“Origami?”

“Yes.”

“…the fuck?”

Behind him, Suguru’s voice drifts in with a faint laugh. “He’s been folding paper since middle school. You never noticed?”

Satoru whips his head around to look at him, genuinely affronted. “How have I never known this?!”

Suguru shrugs, unbothered. “Because you were too busy getting suspended for throwing erasers out the window.”

Nanami doesn’t react. Just keeps his focus gently on the little girl in front of him.

“You can keep it,” he tells her. “If you’d like.”

Looking up at him, Haru slowly stretches forward, picking up the crane like it’s something precious, like it might fly away if she touches it too roughly. Something meant for her.

“…it’s pretty,” she whispers.

Satoru rises with a groan, stretching as he leans against the wall beside Suguru, arms folded, eyes narrowed in mock betrayal.

“…she warmed up to him faster than she did to me.”

Suguru grins. “She’s got good taste.”

Satoru pouts, muttering, “I make her waffles…”

But before Suguru can toss another jab, the soft click of the front door handle breaks the moment—the familiar twist of metal, the hush of hinges swinging open.

The energy shifts. And then—Remi steps inside.

Her heels tap lightly against the floor, coat draped perfectly over her shoulders, a scarf knotted at her throat with practiced elegance. She pauses in the entryway, looking surprised to see so many people in the foyer, but it fades quickly behind a polished smile.

“Hi Haru!” she calls brightly, saccharine sweet.

Haru’s head whips up, eyes wide.

“Remi!” she gasps, nearly dropping the paper crane in her hands—taking off in a rush of quick footsteps, throwing her arms around Remi’s legs, giggling. “You’re here!”

Crouching down to return the hug, Remi softens with a familiar ease. “Of course I am, sweetheart,” her fingers tuck a curl behind Haru’s ear. “I’m excited to play with you today!”

From his place near the wall, Satoru straightens, unfolding slowly from where he’s been leaning—expression neutral, but watching closely.

“Ah, Remi…” he says, tilting his head slightly. “Meant to text you earlier. Should’ve mentioned.”

You glance toward him, brow furrowing. And she glances up, blinking once.

“Oh?”

“Yeah, sorry you came all the way down here. But you’re not needed today.” He gestures loosely towards you. “My wife’s staying home. So go ahead and take the day off, yeah?”

You blink, startled. He didn’t mention that. Usually Remi stays to help, regardless. Still—

…you guess it makes sense, doesn’t it?

You’re home. Haru’s home. So... of course you wouldn’t need the nanny. Brushing the surprise off, you tuck it away.

Remi hesitates just a second too long—her lashes flickering, eyes jumping from Satoru to you… then drifting, just barely, toward the unfamiliar man crouched on the rug beside Haru.

Nanami is already rising, adjusting the cuffs of his sleeves with quiet, deliberate calm. And for a moment, you feel it—a ripple beneath the surface. Nothing you can name. Just a shift.

Remi’s smile returns quickly, but there’s a brittleness to it now. “I see,” she smooths her coat, standing upright. “Well…” she shifts her purse on her shoulder. “I’ll just—leave you all to it, then.”

But Haru, still clutching her hand, pulls her back with the urgency of someone who needs to share something important. “Wait! Look!” she holds up the crane, beaming. “Nanamin made this for me!”

Remi blinks, eyes dropping to the crane, lingering for a second too long, and when she looks up again, her smile doesn’t quite reach her eyes.

“How lovely…” she murmurs. “You take good care of it, alright sweetheart?”

“I will!” Haru chirps, already turning back toward Nanami, fingers curled around the little wings.

Releasing her hand, Remi steps back, moving toward the door. Her heels tap gently against the marble as she passes behind Satoru, casting a fleeting glance in Nanami’s direction. Then she leaves—the door closing—a soft, decisive click.

“Nanamin,” Haru says brightly, lifting the crane with both hands. “What’s his name?”

Leaning forward, Nanami’s forearms rest gently on his knees.

“He doesn’t have one yet… but I think he’s waiting for you to choose.”

Tilting her head, Haru’s eyes flick between the delicate folds of the crane and Nanami’s face.

“But… I don’t know what he wants to be.”

Nanami hums, studying the little paper bird. “Hmm… he looks like a Sora to me. That means ‘sky’ in Japanese. Peaceful. Light. Brave. Seems fitting… don’t you think?”

Haru’s eyes brighten. “Sora…” she repeats softly, looking down at the crane with newfound reverence. “Okay! That’s his name.”

“A very good choice,” Nanami smiles gently.

Beaming, she inches closer, holding the crane up between them like an offering.

“Can you help me make one?”

You chuckle under your breath, looking down at your daughter.

“She’s going to want a whole family of them by the end of the day…”

Nanami looks up, giving you a wry smile, and you glance toward Satoru, still leaning against the wall. His arms are folded, but there’s something softer in his eyes now. Something almost protective.

His gaze is on Haru, but then it flicks to you. And you know—without him saying a word—he’s relieved. And honestly? You are too. Because Haru’s earlier anxiety has dissolved entirely—like mist lifting from the floor. You hadn’t even realized your shoulders were still tense until now. Because you weren’t sure what to expect with this Nanami Kento… but if he’s someone Satoru is trusting you with? Then… you will trust him too.

“Do you have paper?” Nanami asks you, then turns his attention back to Haru. “If we have paper, I’d be happy to show you Haru.”

“Yay!!” she squeals, scampering off—voice trailing behind her as she rambles about colors, wingspans, and how the next crane should have a name that means rainbow.

Starting to rise, you instinctively begin to follow her, but a familiar voice draws you back.

“Well then… we’re gonna head out,” Suguru calls from near the door, adjusting his coat with one hand.

Satoru groans as he pushes off the wall, stretching his arms overhead. “Duty calls…” he mutters, dragging a hand over his face before walking toward you.

“Oh… right.” Nodding, you meet him halfway—him stopping in front of you. As your eyes meet, there’s something different in the way he holds your gaze. Something gentler.

“Hey…” his hand lifts to tuck a piece of hair behind your ear—fingers lingering a beat too long. “You’ll… be alright?”

“Yeah…” you nod once, but the gesture carries weight. A dozen things you don’t say. That you’re still a little nervous. That you know he’s been trying to keep you at ease. That you hate this. That you wish he wasn’t leaving. That you know why he has to.

That despite everything… you have a gut feeling why he hired Nanami. And that… you trust him, unconditionally.

He’s studying you—really studying you—gaze moving across your features, searching, as if trying to read the things your mouth won’t form. And when your eyes flick away—when your lips press into something tight and fragile—he exhales.

“Hmmm…” his arms warp around your waist, swaying. “If I tell Naoya to go to hell and cancel this… would you be mad?”

You blink up at him, startled. “Wait… what?”

“I’m serious,” he says, eyes narrowing. “Give me one reason. I’ll stay.”

You pause, caught between the earnestness in his voice and the way it cracks your chest open. A soft breath escapes your lips—a laugh, small but real. And that alone makes his shoulders ease just slightly.

“Satoru…” you say, gently. “You… you can’t,” you sigh, swallowing. “For the custody battle… for Haru. You have to go talk to him.”

“Yeah… I know,” he mutters, exhaling. “Still doesn’t mean I like leaving… especially not when your face looks like that.”

You pause, lifting a brow. “Oh? What face?”

“The one that makes me want to deck him twice before we’ve even said hello.”

A light giggle slips past your lips, and that smile, that sound—it’s everything he needs, every assurance that tells him it’s going to be okay. You’re going to be okay.

...right?

His hand moves again, brushing a knuckle down your cheek, thumb tracing your jaw. Then, slowly, he leans in, pressing a kiss to your forehead—slow, steady. Like a vow. Like he’s sealing something in the silence.

But as he lingers there, words begin to build behind his lips—the urge to say it.

I love you.

It’s there. Pressing hard against the back of his throat. Lingering. Long enough to consider saying it. But…

No. Fuck… not here. Not yet. Suguru’s watching. Nanami’s waiting. Haru’s nearby, chattering about paper cranes and rainbows like it’s the most important thing in the world.

So instead, he swallows it down, tucking it somewhere safe, resting on something smaller.

“Be back soon…” he murmurs into your hair, a little hoarse. “…I’ll miss you.”

You nod, but your fingers curl into the front of his coat, grounding him for just a second longer. “I’ll miss you too,” you murmur.

Pulling back, a slow smile tugs at his lips—quiet, lopsided. The kind he only ever gives you. Then, reluctantly, he steps away, turning toward the rug where Haru is—Sora in hand.

“Bye, sweetheart,” he crouches beside her, brushing a lock of hair from her face. “You be good for Mommy and Nanamin, okay?”

“Okay…” Haru nods, clutching her crane to her chest. “Bye-bye, ‘toru.”

Chuckling, he taps her nose gently, rising—adjusting the hem of his coat. Nanami is already at the door, waiting with a quiet kind of stillness that feels more like assurance than impatience.

Satoru joins him. But before stepping past, he turns for one last look.

You’re seated now on the rug, watching Haru chatter excitedly about crane friends and rainbows. Your hands guide hers through another fold, her head bows in concentration. And while you’re there, smiling at her, nodding at whatever she’s saying, something about it… roots him.

For a moment, he just stands there, watching. Quiet. Still. Then, without turning away, he speaks to Nanami.

“I’m trusting you with my family.”

Nanami blinks, not answering at first. Satoru’s voice is quiet. Stripped of his usual wit.

Honest.

He hesitates. Not because he’s unsure—but because he knows the weight of that statement. Because he hears something in it that Satoru Gojo rarely gives: vulnerability.

After a moment, Nanami nods. “…I know.”

And Satoru nods back, something faint and unspoken passing between them. A trust that didn’t need proving—but was given anyway.

Exhaling, Satoru steps out as Suguru pushes the door open beside him.

“Try not to give her a spreadsheet to color, kay?” he waves, half-grinning as he steps out.

Nanami lifts a brow. “…I’ll do my best.”

And then they’re gone.

The door clicks closed behind them, the house exhales. The warmth returns, but underneath it… a stillness lingers. Like the moment before a thread pulls taut.

You shift on the rug beside Haru, who’s holding out a new sheet of paper in both hands like it’s a treasure.

“Nanamin!!” she calls. “This one’s gonna be Sora’s friend. Can you help?”

And settling beside her, they begin again.

“Of course, Haru.”

ꨄ

“You’re staring at the ceiling like it owes you money.”

Slouching in the limo’s leather seat, a low hum rumbles in Satoru’s chest—like he’s tuning Suguru out entirely. One leg stretches out, the other hooks casually over his knee. His head is tipped back against the headrest and his arm is tucked lazily behind it—sunglasses perched in his snowy hair haphazardly.

As the car glides beneath them, smooth and muffled, the outside world is reduced to shapes behind tinted windows. Across from him, Suguru sits—phone in hand, thumb idly scrolling. But his eyes linger on Satoru, drawn to the quiet focus in his best friend’s expression.

Suguru sighs, nudging the sole of Satoru’s shoe with the tip of his own.

“Oi!”

Satoru startles just enough to be annoyed. “The hell—”

“I’m talking to you,” Suguru deadpans.

“You could’ve just said my name like a normal person…” Satoru huffs.

“I did. Twice. You ignored me. Kicking you was plan B.”

A long, exaggerated exhale drags through Satoru’s nose—long suffering. He shifts, arms crossing loosely as he leans back into his seat again, eyes fluttering closed like maybe if he fakes sleep, Suguru will let it go.

He doesn’t.

“You’ve been quiet for five whole minutes,” Suguru muses. “Should I be worried?”

Smirking, Satoru cracks a blue eye open. “Wow. You want me to talk more? Frame this moment. Call the press.”

Suguru rolls his eyes. “I’m just saying…” he shifts, slipping his phone into his coat pocket, leaning an elbow on the armrest. “…I’m not used to seeing your mouth closed. It’s unnerving.”

Satoru’s smirk stretches deeper. “Yeah?” he lets his eye fall shut again, shifting deeper into the seat with a low, amused hum. “That’s rich coming from the guy who used to make me sit through his existential philosophy rants after two beers,” he murmurs.

Clicking his tongue, Suguru grins. “Yeah, well. At least I shut up when the beer runs out.”

“Mmm… touché,” Satoru chuckles.

For a moment, the silence returns—lingering as Suguru glances at him sideways, reading between the lines. He sighs.

“C’mon… what’s really up?” he asks, tilting his head. “You’ve got that expression again.”

Raising a brow, Satoru’s eyes open.

“What expression?” he plays dumb.

Suguru rolls his eyes, seeing straight through his bullshit.

“The one where your brain’s running a marathon and none of us are invited.”

Giving in, Satoru exhales—long, deep. Like it’s the first real breath he’s taken in minutes.

“Dunno,” he mutters, arms dropping, fingers running back through his hair. “Just… thinkin’, I guess.”

His gaze shifts toward the window, and the city slides past in streaks of motion blur—gray buildings, flashes of glass and steel. Everything feels like it’s moving too fast and not fast enough all at once.

Suguru doesn’t push. Just watches—tracking the shift in his tone. He already knows where this is going. There’s only one thing that’s been able to slow Satoru Gojo down lately. Only one person.

“…about your wife?”

Satoru’s eyes flick to him, a hum slipping from his throat—low, almost sheepish.

“Yeah…” he says quietly. “She’s in my head a lot lately.”

Leaning back in his seat, Suguru’s arms fold loosely across his chest.

“You’re different with her.”

A slow smile curls at Satoru’s mouth, wry and self-aware. “Psh… is that your way of saying I’m whipped?”

“No,” Suguru replies dryly. “That’s my way of saying you’re not acting like a complete jackass for once. Never thought I’d see the day.”

“Wow,” Satoru gasps, clutching his chest with mock betrayal. “Touching. Really. Remind me to put that on a plaque.”

“Yup. With her, your… serious. Less obnoxious. Honestly?” Suguru pauses for effect. “Slightly tolerable.”

“Jesus,” Slouching deeper into his seat, Satoru tosses one arm over his face with theatrical flair. “I’m being bullied,” he whines, muffled. “Bullied in my own limo. Suguru, say something nice before I cry.”

“No,” Suguru corrects, barely holding back a grin. “This is an intervention.”

Satoru peeks out from under his arm, his pout barely hidden beneath the feigned theatrics. “You used to be nicer to me.”

“Yeah, well,” Suguru shrugs, resting his head lightly against the tinted window. “You used to be single.”

That pulls a low laugh from Satoru’s chest, his hand dragging through his hair as he sighs—deep, thoughtful. The humor lingers, but so does something heavier beneath it.

“I dunno…” he mumbles, scratching the back of his neck. “It’s not like I haven’t been with people. But with her…” he trails off, struggling to articulate something that still feels too big, too personal.

Suguru fills in the blank for him.

“You don’t want to fuck it up.”

Satoru huffs a breath that’s almost a laugh. “Yeah… that.”

“She’s got you all twisted, man,” Suguru says, shaking his head with a grin. “You, the guy who ghosted a girl for bringing a toothbrush.”

Satoru groans like he’s already regretting ever telling him that story. Grimacing, he tosses a hand in the air. “That toothbrush was aggressive…” he mutters, like that justifies everything. “She left it in my sink on the second date.”

“Right… and now here you are, firing your entire staff after someone steals your wife’s panties?”

Groaning loudly, Satoru drags both hands down his face. “Don’t start.”

Suguru snickers, clearly enjoying himself. “I’m just saying—when Satoru Gojo starts launching internal investigations over lace? That’s not casual.”

“Fuck off,” Satoru groans again, voice muffled by his palms.

Leaning forward slightly, Suguru rests his chin in his hand.

“It’s just…” his expression softens. “I’m pretty sure this is the most serious you’ve ever been about anyone.”

For a moment, Satoru says nothing. His eyes flick toward the passing city again—then shift back to Suguru, and when he speaks, the joking tone is gone. There’s no smirk, no dramatic pout. Just truth, laid plain.

“Yeah… well…” he murmurs, voice low. “She’s it, y’know?”

He holds Suguru’s gaze.

“…she’s my one and only.”

That makes Suguru pause.

Something in his face stills. It’s not like he didn’t know—but hearing it like that, from Satoru, who never says anything like that? It lands.

“Well… damn,” Suguru mutters.

Satoru nods, slow and firm, like he’s still trying to believe it himself. Like saying it out loud makes it more real.

“Last night…” his eyes fix on the skyline again. “I told her I loved her.”

Suguru blinks. A beat of stunned silence settles between them.

“…holy shit.”

A faint smirk tugs at Satoru’s mouth. He nods again, almost sheepish.

Suguru straightens, brow arching. “She say it back?”

Satoru snorts under his breath. “She was asleep.”

Suguru stares. “You confessed to a sleeping woman?”

“I didn’t plan it, alright?” Satoru groans, flopping back against the seat like it physically pains him. “It just came out. We were talking… I was lying there with her in my arms, and it just—happened,” he scrubs a hand over his face, dragging it down in frustration. “And after I said it, I looked down and she was already out. Just… totally asleep.”

Suguru stares at him for a moment, then shakes his head with a quiet laugh. “You’re a fucking idiot.”

“Thanks,” Satoru deadpans.

“So… now what?” Suguru asks.

Leaning forward, Satoru’s forearms brace against his knees, palms rubbing together like he’s grounding himself. His voice drops again—quieter, more measured.

“I guess… I wait? Or try again,” he sighs, pausing. “But… I want to do it right. This time, I want her to hear it. I want her to know I mean it...” His hands fall still, eyes dropping to the floor. “She deserves that… a real proposal. A real wedding. Not… whatever the hell I dragged her into.”

For a moment, neither of them speaks. The limo hums along, the gentle rhythm of the road filling the silence like background music to something neither of them wants to admit feels heavy.

Then—click—the intercom above the driver’s seat crackles softly to life.

“We’re about five minutes out,” Ichiji’s voice chimes through, polite as always. “Approaching the south entrance of the park now.”

Satoru blinks, dragging a hand down his face like the sound physically yanks him out of his thoughts. Leaning back, he eyes the window again—but the skyline has faded now, replaced by iron railings and leaf-heavy trees, blurring past.

Suguru exhales, straightening in his seat.

“So… remember what we discussed,” Suguru murmurs. “You want me to start?”

Satoru shifts, pulling his sunglasses from where they’re perched in his hair, sliding them into place over his eyes. His expression hardens, smoothing into something unreadable.

It’s like watching armor click into place.

“I’ll start,” he declares. “If he gets mouthy, feel free to step in and hurt his feelings.”

Suguru huffs a laugh, pulling his long hair into a lazy bun at the nape of his neck. “Sounds like a plan. Just… don’t underestimate him. Stay alert, this is the yakuza we’re dealing with. And try not to lash out. Anything you say, he’s gonna try to use against you.”

"Yeah..." Satoru nods once, slow. His jaw ticks. "I know..."

And he'll do whatever's needed, whatever he needs to do.

For you.

ꨄ

The wind bites through the trees with purpose, and Naoya adjusts the cuff of his coat, eyes fixed on the empty path ahead, foot tapping against the stone beneath him. His nerves are fraying—not that he’d admit it—but this waiting game has never suited him. Waiting implies he’s not in control. And he is in control. Always has been.

Glancing down at his watch, he exhales, irritated.

Where the fuck are you?

You said you’d come.

And you always do, don’t you? Compliance is a habit. He made sure of that. And when you show up today—alone, nervous, eyes soft with apology—it’ll confirm everything. That you’re his.

That’s why you’re coming today… right? Because deep down, you want to come back. You still need him.

And he’s not unreasonable, okay?! God, he’s not cruel. Not unless you push him. Not unless you make him be. He only ever raised his voice because you forced him to. He only grabbed your wrist because you weren’t listening. He had to yell, to break you when you left him no choice.

You’re just being difficult. You’ve always been a little emotional, haven’t you? Fragile. Confused. You run away, cry—then crawl back. Right now, you’re just spiraling—latching onto anything that feels safe. And maybe Gojo feels safe to you right now. Sure. He’s got the money. The house. The image.

But given time, you’ll remember who you belong to.

He almost convinces himself of it, and then, as a black limo rolls into view—tires crunching over gravel—he straightens, lips curling in amusement.

Finally.

Well… that is, until the door opens with a hiss and two silhouettes step out.

Satoru. Fucking. Gojo.

White hair catching the gray light, hands shoving in his pockets, like nothing here is serious enough to touch him. That stupid, lazy grin already on his face. And beside him, Suguru Geto—all quiet control, eyes scanning the space.

Naoya stills. No you.

…where the fuck are you?

You said you’d come. His lips pull back into a snarl.

“God fucking dammit…” he mutters, jaw clenching as the door closes behind them.

The earpiece in his collar clicks. “What?” Toji’s voice filters through.

Naoya doesn’t answer right away—eyes narrowing as Gojo lifts his hand in a lazy wave, like this is some social call, like greeting an old friend. Like Naoya’s the punchline.

“They didn’t bring her…” he growls. “It’s just Gojo and Geto.”

There’s a beat. Static hums.

“Mmm. Yup.” Toji replies. Flat. Like he saw it coming. “Figured this might happen.”

The two men begin their approach, shoes tapping over the stone in slow, deliberate steps—dragging the moment out, letting it stretch. They’re making it a fucking show. And every second of it grates under Naoya’s skin.

Growling, Naoya’s hands curl into fists inside his coat pockets.

“Fuck the plan,” he mutters. “We should just end it here, yeah?”

Toji huffs, unimpressed. “You wanna jump ‘em? In broad daylight?”

Naoya’s jaw tightens. “No one’s around. We move fast—”

“No.”

That single word lands sharp.

Naoya bristles. “What?”

“You heard me. Don’t fuck up again. Remember what happens if you do?”

Naoya falls silent and Toji grins.

Good.

Eyes narrowing, Toji watches them approach—perched in his hidden vantage point, one with the trees. He’s not worried about a fight—he’s just not stupid enough to pick the wrong one.

Gojo’s got that cocky swagger, sure—but it’s not just for show. There’s balance in his stride. Stillness in his arms, even with his hands stuffed in his pockets. His weight shifts like someone who knows where to brace if things go sideways.

He’s not posturing. He’s ready.

Because Satoru Gojo isn’t just some heir with a punchable face. Takemi made sure of that. He didn’t raise a son. Raised a successor. Something sharp in a soft coat.

And Geto—fuck, Toji hates the quiet ones. Geto’s not looking at them—not even pretending to care. Which means he’s watching everything. Lawyer or not, that kind of calm means one thing: he’s broken someone’s nose before, and didn’t lose sleep over it.

Toji could take them. Maybe. Probably.

But this isn’t about if.

It’s about when.

And where.

And what the fallout looks like.

You were easy.

One snatch. Clean. Quiet.

But this? This is different. Two men trained to react, both alert, in a public park?

That’s not control. That’s noise.

And Toji doesn’t like noise.

“They’re right here,” Naoya snaps, again. “C’mon, let’s just end him. This whole thing’s a joke if we don’t—”

“I said, no.”

This time it lands like a gunshot—sharp, final—wind moving through the branches, brittle and dry.

“I’m not here to fight him,” he exhales. “I’m here to break him. Ruin him.” He pauses, a wicked grin stretching across his lips. “And… that takes patience, ‘cuz. Our day will come.”

ꨄ

Satoru’s grin pulls slow across his mouth as they near, all teeth and lazy ease.

"Appreciate you makin’ time for us," he hums, stepping forward without a care in the world, hands tucked deep into his pockets, like he’s strolling through this encounter instead of walking into a confrontation.

Naoya’s jaw ticks.

“You’re not the one I came to see.”

Tilting his head, Satoru studies him with a laziness that’s almost mocking. His grin lingers, but there’s a shift—something colder bleeding in around the edges.

“You really thought I’d let you get within ten feet of my wife…?”

Wife.

The word detonates in Naoya’s blood, cracking through the cold air like a whip.

“Tch. What a load of shit…” he scowls. “She was never wife material to begin with.”

Shifting his weight lazily, Satoru hums, tapping his chin like he's genuinely thinking it over, just to be an asshole about it.

“I’d say it suits her,” he muses. “She looks better beside me. Softer. Happier.” He lets it hang, watching Naoya grind his teeth. “Almost like… she smiles more when you're not around.”

Naoya’s nostrils flare, body tightening under his coat like he’s one wrong word from snapping.

“She’s just clinging to you because she’s scared to be alone,” he spits, stepping forward a fraction, trying to reclaim ground he’s already lost. "Always trembling for attention... doesn’t mean she actually wants you."

Satoru’s grin doesn’t slip. If anything, it deepens—slow, wicked.

"Naaah…” he shrugs, closing the space between them without hurry, savoring it. “She trembles because I actually know how to touch her.” He quirks a brow, grinning. “I just make her feel good, in more ways than one."

Naoya’s eyes flare as Satoru casts him a lazy wink—like twisting the knife is part of the fun.

“Fuck you.”

Satoru laughs. “Did I hit a nerve?” he tilts his head, slowly. “Y’know… she leaves things with me. In my nightstand. Little things. Keepsakes. It’s kinda our thing.” He shrugs, smug. “Weird when they disappear…”

He lets it hang there for a moment.

“…you ever notice when something’s just… not where you left it?”

In Naoya’s ear, the comm hisses softly.

“Don’t react. Don’t take the bait.”

Naoya scoffs, trying to roll his shoulders loose.

“You lose something, or are we just makin conversation?”

Satoru’s grin curves slow, sharp at the edges.

“Nah… not lost. Just gone. There’s a difference.”

Studying Naoya, Satoru’s gaze flicks downward—to his hand—to the bandage wrapped around his palm. Clean, precise, fresh.

“Huh…” he hums softly. “That looks recent.”

Tensing, Naoya glances down at his hand before shoving it back into his coat pocket—like it’s nothing.

“Glass,” he mutters. “Broke something. Cut my palm.”

Satoru nods, contemplative. “You know…” he drawls slowly. “I couldn’t help noticing a bit of blood in my wife’s bedroom the other day.”

“Oh… yeah?” Naoya murmurs.

“Mhmm…” Satoru’s eyes narrow. “Strange, right? Seeing as none of my staff seemed hurt.”

The comm clicks again.

“Push it off you. Change the subject.”

“You’re sounding a bit paranoid Gojo,” Naoya scoffs, shifting. “If this is how you handle losing a memento, can’t imagine how you’ll handle losing in court,” Naoya straightens, smirking. “Figures she’d send her fucking lapdog to speak for her today. Little bitch was always good at pretending she was the victim. Won’t even face me.”

Satoru’s expression hardens instantly—that lazy grin vanishing in a blink. But as he feels Suguru’s hand on his shoulder, he shifts, glancing at his best friend.

Suguru is smiling, wide and unbothered—sliding between them like it’s his turn on the chessboard.

“Come on now, Naoya…” he hums, light with mock sympathy. “As a fellow lawyer, you know how this works.”

Gritting his teeth, Naoya glares. “Suguru Geto…”

“Yo.” Suguru lifts two fingers in a lazy wave. “Long time no see.”

He lets that hang for a moment before continuing.

“There’s a case open. Custody-related. Which means you shouldn’t be anywhere near my client… right?” Suguru reminds him, head tilting in amusement. “So, you’ll be directing all communication through me moving forward. I’ll be representing y/n.”

Naoya huffs, rolling his eyes. “What happened, Geto? Couldn’t cut it in real courtrooms, so you’re doing babysitting gigs for Gojo now?”

Suguru chuckles softly. “You can question my résumé if it helps you sleep at night,” his grin stretches, sharper. “Won’t change what’s coming. This case will be over faster than your career ever was.”

“Pfft. Yeah?” Naoya laughs bitterly. “Good luck building a case on her.” He sneers. “She can barely hold it together for five minutes without crying. Weak, whiny little bitch.”

Satoru’s jaw locks, heat radiating off him. “Hey. Watch your fucking mouth.”

Peering back, Suguru lifts a hand—calm, watchful.

“Satoru...”

But Naoya keeps going.

“You think you won something?” he spits. “She’s nothing but a fucking burden. Always was.”

Satoru’s blue eyes darken into something dangerous.

“I’m serious…” he steps forward, voice lowering. “You better watch your fucking mouth…”

“…that so?” Naoya raises a brow.

Bingo. He just got an idea.

Shifting on his heels, he crosses his arms behind his head lazily.

“And why’s that, Gojo? Did I hit a nerve now?

Exhaling slowly through his nose, Satoru tries to hold himself steady.

“You’ve got some fucking nerve… I’ll tell ya that.” He lowers his glasses to the bridge, glaring into Naoya’s eyes. “She carried everything you couldn’t handle… and you have the nerve to call her a burden?” he scoffs. “Tell me—did you even try being a father to Haru?”

The comm crackles in Naoya’s ear. Toji’s voice, low and amused:

“Careful. You’re about to get punched.”

But Naoya grins. Because that’s exactly what he wants.

“Don’t even get me started on her as a mother,” he scoffs. “Pathetic. A fucking failure. Can’t handle a kid, can’t handle herself. Sure—she’s got a pretty face, a hot body…” He shrugs. “But that’s it. Nothing underneath.”

Satoru’s shoulders rise, slow and stiff. Suguru shifts again.

“Satoru. Don’t…” he mutters carefully.

But Satoru’s eyes hold Naoya’s. Glare sharpening.

“I’m telling you now…” his fist clenches. “You don’t get another warning.”

Smirking, Naoya shrugs again—like he’s tossing scraps.

“Well… at least she spread her legs good,” he sighs, shaking his head. “Decent fuck. Though even then, she couldn’t finish unless someone told her she was worth the mess. Pathetic little—”

The punch lands hard. A sharp, wet crack as Naoya’s head jerks sideways—blood blooming at the corner of his mouth. Stumbling back, he hits the concrete with a thud, grinning. And Satoru surges forward again, but Suguru’s already there—arm around his chest, pulling him back firmly.

“Hey. Hey—enough.”

But Satoru’s not done.

“You say another word,” he growls, fighting Suguru’s hold, “and I swear to God I’ll bury you so deep in the ground, your own fucking clan will forget you existed.”

With an exaggerated groan, Naoya lazily wipes the blood dripping from the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Ouch…” he winces, looking up, grinning. “My poor lip… I don’t think the judge is gonna like this little outburst.”

Satoru freezes, and Naoya’s grin stretches—lip split in a red smile.

“What do you think?” he muses mockingly, pulling out a recording device from his pocket. “My daughter’s stepdad… threatening to kill me in a public park.” He tsks softly. “Not exactly a good look.”

Fuck.

Satoru’s stomach drops. For a second, he just stands there, breathing hard—eyes widening. Then, without thinking, he lunges—hand shooting toward the recorder, full of blind instinct.

“Give me that! You fucking—”

But Suguru’s arm is already across his chest, yanking him back hard.

“Alright,” he mutters sharply, “that’s enough. Let it go, Satoru.”

Rising from the ground, Naoya laughs softly, dusting off his pants.

“Aww… don’t be a sore loser,” he says lightly, holding the device up mockingly. “You gave me a gift.”

Satoru’s lips press together—he’s seething. But before he can say or do more, Suguru is dragging him by the arm, heading towards the limo.

“Right then, anyways,” Suguru shouts back, waving lazily. “See ya in court, Naoya. Good talk. Till next time.”

“Sure, sure,” Naoya calls after them, voice lilting. “And you should work on your temper Gojo!” He chuckles, waving. “Afterall, it looks bad in court. Especially for someone around a kid.”

ꨄ

The limo door slams shut—so hard even Ichiji flinches from the front seat.

“Fuck,” Satoru mutters, plopping into his seat. “Fucking fuck…”

With a flick of his wrist, he tosses his sunglasses across the console. Both hands rake through his hair, tugging at the roots in frustration.

“This is bullshit…” he grits.

Exhaling through his nose, Suguru settles into the seat across from him with infuriating calm—folding one leg over the other, like he’s already miles past what just happened.

“You got blood on your cuff,” he says casually, nodding at Satoru’s sleeve.

Satoru’s gaze snaps up.

“I should’ve done more,” he growls. “Fucking prick. You heard what he said!”

“I did,” Suguru nods. “And so did your right hook. Pretty sure that’s why he was grinning through the blood.”

Groaning in defeat, Satoru runs both hands down his face.

“Shit…” he quiets. “I fucked that up…”

“Mmm… I wouldn’t go that far,” Suguru hums. Calm. Assured. “He had that punch coming. You just beat me to it.”

Peeking at him through his fingers, Satoru gives him a flat, exhausted stare.

“Dude… what the hell. You were supposed to stop me. Why didn’t you stop me?”

A slow grin tugs at Suguru’s mouth.

“You think I didn’t know he was baiting you?” he shrugs. “I figured you’d hit him. He figured you’d hit him.”

Satoru blinks. “…seriously?”

“Don’t worry about it,” he sighs, pulling a sleek black recorder from his inner jacket pocket. “Our version will hold up better in court.”

Satoru’s entire body stills. He stares down at the recorder like it’s divine intervention.

“…you were recording too?”

“I’m always recording,” Suguru replies smoothly, leaning back with a faint smile. “Especially when you’re involved.”

“Oh thank God…” Satoru’s expression softens with relief.

“It’s gonna be fine,” Suguru waves it off, shoving the recorder back in his pocket. “Your little death threat won’t matter much once the judge hears him call your wife a whore and a failed mother. Among other things.”

Satoru exhales, slumping further into the leather like all his tension has finally snapped free. His eyes close.

“…I owe you.”

“I know.”

“Like—big time.”

“You do.”

Cracking one eye open, Satoru mutters, “What do you want? Beer? Blood? My firstborn? I’ll sit through one of your 3 a.m. philosophy rants if that’s what it takes.”

Suguru’s grin widens, just slightly.

“Mmm… I’ll let you know when I think of something properly excruciating.”

Satoru huffs out a tired laugh, shaking his head.

“…thanks, man.”

ꨄ

As the limo’s tail lights disappear into the dark, Satoru stands still for a moment at the Gojo estate’s entrance, keys in hand, shoulders tight.

With a sigh, he pushes the front door open, greeted in stillness—the lights low, a soft flicker from the TV illuminating the living room in gentle color. You’re curled up on the couch, blanket tucked under your chin, eyes half-lidded as the glow washes over your face. Your hair’s a little messy, your feet barely peeking from under the throw, remote resting loosely in your hand.

You glance over as the door clicks shut behind him.

“Welcome home…” you say softly.

With a wry smile, Satoru takes a breath, like the sight of you has completely anchored him back to earth, knocking the tension out of his chest all at once.

You’re safe.

From the hallway, Nanami steps forward, hands in his pockets, as if he’d been standing quietly nearby this whole time. Watching. Not looming—just present.

“Hey…” he greets with a nod. “Haru’s asleep. No issues.”

Satoru drops his keys on the endtable. “Thanks…”

Glancing past him, Nanami’s eyes narrow on the still-closed front door briefly.

“So… everything handled?”

Satoru’s jaw tenses for a second. Then relaxes.

“Yeah…” he scratches the back of his head, shrugging. “More or less.”

“Great.” Nanami gives the barest nod. “I’ll be in my room, then.” He says, stepping back into the hallway. “Call if you need me.”

“Got it.”

And with that, Nanami disappears quietly down the hall.

Turning back to you, Satoru stands there for a beat, letting the silence wrap around him, drinking in the sight of you all cozy on the sofa. Then finally—with a soft grunt—he crosses to the couch and drops beside you, landing with a dramatic sigh, head lolling to the side to look at you with those vibrant blue eyes.

You peek over your blanket.

“…you okay?”

He smiles, tired. Lopsided.

“Yeah…” he mumbles. “Now I am.”

Shifting slightly, you lift the edge of the blanket in silent invitation, and he slides under without a word, settling in beside you, shoulders brushing. You feel the tension still clinging to him, like static.

“So…” you ask softly. “How’d it go?”

His head falls back, staring at the ceiling for a second.

“Well…” he sighs. “I only punched him once. So…” he shrugs. “Pretty good I guess.”

You blink. “Wait—you punched him?”

“Yup.”

“Like… in the face?”

He glances at you, deadpan. “Hard.”

You stare at him for a beat. “…was that part of the plan?”

He shrugs. “Define plan.”

You snort, but the edge of your smile fades as you see his expression doesn’t change—still flat, still tired. He’s spent.

“Mmm,” he sighs again, rubbing the back of his neck. “Honestly? You’re lucky I didn’t commit a felony. Fuck that guy.”

The way he says it—low, bitter, coiled with something deeper—makes your chest tighten. You don’t need to ask. You already know.

“That bad… huh?”

Exhaling again, his voice softens, like his words are slipping out without thinking.

“Yeah… I didn’t think he could piss me off more than he already did…”

Glancing over at him, you see he’s not joking anymore. He’s not even mad. He’s just quiet. And… tired.

“But, seeing it…” he goes on, barely above a murmur. “Hearing the way he talks about you. About Haru. Like none of it mattered. Like you don’t matter.” He shakes his head once, sharply. “I knew he was garbage. But now… I get it.”

Looking down, his jaw flexes.

“And… I hate that you had to live with that. Every day.”

You don’t speak right away—just slide your hand under the blanket and find his, fingers curling through his gently. You squeeze. He squeezes back.

“I… hated it too,” you whisper.

A silence settles between you—not heavy. Just full. Full of everything that doesn’t need to be said right now.

Then, after a beat, Satoru mutters:

“…next time I’m aiming lower.”

You snort. “Satoru…”

“What?” he says, mouth twitching into a grin. “I’ll break his fucking dick. Piece of shit.”

A surprised, soft laugh slips through your lips—but it tapers off too quickly. Because the weight of what’s happened—what he’s done—lands a little heavier now. The joke fades, and the silence that follows feels different.

Shifting, you adjust the blanket a little higher around your shoulder, voice dipping quieter.

“I… hate that you had to do this for me.”

Satoru’s brows lift slightly, turning to face you more fully.

“What? What are you talking about?” he says gently. “Sweetheart… I didn’t have to. I wanted to.”

“Yeah…” you murmur. “I know.”

But your tone doesn’t lift. His smile slips, frowning.

“Alright… what’s going on in that pretty head of yours this time?” Nudging your leg with his knee, his brow furrows in concern. “Hey… look at me.”

You do, hesitantly, meeting his gaze.

“Well… it’s just…” you breathe out slowly. “You shouldn’t have to clean up my mess. He’s my past. My mistakes. And now you’re the one taking the hits for it. I guess I’m just feeling…. useless.”

Satoru’s expression softens.

“Hey now…” he says, voice dipping. “You’re not a mess, and you’re not useless. You didn’t cause any of this—he did. All you did was survive it.”

Blinking, your throat aches with a tightness that you try to swallow down.

“But… now he’s your problem too…”

He snorts, not unkindly, leaning in just a bit.

“Sweetheart…” he says, quiet but firm, “the second he said your name like it was something to spit out? He became my problem.”

Holding your gaze, his blue eyes shimmer, steady and certain.

“Because… you’re mine now. And no one talks about you like that. No one—you hear me?”

Your chest aches in that breathless, blooming kind of way—so full it almost hurts. And before you can stop yourself, before you can think, you’re leaning forward and kissing him.

The moment your lips meet, the tension bleeds from his body like steam. He sighs, inhaling as you’re tugging him closer, his hands finding your waist under the blanket. As your lips move, he begins to shift, groaning from the taste of you.

Your stomach flips as you chase that sound, and suddenly you can’t stop touching him. His breath hitches as your hands explore down his chest, across his stomach, the smooth ridges of his muscle beneath your fingers.

The moment you dip lower, cupping his dick through the fabric of his pants, he whines in your mouth.

“Fuck…” he mutters, hoarse and frayed. “Baby…”

He’s panting against your lips, twitching in your hand as you rub him gently, ocean blue eyes half lidded, framed through snowy lashes.

His hips are shifting underneath your touch, and you surge forward, kissing him harder, working him gently through his pants. It’s electric. Consuming. But then—

Just be good for me.

Freezing, your hand stills, and you break the kiss with a soft gasp—forehead leaning gently against his, breath trembling.

Immediately, he stills too.

“What is it…” he pants quietly, blue eyes searching your face, “…you okay?”

You nod. But it’s not convincing.

“I’m okay… I just…”

Trailing off, there’s a shake in your voice, and you hate it. Hate the way it trembles, hate that he can hear it. But he doesn’t press. He waits.

You’re not even sure how to describe it. The knot in your chest. The way your skin feels too tight for your body. The way the air still tastes like a memory you never asked to keep.

So you settle for, “Sorry… it’s stupid.”

His brows furrow.

“Nothing you feel is ever stupid.”

You glance down, fingers tracing the thick outline of his cock beneath the fabric of his pants. There’s heat there—real, tangible heat—but it’s not just lust. It’s this aching, burning need to give him something. To take care of him. Because he’s done everything for you. He’s seen every version of you—messy, scared, shut down—and never once flinched.

“I just…” you breathe, fingertips ghosting down his length, “…want to make you feel good.”

Satoru groans like you’ve just unraveled him. “Uh… you are?” he pants, eyes fluttering shut. A breathless laugh slips out. “Do you not feel how fucking hard I am right now just from kissing you?!”

Eyes flicking up, you still—holding onto the restraint burning through his gaze. Something wobbles inside you. Not from him, but from the voice that still whispers at the back of your mind.

Just be good for me.

You hate it. Hate how much power those words hold over you. Hate how they’ve sent you spiraling back into an old story you thought you had finally closed the book on. One panic attack, one flashback, and it was like you’d been dropped back into the hollowed-out shell he left you in. And yet—Satoru never looked at you like you were broken. He didn’t need you to shrink yourself to be lovable. He didn’t demand, didn’t take. He waited. He held you through it.

But what do you give the man who’s given you everything?

“What if… I disappoint you?” you whisper. “What if… I’m not good enough?”

Satoru’s expression softens in an instant. His hand lifts gently, brushing a knuckle along your cheek before cradling it in his palm.

“This again? Baby…” he murmurs, low and steady. “You don’t have to prove anything to me. I’m not him.” His thumb sweeps across your jaw. “…you’re already everything I want. Whatever the fuck he expected of you, whatever he made you believe you were supposed to be… fuck that. I don’t want perfect. I want you—as you are. Smart, stubborn, brave as hell. You hear me?”

Your chest aches—so full it almost cracks. Because for the first time in so long, you feel seen. Fully. Not just the parts of you that shine under pressure. But the ones that tremble. That doubt. And this man—this beautiful, loving man—is yours.

Nodding, his hand falls away as you shift, and suddenly you’re easing yourself off the couch, sliding onto your knees in front of him.

“Oh, fuck.” Satoru stills, pupils darkening instantly.

“I just…” your fingers work the button of his slacks with a quiet click, “…wanna take care of you, Satoru.”

“Shit…” Satoru is so wrecked he’s trying not to combust. “Fucking hell… you on your knees for me? Fuck. I could die happy.”

You giggle, tugging his pants and briefs down just enough to free him—and when his cock springs out, thick and flushed, your breath catches.

“…God. You’re big.”

The moment the words slip out, you realize what you’ve said, face heating as your eyes flick up to meet his. And of fucking course—he’s smirking. White hair falling into his gaze as he tilts his head, looking down at you affectionately.

“Mmm… ‘course I am,” he hums, smug and glowing with amusement. “But please… keep the compliments coming.”

“Cocky shit…” you mumble, but your hand wraps around the base of him, your thumb brushing over the glistening tip—and Satoru hisses through his teeth.

“Oh, s-shit… fuck,” he groans, shifting his hips up into your touch. “Is this really happening right now?”

“You tell me?” you breathe, and then your tongue is dragging a slow stripe up the underside of his cock—from base to tip—collecting the pre that’s already dripping for you.

Satoru’s breath shudders. “Fucking hell…” he pants, head tipping back, fist curling into the cushion behind him like he’s hanging on for dear life.

And truthfully? He is.

Because as he’s looking down at you, legs spread on the couch, you on your knees for him, lips closing around his cock—fuck. It’s too much. You’re too much. Too good. Too goddamn much.

Your long lashes flutter as you look up at him, humming against him, dick jerking in your mouth while that skilled tongue laps and sucks him eagerly. He’s panting, mouth agape as he watches your head bob. You look so beautiful and filthy as the TV casts a blue muted glow behind you, and your hand strokes in tandem what you can’t fit in that pretty little mouth.

God, the warmth, the pressure, the sweet little hums and slurps dripping from your lips as you devour his dick—he can’t help it. He’s unravelling, needy, desperate moans spilling out of him as his breath shudders.

And the thing is, he’s biting his tongue so fucking hard right now he can taste blood. Because it would be so easy to say it right now.

I love you.

But how the fuck could he say that right now? While his cock is in your mouth? What kind of dumbass confesses mid-blowjob!? And yet—how could he not feel it?

Satoru is cursing himself, because fuck… when the fuck is he supposed to tell you?! His mind is running a marathon, and his cock is throbbing in your mouth with the need to feed you every drop of his cum. The need to shove you down on his dick and paint that pretty tongue white. The need to bend you over, filling up your cunt with every inch of him, pounding that tight little pussy until it’s gushing and milking his cock, wringing out every sticky spurt of jizz until you’re filled to the brim. The lust, the passion, the love, he wants to give you everything,

You release him with a loud, wet pop, your hand stroking the mess he’s made of himself, each fap echoing in the quiet living room as your eyes flick up, searching his expression.

“You’re surprisingly quiet…” you murmur, rolling your thumb along his head. “Usually, getting you to shut up is the challenge.”

Now you’re looking at him all shyly again, and Satoru groans—deep and guttural, his hand scrubbing over his face like it’s the only way he’ll survive this.

“F-Fuck… y-yeah…” his breath hitches.

Tilting your head, your brow furrows sightly, but your hand keeps moving, massaging the weeping head of his cock with a slow, wet roll of your wrist.

“Is it… okay? Are you liking it?”

“W-What?! Of course I am. Are you kidding?” He blurts. “Shit—s-sorry, baby—I just… fuuuck—” another moan tears from his throat, because shit, forming words feels impossible. What the fuck is wrong with him? Bucking into your touch, his dick drools all over your hand. “Haaa…. ‘m just… t-trying not to embarrass myself…”

“…oh?” your lips curl with curiosity, your voice dipping into a smile as you press gentle kisses up the base of his shaft. “And… embarrass yourself how?” you murmur.

Satoru is whining, high and helpless as you find his head again, that cute pink tongue flicking out to tease the slit.

“B-Because I’m…” he grits out, voice cracking, “F-Fuck… s-shit… I’m just…” trying not to say something I’ll regret. “Nnnngh… trying not to cum in thirty fucking seconds. Fuck, you’re perfect—”

You pull off again, lips slick with spit, smiling all sweet and teasing as his cock twitches in your hand.

“Hmm…” you hum, pressing his dick against your cheek as you look up at him affectionately. “Thought you said you didn’t need perfect?”

God, but how are you so perfect? So his.

Inhaling sharply, he looks down, and he knows it. He’s so fucking gone for you. Loves you so much it’s stupid.

“I… don’t…” he breathes, fingers trembling as they brush back the messy strands of hair that have begun to cover your face, threading through your locks reverently. “But… somehow… I still got you.”

Nuzzling into the side of his cock, you’re grinning at him now, all smug and sweet. Fucking hell you’re going to ruin him.

“Then show me, ‘toru…” your lips brush his tip as you speak, “…how good I make you feel.”

And suddenly you’re hollowing your cheeks down on him, humming as he groans, instinctively gripping your hair as his head falls back.

“F-Fuuuck… oh shit…” he pants, voice thick and broken, cradling your head as you work his dick. “J-Just like that, baby… yeah, fuck… you look so fuckin’ pretty with your mouth full…”

His breath stutters, gaze dropping again to take you in—blue eyes glowing, watching you like he’s in a trance. He’s biting his lip so hard, trying to hold back all the pathetic moans threatening to rip from his throat.

Spit glistens on your chin, your lips stretch around him, gliding deeper—and fuck, it’s all he can do not to fall apart, watching every fucking inch of his cock disappear further and further.

It’s too good. He wants more. Needs more.

Groaning, his hips are twitching forward, shallowly thrusting, begging for you to take him deeper. He’s barely aware he’s doing it until you shift, adjust—and don’t stop him.

“S-Shit… can I—?” he rasps, gently tugging your hair. “Can I move? Fuck your throat a little?”

You nod without hesitation, eyes fluttering shut, humming as you reposition again in silent invitation. And that’s it. That’s all he fucking needs.

“Oh, fuck… fuck—okay,” he groans, cock throbbing, shifting his hips as he grips your head tighter. “Just… tell me if it’s too much, angel.”

He begins moving, rolling into your hot, wet mouth, and though his thrusts start slow, there’s nothing soft about the way he’s looking at you—jaw clenched, head tilted, snowy white hair falling into those pretty blue eyes. He’s whimpering, watching your lips stretch around his cock, spit stringing from your chin to his base as he feeds you more, more, more.

“Fuuuck—fuck, sweetheart—” Satoru’s losing his fucking mind, moaning whorishly, “That’s it… haaa… just like that,” his hips roll deeper, pace picking up. “Fucking hell… y-yes…your throat’s so fucking tight, baby—shit—”

Blinking, your hands brace tightly on his thighs, watching the way his abs begin to flex as he rocks into you. His dick is jerking, leaking sweet pre all over your tongue, holding your head as he thrusts deeper into that hot willing mouth.

“S-Shit…” he pulls you off, blue eyes blazed with pleasure, giving you a moment to breathe. “’m not gonna last much longer…” he murmurs, cock twitching up, soaked in front of your face. “Where you want my cum baby?”

Shifting, you pant, eyes flicking up at him. “My mouth…” you breathe, opening wide for him again, and Satoru’s cock jerks up immediately.

“Ohmygod…” he groans, shoving you back down on him, taking on a pace that’s anything but sane. “Yesss… haaa… good girl… hungry fucking girl…” he’s babbling now, thrusting faster, spit dripping outside the corner of your lips as you let him chase his pleasure. “T-Take it… nngh… fuck. I love…”

You.

Satoru growls, internally kicking himself, taking that frustration out on your pretty mouth.

“I… fuck… love your mouth so fuckin’ much…” he grits.

His cock is slamming into you again and again, and the sounds are obscene—wet, messy, lewd. His hips are unrelenting, but you brace yourself, taking him, eyes fluttering, tears building as you look up at him through wet lashes.

God, he’s panting, whining, whimpering, completely lost in you, looking down at you like you fucking hung the stars.

But the moment you gag, he immediately stills, stuttering. “S-Shit—sorry—fuck—you okay?” he pants, brows furrowing, looking at you like he’s afraid he broke you.

You pull back, nodding, giving yourself a moment, and then, just as eagerly, you’re pushing yourself back down on him, down to the hilt—and he swears you just ripped the air out of his fucking lungs.

“F-Fucking… god,” he chokes, watching with wild eyes as you take it again. “You’re… unreal. What the fuck…”

Whimpering, he’s desperate now, gripping you tightly as he thrusts vigorously. “That’s it… yes, baby… yes…” your throat is clicking, spit dripping from your lips, “Sucha good girl… take my cock… fuuuck…” he’s unraveling, cock so hard it hurts. “You’re too fucking good—‘m close—’m… fuckfuckfuck—gonna cum—"

And suddenly he’s burying himself deep, gasping and whining as hot spurts of creamy cum spill down your throat, fingers tightening as he keeps you there, hips stuttering with every pulse as the sticky thick mess floods your mouth.

And you takeit. All of him. Blinking back tears, moaning as you swallow every fucking drop. It’s only when he finally stills, that you pull back—his cock slipping from your lips with a lewd, wet pop.

He’s staring down at you, completely wrecked in the best way—chest rising and falling, mouth parted, eyes wide and glassy with awe.

“Wow, Satoru…” you hum, smiling all coy, licking your lips slowly as you breathe through your nose. “That was… a lot of cum.”

“Oh my fucking god…”

His voice comes out like a whisper and a whimper all at once. His brain is still buffering—trying to reboot after the holy experience you just put him through. Dragging a shaky hand down his face, he blows out a disbelieving laugh.

“You… wow. You actually swallowed… all of it.”

Giggling, you drag your hand up his thigh, fingers brushing, watching the way he twitches under your touch.

“I told you…” you smile softly, nuzzling against his thigh, eyes gleaming affectionately. “I… wanted to take care of you.”

And god—Satoru swears he might ascend. If only you knew how you make him feel. Huffing, he shakes his head in awe.

“C’mere you…” he’s tugging you up gently, urging you into his lag, and you go easily, straddling his thighs as his arms wrap around you, holding you flush to his chest.

You can feel his heart thudding heavy as you settle against him, and you shift, burying yourself against his neck.

“Feel better…?” you murmur softly, fingers combing through the soft mess of his white hair.

“Better?” a breathless laugh slips out, catching in his throat as he tries to collect himself. “Yeah… that’s the understatement of the century,” he exhales hard, then adds, “I think I might’ve just seen the face of God… with your lips.”

You snort into his shoulder, giggling, and he chuckles too—low and husky, the sound vibrating through your body. But even as he smiles, his grip on you stays tight. Steady. Anchored.

Because you don’t realize it—but this? This is everything. His expression softens, his heart aches so much as the thought replays over, and over in his head.

I’m so in love with you.

It hits him like a train—again, fresh and full and terrifying. Like it’s the first time he’s realizing it all over again. You’ve stripped him bare, pulled every shield from his body with a touch, a look, a laugh. He cherishes you so damn much.

And that’s the scariest, most beautiful thing of all.

“I’m so fucked…” he whispers, more to himself than to you.

“Hm?” pulling back slightly, you’re blinking up at him. “…fucked how?”

He meets your eyes—and for a second, everything softens. The whole world slows. He could say it. Right now. Just open his mouth and say it. But…

“Oh… y’know, just…” he exhales shakily, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “Really, really fucking into you…” he says instead.

And god, he means it.

“…yeah?” you whisper.

“Yeah…” he nods, sighing. “Like… no-coming-back, kind of into you.”

Your smile spreads, soft and full of warmth. And as you curl into him, your head rests against his shoulder.

“Me too…”

The moment quiets, settling between you in a hush of breathless heartbeats. And as he holds you close, arms protective and sure, pressing his cheek to the crown of your head, his mind begins to turn.

He’s going to do everything—everything—in his power to keep you safe. To keep you happy. To ensure, you are always here, in his arms. Because if he ever lost you…

No.

Shaking his head, he shoos that thought away, out of existence. He’s not even going to entertain it.

And then, after a minute, he begins to shift, murmuring low against your hair.

“C’mon…” he’s rising from the couch, lifting you up bridal style as he stands. “Let’s clean up… and head to bed.”

Nodding, you wrap your arms around his neck as he carries you away—your body melting against his. Neither of you say the words sitting unsaid in your chest. But that doesn’t make it any less true.

I love you.

a/n. hello my lovelies!! it's been foreverrrrr... i know. thanks for your patience with this chapter. i unforch had to go back to work full time, whilst still being in school 🤪 so it feels like i've had NO time. but, once this semester is over my writing should pick back up. this chapter definitely challenged me. i was worried how you guys would feel about the violence, but alas... that's what the yakuza do. all i can say is if you don't like it, you can chose not to read it! 🤷‍♀️ but as ya'll can probably see, this story is definitely taking a turn... the plot is heating up. nanami has joined the battle! he's so sweet with little haru. i'm gonna have so much fun with the plans i have for his character, hehe 🥰 satoru in the car with suguru... *sigh* 😌 this man is literally so smitten for reader it's too damn cute. my heart can't take it. i've decided to reopen this taglist! if you want to be tagged and you're not on it, lmk. i would love to hear all your thoughts and theories with this chapter, and as always, tysm for reading guys. i love you all sm 🫶🏻 → you are currently all caught upꨄ

taglist:

@geniejunn @fortunatelyfurrygiver @rosso-seta @acowboykisser @mikyapixie

@shokosbunny @fire-child-kira @aluvrina @laviefantasie @kurookinnie

@poopypipi @painted-hills @stillserene @mira-lol @k-kkiana

@sebastianlover @blueberrysungie @kalulakunundrum @doireallyhavetonamthis @lingophilospher

@ichikanu @artist1936 @christianacj27 @watermelon-online @jkbangtan7

@angelina7890 @aruraa @han11dh @jonesmelodys @k1ttybean

@a-trashbag @jotarohat @khaleesihavilliard @tsukistopglazer @elliesndg

@maskedpacific @that-redheadd @lovelyartemisa @eolivy

@valleydoli @voids-universe @sukunadckrider @aishies-stuff

@saccharine-nectarine @ilianasau @pinksaiyans @gojoslefttoenail

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corsairier · 2 months ago

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dc x dp prompt: in which Danny accidentally becomes an alien

So I'm not super caught up on the modern day dp fandom lore, but what i am very familiar with is pre-2016 dp fandom lore. And that lore tends to take a much more sci-fi slant than a lot of the current magic stuff I've been seeing circulating around, so... what if we took that and put it in a batfam crossover?

Picture this: Danny is sixteen, he's told his parents he's a halfa, and despite all his fears, things actually went... well? They apologize for how they've treated Phantom, they reaffirm they still love him as their son, and things are surprisingly okay.

Except... ghosts are still their biggest interest in life, and researching ghosts is their entire passions and careers. And they've got a kid right there who not only is a ghost, but a rare type of half ghost who could give them a completely different set of data than any of their previous research! And he's their kid, so why not just go and ask Danny how he's feeling about helping them out with their research?

And Danny is, well... his friends and Jazz are all super happy for him that Maddie and Jack accepted him, and they think it's sweet at first that they're trying to bond with Danny over this. So he feels a bit pressured to go along with it, even though it feels incredibly invasive to have his parents asking him all these things. But they're his parents, and he does feel grateful for them not trying to vivisect him, so it can't be that bad, right?

But it just escalates.

His parents have never really been great with boundaries, especially when it comes to ghosts, and at some point Danny realizes that there's not really a point where either of them will truly stop. They keep asking him for blood samples, skin samples, hair samples, marrow samples, anything that can help understand him inside and out. They know ectoplasm can bring inanimate things to life or infuse life into the dead, so it quickly becomes Hey Danny, what if we injected human blood into a ghost? And Come watch us infuse ectoplasm into these frozen mice! and Danny, come help us out with this project!

Vlad won't even come in between any of this, not after Danny let slip that he wasn't the only halfa out there. Maddie's affections are a lot less attractive to him when it feels like being a lab rat under her microscope, and the coward seems more than happy to leave Danny to his fate while he goes and lives it up in his mansions. His friends are sympathetic, sure, but they don't really get it beyond usual "parents suck" complaining. it's not like Danny is actually in any danger.

Jazz at least takes it seriously, but she's off at university by then and she can't just drop everything to get into fights with their parents telling them to leave Danny alone. So Danny starts spending a bit more time than he probably should exploring the Ghost Zone and tumbling through portals, just to see where it leads him. It's stress relief, you know. Jazz would approve of him getting out of the house to clear his head.

The fact that some of these portals happen to connect dimensions isn't something he's expecting.

Neither is the fact that dimensions have their own rules, and in order to pass between dimensions, they must undergo changes as needed to fit those rules. Someone with magic cannot exist as is in a dimension without it, and the dead cannot walk in a dimension where the rules of life and death are drawn by different lines.

Danny winds up in Gotham with a body that feels unlike his own, the majority of his powers and his ghost half seemingly beyond his reach. He still thinks he's human (probably), but something about him isn't quite right. He feels odd, where he lands, and something about the air and the weather just doesn't sit right in his bones.

He's hungering for... ectoplasm, maybe? He can't put a finger on it, only that he's starving without it. Danny can't quite figure out how to get his way back—and he's not sure if he really wants to, if it means going back to playing house with his parents.

Then the Bats, from their own perspective, stumble across a medical mystery—one that doesn't want to be solved.

One that's absolutely sick of people trying to research everything about him.

And there's no way a being like him could be from Earth, right?

Batman is convinced he's an alien seeking amnesty on Earth. Tim's got his bets on an experiment escaped from some dark and corrupt lab somewhere. Dick's thinking the kid's a Meta with the kind of powers those with bad intentions would kill to have.

Jason, for what it's worth, really just wants to know how this bandaged and ill kid ended up in one of his safehouses—especially considering it's not accessible from the ground floor.

---

I've been chipping away at a fic for this, but I'm not sure if it'd be something modern dpxdc fans would be interested in? Feel free to use this idea yourselves for anything if it piques your interest LOL, just credit me in the AN if you post it to AO3. I just think it's really funny to have Danny having incredibly boring "i feel i can't enforce boundaries with my parents" problems and then the Batfam seeing what it all looks like from an outsider's POV and coming to some very severe conclusions based on what they can pick up on because it's really not a good look.

Danny voice. No my parents are fine except for all the experimenting on me. Jason voice. THE WHAT.

#dp x dc #dpxdc #dc x dp prompt #dp x dc prompt #dp x dc crossover #dc x dp au #long post #danny voice. if one more person asks me for a blood sample i am going to walk backwards into the ghost zone and never be seen again #danny voice. this is what jazz would describe as good coping right #meanwhile sam and tucker are having 5000 panic attacks because where the actual hell did their best friend go

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satrs · 1 month ago

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In TOOOO Deep!

SYNOPSIS. Trapped and even thinner patience, neither can escape the heat, or each other. One question remains: who will break first?

FEAT. Xavier. Zayne. Rafayel. Sylus. Caleb. xfem!reader

TAGS. 18+ CONTENT! MDNI! smeggual content. Forced proximity. unprotected intercourse. dörty talk. size k!ink. refering to yer' püüsy as 'her'. doggy. slight exhibitionism. sylus & zayne are married to reader. fingering, cunnilingus in calebs. slight roleplay in calebs. heavyyy praise in sylus. kinda soft seggs in sylus.

✎ A/N; I CAN'T ESCAPE THESE GUYS PLEASE RELEASE MEEEEE! (please don't I'm jolly as hell in my gooner cave) Much love and happy reading! <3

XAVIER ꩜ Caught In Heat!

Who knew that a duo mission with your fellow hunter would end up like this? You and him trapped in a random rundown motel somewhere in nirvana with an angry storm brewing outside?

Well, shit happens.

The power flickers, casting deep shadows across the room, and the air smells like rain-soaked pavement and dust. The shitty heater barely works, leaving the cold to settle in your bones, but the real reason you’re shivering isn’t the temperature.

It’s him.

The lights flicker again, barely holding, and the air is damp with humidity. Rain pounds against the windows, a relentless, violent rhythm. You should be resting, saving your strength for whatever waits beyond this storm. But instead, you’re here, standing at the edge of the bed, pulse pounding, your body drawn tight with something far more dangerous than the mission itself.

Across the room, Xavier watches you, bright eyes sharp even in the dim light. He’s leaning against the wall, arms crossed, but there’s nothing casual about the way he’s looking at you. Calculating. Assessing. Like he already knows what you want before you do.

“You’re staring,” he says, voice cool, measured.

You swallow, shifting under his gaze. “So are you.”

A ghost of a smirk tugs at his lips. “I always watch what's mine.”

The words send a pulse of heat straight to your cunt.

You take a step toward him, testing. “Then take it.”

The shift in his expression is instant. A spark of something dark, something starving, flashes in his eyes.

Xavier moves fast. One second he’s across the room, the next he’s got you pinned against the wall, braced hand beside your head. His body presses into yours, solid and unyielding, his warmth seeping into you through the layers of damp clothing.

“You have no idea what you’re asking for.” His voice is low, dangerous, the barest hint of a growl curling around the words, ghosting over your lips.

You tilt your chin up, refusing to back down. “Then show me.”

is lips crush against yours at that with a force that steals your breath, his fingers sliding down to grip your throat, holding you still as he claims you completely. The hand is cold against your skin, a stark contrast to the heat of his body pressing into yours.

Your fingers tangle in his uniform, tugging, desperate for more. He growls against your mouth, then suddenly spins you, shoving you onto the bed in one swift motion.

“On your knees, angel.” he commands, his tone sharp, controlled.

You obey, pulse hammering as you brace yourself on the mattress. The air shifts behind you, and then his hands are on your waist. His fingers press into your skin, mapping every inch of you like he’s memorizing it.

“You want me?” His voice is right at your ear now, his breath hot against your skin, as he swats a teasing clasp to your ass. “Right here? Now?”

Your hands fist in the sheets. “M-mhmm.”

His fingers trail down, slipping between your legs, finding you already soaked. He lets out a sharp breath, his control fracturing at the edges.

“What a mess” he murmurs, dragging his fingers through your slick folds, “Bet you've been like this the whole mission.”

You whimper, pushing back against his touch, but he pulls away, leaving you aching.

Then, your breath catches at the sound of a zipper before Xavier grips your hips aligning his mushroomy tip to your clenchin entrance, and slams into you in one brutal thrust.

Your vision whites out, your entire body arching as you stretch around him, the sheer size of him stealing the air from your lungs. A ragged gasp rips from your throat as he sinks deep, so deep you swear you feel him in your stomach.

“Too much?” His voice is taunting, but caring, something needy behind it. You shake your head, nails digging into the sheets. “Wan' more.”

A dark chuckle rings your ear. “Greedy.”

Xavier doesn’t ease into it, doesn’t give you time to adjust. His thrusts are sharp, precise, calculated—like he knows exactly how to break you apart, how to leave you gasping and shaking beneath him. Each snap of his hips punches a sound from your throat, his pace relentless, merciless.

“Arch that damn back f' me,” he mutters, voice thick with something raw. You comply, arching further into the matress as your eyes roll to the back of your skull. “Jussssst like that.”

A sharp slap! lands on your ass, sending a jolt of pleasure-pain through you. You cry out, but he only tightens his grip, yanking you back onto him harder, needier.

“This what you wanted?” He leans down, his teeth grazing your ear, hand clasping around your neck to push you flush against his chest. “Letting me fuck you like this during a mission? Tsk, Tsk, what a unreliable hunter.”

You’re beyond words now, lost in the way his damned cock hits the bulls-eye in your insides over and over again, poor cunt gushing with each prod at your cervix, only able to nod weakly.

“You could've just asked. Would never deny my sweet princess.” he whispers again, but his voice wavers, his own restraint unraveling. His hands slide up your back, fisting in your hair as he pulls you upright, forcing your spine to arch as he fucks into you deeper.

"Xavvvv'! Fuck!"

His lips graze your throat, his breath ragged. “Say my name again.”

You do—gasping, moaning, begging for him to — you don't even know what for at this point.

Xavier groans, his pace faltering for a split second before he regains control, thrusting harder, pushing you closer to that edge.

“Gonna cum, huh?” His fingers slide between your legs, finding your most sensitive button and circling just right. “C'mon.”

The order snaps something inside you, and you shatter around him, a broken sob tearing from your throat as pleasure crashes over you in violent waves. Your whole body shakes, muscles tensing as he fucks you through it.

Xavier curses, his grip bruising as he thrusts once, twice more, then he himself falls apart.

A deep, shuddering groan spills from his lips as he buries himself to the hilt emptying his heavy load into you, his body trembling against yours. You feel the heat of him spilling deep inside you, his breath ragged against your ear.

For a long moment, neither of you move. The storm still rages outside, but in here, it’s just your gasps, his heartbeat hammering against your back, no worries whatsoever.

Finally, he pulls away just enough to press a slow, almost lazy kiss to your shoulder. His voice is lower now, rough with spent desire.

Then, he lets out a rough chuckle, his grip on you finally loosening. “That’s one way to pass the time.” he mutters, pressing a lazy kiss to your shoulder.

Your groan echoing in response, smacking the arm wraped around your body weakly. “Shut up.”

Xavier just smirks, rolling onto his back and pulling you with him.

“No promises.”

ZAYNE ꩜ Locked In!

The soft click of the door echoes through the dimly lit office.

Zayne exhales, rubbing his temple, his eyes glinting under the sterile glow of the desk lamp. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

You go to jiggle the handle, confirming what you both already know. “The janitor must’ve locked up without noticing us.”

Zayne doesn’t reply immediately, just watches you with that unnerving, unreadable gaze—the one that makes your pulse quicken for reasons that have nothing to do with being locked in.

He leans back against his desk, arms crossed over his broad chest, his expression smooth, controlled. But you don’t miss the flicker of something darker beneath the surface.

Annoyance? Amusement?

Neither.

Something else entirely.

“Well,” he finally says, his voice rich with amusement, “looks like we’re stuck here for a while.”

You sigh, rolling your shoulders. “Could be worse, I guess.”

A smirk tugs at his lips that you fail to notice. Dangerous.

He tilts his head, studying you like a patient on his table. Slow. Intrigued. Almost predatory.

“Why don’t we kill some time, then?”

The air shifts—subtle, but still sufforcating.

Before you can respond, he’s behind you, his movements so swift, so effortless, you barely register them before his hands are on your waist, firm and unyielding.

His fingers trace slow, deliberate patterns against your stomach before sliding upward, guiding you to his desk only to shove the papers on there to the side, brushing over your ribs, teasing the edge of your collarbone.

Then his lips find your ear, his breath a ghost of heat against your skin.

“There's not much to do anyway,” he growls, voice like silk laced with steel. His grip tightens as he presses his straining cock against you, the warmth of his body sinking into yours. “Might aswell use the time before the janitor comes back.”

“Zayne, we’re in your office,” you manage, breath shuddering, but the protest is weak, meaningless.

A quiet chuckle vibrates against your neck before he continues to plaster your collar with teasing kisses. “And?”

Then he’s turning you, guiding you back until your hips hit the edge of his desk. His golden eyes bore into yours—intense, unwavering—as he nudges your legs apart, stepping between them like he belongs there.

“You always talk about spicing things up,” he murmurs, his fingers ghosting over your waistband, toying with the fabric in slow, torturous strokes. “And we've never tried having fun in here.” His jaw tightens. “There's no hurt in trying.”

A shiver rolls through you as he commands you to turn around, your palms bracing against the cool surface of his desk. The heat of his presence lingers behind you, his breath featherlight against the back of your neck.

His hands drag down your back, low, teasing, before gripping your waistband and yanking your pants and underwear down in one swift motion. The cool air hits you as you cage your bottom lip between your teeth, your eyes sending him a teasing glare.

Zayne exhales, his hands kneading the soft flesh of your ass before sliding between your thighs.

“Beautiful,” he murmurs, his voice thick with restraint.

A sharp gasp escapes as his fingers glide through your slick folds, parting them, exploring. He groans, the sound low and possessive.

“Already so soaked,” he muses, voice dark with satisfaction. “You like this, don't you? A naughty wife I see.”

Your hips jerk as he presses two firm fingers against your clit, rubbing slow, torturous circles.

“Zayne, please—”

He hums approvingly, his movements controlled—like he’s testing you, studying the way your body reacts under his touch. His fingers dip lower, teasing your entrance, but never quite dipping in.

“So desperate,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your spine.

Suddenly, he withdraws. The loss is unbearable, a whimper slipping from your lips before you can stop it.

Quit the teasing, he can't take it anymore.

Your hips wiggle in excitement as his heft length slaps against the valley of your ass, the blunt head of his cock pressing against your hole, thick and teasing, dragging through your wetness with maddening patience.

“C'monnn,” you whine, pushing back against him, tip just barely sliding insde you, and you greedily catch! his angry tip, desperatly trying to suck him int further.

With one sharp exhale he thrusts in, sinking into you in one long, unyielding stroke, knocking the air out of your lungs almost imediently.

A choked cry escapes yyou as he stretches you wide, fills you to the brim, the sheer size of him forcing every nerve in your body to light up, as a prolonged moan slips from your lips, head slamming against the desk at the overwhelming feeling.

“Fuck,” he groans, his hands tightening on your hips like he’s barely holding himself together. “Always so tight and ready for me.”

He stills for a moment, buried deep, his chest rising and falling in ragged breaths against your back to compose himself. Then, just as you begin to adjust to his massive girth, just as the pleasure starts to settle—

He moves.

The first thrust is deep, calculated. The second is sharper, quicker, even. By the third, he’s pounding into you, loosing himself at your contracting greedy walls, each deep stroke sliding your body further onto the cold desk, whole furniture shaking and you could even think the legs of the chair might collapse.

The office is filled with the filthy sounds of skin meeting skin, the wetness between your thighs only adding to the obscene rhythm of his movements.

“Not so loudddd, darlin'” he teases, voice rough and hungry. “Wouldn't want anyone to hear, hm?”

His fingers slide between your legs, pressing against your clit yet in perfect rhythm with his thrusts, your mouth agape as drool dripps down onto some godforsaken document both of you could give less of a fjuck about right now.

“Zayne—oh. my. fuck!” Words coming out in punctured huffs, your vision blurs, whole body tightening as each push of his hip would surely send you flying if you didn't hold on.

He groans breathlessly, pace unwavering. “That’s it,” he murmurs, his free hand sliding up to fist in your hair, tugging just enough to make you arch. “Take it, sweetheart.”

Pleasure coiling tighter, hotter, until you’re right at the edge—

"Be a good wife and cum all over your husbands cock, pretty please."

With that you break, body convulsing as your orgasm rips through you with force, a strangled cry leaves your lips, hole clenching him tight, leaving your legs shaking, giving out on you.

Zayne curses, his movements stuttering, struggling against the unyielding grip of your spasming cunt.

With a final, deep thrust, he plundges his entire cock inside you, a low, guttural groan tearing from his throat as his own release crashes over him. Heaty cum fills you, his grip on your hips tightening as he rutts against your ass, his breath ragged, uneven.

The haze of pleasure still clings to you, your breath coming in ragged gasps as you slump limplessly against the desk. Zayne’s hands remain on your hips, his grip possessive, his chest rising and falling behind you as he catches his breath.

Then,

The unmistakable sound of keys jingling.

“Hello?” A rough voice cuts through the heavy air and your heart stops. “Thought I heard somethin’ in here—”

Zayne doesn’t move. He stays buried inside you, still hard, still throbbing. He doesn’t even flinch. If anything, you feel his smirk against your skin before he finally pulls out, his fingers dipping between your thighs to push his release back deep inside you.

“Messy,” he murmurs, so low only you can hear, “This is all thanks to her", his eyes glued to your talkative hole, amusement evident on his face.

You glare at him, but before you can open your mouth, the janitor sighs from behind the door.

“Damn pipes,” the old man mutters. “Always makin’ weird noises.”

The jingle of keys fades, footsteps retreating.

Thankfully, the door never opens.

Then, silence.

“You are noisy,” he muses, fixing his tie, completely unbothered.

You whirl on him, mortified, hurriedly yanking your pants back into place. “And you’re impossible!”

He grins, utterly shameless, dragging you back into his arms. His fingers are already creeping under your waistband again.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he purrs, golden eyes gleaming.

“We’re not done yet.”

RAFAYEL ꩜ (7 Minutes) In Heaven!

Rafayel has been avoiding Thomas all day.

You know it, Thomas knows it, and judging by how Rafayel is nowhere to be found, he knows you are onto him.

“If you see him, tell him I’m looking for him,” Thomas sighs, rubbing his temple, frustrated. “It’s important.”

You nod, catching an inkling of Rafayel’s intention. “Of course, I’ll let him know.”

The moment Thomas walks away toward the kitchen in search of the artist in god-knows-where, you turn on your heel, heading straight for Rafayel’s room. If he isn’t anywhere else, you have a good guess where he is hiding.

You push open the door, stepping inside. Silence meets you, but the air feels charged, like someone was here just moments before.

Then, your gaze drifts to the walk-in closet.

Bingo.

Suspicious, you make your way over and pull the door open only to find Rafayel, lounging against the shelves like he belongs there, arms crossed over his chest, pout streching his features.

“I knew it,” you accuse, raising an eyebrow. “Hiding now, are we?”

He doesn’t even look the slightest bit guilty. Instead, a smirk tugs at the corner of his lips. “I wouldn’t call it hiding. More like, avoiding unnecessary stress.”

You huff. “Thomas is looking for you.”

“I’m aware,” he says smoothly, then reaches forward and before you can react, he tugs you inside and shuts the door behind you.

The sound of the lock clicking into place sends a shiver down your spine.

“Rafayel,” you warn, pressing a hand against his chest. “We can’t just—” He leans in, his lips ghosting over your ear. “We can.”

The space is small, the air thick with his scent—clean, expensive, so damn intoxicating. His presence surrounds you, and it is impossible to focus on anything but him. Well, the rock-hard buldge of his might be a competition.

“You came looking for me,” he whispers against your lips, fingers tracing down your spine. “So stay.”

You swallow hard. “This is ridiculous.”

“Is it?” His hands slide lower, resting on your hips. “Or are you putting on the tought girl act right now?”

Your breath hitches as he presses you against the shelves, his body warm and firm against yours.

“Rafayel—”

“Hmmm?” His voice is a purr, full of dark amusement.

“You’re impossible.”

He chuckles, fingers sneaking to your pants, tugging at the fabric teasingly. “And you love it.”

You don’t get a chance to argue, not when he captures your lips in a heated kiss, not when he pushes you so impossibly close and surely not when he's rutting his needy cock against your clothed core.

It is slow at first, like he has all the time in the world to unravel you. His lips move against yours expertly, coaxing you open, his tongue brushing against yours in a way that makes your knees weak.

His hands are everywhere, roaming up your back, sliding beneath your shirt, exploring every inch of exposed skin.

Heat pools in your stomach at his words. The thought of being caught, of Thomas standing just outside, completely unaware of what is happening behind the locked door, it only makes you want him more.

He turns you around, pressing your front against the shelves. His hands roam over your curves, his breath hot against your neck.

“You have no idea how badly I’ve wanted you all day,” he murmurs, his fingers teasing between your thighs. You gasp, your body arching into his touch.

“Already so wet,” he muses, his voice thick with satisfaction. “All for me.”

You barely have time to catch your breath before he replaces his fingers with the head of his bulky cock head, teasingly rubbing it against your slick, glisterning folds.

“Tell me you want this,” his voice is low, dark and lustful.

“P-please—”

That is all he needs.

With one percise thrust, he buries himself inside you, a choked moan escapes your lips as he stretches you to your limits, filling you completely. His grip on your hips tightens, holding you in place as he sets a rythmic pace.

“So tight,” he groans, his breath ragged. “You feel incredible.”

You clench around him, and he curses under his breath.

His pace quickens, each thrust hitting deeper, harder. The sound of skin meeting skin fills the closet, along with the quiet, breathy moans you can’t hold back.

“Nghhh— good, sooo good!”

“Shh,” he murmurs, though the smirk in his voice is undeniable. “You don’t want Thomas knocking on the door, do you?”

The thought sends a fresh wave of heat through you.

Just as you are about to answer, you hear the faint sound of footsteps outside—too close. Thomas’s voice echoes down the hallway, rattling the doorknob faintly. “Rafayel?”

Rafayel’s hands tighten on your hips, his movements slowing as if he can feel the tension in your body. The door handle turns again, then stops. The footsteps retreat, but they are still too close.

He smirks, his breath hot against your neck. His thrusts deepen, pressing you harder against the shelves, the sound of his body against yours echoing in the small space, shelf shaking with it's contents. He moves with deliberate slowness now, each thrust calculated, as if daring you to make a sound.

“Don’t even think about it,” he whispers, his voice laced with dark amusement. “Not a word.”

His fingers find your clit, rubbing in slow, deliberate circles. Every movement feels heightened, the danger of being caught making every sensation sharper, more intense.

You' re already close— so damn close, your breath catching with each thrust of his, tip bullying the entrance of your womb meanly.

With one last commanding push, he groans, burying himsel in so deep, his hot sticky cum shoots right into your womb, the fullness of it all making your jump over the edge, cumming so hard you can barely breathe.

Then, the door rattles— again.

You and him simuntaniously freeze, staring at the door, listening to the muffled sound of Thomas’s voice growing frustrated on the other side.

“Okay, you two, this is getting ridiculous. I know you’re in there! I don’t care what’s going on, just come out already!”

Rafayel’s smirk deepens, though you can feel his body tense slightly as the sound of Thomas’s exasperation fills the air.

You chuckle breathlessly but hushed, still trembling, mind racing with the absurdity of the situation. “Wanna go out of hiding?”

Rafayel chuckles low in your ear, pressing a kiss to your shoulder. “He’ll live.”

The sound of Thomas sighing and muttering something unintelligible echoes through the door as he walks away, still clearly annoyed.

You exhale a shaky breath, your body still humming with tension. Rafayel doesn’t say anything more, he doesn’t need to. You both know what this is, and somehow, the chaos of almost getting caught only makes it more thrilling.

“I think we should really get out of here before he comes back,” you say with a shaky laugh, though you aren’t quite ready to leave yet.

Rafayel pulls you closer, brushing his lips against your ear once more. “Noooo,” he complains with a whiny voice, thick with annoyance.

“Just one more, pleaseee?”

SYLUS ꩜ Bound to You!

“This is ridiculous,” you huff, holding up your wrist to emphasize the glowing cuff binding you to your husband.

Sylus chuckles, utterly unbothered as he examines the energy linkage with a lazy smirk. “You say that, but I think fate just enjoys tying us together.”

You shoot him a glare, but it lacks any real heat. This isn’t the first time the protocore’s strange energy has done something like this, though back then, you weren’t married. Now, the situation feels even more absurd.

“We’re literally handcuffed together,” you deadpan.

He tilts his head, lips curling into a teasing smile. “Well, I did vow to stay by your side, didn’t I?”

You groan, tugging at the glowing chain connecting your wrists. It doesn’t budge. “I just wanna go to bed.”

Sylus hums, stepping closer—so close you can feel the warmth of his body. “Oh we'll go to bed, alright.”

His voice dips, rich and smooth, the way it always does when he’s teasing you, something you’ve grown used to over the years.

You narrow your eyes. “Sy'.”

He grins, giving the chain a light tug so that you stumble forward, right into his chest. His free hand finds your waist, steadying you as he leans down, his breath warm against your ear.

“Or,” he murmurs, “we could make the best of it.”

Your pulse skips.

His fingers brush your hip, and even through the thin fabric of your nightwear, his touch sends warmth curling low in your stomach.

“This again?” you mutter, but your voice lacks conviction.

“Oh, come now.” He lifts your bound wrists, kissing your knuckles before meeting your gaze. His ruby orbs gleam with something dark. “Don’t tell me you don’t love this just a little.”

You swallow, unable to deny because he's right. He always was.

He strokes slow, soothing patterns against your bare thigh, watching you through half-lidded, satisfied eyes. “We’re married now,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your shoulder. “Wouldn’t it be a shame not to enjoy it?”

You exhale shakily as he guides you toward the bed, his movements slow, as if savoring every second.

The moment your back hits the mattress, Sylus is above you, his free hand splayed against your side, fingers flexing like he’s resisting the urge to grab you harder.

His gaze softens as he cups your cheek, his thumb brushing over your lips. “My darling wife,” he purls, voice thick with affection. “Would love to be cuffed with you forever.”

He kisses you, moving like he has all the time in the world, deepening the kiss only when you sigh against him, his tongue sliding against yours in a way that makes your toes curl, head spinning.

The chain between you clinks softly as he adjusts, pressing closer, his thigh slotting between yours.

His touch is everywhere—skimming your waist, teasing over your ribs, sliding beneath your shirt with aching slowness.

He pulls back slightly, golden eyes searching yours. “Breathtaking,” he breathes, voice reverent. “And you’re all mine.”

Heat pools in your stomach as he kisses down your throat, his teeth grazing sensitive skin, free hand slipping beneath your waistband to tease his pads onto your swolled clit, you gasp, arching into his touch.

Sylus groans, his forehead dropping against yours. “Ohh, she's an eager one,” he breathes, his fingers dipping between your folds, sliding along them. “All ready for me.”

The slow, careful movements turn teasing, his fingers circling your clit, stroking you with just enough pressure to drive you mad.

Suddenly, one finger teases your neglected entrance, sloooowly entering, searching it's way through your cavity.

You whimper, bound wrist jerking slightly as you try to grasp onto something—anything—but all you can do is grip his hand, fingers tangling with his.

“Perfect,” he whispers, firm, kissing along your jaw. “Every part of you.”

A second finger follows suit, curling upward, bumping against you gushy walls, loud sounds clouding his mind in lust.

You shudder, body tightening under his praise. “P-please, Sy'—”

He hushes you with another kiss, fingers slipping inside you with ease, fingers curling right into the spot he memorized throuout the years, smirking against your lips at your broken shriek.

And fuck, he’s grinding into you like he’s losing his mind, hips bucking wildly, precum smearing across his briefs, desperate for even a sliver of relief.

He’s groaning against your lips like he might fall apart first, cock so achingly hard it twitches helplessly with every snap of his hips, every slick flick of his wrist.

You can feel it, how far gone he’s let himself get, and it pushes you closer and closer, sharp heat building unbearably low in your belly.

Your grip tightens in his hair again, tugging harder, forcing his mouth impossibly closer to your mouth as you gasp into him, voice breaking. “Fuck, Sy', don’t stop, don’t—”

He answers only with a deep, wrecked moan, fingers curling further, moving faster, scraping against your walls with the single-minded intent to see you coming undone.

The lewd slap of his wrist against your core echoing alongside the wet, obscene sounds of the breathless kiss you cage him in, your hips bucking up further into his touch, so impossibly close to release.

Thighs starting to shake uncontrollably, every nerve on fire, your body arching, bowstring-tight as he drives you over the edge without mercy. The combination of his filthy mouth, the desperate, hungry sounds spilling from his mouth snaps something inside you.

His words push you over, your orgasm crashing through you like a tidal wave. Your walls clench around his fingers, back arching into his chest as a broken moan slips from your lips.

Only when you're spent body slumps against the sheets, chest heaving, does he finally pull away, dark pupils blown wide.

Sylus groans, his expression caught between awe and pure hunger.

Before you can fully come down, he’s freeing himself from his boxers, guiding his free hand around his cock, lining himself up with you.

“Goooood job,” he murmurs, voice soft yet sharp. “Now lets repeat this mess on my cock, yes?”

You barely have time to respond before he presses forward, sinking into you with a deep, slow thrust, a gasp tears from your lips as he stretches you in the most perfect way, like you're made for him. Because you are.

Sylus lets out a shaky breath, his head dropping against your shoulder. “Fuck,” he groans. “You feel unreal, sweetie.”

He stays still for a moment, savoring the way your body wraps around him. Then, he pulls back and thrusts in again, setting a slow, sensual rhythm.

The chain between your wrists clinks softly with every movement, a constant reminder of how intimately you’re connected.

Sylus takes his time, each thrust measured, his hands roaming your body, his lips pressing lingering kisses against your skin.

“My wife,” he murmurs, his voice thick with devotion. “You’re everything to me.”

The way he moves, the way he worships you with every touch, every word—it sends you spiraling closer to the edge again.

Sylus feels it, his rhythm faltering slightly. “You’re close, aren’t you?” he rasps, his free hand slipping between your bodies to rub your clit.

Your breath catches, pleasure surging through you like fire. “Mhmm! Gonna cum again, Sy'!—”

“That’s it,” he whispers, his pace quickening. “Cum with me.”

The pleasure builds to an unbearable peak, then you shatter. Your orgasm tears through you, body tightening, back arching, pleasure consuming every nerve.

Sylus groans, his own release following as he thrusts into you one final time, his body trembling as he spills his hot spurts of cum inside you.

Suddenly, the glow around your wrists flickers.

With a soft shimmer, the energy linkage disappears entirely, the cuffs vanishing as if they were never there to begin with.

Sylus lets out a breathless laugh, collapsing beside you. “Huh. Looks like we found the key.” You groan, smacking his chest weakly. “You would say that.”

He grins, gathering you into his arms, pressing a kiss to your temple.

"Hope you aren't planning on sleeping now, sweetheart," he muses, mischief dancing in his crimson gaze. His fingers trail down, dipping between your thighs to catch his leaking cum, only to pluck it in again.

"Because I wouldn’t count on getting any rest tonight."

CALEB ꩜ Going... Down?!

The elevator comes to an abrupt stop, the lights flickering once before stabilizing into a dim glow.

Well, how fucking great.

You groan, pressing the emergency button, but nothing happens. “Of course,” you mutter, crossing your arms.

Caleb leans back against the wall, completely unbothered, arms folded over his broad chest, an easy smirk playing on his lips. “Well, looks like we’re stuck.”

You glance at him. “No shit.”

He chuckles, tilting his head at you, hat slightly shifting. “No need to sound so grumpy, sweets. Think of it as quality time, hm?”

You huff, but your irritation barely lasts under his lazy, amused gaze.

A few moments pass in silence before Caleb shifts, stepping closer. His presence alone makes the air feel heavier, warmer.

Your eyes meet his, and the way he looks at you sends heat straight to your core.

His voice drops to a low murmur. “You’re tense.”

You swallow as he reaches out, his fingers brushing over your wrist before trailing down, ghosting over your hip.

“Caleb—”

“Mm?” His smirk widens, but his touch stays gentle, coaxing, teasing. “I'm just tryin' ta help.”

Your breath hitches as his hand slides lower, fingers toying with your uniform pants.

“Here?” you whisper, heat rising to your cheeks.

“Why not?” His fingers slip past the fabric, brushing over your panties. “No one’s comin' anytime soon.”

The way he says it so casually, careless, makes your stomach tighten, your legs pressing together involuntarily.

Caleb snickers, his fingers pressing against your clit through the thin fabric, applying just enough pressure to make your breath stutter. “You like the risk, don’t you?”

You bite your lip, body already betraying you before your mouth can even try to.

He hums, clearly pleased, before slipping his hand beneath your underwear, his fingers finding your wetness.

A sharp inhale leaves you as he traces slow circles over your clit, his other hand bracing against the wall beside your head.

“She’s always so damn wet,” he mutters, voice thick with satisfaction.

Your head falls back against the cool metal as he slides a finger inside you, the stretch teasing, not nearly enough.

“M-more,” you whisper.

Caleb groans, mouth brushing over your jaw. “That’s my girl.”

He adds another finger, curling them just right, his pace slow and deliberate. The quiet slick of your arousal fills the small space, making your cheeks burn. His lips ghost over your ear. “Yer' gonna have ta' be quiet, sweets.”

Your breath hitches as he presses his thumb to your clit, his movements intensifying. Your free hand clutches at his unrelenting wrist, body trembling. “Nghh— r-right there! Ouuuhh!”

“Shhhhh,” he teases, pressing a soft kiss to your temple. “Don’t want anyone knowing how good I’m making you feel, do you?”

His pace doesn’t falter, his fingers fucking you with precision, his voice a low murmur in your ear. “Cum for me.”

That’s all it takes.

Your orgasm crashes through you, your walls clenching around his fingers, your body tensing as waves of pleasure roll over you.

Caleb groans, watching you come undone, his fingers soaked in your spurting release, and ohhh— he’s nowhere near done yet.

He takes off his commanding hat, placing it onto your head, then sinks to his knees in an instant, pressing a kiss to the inside of your thigh, right above the fabric of your pants. “Will ya’ let me get a taste, colonel?”

You gasp as he hooks his fingers into your waistband and drags your uniform pants down, exposing your trembling legs.

“M-mhmm—”

He shoots you a wicked grin before pressing his mouth against your soaked panties, the heat of his tongue searing even through the fabric. He inhales deeply, humming in approval. “Ya smell so fuckin’ sweet.”

Your fingers tangle into his dark strands, your other hand clawing at something, anything, as he pulls the damp material aside and licks a slow, teasing stripe over your swollen clit.

Your knees buckle, but he catches you, one strong arm locking around your waist, keeping you upright as he works his tongue over you—circling, flicking, sucking—with a patience that makes your head spin.

“C-Caleb—!”

“Yeahhh, I know,” he growls, dragging his tongue lower, teasing your entrance before dipping inside, his nose brushing against your clit.

The combination of his fingers and his mouth is overwhelming. Heat pools in your core again, another orgasm creeping up on you too soon.

He feels it, senses it, and doubles down—sucking harder, his tongue pressing in deep. His hands grip your thighs, keeping you wide open for him as he feasts.

Your breath hitches, thighs quivering around his head, his hat sliding slightly over your eyes as you tilt your head down, and then—

White-hot pleasure bursts through you, your hands flying to his hair, moans muffled as you bite down on your lip to keep from screaming his name.

Caleb groans against you, lapping up every bit of your sweet juices, his own arousal pressing painfully against his pants.

Just as your body sags against the cool metal wall, the elevator lets out a soft ding.

Your eyes snap open just as the doors begin to slide apart. Panic shoots through you as you scramble to pull up your pants, your legs still shaking.

This absolute bastard just wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, smirk lazy and completely unrepentant.

A fleet officer peers in, eyebrows raised.

“Everything alright in here?”

Caleb shoots you a smirk, taking his hat from you before ruffling your hair teasingly, turning back to the officer. “Oh, we’re doing fine. Time flew by. Am I right, pips'?”

Your breath is still uneven, your mind still clouded from your second orgasm. You struggle to find a normal response, forcing out a weak, “Y-yeah. Time flew.”

The officer gives you an odd look but ultimately shrugs. “Alright then.”

As you step out, still flustered, Caleb leans in, his breath red and heated against your ear.

“Let’s do this again once we’re home,” he whispers, his voice dripping with promise,

“But this time, you squirt on my dick.”

#◛⑅·˚ ᵂᴼᴿᴷ #♡˳ᴸ&ᴰˢ #lads smut #l&ds #l&ds smut #love and deepspace smut #love and deepspace #caleb smut #sylus smut #zayne smut #rafayel smut #xavier smut #lads #love and deep space

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fireinmoonshot · 2 months ago

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protective | joaquín torres x fem!reader

Pairing: Joaquín Torres x Fem!Reader Summary: When you get involved in a car accident on your way home from work, Joaquín rushes to the hospital to be by your side. Warnings: Mentions of a car accident and blood, reader has a concussion and broken bones and gets dizzy at some points, Joaquín mentions wanting to kill someone. Word Count: 1.7k A/N: I love the idea of protective Joaquín so thank you so much to the anon that sent in the request asking for it! I instantly thought that this scenario would be fun to write and I really did enjoy it so I hope you will all enjoy reading it too! 💗

Joaquin stifles a yawn as he sits down on the couch and picks up the remote to try and find something to watch. You’re due home from work any minute now and even though he’s exhausted from his own work, he always likes to stay up to see you when you get home.

He’s flicking through the TV channels when his phone starts buzzing in his pocket. He smiles to himself, assuming it’s you calling to ask him something, and pulls it out of his pocket. His smile drops as he sees that the phone call isn’t from you but from a No Caller ID number. Frowning, he answers the call and holds it up to his ear.

“This is Joaquin Torres,” he says, a little hesitantly.

“Mr Torres, I’m calling from the public hospital to confirm that you are the emergency contact of…” The woman on the other end of the line trails off, likely checking something on a piece of paper in front of her, before reading your name out.

Joaquin stands immediately immediately, not even bothering to turn off the TV as he heads straight for the front door. He’s already trying to put one shoe on as he confirms that he’s your emergency contact.

“I’m calling you to inform you that she has been involved in a minor car accident, Mr Torres. She’s in a stable condition but–”

“I’m on my way, tell her I’m on my way!” He hangs up the call, shoves his phone in his pocket and finishes pulling on his shoe before grabbing the other one and pulling it on as well. He barely even remembers to lock the door as he runs outside, heading straight for his car in the driveway.

You’ve been in a car accident. Minor or not, an accident is an accident, he thinks as he puts the key in the ignition and turns it, putting the car into reverse so he can get out of your driveway and get on the road to you.

He’ll never admit it to anyone but you, but he drives a little over the speed limit to try and get to you just a little faster, cursing to himself the whole time that you didn’t live closer to the hospital. That he should have called you earlier to check on you. Or he should have offered to come and pick you up from work like he sometimes did. He’ll never forgive himself if you’re seriously hurt.

When he eventually pulls into the hospital parking lot and pulls into a park, his hands are shaking as he exits his car. He shoves the keys into one of his pockets as he begins to run towards the front doors of the emergency department. It’s dark outside now, a chill in the air, and the thought of you inside the hospital all alone makes him run faster.

The nurses at the front desk are more than helpful, one of them offering to escort him to where you are. His breathing is heavy from how fast he’d run into the hospital as the nurse stops just outside a room where a curtain is drawn.

“She’s just in there,” she tells Joaquin before walking away.

He takes a deep breath, trying to steady himself for what he’s about to find on the other side, and pulls open the curtain.

You’re laying on the bed in the middle of the room, your arm in a sling and a bandage around your head. At the sight of blood showing through the bandage and a cut on your lip, Joaquin’s heart crumbles in his chest.

“Angel,” he mutters, crossing the room in only a few steps until he’s by your side.

You blink your eyes open, a little weary from the painkillers they’d pumped into you. “Joaquin? What are you doing here?” You manage, voice thick from sleep.

One of his hands moves to cup your jaw, a finger tentatively examining the cut on your lip. The look on Joaquin’s face is enough to wake you up. You can tell he’s terrified.

“They called me and told me you were in a car accident,” he starts. “Angel, what happened? Tell me everything.”

You look up at him and smile a little at the fact that he’s here and you’re no longer alone. One of your hands reaches up to rest on top of his, taking comfort in the feeling of his warm skin on yours.

“I was driving home and some guy ran a red light and t-boned me,” you explain. “Everything’s a little foggy after that cause apparently I passed out. But I’m lucky I didn’t get hurt too badly. I just have a broken arm and a concussion, they said.”

Joaquin is suddenly angrier than he thinks he’s probably ever been. “Where’s the asshole that ran the red light? Did they bring him to this hospital?” He turns around, looking through the open curtain out to the rest of the emergency ward and removing his hand from your jaw in the process. “I’m gonna kill that hijo de puta.”

“Baby, it’s okay,” you try to bring his attention back to you. You reach out and brush your fingers along his wrist, the only part of him you can reach without sitting up or straining yourself – something that your doctor had recommended you not to do yet.

“No, no, it’s not okay, angel,” he shakes his head, running a hand through his hair and starting to pace up and down beside your hospital bed. “That pedazo de mierda could have hurt you or even killed you, he deserves worse than what I’d be able to do to him. I should go and see if he’s here and make sure he’s getting arrested for this.”

You watch him as he continues to pace. It’s rare to see Joaquin like this. Usually he’s the most soft, gentle, sweet boyfriend – the one all your friends are jealous of and the type of boyfriend that everyone wants. But seeing how protective he is over you when it comes to something like this makes for a change, and not an unwelcome one.

“Joaquin, baby,” you try again. “The police are handling it.”

If he hears your words, he doesn’t show it. He continues pacing back and forth, swearing under his breath and saying various other sentences in Spanish – most of them things that the nurses would probably not like to overhear.

“I’ll be right back, angel. I’m gonna go talk to the cops,” he says, glancing back at you over his shoulder. He reaches for the curtain to close it again as he exits, only to see you standing beside the bed, starting to sway. “Woah, angel, what are you doing?!”

He rushes back to you, grabbing you gently and helping you sit back on the edge of the bed before you fall over. You squeeze your eyes shut. You’d figured that the only thing that was going to stop him was if you did it physically since talking hadn’t done anything – but what you hadn’t counted on was the fact that you were going to get dizzy from the sudden movement and the strain of standing up for the first time after your accident.

Joaquin cups your face in his hands. “Mi amor, what are you doing?”

You open your eyes and look up at him, noticing his furrowed eyebrows drawn in worry upon what he’d obviously just seen. It probably hadn’t looked too good from his point of view. “I was trying to stop you from leaving but I got dizzy,” you admit.

One of Joaquin’s thumbs swipes gently back and forward over your cheek. “I’m sorry,” he mutters. “I got a little carried away there, didn’t I?”

You nod a little but stop quickly as your head spins again. Joaquin notices and promptly instructs you to get back into bed properly, but to do it slowly and carefully. He stays beside you the whole time, helping you when needed, and then sits on the edge of the bed beside you, one of his hands taking hold of one of yours.

“It’s okay, Joaquin,” you reply to him finally. “You were worried about me, I know. If I was the one who got a phone call saying you were in an accident, I’d be the same way. But I’m okay. Really. I’m a little banged up but it’s nothing I won’t heal from. The last I heard from the nurses, the police were already questioning the man who ran the red light. He’ll get what he deserves when it comes to punishment. I’m sure of it.”

Joaquin’s grip tightens on your hand a little at the mention of the man who’d caused the accident. “He deserves worse than a little bit of jail time for hurting you,” he murmurs, shaking his head as he thinks it all over. “I’m not leaving your side until you’re all healed, you know?”

You smile at him. “I’m counting on it. I’m going to need you to wait on me hand and foot until I’m better. I won’t be able to open anything with this broken arm. I’m going to need help with everything,” you say, a little teasingly. “I expect flowers every day as well.”

He chuckles. “As if I don’t wait on you hand and foot already, angel.” He reaches up a hand, one of his fingers swiping along your bottom lip. “This is going to be a bitch to heal, though,” he says, referring to the cut. “Every time I kiss you, it’ll make it hurt.”

“I think I’ll just suffer the pain in order to kiss you, Joaquin,” you admit with a small laugh, your hand squeezing his. “You’ll just have to be a little more gentle with me sometimes when it comes to kissing me.”

Joaquin smirks a little. “That’s gonna be a pretty difficult thing to promise…”

You roll your eyes jokingly before catching his hand in yours as he tries to move it away from your face and pressing your lips to the palm of his hand – even though your lip stings a little at the pressure. Joaquin’s face softens instantly at the small gesture.

“You’re really okay?” He asks softly.

“I’m going to be,” you insist. “I’ve got a pretty good Doctor at home.”

He grins. “Yeah, I’ve heard he’s also really good looking so you’re pretty lucky…”

#joaquin torres #joaquin torres x reader #joaquin torres x you #marvel #marvel x reader #mcu x reader #captain america brave new world #falcon

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multific · 5 months ago

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A Light in the Darkness

Count Orlok x Reader

Summary: In need of shelter you find an abandoned castle. Or at least you thought it would be abandoned.

The storm was ruthless, a howling windstorm that tore through the forest and drenched you to the bone.

You’d been travelling to the next village before the weather turned, but now, with no end to the storm in sight, you desperately desired shelter as you shivered.

A flicker of light through the trees caught your eye, and as you got closer a castle came into sight.

It towered above the forest like a sentinel of despair, its rough silhouette framed by flashes of lightning.

Hesitant but with little choice, you made your way to the massive door and knocked, your hand trembling as the sound echoed through the building.

The door creaked open, revealing a tall, lean figure.

The man, if he could be called that, stood in the shadows, his pale skin almost glowing against the darkness. His eyes, sunken but piercing, fixed on you.

“What brings you here?” he rasped, his voice as cold as the wind.

“I... I need shelter,” you stammered, clutching your cloak tighter. “Just until the storm passes.”

He seemed to consider this, his lips curling into something that was neither a smile nor a sneer.

“You would be wise to turn back. This place is not safe for someone like you.”

“I have nowhere else to go,” you said firmly, though your heart pounded in your chest.

With a sigh, he stepped aside.

“Very well. But do not say I didn’t warn you.”

The interior of the castle was just like its exterior, dark, cold, and filled with an eerie silence.

You couldn’t help but shiver as he led you up a couple steps to a small sitting room.

“I’ll find you something dry,” he muttered.

You watched as he walked away before disappearing into the shadows.

As you waited, uneasiness lurked up to you.

Something about him was deeply unsettling, and yet, there was an odd charm to his presence.

When he returned, his demeanour shifted.

He spoke little but watched you intently, his gaze flicking toward you whenever he thought you weren’t looking.

But you were and you noticed.

As the night continued on, his warnings became more insistent.

“You should leave at dawn. This place... it is not meant for you.” he said suddenly, his voice low and urgent.

It held a lot more darkness than before.

His tone was enough to send a shiver down your spine, and as you backed away from him unfortunately for you, your foot caught the edge of a step.

With a cry, you tumbled backward, pain flashing in your ankle as you landed.

He was at your side instantly, his movements unnaturally fast.

“Foolish girl,” he muttered, though there was no malice in his words. He knelt beside you, his long fingers hovering near your injured ankle. “I told you to be careful.”

“I didn’t mean to- You scared me.” you began, but your voice stuttered as pain shot through you.

“Don’t move,” he ordered. “You’ve injured yourself.”

Knowing that you couldn't leave with such an injury, he carried you to a room. It was old and very dusty but it had a bed.

At least you weren't freezing outside.

At least he didn't throw you out.

For the next few days, he tended to you with surprising gentleness. Though he rarely spoke, his actions revealed a quiet care that softened the fear you had felt before.

He brought you meals, ensured the fire never went out and constantly checked on your leg.

You did notice that he disappeared during the day. Locking his room to ensure you won't get in.

But during the night, he came out. As soon as the sun disappeared, you heard his door creak open and his footsteps carried him down the hallway.

As the days turned to weeks, the tension between you changed.

You found yourself drawn to this mysterious man, and he seemed less intent on pushing you away.

One evening, as he sat across from you, his eyes lingered on you longer than usual.

“Why are you so kind to me?” you asked softly as you continued your dinner.

He hesitated, his long fingers curling around the armrest of his chair.

“Because I caused your pain, I scared you,” he admitted. “And because... you remind me of something I thought I had lost.”

“What’s that?” you whispered.

“Light,” he said simply, his voice barely audible.

Your heart ached at his words, and without thinking, you reached out to take his hand. His skin was cold, but he didn’t pull away.

You took that as a good sign.

“You’re not as frightening as you think,” you said, smiling.

“I’ve spent centuries convincing others I am.” he replied. "Now eat up and go to bed." he replied before he stood from the table and left.

He never ate a bite.

In the days that followed, you began to see a warmth in him, one he tried to hide but couldn’t entirely.

He started smiling more, given that his smile was faint and barely noticeable if you blinked at the wrong time.

His eyes also softened with time whenever they met yours.

On the final night of your stay, as you prepared to leave, he stopped you in the doorway while you were packing your bags.

“You don’t have to go,” he said, his voice quiet but firm. “This castle has been dark and cold for so long. But since you arrived, it feels... alive.”

"Only the castle? Is that why you want me to stay?" Tears welled in your eyes as you stepped closer to him.

He cupped your face with surprising tenderness, his sharp nails carefully avoiding your skin.

“You’ve given me something I thought I’d never feel again,” he said, his voice breaking slightly. “It is not only my castle that needs you. I need you, Love. Will you stay here with me?”

"Yes. I will stay here with you."

Before you could say anything else, he leaned in, his lips brushing yours in a kiss that was gentle and full of emotions.

A kiss that was filled with both said and unsaid words.

From that day on, the castle no longer felt like a place of shadows. Together, you filled it with light, warmth, and love.

Taglist:

@castellandiangelo @imagines-by-a-typical-fangirl @manduse @jacalineiscomingforyou

@mandoloriancookie @deliciousfestsalad @lilliumrorum @asgards-princess-of-mischief

@fallout-girl219 @dracaryxzs @snowtargaryen

@mel-vaz @akamitrani @ange-olras @nicholaschavezslut69

~Masterlist~

ˇAO3ˇ

/DO NOT TRANSLATE, STEAL OR REPOST ANY OF MY WORKS TO THIS OR OTHER PLATFORMS/

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soaps-mohawk · 7 months ago

Text

The Angel and The Devil

Kyletober Day 17: Double Penetration

Summary: In the back of the bar in a booth just barely visible, they are seated. You’ve been eyeing them since you first caught a glimpse, almost drawn to them in a magnetic haze. You can’t help but look, even if you run the risk of being caught staring. You have yet to be so unlucky, as their attention seems to be on each other the most.

Pairing: Incubus!Kyle x reader x Incubus!Johnny

Word Count: 6,688 words

Warnings: NSFW, 18+, explicit smut, p in v sex, unprotected sex, anal sex, fingering, oral sex (m and f receiving), munch!Kyle, costumes, demons, symbolism, slight coercion, alcohol, language

A/N: And here we are! We've arrived at the end of Kyletober for what I think is my favorite fic of the month. It's been a fun month and I've had a good time with these fics and seeing everyone's reactions. I hope you've enjoyed the last month as well and Happy Halloween everyone!

MASTERLIST

The bar is full of all sorts of characters and creatures tonight.

It’s Halloween which means the bar is fuller than usual, even on a weekend. It had been a last minute decision which led you to the bar. After a rough day at work you needed a pick-me-up and so you had gone to the nearest store, grabbed one of the few remaining costumes off the shelf in favor of not sticking out, and then headed to your favorite bar.

“Did it hurt when you fell from heaven?”

You’re beginning to regret not looking closer at the costume you grabbed. The cheap angel wings are too tight, the elastic straps digging into your underarms. The halo bobs precariously on your head with every movement, and you’re half tempted to just take them off and shove them in a bin.

“Yes, actually.” You say, turning to the Frankenstein that has saddled up to you at the crowded bar. “It means I have to listen to cheesy pickup lines all night.”

You ignore the jeers of Frankenstein’s friends as you turn back to your drink, casting your gaze around the bar again. You’re just here to numb the sting of a particularly awful day at work, and nothing more.

At least, until your gaze lands on them again.

In the back of the bar in a booth just barely visible, they are seated. You’ve been eyeing them since you first caught a glimpse, almost drawn to them in a magnetic haze. You can’t help but look, even if you run the risk of being caught staring. You have yet to be so unlucky, as their attention seems to be on each other the most.

It’s not fair how beautiful some people are. How blessed others can be with good genetics and decent bone structure. The two at the back of the bar may as well be models.

They’re...beautiful.

The one with the mohawk is all playful grins and boisterous laughter. There’s a roughness to him, more handsy than the other one, even as his bright blue eyes scan the bar occasionally. The other is softer with near perfect skin, short cropped curls, and the most dazzling smile you think you’ve ever seen. That smile still holds a teasing tilt to it though, but he’s not as blatant with it as mohawk.

The devil horns on his head don’t fit him. He should be the one dressed as the angel.

They’re both wearing cheesy devil horns and you suppose the matching tails. There’s a cheap plastic pitchfork leaned against the booth next to mohawk. The look fits him perfectly with his devilish grin, though you suppose the devil is supposed to be beautiful, so perhaps it does fit his partner as well.

You knew they were together as soon as you laid eyes on them. It’s not hard to tell. How close they sit, the way lips brush ears when they lean in to whisper. Smirks cocking lips in upwards turns as hands move under the table. They’re a beautiful couple. Far out of your league.

Yet you can’t help but imagine it. Screw the angel and devil on your shoulders, you want two devils. One in front, one in back. You can almost imagine the heat their bodies give off, the push of solid muscle on each side, sandwiching you between them.

Your teeth sink into your lip at the idea.

You turn your gaze back to them, nearly jumping as you meet a pair of bright blue eyes. You’re shocked for a moment, not expecting him to be looking right at you. His eyes have passed over you a number of times as he’s looked around the bar, but this is the first time he’s ever looked at you. There’s no mistake. He’s not looking at anyone else. His eyes are locked on yours, almost as if he had read your mind, seen your inner thoughts about the two of them.

Something holds you there, the magnetic energy that had drawn you to them strengthening. Heat pulses between your thighs as mohawk’s tongue darts out wetting his bottom lip. Those lips lift in a smirk and suddenly the spell is broken.

You whip back around to face the bar, cheeks blazing. The halo on top of your head bobs at the sudden movement, nearly pulling the headband from your head. You steady it with a hand, taking a deep breath. Shaky fingers curl around your drink and you down the rest of it, ignoring the burning in your throat from the strong liquor.

Of course eventually you’d get caught staring. It’s not like you were being very inconspicuous, out here eyeballing them blatantly.

“Can I get you another?”

The voice makes you jump, the empty glass in your hand nearly clattering onto the bar. Your head whips around, eyes widening as you stare at the angel before you. Well...devil before you.

He’s even more beautiful up close. His skin is perfect aside from the scar on his cheek. His eyes are deep brown, and the longer you stare at them, the more you feel like you’re sinking into their depths. You get a firsthand look at that dazzling smile as he flashes one at you, showing off perfect white teeth.

There’s an edge to that smile, though, something in the back of your mind starting to itch.

“Can I buy you another round?” He asks again in that smooth, honeyed tone. It’s captivating, almost floating straight into your ears like a song.

He’s staring at you, waiting patiently for your response. You clear your throat, nodding before you can even think about it. “Y-Yeah. I could go for another.” Your hand reaches up, steadying the halo again as it bobs back and forth.

His eyes watch your hand for a moment before he grins, dropping his gaze back to yours. He flags the bartender, giving him your order. You’re too busy staring at him, enraptured by his beauty to wonder how he knew what you were drinking.

“Would it be too cliche to ask what a pretty angel like you is doing here alone?” He asks, leaning against the side of the bar, blocking you from the werewolf next to you that had been eyeing you as you stared across the bar.

Your face warms, a laugh leaving your lips. “A little maybe.” You should stop there. “Getting some stress relief from that 9 to 5 grind.” The words leave your lips before you can stop them. You’ve lost complete control of your body and your mind in his presence.

Something is wrong.

Alarm bells go off in the back of your mind as he turns to the bartender. He slips a note across the bar, telling the bartender to keep the change. You had glimpsed it before it disappeared in the bartender’s hand. It was far more than two drinks would cost.

The bad feeling disappears from your mind as he turns back to face you, both of your drinks in hand. “Why don’t you come join us?”

Say no!

You nod, almost feeling like you’re in a trance. “Yeah, okay.”

He grins, his eyes flashing with something too fast for you to tell what it is. “Come on.” He motions with his head.

You slide off the bar stool, the two words almost feeling like a final signature on a contract, sealing your fate for the evening.

You won’t be leaving alone.

Your feet move automatically as you follow him across the bar to the booth where the other is still sitting. A tingle runs down your spine as he continues to stare at you. You feel almost like prey being stared down by a hungry predator.

Perhaps you are the prey. The angel caught between the claws of a devil.

You slide into the booth without even having to be told to, your body still moving automatically as you wind up between the two. Your drink is set down in front of you, and you don’t bother to notice how the one in front of mohawk hasn’t been touched.

“Aren’t ye a bonnie little thing.” Mohawk says, draping his arm across the back of the booth. “Call me Johnny. That’s Kyle.” He says, nodding to the one on the other side of you.

You tell him your name, still feeling like you’re in a daze, trapped under his sharp blue gaze. Your wings move slightly, his fingers playing with the feathers strapped to your back. It feels almost ironic being trapped between them.

You certainly won’t be feeling much like an angel by the time the night is over.

“Saw ye lookin’ from the bar.” He continues, a smirk playing on his lips. It sends a shiver down your spine, but you can’t tell why. There’s something dangerous in there, some sort of threat raising alarm bells in the back of your mind. “Pretty little angel hoping to catch the attention of a couple of devils, huh?” He adjusts the twisted elastic strap of your wings. It makes your stomach clench, having his hand so close to you, his knuckles brushing against the side of your breast.

Something feels off, some primal part of your brain screaming, but you can’t quite hear what it’s saying. You’re too caught up in his magnetic presence to care about much else.

“Like what ye see, angel?” He asks.

You nod, still caught under his gaze. Your brain feels foggy, like you’re slipping into a daze. For a moment you panic that someone might have drugged your drink, that Kyle might have slipped something in while you weren’t looking. It’s easily done. All it takes is a second and you let him carry the drink all the way from the bar to the table.

Hands turn you around, the hazy fog disappearing as you meet Kyle’s brown eyes. Sudden clarity washes over you as you’re turned away from Johnny, almost as if he had been holding you under a spell. There’s still a faint buzzing in the back of your mind as you stare at Kyle and his soft grin. It’s so soft and comforting compared to Johnny’s intensity.

“Such a pretty thing.” Kyle says, reaching up to tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear. His touch is electric as his fingers brush against you, your skin tingling all the way down to your toes and he’s barely touched you. He adjusts your halo as it wobbles, still holding your gaze.

“Been watching ye since you walked in.” Johnny says, suddenly closer behind you, his breath warm on the back of your neck.

You know that’s not true.

You don’t care.

“Knew ye were watchin’ us.” Johnny continues, his lips brushing the back of your ear. “Knew ye were interested.” He chuckles. “A little angel interested in a couple devils.”

A shudder runs through you as he presses a kiss to the skin behind your ear. His lips are warm, almost hot against your skin.

You feel warm again, your mind starting to go hazy as Johnny’s lips press soft kisses against your skin. Kyle’s hand drops to your thigh, fingers trailing up your jeans. You almost wish he’d slip that hand between your thighs, but instead he skirts it around to the outside, trailing those fingers up to your hip.

A couple devils indeed.

“Well?” Kyle asks, snapping you back into awareness. Johnny is pressed fully against your back, now his lips almost lazily brushing your skin. “Are you interested?”

Say no.

Some deep part of your brain is screaming, sounding off all the alarms and raising all the flags, yet you can’t bring yourself to listen to it, much less care. You’re in too deep and the only way out is to go deeper.

You’re not sure you want to stop.

You nod, your lips parting as Johnny presses a searing kiss to your skin.

“Need ye to say it, hen.” Johnny says, his hand closing around your side.

“Yes.” You breathe. The words feel like the fall of a gavel, the stamp of approval on that contract you signed by agreeing to join them in the booth. You’ve sealed your fate for the night.

There’s no going back now.

“Good.” Kyle says, leaning forward to kiss you.

His lips are soft, incredibly soft as they press against yours. He tastes like liquor, whatever sweet cocktail he had been sipping on. A quiet sound leaves your lips as his tongue presses into your mouth, his hand reaching up to grip your chin. You’re lost in the kiss, mind going blank as your body begins to tingle. Your panties are quickly dampening, the fabric sticking to your skin. Another hand drags up your leg, and you begin to curse your decision to wear pants. Who wears pants to a bar?

Someone who didn’t expect to pick up anyone tonight.

Or, well...get picked up.

Johnny’s hand squeezes your thigh, his chuckle vibrating against your back. “Gettin’ her all worked up.” He presses his face against your neck, Kyle tilting your head so he has more room. “Can almost taste it.”

His lips brush the side of your neck, his hand trailing higher on your leg. For a moment you hope he’ll take pity on you and slip it between your thighs, but instead he slides it higher, slipping it under your shirt.

You pull away from Kyle’s lips as Johnny’s warm hand meets your skin. It’s electric, his touch like fire against your body. Your head tilts back against his shoulder, a moan slipping from your lips as your pussy begins to throb. Johnny chuckles again, Kyle’s mouth moving to your neck. One of your hands grips the edge of the table as Johnny’s fingers brush the skin of your stomach, holding on for dear life.

All he’s doing is touching your skin. What is it going to feel like when he finally sinks his fingers between your legs?

You let out another moan as his hand slips higher, skirting dangerously close to your breasts. Reality slams back into you for a moment. Sure, you might be tucked in a back corner of the bar, but there’s still people around you. You’re still in a public place. You cast a nervous glance around the bar as Johnny’s hand cups your breast under your shirt.

No one is looking at you.

It’s almost like they can’t see the three of you at all.

“I think she’s ready.” Johnny says, pulling his face from your neck as his hand squeezes your breast through your bra.

Kyle hums, pressing one last searing kiss to your throat before he pulls his head away. “I think you’re right.”

“C’mon kitten. Let’s go somewhere more private.” Johnny all but growls in your ear.

You don’t remember the taxi ride home. You don’t remember getting up the stairs to your apartment or opening the door. You don’t remember telling them where you live at all.

They’re on you as soon as you reach your bedroom, sandwiching you between them again. Johnny in the back, Kyle in front.

You don’t remember telling them where your bedroom is.

“Look at her.” Kyle coos, holding your jaw in his hand. His thigh is pressed between your legs, the seam of your jeans pushing deliciously against your throbbing slit as you grind against his leg.

“Needy little thing.” Johnny groans, his hips grinding against your ass.

“Could say the same about you.” Kyle smirks, his hand sliding down to your neck. He doesn’t squeeze, just holds it there, solidifying the silent agreement.

They’re in charge.

You’re just along for the ride.

“Want to taste her.” Kyle groans against your lips, his thigh pushing harder against your clothed pussy.

“Always so impatient.” Johnny says, undoing the button and zipper on your pants. “Yer in for a treat, hen.”

Your feet leave the floor as Johnny picks you up far too easily. You drop on your bed, the mattress creaking as you bounce on it. His hands curl around the waistband of your jeans, tugging them down your legs in one pull. He spreads your legs apart, staring down at your panties. They’re nothing special, certainly nothing you’d wear if you had been expecting something like this.

You just went in for a quick drink.

Now look at you.

“Would ye fuckin’ look at that.” Johnny says, whistling quietly as he stares at the damp spot on your panties.

“I think you were right.” Kyle says, resting his chin on Johnny’s shoulder, staring down at you as well. “She is ready.”

“Fuck.” Johnny curses, reaching down to tug your panties off too. You suddenly feel exposed, spread open before them. It’s been a long time since you’ve brought a stranger home from the bar, much less two.

“She’s thinking too much.” Kyle says, pushing Johnny to the side so he can kneel down in front of you. He tugs your hips until they rest right on the edge of the bed, tossing your legs over his shoulders. The halo on your head shifts at the movement, nearly coming off. You’re still wearing your costume.

So are they.

“Then ye best fix that.” Johnny says, pulling his shirt over his head.

You want to stare at his exposed skin, but you’re distracted as Kyle’s tongue drags through your folds. He knows what he’s doing, applying just enough pressure to make your pussy clench. No time is wasted as he dives right in, his mouth closing over your clit as he slurps at your drenched pussy. He’s like a starving man, pushing his tongue into your hole before licking his way back up to your clit, tasting every inch of you that he can. It’s like only you can satiate him and his need, his hands curling around your thighs to keep you pressed up against his face with no fear of suffocation or drowning. That’s a good thing, because with the way you’re gushing on his face, that may be an actual fear.

The bed dips as Johnny kneels behind you, crawling up so his knees are beside your head. You tilt your head back, expecting a cock in your face but instead you’re surprised to find him still in his briefs. He’s hard and bulging through the fabric, but still covered nonetheless. His hands land on your chest, slowly dragging down to your breasts. He palms them over your shirt, his thumbs circling over your nipples through the fabric.

“Johnny loves a good pair of tits.” Kyle says, pulling away for just a moment before his lips wrap around your clit again.

Your hips jerk, another moan leaving your lips as Kyle gets back to work. Johnny finally relieves you of the angel wings, pulling the elastic down your arms before tossing the cheap cardboard and feathers to the side. His hands slide over your breasts again before trailing downward to the bottom of your shirt. His fingers curl around the fabric, yanking it up, somehow managing to pull your bra with it. Your halo comes off with your shirt and you half expect it to hit the floor with the wings, but instead Johnny pushes it back onto your head. Your shirt and bra get tossed to the floor with the rest of your clothes.

You’re the only one fully naked, and for some reason that leaves you feeling very exposed.

You don’t get much of a chance to dwell on that tickling still itching in the back of your mind as Johnny’s hands brush your skin again, his palms cupping your breasts. He leans over you, a set of dog tags hanging in your face. You stare up at them as they dangle over you, swinging back and forth as Johnny massages your breasts.

“Prettiest fuckin’ tits I’ve ever seen.” He groans, squeezing them gently.

You glance down, just catching the look Kyle gives him as he licks another line up your slit.

A yelp leaves your lips as Johnny’s fingers tug on your nipple, a yelp of surprise more than pain. It feels good, something you’ve never been able to feel there before. Then again, everything feels good right now.

They play your body like an instrument, Johnny teasing your breasts while Kyle licks and sucks on your pussy. They’re so intune with each other, Johnny’s fingers almost a mirror of Kyle’s mouth. It’s almost eerie how they intuitively seem to know what the other is doing, and how to make you feel the most pleasure.

They’ve done this before.

Your slick is soaking your comforter but you don’t care, too busy being caught up in the waves of pleasure coursing through your body. You’re just getting started and already your toes are curling, heels digging into Kyle’s back as you get closer and closer to the edge. You’ve never felt this way with anyone else, an energy thrumming beneath your skin. You feel electric, you feel alive.

“Gonna cum!” You gasp, heels digging harder into Kyle’s back. He offers no complaint, sucking harder on your clit.

Johnny tugs on your nipples at the same time, intensifying the sensation as your back arches, cumming all over Kyle’s face. He licks up every last drop, pushing you almost to the point of overstimulation. It’s burning deep within you, your fingers curling around the comforter as you pant, sweat starting to bead on your skin. It’s too much and not enough at the same time.

He finally gives you some relief, pulling away from your pussy before you can reach that point of the uncomfortable sensation becoming pleasurable again. It was right there, right on the edge but you’re denied that feeling as he sits back on his heels. His face is shiny with your slick as he lets your trembling legs drop so they’re hanging over the side of the bed. You can’t move, far too dizzy with pleasure still from your first orgasm.

It’s only the first and you’re already feeling almost drunk on the sensation.

“Good?” Kyle asks, pushing himself up to stand.

You nod, still breathless. “Yeah. Yeah it was.”

A smirk tugs at the corner of his lips for a moment. “Taste good.” He licks his lips. “Sweet like sugar.”

“I want a taste.” Johnny says, approaching Kyle.

For a moment you think he’s going to dip down between your legs next, but instead his hand closes around the back of Kyle’s neck, pulling his face close. Johnny’s tongue licks at Kyle’s skin, lapping at your shiny juices still coating his face. Kyle offers no complaint, his lips parted as Johnny licks him. It ends in a kiss, all tongues and teeth as their bodies press tightly together. Your toes curl again, pussy throbbing at the sight of them together.

You could probably get off just watching them together.

Kyle’s hands slide down Johnny’s sides to his ass, pulling their bodies closer. They grind against each other, Johnny almost whining into Kyle’s mouth. You’re more than happy to watch them together, leaning up on your elbows so you can see them better.

“We’re neglecting our date.” Kyle says against Johnny’s lips.

“That’s not very kind of us.” Johnny responds, pressing another searing kiss to Kyle’s lips before they turn to look at you.

You gulp, suddenly feeling very small under their gaze as they stare at you like two hungry predators. Excitement thrums under your skin at the promises their eyes hold. The foreplay was exactly that, a warm up for what is to come.

You’ll certainly be doing a lot of that tonight.

They break apart, the bulges between their legs prominent as they stand before you.

“Tell us where ye want us, hen.” Johnny says, stepping up closer so he can drag his fingers over your thigh. Goosebumps form on your skin from the soft drag of his calloused fingers against the sensitive skin.

Your eyes dart between them a couple times, your pussy fluttering at the ideas flashing through your head.

One on each shoulder.

“One in front, one in back.” You stutter out, another rush of arousal coursing through you.

“Fuck yes!” Johnny cheers, pulling away from you to drop his briefs instantly.

“You just made his night, love.” Kyle grins, face still shiny from a mix of your cum and Johnny’s saliva.

Johnny’s briefs land somewhere as Kyle begins to undress, pulling his shirt over his head. You take the opportunity to truly look at them. They’re both fit and muscular, Johnny thicker and broader than Kyle’s lean figure. Kyle’s muscles flex as he reaches down, undoing his belt and jeans, giving you a good look at his abs. You lick your lips, watching his pants fall and then his briefs.

Both of them are still wearing their devil horns, but neither of them make a move to take them off.

“Lube?” Johnny asks.

“Drawer.” You say, pointing with your toes towards the dresser.

Johnny opens the top drawer, letting out a groan when he sees your panties.

“You’re going to lose a pair.” Kyle says, maneuvering you on the bed. He’s finally naked, cock hanging heavy between his legs. He’s almost perfectly built, thicker than he is long with a little curve.

Your pussy gushes at the sight of him.

He’s perfect.

He gives you a grin, something shivering down your spine as you stare at him. Warning bells are going off in your head, but they’re too drowned out by the need pulsing in your brain. Kyle lays himself out on the bed, fisting his cock in his hand. He relaxes back against the pillows, slowly pumping his cock as he stares at you with lidded eyes. You kneel between his legs, batting his hand away so you can wrap yours around his length. You lean down, dropping a glob of spit onto the tip of his cock before spreading it on his skin with your hand to lessen the friction.

You meet his gaze again, a shiver running down your spine as you find yourself captivated in those deep brown eyes. They look almost black in the light of the lamp on your desk behind you. They opted for that light instead of the overhead one. You don’t think too much about it. You always hate the bright fluorescent overhead light anyway.

The bed dips behind you as Johnny kneels on the mattress, his hands maneuvering you so you’re on your knees, your ass in the air. His hands smooth over your ass as you continue lazily pumping Kyle’s cock. The cool drip of lube on your ass makes you jump, your hand squeezing around Kyle for a moment. He lets out a groan, his head thumping back against the headboard. You keep that pressure as Johnny’s finger circles your hole, spreading the lube around the tight ring of muscle.

“Fuck,” you breathe, trying not to squeeze your hand any tighter around Kyle’s cock as Johnny pushes the tip of his finger past that ring of muscle. More lube hits your ass as his finger sinks deeper and deeper in.

You’re going to need more than one finger, from the glimpse you caught of his cock.

You close your lips around Kyle’s tip as Johnny continues to work you open on his fingers, pushing a second one in with more lube. He’s cautious and gentle, something you wouldn’t have expected from such an eager man.

Just the fact he’s even prepping you is shocking enough. Then again, they seem more than eager to be the ones giving you pleasure over themselves.

“Ye like that?” He groans, pushing his fingers into your hole. “Feel good?”

“Mhm.” You moan around Kyle’s cock, pushing back against his hand as he pushes in a third finger.

Your pussy continues to drip, your entire body clenching around his fingers as he sinks them in as deep as he can. You take Kyle as deep as you can into your mouth, his back arching up off your pillows as he moans. It’s the sweetest sound you’ve ever heard, like angels singing.

“Screamin’ Jesus.” Johnny groans. He pulls his free before slapping a hand down on your ass. “Go sit on Kyle’s cock for me.”

You release Kyle’s cock, licking your lips before doing what you’re told. You scramble up over Kyle’s hips eagerly, taking his cock in your hand again.

“Hi, love.” He grins up at you.

You can only let out a groan in response as you line his cock up, slowly lowering yourself onto him. He’s perfect, stretching you open deliciously. It burns a bit, but you don’t care as you continue to work him into your dripping pussy. Your legs are shaking already by the time you’re seated completely on him, your hands pressing against his lower stomach to keep yourself upright. He’s solid under your hands, but his skin is warm, almost hot under your touch.

He’s still staring up at you with those lidded eyes, his hands sliding to your thighs. “Good girl.” He grunts as you squeeze around him, his fingers digging into your thighs like he’s trying to hold himself back.

Maybe he is.

Johnny’s hand pushes between your shoulder blades, bending you down so you’re resting against Kyle’s chest. It moves his cock inside of you, a breathy moan leaving your lips at the change in position. Kyle releases his grip on your thighs, instead lifting his arms to wrap around your back. It feels intimate, the way he holds you. Far too intimate for just a one night stand.

Your fingers lift to brush the dog tags around Kyle’s neck. He’s wearing them too, the metal shockingly cold despite the furnace-like warmth of his body. You can’t read what’s on them in the dim light, but you don’t really care to know at the moment.

Johnny’s hand slides down your spine, smearing lube across your skin but you don’t care. It’s the cool drip of more lube on your ass that pulls you from your daze, the bottle snapping shut before hitting the bed somewhere beside you. Something thicker than fingers presses against your hole, your body clenching in anticipation. Kyle lets out a groan, his hips pushing up against yours as you squeeze around him again.

“Relax for me.” Johnny groans, pushing the tip of his cock against your hole.

You let out a long breath, willing your body to relax as much as you can. Johnny’s hand presses against the base of your spine, Kyle’s arms still holding you against his chest. His lips press against your forehead, something tingling against Johnny’s hand as you find yourself relaxing more and more.

A breathy moan leaves your lips as the head of his cock presses into your ass, stretching you despite the prep he’d given you. He’s so thick, almost spearing you open as he rocks his hips, pushing more and more of his cock into your tight ass. Kyle stays still, holding your body as Johnny continues to work his way in. He’s so thick you can feel every inch of Kyle’s cock inside of your pussy. You can’t do anything but lay there and moan in pleasure from the mix of sensations.

There’s a moment of silence, a deep breath as Johnny’s hips meet your ass. You’ve never been quite so full before, not like this, not so perfectly. They’re perfect, fitting into you like a glove, hitting every spot you could ever want them to.

It’s almost too perfect.

The thought is erased from your mind as Johnny begins to rock his hips, Kyle’s arms tightening around you as you begin to move against his chest.

“Fucking christ.” Johnny breathes as you squeeze around him, pussy clenching as Kyle begins to move under you.

“Bloody hell, love.” Kyle groans, pushing his hips up into yours, finding the rhythm of pushing in as Johnny pulls out.

Your nails bite into the skin of his chest as the pleasure continues to build. You were worked up before they stuck their cocks in you, and now having them both inside of you is almost too much.

Johnny bends over your back, changing the position of his thrusts. It pushes his cock against Kyle’s inside of you, pushing Kyle against that spot, his cock dragging against it with every movement of his hips. Johnny’s dog tags drag across your skin as he thrusts into you, the metal cool despite the moist heat of your bodies beginning to warm the room. Goosebumps erupt on your skin from the dual sensations, the warmth of their bodies, the cold of the metal against your back, the push and pull of their hips. It’s all so perfect.

They do the work for you, playing your body like an instrument again with that uncanny understanding of each other. Kyle’s cock pushes in as Johnny’s pulls out, keeping you on the precipice of pleasure as they fill you completely. You’re rendered helpless as you lay there, unable to do anything but moan as your second orgasm of the night continues to build. Your entire body is trembling and twitching, all of your weight resting entirely on Kyle, but he offers no complaint.

It doesn’t seem to bother him at all.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck!” You squeal as Johnny picks up the pace, thrusting into you so hard your headboard begins to knock against the wall. Kyle’s arms tighten around you, holding you still and using you for leverage as he thrusts up into you. “Please, please, please...” You repeat it like a mantra, your entire body on fire with pleasure.

Something tickles in the back of your mind, getting stronger and stronger the more you get closer to your orgasm. You can’t place it, you don’t care to, as your body writhes with pleasure.

“That’s it.” Johnny groans, “Fucking take it!”

“Gonna cum for us?” Kyle grunts, still thrusting up into you. “Gonna give it to us?”

“Yes! Yes!” You cry, your back arching as you push yourself up against Kyle’s chest.

The light behind you on your desk casts your shadows along the wall behind the bed. Your eyes watch the way they move and dance as you push yourself up so your back is against Johnny’s chest. Kyle’s arms drop from around you as you push yourself back, the new angle nearly blinding you with pleasure.

The halo still on your head rocks forward and backward almost violently as Johnny continues to drive his hips against your ass. His arms wrap around you, holding you up against his chest.

Perhaps it’s the pleasure numbing your mind, but you swear the room starts to get darker, the shadows lengthening as you stare at the dancing shadows on the wall. Johnny’s hand reaches up, tugging the halo from your head, letting it fall to the floor.

You’re frozen there, captivated as his shadow almost seems to get bigger, the fake horns still on his head starting to lengthen and twist. Something unfurls from his back, spreading across the wall as the shadows continue to press inward around you.

Wings. They look like wings.

White hot pleasure blinds you as Johnny pushes your face down into Kyle’s shoulder, his own body folding over your back. You’re sandwiched between them, unable to do anything but take the pleasure they’re bringing you. Your clit drags against Kyle’s stomach as he gives over control to Johnny, letting Johnny’s thrusts rock you on his cock. Your hand curls around Kyle’s dog tags, the metal still somehow cold against your fingers. They feel bigger now, thicker and wider than what they had looked like.

No, there’s not two of them anymore.

It’s one pendant on the chain, some kind of pattern imprinted on the smooth metal. Your fingers trail over the smooth surface, tracing the raised lines. You can’t tell what it is, far too lost in pleasure to rationalize what is happening. Kyle’s hand wraps around your wrist, pulling it from his dog tags. He uses it to pull you up, pressing his lips to yours in a kiss. Warmth floods your body at the press of his lips, your mind starting to go fuzzy.

“That’s it.” Johnny groans, grinding against your ass. “Give it to us.”

Your ears begin to ring as more and more pleasure builds, drool slipping out from your lips as you pull away from Kyle, your entire body tingling. There’s something coming, something building within you so strong you almost can’t take it. It’s too much, it’s not enough, it’s not coming fast enough.

“Come on.” Johnny says, pushing himself up just slightly to drive his hips downward against your ass.

You nearly let out a scream as the pleasure hits you all at once, fluid gushing out of you and soaking Kyle’s lower body. Your entire body writhes and shudders between them, the pleasure never seeming to end as Johnny continues thrusting almost violently against you. Kyle’s hands reach up, gripping your hips as he moans, his head falling back. You’re squeezing around them so tightly you’re shocked at how Johnny is still moving.

“That’s it.” Johnny groans. “That’s it.”

You feel like you’re floating, barely registering the way Johnny and Kyle kiss over your shoulder, groaning against each other’s lips. Your body twitches as you get further and further away, almost floating right out of your body. You’re exhausted, the energy and life draining right out of you as you milk their cocks of their own cum. It’s hot as it spurts inside of you, filling you up almost impossibly full.

Kyle’s hand presses against the back of your head, his voice low in your ear. “Sleep.”

You’re hungover.

You can’t bring yourself to open your eyes as you lay there on your stomach. Your head is throbbing, body weak as you groan in annoyance. You forgot to close the curtain last night.

The sun is streaming in, warming your room. It smells like sex, your skin still sticky with sweat. Memories from the previous night begin to fill your mind as you come more and more into awareness. It barely feels real, almost like last night was a dream. Did you really catch the attention of those two beautiful men at the bar? Did you really bring them home and fuck them both?

It feels like a dream, it might have been a dream.

You crack your eyes open, letting out a groan. You are alone, the only remnant of the night before the scent of them still lingering in the air. They smelled good, sweet and musky, so strong you could almost taste it. They smelled good, even sweaty from the heat and exertion.

You can still feel their touch like a phantom left behind in your memory. The brush of their lips and fingers, Kyle’s head between your legs, the fullness of your body as they fucked you into one of the best orgasms you’ve ever had. It was addicting. You’re not sure you’ll ever be able to feel as satisfied as you did last night, even with the way your head is throbbing and your body feels drained of all energy.

It was all so perfect.

It must have been a dream. You had too much to drink and fell asleep dreaming about two perfect men fucking you to the point you couldn’t remember your own name. There’s no way two men were such perfect matches for you and for each other. Perfection doesn’t exist.

You roll over onto your back, your limbs heavy with exhaustion. How long had the three of you gone last night? You can’t remember much past your first orgasm. You’re not even sure you remember your first orgasm.

It must have been a dream.

Something catches your eye as you roll over, tugging the blanket up around your chin. You squint through the blurriness and the haze of exhaustion, staring at your nightstand. peripheral vision

No, it wasn't a dream.

It was very real.

There's a set of dog tags sitting on your nightstand.

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aventurineswife · 6 months ago

Note

hello~ I was hoping I could make a teensy (hopefully it stays teensy request XP) Dan Heng, Aventurine, Dr Ratio, Jing yuan, Jiaoqiu and AE!Sunday with a s/o or spouse who gets cold very easily but they remain quiet and dont complain abt it out loud to avoid being a bother XPc 🍮♠

Unspoken Warmth

Summary: Your partner notices your quiet endurance of the cold and offers warmth in their unique way, despite your reluctance to show weakness.

Tags: Dan Heng x Reader, Aventurine x Reader, Dr. Ratio x Reader, Jing Yuan x Reader, Jiaoqiu x Reader, Sunday x Reader, Fluff, Comfort, Quiet Intimacy, Cold Weather Care, Protective Characters, Emotional Support, Silent Love, Soft Moments

You never complained about the cold. Not once. The chill of the wind outside the Astral Express had crept into your bones, and while most would have found the drop in temperature unbearable, you kept your discomfort to yourself. Dan Heng, however, was not one to miss the subtle shiver that ran through your body as you sat near the windows, gazing out into the vast, starry void.

He had noticed it before. How you would curl into yourself just a little tighter when the cold crept in, how you would sit with your shoulders drawn in, silently enduring the icy air without a single word of complaint. It wasn’t like you to ask for anything—Dan Heng knew that much. He respected it, perhaps more than you realized.

But that didn’t mean he was blind to it.

One evening, as the train hummed steadily through the vastness of space, he sat beside you, his sharp gaze flicking over the space around you. It had gotten colder, the sort of bite in the air that left no room for doubt. Yet you remained still, your posture ever so slight in your discomfort.

Without saying anything, he stood up and moved toward the cabin's storage. You heard the faint rustle of fabric, and then he returned, holding a thick, dark cloak draped over his arm.

“This should help,” he murmured, his voice soft but firm, as he carefully wrapped the cloak around your shoulders.

The warmth that radiated from the fabric immediately enveloped you, a small relief from the chill that had been gnawing at your skin. You opened your mouth to thank him but caught yourself. He was already back in his seat, his spear resting against the wall beside him. His demeanor hadn't shifted—stoic, calm, as always.

But then, you noticed the subtle change in his expression. His gaze, soft yet insistent, met yours for the briefest of moments. It wasn’t pity, but understanding. You weren’t the only one who carried silent burdens.

“I’ve got your back,” he added quietly, as though reading your thoughts.

And you knew, without needing to say a word, that he would always be there, silently offering warmth when you least expected it.

The cold had arrived swiftly, settling in with the smooth precision of a well-played hand in a game of cards. But unlike the calculated nature of your partner, this sudden chill seemed to have caught you off guard. Your body shivered slightly as the evening air settled over Aventurine’s apartment, the cold creeping into your bones.

You didn’t complain. You never did. Despite the discomfort of your quiet shivers, you simply curled your arms around yourself, hoping the warmth of your own body would be enough to stave off the cold.

But Aventurine—always observant, always attuned to the smallest details—had noticed. His sharp eyes flicked toward you, noting the way you hugged your arms tighter to your chest. He did not ask, he did not speak aloud, but within moments, you felt his presence beside you.

He draped his coat over your shoulders, the fur lining warm against your skin. You blinked in surprise, raising your head to meet his amused, yet tender, smile.

“Never thought I’d see someone like you let the cold win,” he teased gently, though his tone carried no malice.

You couldn’t help but smile in return, though you still said nothing. Aventurine’s smile deepened, as if he understood your reluctance to voice your discomfort.

“Stay warm, my dear.” he whispered, his hand brushing your hair back with a softness that felt almost too tender for the flamboyant strategist.

As he moved to sit down beside you, his cloak still wrapped around your shoulders, you leaned into him, letting the warmth from both his coat and his presence soothe the cold. No words were needed. With Aventurine, you had learned that sometimes, silence was the most profound way to express affection.

The cold was biting, a stark contrast to the usual warmth of the laboratory. You hadn’t said a word about it, of course. You never did. Your pride was too strong, your desire to not be a burden too ingrained in you. But that didn’t stop the creeping chill from seeping into your skin.

Ratio, ever perceptive despite his sharp and often dismissive nature, had noticed the subtle way your shoulders hunched as you worked alongside him. The shivering that danced along your arms hadn’t escaped his sharp eyes.

He did not comment. There was no question in his tone when he moved from the desk to the shelves, his fingers brushing over vials and medical instruments with precise ease. He returned a moment later with a heated compress, offering it to you without so much as a word.

“Place it here.” he instructed, gesturing to your hands.

You blinked at him, surprise momentarily breaking your usual calm demeanor. You hadn’t expected him to notice, much less to care.

Ratio’s eyes met yours—intense, unwavering, yet there was a flicker of something softer behind them. A quiet acknowledgment of your discomfort.

“It’s not weakness,” he added in a rare moment of tenderness. “Sometimes, even the strongest need a little help.”

You didn’t need to speak, but you gave him a small, grateful nod, the warmth from the compress beginning to seep into your body, making the cold feel a little less sharp.

It had become a routine. The cold would set in, and you would remain silent about it. You never asked for his attention, never begged for warmth, but Jing Yuan—calm, calculating, always two steps ahead—had noticed.

The evening had grown cold, and though you tried to remain composed, Jing Yuan’s sharp eyes caught the subtle way you tucked your arms around yourself, the faint shiver that ran through your form.

He didn’t speak a word at first, content to observe from a distance as you tried to maintain your stoic composure. But after a few moments, he stood, slowly walking toward you with the same deliberate pace he always maintained, his golden eyes softening with a quiet understanding.

Without asking, he wrapped a thick blanket around you, his hands brushing over your shoulders as he adjusted it for maximum comfort. His actions were practical, yet there was a gentleness in his touch that spoke volumes.

“You should have said something,” he murmured quietly, his voice carrying no reproach, only a subtle note of care.

You offered a faint smile, though you still didn’t speak, content to let the warmth of the blanket and his presence surround you. Jing Yuan simply nodded, his gaze distant but kind.

“I’m here,” he added softly, his usual authority giving way to something more personal. “Next time, let me know if you’re cold.”

And with that, you knew—without a word—that he would always be there to offer warmth, whether spoken or unspoken.

The cold came as it often did, unannounced and relentless. You tried to ignore it, as you always did, curling up with your thoughts and your work, pretending the biting chill didn’t bother you.

But Jiaoqiu, perceptive as always, saw through your act. His gentle eyes studied you from across the room as he prepared his alchemical concoctions, his hands steady and graceful. When he noticed the subtle tremble of your body, he moved toward you, his expression calm but his intent clear.

Without a word, he produced a thick, soft blanket from one of his cabinets and carefully draped it around your shoulders, ensuring you were warm but not overwhelmed.

“I know you don’t like to ask for help,” he said, his voice low and comforting, “but you don’t need to suffer in silence.”

You met his gaze, and for a moment, the weight of unspoken words hung between you. You hadn’t needed to say anything, yet Jiaoqiu knew exactly what you needed. The warmth from the blanket and his thoughtful gesture melted some of the cold, but it was the warmth of his care that truly made the difference.

And for the first time that day, you let yourself relax, allowing Jiaoqiu’s presence to be the healing you didn’t know you needed.

The cold had always been a silent companion. You never complained about it. You never showed weakness. It wasn’t that you didn’t mind the chill—it was simply a matter of pride. You would endure it silently.

But Sunday, ever the observant leader, had noticed. He saw the way your movements became just a bit stiffer, how your usual calm demeanor seemed to falter as the temperature dropped.

One evening, as you stood near the window of your shared quarters aboard the Astral Express, lost in thought, he approached without a word. You felt the weight of his presence before you heard his soft voice.

“You should’ve said something,” he murmured, his words carrying the authority of a leader, but with the gentleness of someone who truly cared.

Before you could respond, Sunday wrapped his long, elegant coat around you, pulling you gently into his embrace. The warmth of his body, combined with the softness of the fabric, melted the chill in your bones.

“You are not a burden,” he whispered, the quiet conviction in his tone breaking through your usual restraint. “I would have done this sooner if you had let me.”

For the first time, you didn’t feel the need to hide your discomfort. Sunday’s embrace, his warmth, was enough to make you forget the cold, not just around you, but inside as well.

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endursent · 7 months ago

Text

- Biting Cold - Searing Warmth

【 content; sunday x reader , astral express sunday , mutual masturbation , blood and injury, hurt/comfort , huddling for warmth , handjob , self-destructive thoughts , NSFW 】

【 note; thank you for all the likes, comments and reblogs on through the dark, the overwhelming support means a lot to me and gives my souls strength. please enjoy this much longer piece.

as always, the reader's gender is never mentioned, i avoided describing their genitalia and left it vague so that you can imagine your preference. 】

【 word count; 8.075 | read on ao3 】

He feels slightly out of place among the Astral Express, it’s not that he doesn’t physically ‘fit in’, all of you look different, act differently and portray yourself in very different ways… but Sunday hasn’t been able to see himself as part of the crew despite travelling with you for four months.

He feels like he’s made of stone, every movement is stiff and he has to make excruciating effort into every little action, he feels cold and hard, like an observing statue as opposed to a member.

There are days where he forgets that cold, when what he has come to recognise as typical shenanigans drags him into situations where he’s either forced to use his brain to solve complex problems or empathise with someone in a situation he didn’t think was possible. Days where he is on his feet and his mind tunnels to the mission at hand.

And there are others where there is silent travel, two days of calm traversal through the cosmos where he retreats to solitude and sees the sky get further away behind closed eyes. He tries to write down his thoughts and understand them, understand what his goal has become… the path he has taken leads towards the cosmos, towards discovery of himself as well as the universe, but what does he search for in the distant stars?

Is he merely searching for redemption? Should he not atone for the wrongs his ideals did to others?

Dan Heng had told him that endlessly searching to right a wrong that has already been done will only wear him down to his bones and bring no closure. That it will be an endless journey of selfish fulfilment, he will never be able to touch every person that was drawn into the dream—and that he should start with the person he can touch, himself.

He startles when he bumps into your back, his mind having been completely occupied with thoughts and distracted—as usual. Sunday grasps your shoulder to push himself back slightly as he gives the back of your head a glare. “Why do you walk in front of me? There’s more than enough space.”

You give a small shrug. “Just making sure you don’t walk into something, think of me like a cushion,” you wave your hand vaguely as you turn back around. The snow is getting deeper as you venture through the woods, at one point in the densest part, it reaches up to your knees as you practically climb forward, raising your knee stomach-high with every step.

Looking around, you squint through the all-white forest… there’s supposed to be a research facility out here, at least according to one of the locals that showed the group around. But all you see is snow and trees.

Sunday pulls his coat tighter around himself, he doesn’t yet have a very varied wardrobe to properly adjust based on the world the Express goes to next… perhaps he should have searched in the small town for an extra layer, the biting cold makes his fingers stiff and toes tingle uncomfortably. His nose is cold and whenever you turn your back to him, he tucks his wings against the front of his face like a shield, hoping his warm breath might give some comfort to his red nose and cheeks.

Finally, the trees spread further apart and the snow congested less, you take out your phone and unlock it… no signal. Well, at least you’ve been walking in a straight line, it’s unlikely you’ll get… lost…

You see a line of snow that’s been walked through across the clearing, it’s halfway snowed up again… and it looks exactly like the line the two of you have been leaving behind—but how could it be through this same clearing? You swear you haven’t turned at all since you left the town!

Sunday spots it as well and his teeth clench together. “That’s ours… have we been walking in circles?” he, too, was sure the path had been straight the entire time. How could you pass by your own footsteps leading across your current path?

You both stand still for a time, the gears in your head spinning, trying to understand how this came to be—does it mean that the way you came from now is wrong? Is left or right the way back. You heard Sunday click his tongue and turn to look at him… he looks terribly cold.

Feeling a bit bad for him—and certainly not wanting him to catch a cold, you zip down your thick jacket and pull your arms out of it. Being that you’re the only moving thing in his line of sight, Sunday immediately frowns at the sight. “What are you doing? You’ll freeze if you take that off—” he blinks as you hold the jacked out towards him, and he hugs his own coat closer to himself, lowering his chin under the scarf around his neck. “I don’t need your jacket, it is my own fault that I’m underdressed.”

“Doesn’t mean you should freeze,” you push it against his chest. “Come on, while it’s warm—we can take turns.”

Reluctantly, Sunday unwinds his stiffly cold arms from around himself and accepts the jacket, it doesn’t fit him perfectly… but the relief it brings is far more valuable. It’s still a bit warm from when it was wrapped around your own body, and he can faintly smell your scent along the neck of it. You give a smile and reach for the hood on the back, you pull it over his head, the fur lining it tickling his cheeks as his wings get pushed against his head and poke out of it, halo bobbing behind his head with snow lined around its outline.

“... thank yo—wh—?” his thanks is interrupted as you poke the feathers of his wings that are sticking out and push them inside the hood before pulling it slightly further down. “Stop—it’s perfectly suitable,” he waves your hand away. His cheeks were red already, but now more so with an embarrassed warmth as well.

You immediately feel the chill of the cold wind and shake your arms a bit before rubbing them for some friction. “Alright, alright—I’ll leave you be, come on. The sooner we find this facility the faster we’ll be out of the cold.”

He makes a ‘hmph’ sound and hunches slightly so that his face is nestled nicely in the collar of the puffy jacket. If you’re to take turns, he should try and warm up as quickly as possible… he doesn’t want you to be cold either. He only accepted as easily as he did because he knew you would hold him down and force the jacket onto him if he didn’t…

But the gesture resonates with him nonetheless. It would be easy for you to continue in comfort, the jacket doesn’t prevent cold entirely, but it brings a significant barrier to the wind and chill, especially with the hood protecting his ears and neck. Yet you still chose to share it with him… it almost brought more warmth to him than the jacket.

You have always been like this, he shouldn’t be surprised at this point… with every offer, every smile and nudge, his chest grows warmer.

His sleepless nights were never unaccompanied, you were usually in the kitchen past midnight—once because you ‘forgot to boil eggs for breakfast and are too tired in the morning to do it’, another time because you were simply thirsty, then it was the night before Welt’s birthday and you and March 7th were baking cupcakes at three in the morning.

It has become a habit when he cannot sleep, be it because his thoughts will not stop interrupting him, or because the deeds of the past pull his stomach down until he has to use a bathroom or he simply feels restless and has a need to stand and move… to go to the kitchen. It’s a separate carriage from the bedrooms and gives some peace and quiet, once when you were not there as he had become accustomed to, he had taken out his phone to send you a message and ask if you were awake.

Of course… he didn’t, as his thumb had hovered over the send button, he set his phone down and turned back to his water. Spending the dark hours of the night alone.

Not that there is a true night and day on the Express, it operates on a 24-hour cycle where the lights dim and the windows are blocked to emulate night—but Sunday is far accustomed to strange hours or wake and deep sleep.

Sunday is once again taken from his thoughts as you stop for the second time, looking around with a focused expression on your face. He follows your gaze but sees nothing amiss, just more snow and now distant trees. The sky is grey and the ground white, the falling flakes of snow blending the two seamlessly to blur the distance between earth and sky. “What is it?”

With a shimmer, your weapon appears in your hand, sturdy and warm against your cold fingers. “I heard something…”

Out here? It was a miracle if anyone found you out in the chilled wilderness like this.

“Remember what those kids said earlier? When we were in town?” your voice lowers, eyes still scanning your surroundings.

Sunday nods. “That… we should be careful because ‘kids who get lost in the forest turn into ghosts that eat people’?” he didn’t entirely believe them, it was most likely just a cautionary tale their parents tell them so they don’t run into the forest and get lost. No child will survive for long.

“I don’t much like ghosts…” you mumble, the shiver on your skin not only because of the biting winds. Your muscles are coiled, ready and tense… you’re no stranger to duking it out with a monster or two, or even people. But what if you can’t whack it away like you could anything else?

Sunday is equally on guard as you are, but less experienced with direct combat. He’s mostly relied on intellectual disputes in the past, as well as planning for conflicts ahead of time where he won’t have to directly face off against something.

You see something shift in the corner of your eye—it’s not a whole form, it looks like a misty shape that drags into the snow as it moves. You shift your feet towards it as it speeds towards the two of you. Sunday grasps your shoulder as if he’s about to pull you backwards, but before he can, you swing your weapon—and the misty form dissipates.

“...” your eyes flicker around to search for it. “Was that it?”

“I doubt it,” Sunday says quietly next to your ear, his voice clear above the cool brush of wind that’s been chilling your skin. “There,” he gestures to a shift between trees. “There is a flicker of blue between the shoulders, it must be the weak spot.”

Weak spot, you can deal with that—it can’t be much different from the game machines in Penacony, whack the glowing part.

“Be careful if it—” Sunday’s warning went ignored and interrupted as you lift your leg and charge toward the misty apparition. “Wait—!” damn it, he knows you have a tendency for recklessness, but at least let him do what he’s good at and create a plan of attack!

He struggles to wade through the snow to follow you, unfamiliar with navigating high snow. But he has no chance of catching up with you. You raise your weapon again and raise your hands to swing downwards—but the misty form moves and you miss, the body dissipating again, it’s already a pretty small form, but it’s mostly translucent too, it’s not easy to follow.

You’re so damn cold, it’s difficult to move as quickly as you usually could. You see Sunday stop halfway towards you and look around for the elusive creature… you’re not sure what it’s capable of, but your prickling instincts are telling you it’s absolutely not friendly. “Come, stay closer,” Sunday calls to you. “It’s less likely to surprise us if we watch each other’s flanks.”

He’s right. You start to wade through the snow towards him when something moves in the corner of your eyes to your right—the wraith-looking creature seemed more condensed than before, its form whiter as if the falling snow had blanketed its outline and made it more visible. The blue hue in it’s torso flickered and expanded as a sharp shard of ice formed inside its body, it wasn’t wide, but it was long and jagged—and it was facing Sunday, too far from you to be able to get to him in time if the speed at which the shard was made was anything to believe.

He seemed to see it as well, eyes widening only slightly in surprise at the sight—his gaze snaps equally startled towards you as you dash towards the wraith. What are you doing!? Sunday calls your name in both warning and surprise, concern clear in his startled gaze, the creature is clearly preparing an attack—you should be falling back on the defensive, and not charging right at it!

You hop surprisingly easily through the snow, each large step eating at the distance between the threat and yourself. Swinging the bat at it did nothing but dissipate it and let it reappear elsewhere—and you don’t have the body heat or stamina to chase it around for twenty minutes. Maybe if you grab the blue centre, it’ll materialise enough for you to break it.

Sunday cursed the high snow, trying to stumble through it towards you as you ran at the enemy. He watched as you leapt at it and tackled it down—surprisingly, the wraith did fall with you, but the way your body jerked as you landed in the puffy snow made his skin itch.

As soon as you tackled the wraith down, the shard of ice it was conjuring short forward as if it had been held back by a tight bowstring—and impaled itself in your body. The sudden, violent pain that burst from your torso made you nearly double over in on yourself. But you persisted and jabbed the end of your weapon into the core.

With a loud crack and sound of shattering, the core broke apart like a light bulb, as if it had been entirely hollow. The misty form dissipated once more, leaving only shards of blue on the snow under you.

Sunday calls your name again with more urgency, heart hammering in his chest as he finally makes it to you, he bends down to take your shoulders in his hands. “Are you hurt? You shouldn’t rush li—” his words stop in his throat once he sees blood padder onto the snow, the red colour a stark contrast to the pure white of freshly fallen snow.

For a moment, he doesn’t move, unsure what to do—does he tug you up into a sitting position? Onto your back? Where is it coming from? You’re on all fours already, so perhaps you can straighten slightly. “Let me see, let me see,” his voice is urgent as he sees the tremble of your hands and hears a strange sound, as if a thin sheet of ice was being stepped on. Sunday takes your arm that twitched towards your torso and sees frost hardening on your clothes and skin.

As soon as you had physically touched the wraith, your skin began to feel extremely cold, like you were perpetually laid against ice. Your entire torso prickled, but the worse of the pain was coming low in your abdomen, your eyes lower and you see the shard imbedded in your lower left abdomen, it was wider at the bottom and stretched the skin apart and cut your clothes where blood bubbled and dripped down into the snow. It felt like you had drunk ice cold water, the feeling of it leaking down into your stomach—except it was spreading from the ice, and every surface you had touched of the ghost.

“Let me see,” he says for the third time, firmer this time despite the small crack of his voice, whether it was from the cold numbing his nose and lips or the creeping anxiety at the back of his mind, it was hard to tell.

You gasp and cry out slightly as he tries to right you up, it feels as if the sharp shard in your body had just cut through the entirety of your torso with the small movement, tears bubbling at the bottom of your eyelids from the overwhelming sensitivity and pain. “S-stop—” you pant, voice barely audible between short, quick breaths, as if you were afraid that breathing deeper would hurt more.

Sunday swallows, he’s not a doctor and though he knows basic first aid, his knowledge of what to do in situations like this relies heavily on the fact further help was on the way—but out here in the snow and wind with no signal…

He shrugs off the puffy jacket you had handed to him earlier and he lays it over your back, the biting cold already cooling his shivering body. “I’m sorry,” Sunday apologises quietly, his heart is racing, and though he seems calm outwardly, it’s a very practised and well-crafted front. His thoughts are racing, heart hammering in his chest and cold fingers trembling. All he sees and seems to be able to focus on is the puff of your breath and the drops of blood continuously leaking from you.

He’s afraid. Afraid that trying to move you will hurt you further, afraid that it might do irreversible damage—afraid that the damage is already so bad that there is scarce time to act.

The wind blows again and a shiver shakes both of your bodies and Sunday knows that just sitting around fretting will do more harm than good. “I am sorry,” he apologises again, more sincerely, because he knows this will only cause more agony.

He wraps his arms around you, and hoists you up to your feet. Your breath leaves you as you instinctively try to hunch back down, the stretch of your torso is blinding, your vision almost whites out in pain as you gasp and curse. Sunday apologises for the third time as he tries to drag you with him, pulling your dead weight is no easy feat—he isn’t particularly strong physically, he would struggle to hold Pom-Pom for long. “Hold on…” Sunday says quietly, his breath heaving from the strain of dragging both of you through the cold. “It’s alright, you’ll be okay,” he tries to reassure you, he needs to keep you awake.

Sunday wasn’t sure he had ever felt so… anxious? Afraid? His skin felt like it was trying to tear away from his body, his hands and knees trembled and his heart clenched with every beat.

He is the one who should suffer, not you.

“Talk to me, you need to stay awake,” he urges, pinching the skin over your ribs. Sunday doesn’t want to create more pain… but if you fall asleep now, there’s no guarantee you’ll wake up again, and the thought makes his breath tighten.

Talk to him? No thought forms in your head, all you feel is pain. You want to throw up, your head is spinning and it feels like your ears are blocked out. “... o-okay,” is all you can manage. You can’t even move your legs to walk with him, he’s taking the entirety of your weight at this awkward angle.

“Good,” he peers into the distance. You need shelter—it would be a miracle if he found the town you departed from, or the facility you were looking for. But Sunday doesn’t consider himself so lucky. He looks down at you, slumped against him with sweat on your forehead despite the cold, he tugs the jacket closer to your body, trying to make sure you get some respite from the winds.

His legs burn, but he sees a raised part of the earth—there, it must be enough. “Almost there,” he murmurs your name, worry gnawing at his gut. “You’ll be alright, I’ll make sure of it,” he promises, holding you tighter.

You groan as he sets you down in the small cave you found, your limbs shaking terribly—laying on your back doesn’t feel great, but it’s probably the best position you could be in, it pulls slightly on your wound… but it’s better than being hauled around. Blood has leaked more from the wound because of the movement, and the cold spreading from it, as well as your arms and chest where you touched the wraith has begun freezing your clothes in place.

Sunday presses his lips together, this cave isn’t large, but he could immediately feel the relief that the shelter brought. The snow gathered at the entrance shielded you from the biting wind, and that’s what’s most important. He takes his phone out of his coat pocket, his fingers stiff and numb from the cold… no signal, still. It might be the snow and wind, perhaps it will come around if it dies down.

For now, there’s a far more important matter to tend to.

Sunday kneels by your side, his throat tight at the sight of your pain. He had never been particularly good at facing the pain of others with a calm and straight face, his deep sense of empathy and compassion makes him wish he could take the pain from you and bear it himself. Not to mention that he’s come to actually care for you, he has never felt himself so shaken like this—not since he had heard of Robin’s injury. Very few instances will shake him so thoroughly to his core as that did.

He tugs your sweater up, a small whimper leaving you as more cold brushes against your bare skin. The shard isn’t wide, it’s similar to his thumb, perhaps a bit wider… but he realises the severity of it nonetheless. It’s long, and…

Sunday hears the cracking again.

You had only moved your hand, your breath trembling. He looks down at the shard again and sees frost spread from it, it’s cooling your skin and hardening on it—it has to be removed. Everything in his mind is telling him not to touch it, leave it there so that you don’t bleed even more profusely. But if he leaves it in, your skin and body will freeze.

He says your name quietly. “I need to remove the shard,” he says slowly. Sunday reaches for your hand and holds your fingers in his palm. They’re ice cold, frost covering the gloves and threatening to freeze them in place. “It… it will hurt, and I apologise for having to do it.”

You squint at him, swallowing thickly. You can’t imagine how it will feel, and you feel anxious to let him. “A-are you sure?”

“Yes,” he nods, his hand slides up your arm and rubs it slightly, as if he’s trying to create friction and warm your skin. His wings are lowered, sitting against his shoulders as if saddened. He wasn’t entirely sure what the best course of action is, but surely you will have a better chance with an open, but dressed wound and not being actively frozen alive, than you will with the shard still inside of you and trying to actively kill you?

It’s a chance you’ll have to take.

He takes off his scarf but leaves his gloves on, he doesn’t want to touch the shard with his bare hands. “I will need to remove it slowly to ensure it doesn’t cut you further…” Sunday shifts on his knees next to you, the cave floor is just as cold as kneeling on snow. “I’m sorry.”

You’re not sure how often he’s apologised at this point, and you’re unsure why he feels the need to, this wasn’t his fault.

Before you can examine the thought further, he grips the shard and you gasp—even just touching it makes you panic. “W-w-wait—” your heart races. Don’t, it—

He pulls gently, and the shard moves. A scream tears from your throat and Sunday’s breath catches. He almost stops, but steels himself. If he stops now, it’ll be worse, he’s already started—he has to finish. He repeats his apologies like a mantra, your body jerks and he uses his other hand to press down on your left hip, trying to hold you still.

It only takes a few seconds, but they feel like minutes, minutes of tears and screams, of trembling fingers and gentle pulling. He has to pay attention to his movements perfectly, and has to make sure it doesn’t hurt you further.

And when it’s all over, he tosses the shard aside and bundles his scarf to lay over the wound as blood wells in the wound. His white scarf immediately colours red at the edges as tears slip down your temples. Sunday feels a rush of emotions after the ordeal, your screams and tears, the blood. Almost as if moving instinctually, he lays over you and wraps one arm around you, cradling your head into his shoulder as his other still presses against the wound. “I’m sorry, it’s over, you’re okay,” he whispers into your ear, his arms shaking equally to your entire body. “Focus on breathing, slowly. It’s over.”

He tears up as well, the soft wings by his head touch your jaw as he holds you, his breath shaking. He hadn’t even realised how tense he had gotten, and while the danger hasn’t passed—and you could potentially be in more danger freely bleeding as you are, it brings a small relief that the shard it out.

Your head spins, the pain has been so agonising, the fear and anxiety of pulling the shard out that you feel like you passed out for a moment. But feeling Sunday so close, holding you so tenderly, as if he were cradling a delicate feather between his palms… your hand that feels less frozen solid slowly raises, as if to return the hug—but your fingers poke at his halo by accident and he near shoots up, wet eyes large. Ah, touching a halovian’s halo probably doesn’t feel good, you think.

He blinks a few times and takes a breath. “L-let me focus on your wound, then we need to find a way to warm you up,” Sunday says hurriedly, sitting back on his knees.

His mind races as he tries to focus on pressing down on your wound, hoping it starts to clot faster. Your body was so cold, even your neck and cheek. Sunday himself doesn’t feel particularly warm… but he’s afraid that you’ll die from hypothermia if he doesn’t warm you up quickly. Sunday looks up to see that your eyes have slid shut and he feels his heart tighten. “Open your eyes,” he reaches up and pats your cheek with his palm, he says your name urgently. “Stay awake, just a little bit longer, please.”

He tries to keep you awake with encouragements and small pokes and pats, but your near violently trembling body needs more help. Sunday ties the bundled scarf to the wound tightly with a long ribbon from his coat—maybe this needlessly complicated outfit has its uses after all. He then focuses on trying to warm you up, he places his hands on either side of your arms and rubs them, creating friction. The frost that had built up on your clothes and skin hasn’t spread further, it was likely driven by the shard. Now he just has to warm you up.

But friction can only do so much, after a time, you’re moaning about it hurting, and as he lifts your jacket he sees the already reddened skin from the cold is raw and sensitive.

Sunday’s eyebrows pinch in thought as he does as before. “Let me share my warmth with you,” he utters and lays over you, now using both arms to wrap around you—he doesn’t dare move you into a different position than on your back. He still tries to rub every surface of your skin for warmth, but it’s not retaining heat well enough.

“We need to create warmth—” he jumps as he feels your cold fingers slide under his shirt. His stomach is warmer than his hands, and your icy fingers on it makes his entire body shiver. “O-okay,” he doesn’t say more, he doesn’t trust his voice to form fully.

This might be the method you need, and Sunday is determined to warm you up in any way you require… though this doesn’t very much help him retain his warmth.

As your fingers feel warmer and it’s easier to move them, you retreat them from his stomach and slowly raise them to his ears. Sunday blinks at you in surprise as your warmed fingers envelop his cool ears. “What are you doing?”

You give a weak smile, you’re still in pain, but you’re more lucid now that there isn’t a foreign object stuck in you. “We warm each other.”

His cheeks redden slightly as your fingers rub the shell of his ears to warm them, your fingers aren’t exactly warm, but they’re not completely cold either.

“It won’t be sustainable like this,” he says, still laying over you, just raised slightly with his elbows on either side of your head, his misty breath wafting over your cheeks. “We need to warm faster, more directly.”

You squint at him, he sounds like he was trying not to explicitly say something, but you had an inkling to what it was. “Like… sharing body heat?”

His head turns slightly, gaze avoiding you as one of his wings twitches, moving to his cheek as if to hide his face, you’re unsure if it’s a conscious movement. “... for example.”

You don’t see why not, desperate times and all that. “Okay, your coat is pretty big, we can use it as a blanket, my sweater too,” he has an easier time taking off his coat by himself, but has to help you take your sweater off. You shiver at first, but as Sunday sets his coat and your sweater over the two of you, and lays closer to you—still wearing a thin shirt—you feel subtle warmth.

Sunday struggled to even talk to you as soon as you huddled together, though there were thin shirts separating you, he felt the skin of your arms and collar against him. He’s never been this close to the glimpses of your skin only previously seen from a distance, now he’s close enough to smell you, to touch you.

He’s careful not to touch your wound, but keeps an eye on it. Your breaths mingle together and you lay your cold forehead against his shoulder to try and absorb any warmth he gives. Unfortunately, it’s not quite enough to keep both of you warm. He tries to rub your arms again, and you try to breathe warm air on his skin, but the solutions are very temporary.

Darkness has begun setting outside, and there’s little light inside the cave. You can still see each other, but it’s clear that nighttime is approaching. You whisper in Sunday’s ear next to you. “You cried for me, earlier.”

He doesn’t reply immediately, his hands that were rubbing your thighs for warmth halting for a moment. “... I did.”

“Do you often cry when people are hurt?” you wonder.

“Sometimes,” he continues to focus on warming you, trying not to think of your lips brushing against his collar when you talk.

He hadn’t just cried because you were hurt, because you were in pain… a thought had occurred to him as you screamed and shook as he removed the shard that it might kill you—that his actions might. He had done nothing but stand and watch as you had battled the wraith, he had moved slowly and been unsure how to help you after you broke its core… and he had brought you more and more pain. Even in trying to help, how can his heart not ache?

You who have always been so kind and patient, even when he sought to entrap the cosmos. Even when you stood on opposite sides of the grand theatre. You didn’t hesitate to include him, to make him feel welcome as he hesitantly stepped onto the Express. You sat with him during long nights and caught him when he experienced his first warp.

He doesn’t want you to die, he doesn’t want you to be hurt.

You seemed to sense that he had fallen deep into thought yet again, you raise your head from his shoulder and he turns his head to look at you. As he does, your cool fingers slowly raise and touch his cheek, it’s warmer than before. “You’re very kind.”

His lips part slightly, his expression is difficult to read as he stares at you from above, his eyes flicker from your eyes down to your hand, to your eyes again and do a round of your face. He opens his mouth further, as if he wants to say something, but only a breath leaves him that warms your own cheeks. He utters your name and it’s almost too quiet to hear. Slowly, his head lowers and you meet him halfway—his lips are soft, despite not having eaten or had water in hours, stuck in the cold, they don’t feel stiff or chapped at all.

As if he’d snapped out of a trance, it had only been seconds that your lips touched and he was pulling back, eyes wide. “I-I’m sorry, I should—”

“It’s okay,” you breathe, hand still on his cheek as you try to guide him back towards you. “You’re warm, and…”

He doesn’t need more of a reason, he’s been aching to be closer, his arms tremble with the strain of holding back. His body is so damn cold, and the inside of your mouth is warm as his tongue slips between your chilly lips. Your hand that rested against his cheek slides behind his head as he kisses you deeply, your head lowered against the cold floor, only cushioned by the fluffy hood of your jacket. His wings flutter and brush against your wrist as your other hand touches his shoulder. Sunday’s fingers that had tried to keep your thighs warm rise to your hips, one hand dangerously close to your wound.

Your mouth opens to warm him, your lips separating for a moment, but he presses on again. “I know,” Sunday assures you, and his gentle tone eases your wariness. “I’ll be careful.”

His lips part in tune with yours, the sounds of your wet kisses echoing in the cave, his thumbs rub at your hips as if he can’t keep his hands still and the only way to have them put in one place was to at least soothe you like this. Your cheeks are warm from the deep kissing, it’s almost suffocating the way his tongue drags over your lips and traces the inside of them, as if he’s trying to taste every surface of your mouth he can reach.

It was too much, the taste of you, the warmth of your mouth and your tight hold on his shoulder and behind his head. He needs more warmth, needs to feel it radiate from you and bask in it like touching a bonfire. Your cold fingers and shivering skin, the frost clinging to your sleeves and collar—he wants to make you warm again, feel your warm fingers against his own, like when you handed him a cup of tea during a long night and your fingers touched. Even the brief brush of another’s skin had stuck with him for weeks.

He groans against you and his mouth slides from yours, his lips trailing warmth to your cool jaw and throat, the chilled skin shivering again when he closes his mouth over thin skin between the juncture of your shoulder and neck. Your breath trembles as he worries it between his teeth, tongue gently brushing over the tingling spot once he’s done.

“I…” his breath is deep and wanting. “Let me warm you, please. I-I wish to touch you, to ensure you won’t shiver with cold any longer.”

You nod. “Help me,” the words are pleading on your lips. Your feet are numb with cold and your body has bouts of harsh trembling. You want him to touch you.

Sunday takes your lips again with his, as if he can’t get enough of your taste and the feeling of your mouth moving against his, he tilts his head to kiss you deeper as his hands lift your thin shirt to your collar, moving any barriers in his way as he moves the heat from between your lips and to your chest. Your body will quickly warm itself if he stimulates it appropriately, and he intends for the two of you to feel comfortably warm. “Wha—“ you weren’t expecting his mouth to seek there so quickly, and certainly were you not prepared.

His lips close around your left nipple, the warmth brought from it makes you inhale softly—but as the texture of his tongue drags over it, you nearly jerk in surprise, your wound aching from the sudden moment. Sunday’s hand holds your hip down on the side where there is no injury, his eyes looking to you from under grey eyelashes. “Please be still, I don’t want you to hurt yourself,” his breath fans over the moist point of your chest and you shiver again—for entirely unrelated reasons to the cold. He resumes his attention and you find that ‘being still’ is your greatest challenge today. Every single drag of his tongue, flick and suckle sends sparks through your body, it makes your fingertips twitch where they’ve claimed hold of his shoulders and your thighs flex. The most prominent tingles settle between your legs where you’re desperately trying to will down the rising need for attention.

Your cheeks and neck warm—and you make a high-pitched sound as his gloved hand moves to your other nipple, a poke followed by a pinch and his thumb sliding left and right over it makes your body instinctively squirm and tense. “S-Sunday—“ you breathe his name, unsure exactly what you want him to do or don’t, the sensations of his warm mouth and cold glove on opposite sides makes your head nearly spin.

“Do you feel warmer?” he looks up at you again, his golden eyes seem to glow in the darkening cave.

You nod again. “A little,” you’re still cold, especially on your stomach that’s bare And exposed to the cold air of the cave. Your left hand rises slightly to touch the wing above his shoulder—causing Sunday to tense as he blinks at you. You want him to be warm too, he’s been so diligent in trying to make friction against your arms and thighs, in hugging your coats together and huddling close… “Warm us both, together.”

He licks his lips in thought. Warm you both at the same time? He can only think of one method. Sunday takes your hands from his shoulders and holds them in his own, he raises them to his lips and blows air onto them before he guides them between your legs—and a distinct warmth emanates from there. It shouldn’t be surprising, having your chest touched and licked like that definitely pools heat there, but the way Sunday’s hands are so careful and his gaze so focused, as if he were unearthing a grand treasure or under an important assignment…

He buttons open and lowers your pants only as far down as needed, not wanting to expose your skin to more cold air than necessary. Sunday still holds your hands as he lays them over the radiating warmth of your crotch, he doesn’t directly touch you, only using your own fingers as a proxy to slowly slide and rub your cool fingers over yourself. You bite your lip as you twitch under your cold fingers, the stark contrast of temperature making your heart race more than it was already. But it does warm your fingers, the more he moves them. “This might be uncomfortable at first,” Sunday utters as he brings your hands up before guiding them into your underwear—with no barrier between your warm flesh and cold fingers, the temperature difference is even more stark.

His own cheeks are red now as well, and he releases one hand from you to lean over you again and bring your bodies closer. “Keep your hands there, move and touch as you can,” he says and fully lets go of your hands. He holds himself over you with his elbow on the floor next to your head—which you instinctively tilt your head towards to rest against, seeking his touch—while his other hand unbuttons his own pants and tugs them down only slightly. “I-if we… do this, then our bodies will warm… and so long as we huddle together, then—“ his body almost jerks as his cold fingers touch his own aching need. “—then th-the cold should subside somewhat.”

You nod, the movements familiar to you as your breath deepens—you were so sensitive, perhaps it was your cold fingers, or it could be the prelude of having your chest touched like that. This is surprisingly effective, but you still struggle to pay attention to your own pleasure and movements while Sunday is only a hair’s width of you, doing the same. So much of a distraction that your movements stilled, gaze fixed on the way his breath heaved, his head lowered so that his forehead was almost touching yours, his wings raised and shuddering.

Sunday seems to notice that you aren’t moving anymore, he swallows thickly and squints at you. “Wh-what is it?” his voice trembles slightly. “Does it hurt?”

He’s worried about your wound—and it certainly does ache, but your attention is far from being focused on that. “No… ah, can I… can I touch you?”

“What?” he doesn’t understand you at first, even though he’s been quite good at reading your expressions and words today. “You… want to touch me?”

You nod, and your hands leave yourself towards him, your warmed fingers touching his wrists—and his hands almost fly out of his pants in surprise. “I do,” you confirm. “Can I?”

He seems conflicted for a moment, eyes lowering before he nods. “Okay… I’ll take care of you too.”

A smile touches your lips. “Alright, I think it will warm us much faster.”

Your fingers slide under his underwear, his cock is already straining against his underwear, hard and hot to your touch. Sunday gasps as you touch him—your fingers aren’t nearly as cold as they were before, but he still tenses as if you had shoved snow into his pants. You grasp him gingerly, not sure what is too fast of an approach for him, but as his breath seems to slow at your gentle touch, you take it as a go-ahead.

With every stroke and movement, his hips twitch—as if they want to move with you but are held back by sheer will alone. Sunday can barely think clearly, all he feels is you, all he smells is your skin, mixed with sweat and blood that stirs something in him. He joins you, his hand touching you in return and immediately it’s like your entire body flares to life, your hand moves faster, careful still—and Sunday leans down again, his lips on your neck kissing and suckling, his cool nose brushing against your warmed skin.

“S-Sunday—ah—“ your breath shudders. “More, l-little bit down—mnh,” warmth was pooling in your belly quicker than you’re used to, the flexing of your stomach amongst the pleasure tugged on your wound a little, but the brief pain was just an enhancement at this point.

He breathes out your name, once, twice—with every stroke of your hand. You don’t feel that you can properly take care of him when his cock is confined within his pants like that, you turn your hand and tug his length out of them—and he springs free to the cold air, making Sunday suck in a breath, your sweater over his back almost sliding off. “Hahh, y-you don’t need to…”

“I want to,” you assure him, licking your lips as you have much better freedom of movement now, your thumb strokes over the head and Sunday whines. His hands redouble their efforts between your legs, pushing your pants and underwear a bit further down to give himself more room as well. “Fuck, Sunday,” you curse on instinct, the overwhelming feeling of liquid heat searing through your veins causing you to respond to his hands with your hips—you were getting closer, and with every touch and twist on the upstroke you make, he is as well.

“Ahh, please,” he presses his forehead into your neck, Sunday’s hips make no effort to cease their movements now, he fully meets your strokes, hips rolling with your hand—he’s pressed down so much that your stroking him against your stomach, his thigh pressing against his hand as he prays to bring you equal pleasure with his own fingers as you are doing to him. He makes a particular movement that you can’t describe—and the tight coil in your stomach that’s been spreading fire through you for minutes finally releases its tension.

You cry out slightly, both surprised by the intensity as well as the relief and soothing warmth that surges through you from his fingers and out to your fingers and toes, to your ears and behind your eyes.

Sunday almost seems to come undone simply at the sight of you doing so, he needs only a few ruts against your tightened hand, instinctively flexed with pleasure, to achieve his own, his entire body jerking and shuddering as a sticky wetness splatters onto your stomach.

It takes the both of you a few moments to to catch your breaths, but as soon as Sunday’s thoughts realign to a comprehensive read, he tugs his coat and your sweater that’s slid a bit askew over his back—somehow miraculously not fallen off—to huddle the warms built by your combined pleasures. He nearly jumps when he feels the evidence of his pleasure sticking to your stomach and quickly starts to dry it with his shirt. “I-I apologise, I should’ve—should have turned away,” he stutters slightly, his voice not entirely reliable yet.

But you only laugh softly, wincing slightly from the strain put on your wound—the worry in his eyes from only a mere wince makes your chest warm more. “It’s okay. We’re warmer now, and… it was good, you’re good with your fingers.”

His cheeks redden further—somehow—and his gaze leaves yours, looking at the floor next to your head. “Th-thank you… you did… very well, as well,” Sunday mumbles awkwardly.

You open your mouth to speak again, and suddenly both of your phones ping.

It’s stopped snowing and the winds have calmed, Sunday fishes for his phone to see seven unread messages from the Astral Express group chat. They’re asking for both of your locations and whether you’re alright, it’s been hours. He sighs in relief and sends your coordinates to them, the sooner you get medical assistance, the better.

You watch as he sets the phone aside. “No time for round two?”

Sunday looks at you as if you’ve sprouted two additional heads. “Round two? Already—? No, you—the injury, if—what?” he stumbles through three different sentences, and you only laugh softly. The halovian lets out a ‘hmph’ and turns his head away from you—his cold halo bumping into your forehead.

“Next time, then,” you rub the spot between your eyes where the spiky point of his halo smacked against you.

A sigh leaves Sunday and he turns his head to you again, a soft, warm kiss blessing the corner of your mouth. “… once you’re healed.”

#sunday x reader #sunday x you #sunday #sunday hsr #honkai star rail #my writing #fics #big time content #hurt/comfort #hsr x reader #honkai star rail x reader

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gatorbites-imagines · 5 months ago

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Friedrich getting 'infected' by proximity and becoming obsessed with dhampir reader?

Friedrich Harding x Dhampir male reader

Ficlet

I can’t deny I felt myself drawn to Friedrich, and it’s not just cuz its Aaron Taylor-Johnson playing him. The scene in the mausoleum… was something. This takes place somewhere after anna and the daughters die, but before Friedrich, well, you know. Tried to really go with the handsome mysterious vampire vibe here.

Hope this meets the “intro to obsession” vibe I was going for. I had a lot of fun writing this, would honestly love to write a part 2, if y’all are interested…

Nosfertatu 2024 spoilers ig

The plague was ransacking Wisborg, people dying by the dozen, bodies littering the streets faster than they could be moved away. Rats ran around, running about peoples feet, some even climbing up pedestrians legs if they could.

But Friedrich could not find it in himself to care. After his sweet Anna was gone, his beautiful daughters too, taken by this plague, for he still did not believe that it was some demon that took them. That was simply the ramblings of a woman who should have been locked away a long time ago. The alcohol on his tongue was sour like his thoughts. He truly should have convinced Thomas of turning his eyes onto another woman all that time ago.

Friedrich was not at his estate. He knew that would be the first place Thomas would find him, along with the two doctors who only played into the delusion. He simply couldn’t stand being in their presence right now, not after burying his beloved Anna and their daughters.

His eyes were bloodshot, throat raw from all his sobbing and weeping. He had not even changed out of the clothing he had worn to their funeral. The keeper of the bar he had found, had left the bottle with him after he had pair, deciding to return to the safety of their home, and not be stuck here with Friedrich.

The door of the establishment opened with a creak, cold air seeming to flood the room. What few candles stood about flickered before snuffing out, the room suddenly so cold that Friedrich’s breath was making vapors as a horrible cold sank into his bones.

The moment Friedrich turned his head, still so heavy and weary, the room seemed to warm up again, the candles flickering back on, the flame stronger and brighter than before. A man stood in the door, tall and broad in a way that spoke of good lineage, of a healthy diet, someone rich enough to eat enough to grow tall.

The clothing was similar, but not what was popular in Germany, but rather what you would see the upper class of the kingdom of Great Britain would wear. Most of it, at least. Down the middle of his coat, was stitching’s and details that felt like it was from somewhere else. It made Friedrich think of the few traders he had met from Romania.

What was most peculiar, was the mans eyewear. They looked like Windsor glasses, but the glass was tinted red. Not a dull weak red that most craftsmen could achieve, but a red so vibrant that the shades almost seemed to glow in the mans shadow. Last but not least, was the cane the man was holding. Polished and dark, with a pommel shaped like that seemed to be a bat of all things.

A feeling started filling the room as the men stepped closer to the mourning widow, the door slamming shut behind the mysterious man as if the wind itself as pulled it, his polished shoes and heels clicking across the flooring as he neared.

His walk was graceful, as if his feet were not touching the ground as he moved, like the weight of the world was not holding him down like everyone else. The world so heavy that Friedrich wanted it to swallow him whole.

A shiver that felt both molten and freezing ran down Friedrichs spine, as this graceful man sat down beside him on another stool at the door, the ship merchant finding himself almost bewitched as the unknown man pulled off his skintight leather gloves. It felt almost promiscuous, the way the gloves slowly pulled off his fingers and folded up so neatly on the bar top.

“You would not mind if I joined you for a drink, would you, Herr?” he finally spoke, his voice purred and accented, like a big fancily dressed feline, perhaps like one of those lions Friedrich had heard of. The voice was accented, something British mixed with Romanian. Seemingly out of nowhere, a crystal glass was in front of him, the mans eyes hidden behind the tinted glass of his special eyewear, but Friedrich felt like a mouse before a cat, like he was seeing someone greater than himself.

“N… not at all” he finally mustered out, voice gasped and breathless, like something besides his heavy grief was weighing on his lungs. The bottle of whatever alcohol Friedrich had bought in his blind grief felt heavy in his clammy hands as he pulled the stopper, turning it to pour it into the mans glass.

Friedrich could not wrench his eyes from the tall mans face, he felt almost bewitched. It felt like when he would look at Anna, but… more. Anna was always his beloved beautiful wife, who made him feel like an animal at times with how much he yearned her. But with her, he was the wolf, the hunter, and her his fluffy rabbit.

But now, he felt meek, sensitive, the hairs on his skin standing on end. Friedrich felt spit pool in his mouth as his sudden companion lifted the now filled glass, slowly bringing it to his plush lips, the bop of his throat as he swallowed making sweat gather on the merchant’s brow.

The beating of his heart was loud in his ears, Friedrichs hands twitching on the bar top in a need to wipe them on his trousers, but under this man’s attention he felt stuck as if he was submerged in stone or ice. His smile was… so beautiful. Dizzying, like alcohol and tobacco, like the medicines that made your world spin and colors dance before your ears.

Some of the man’s teeth were sharp, sharper than any Friedrich had ever seen, but his attention was stuck on the way his tongue flicked across his bottom lip to catch any stray drops of alcohol.

“You seemed burdened by a great weight, my friend” he purred, placing the now empty glass down, just to reach upper and take Friedrichs chin between his pointer and thumb. A loud shaky exhale left Friedrich, his Adams apple bouncing as he swallowed, his insides burning at such a small touch.

“I… I lost my wife… my daughters. To this plague” he gasped, the words wrenching from his chest like his daughters wrenching the favorite doll from each other’s hands. Why did he say that? spill such a painful fact to a complete stranger.

“You have my deepest condolences” his accented voice cooed, like one would coo at a small pitiful animal. Yet, Friedrich did not feel put down by the tone of voice, instead his very heart seemed to pump twice as fast as something like euphoria flooded his veins. The very attention of this man had Friedrich feeling more alive than any other moment of his life.

“It saddens me that my father’s obsession should take such important beings from you. I will find a way to repay you, anything you may want. You simply come find me, when you know what that is” his almost erotic voice rolled, his face drawing closer and closer to Friedrichs.

He knew he should pull away, claim disgust and horror of a man, and a strange at that, drawing so close, just after his wife had been put away in the mausoleum. But Friedrichs blood rushed, both to his face and downwards, his lips parting in a soft hungry gasp as his eyelids drooped.

The mans lips were cold, but not as cold as a corpses. Cold, like when you just got in from the pouring rain and you were soaked to the bone. His tongue tasted metallic, salty almost, mixed with the minty flavor of pastils. The kind a man would use to fix his breath.

It should have disgusted Friedrich, yet he found himself arching into it with a needy hungry whimper, a noise his sweet Anna never had drawn from him. The merchant wanted to grasp onto this man, to devour his tongue and mouth in ways he never dared with Anna, to climb upon him and be taken in ways he had only heard shamefully spoken of by others.

Pure ecstasy, what must be a taste of heaven, enough for Friedrich to fear he would spill in his trousers like a fool. Addicting, more than any drug. But just as he was about to indulge himself, the man pulled away, his grin wider and more akin to the demon paintings of the churches.

His teeth were painted red, his tongue flicking across his sharp fangs. His tongue seemed sharper and longer than the average person, but Friedrich felt nothing but want. In his hazy state, Friedrich did not even see him leave. One moment he was there, the next, gone, the door of the establishment wide open and the candles put out.

Rats ran by the door, yet none entered, as if there was a barrier in the way. It was only now that Friedrich felt the ache of his tongue, his hand clumsily reaching up and brushing against it, drawing away only to see them coated in blood. His mouth tasted like blood, his handkerchief soaked in it when he pressed it against his mouth.

His tongue hurt, did it start bleeding on accident when you two coiled yours like a pair of mating snakes? The throbbing of his tongue was almost as addictive as the throbbing between his legs, a wild feeling in his mind and body.

Friedrich stumbled to his feet, neglecting to pick up his hat as he stumbled out of the establishment, leaving his bottle behind as he tripped towards his home. With all the death around them, no one had time to pay attention to the befuddled man whose mouth and chin was soaked in blood, and nobody had time to pay attention to how the rats seemed to go right around him like a parting sea.

He must get home. He had too… he had to find that man again, he had to find you.

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mia-can-yap-too · 14 days ago

Text

What?:- Sukuna is immortal. You keep being reincarnated. Only one of you remembers. It doesn't stop him from finding you in all your lifetimes.

Warnings:- hurt n comfort, sfw, yearning, mentions of death, not exactly historically accurate, sukuna commits arson in every lifetime too

Heian Era (Japan, 900s)

Sukuna doesn't remember how he turned into a monster. He doesn't remember when people started calling him a cursed being. A demon, a God. Unnatural and unwanted. He can not remember if he was ever looked at with gentleness, only fear and hatred. Well, not before you at least.

You were a shrine maiden, bound to the Gods with silk and silence. Your temple sat nestled in the mountains, shrouded in cherry blossoms and untouched by war.

He remembers the day he arrived.

The land trembled beneath his steps. The birds stopped singing. Priests fell to their knees, and villagers hid.

You were told to hide, too. You're not sure why, but you watched him from the gardens, your eyes meeting his through fallen cherry blossoms.

"Are you not afraid of me?" he had asked.

"Why should I be?" you had answered.

He had laughed for what he now considers the first time in his life. It was as if it was torn out of him. Sudden and unexpected. It was a terrible, beautiful sound.

He hadn't taken long to return, something he couldn't quite name pulling him back.

The other maidens ran. Yet again, you stayed.

He sat with you beneath the moon, and for the first time, he talked about things beyond killing.

He told you about the loneliness. About the weight of time. He told you about a childhood he doesn't remember now.

And you listened. You offered tea. You told him about your own experiences. About your fear of dying. You never told him to leave.

But peace isn't meant for monsters.

The villagers had had enough of him, they were tired of cowering in fear. The priests called for an exorcism, and the maidens told them about his fondness for you.

And so, you were offered as a sacrifice. They ignored your screams as they dragged you to the alter. They broke your bones to keep you from moving.

Sukuna arrived as wrath incarnate. He tore through them with bloodied hands and shoved what it truly meant to be a monster. But it didn't matter. He was too late.

He held your broken body close and used his sleeves to wipe the blood from your mouth, even though it only smeared it further.

You had smiled at him then. Sukuna would never find anything that came close to it.

He tried asking you to hold on for a little longer.

"As long as I'm in your arms, what do I have to fear?"

Your voice trembled like the fallen cherry blossoms in the wind.

Then, you died.

Ancient Greece (Athens, 400 BCE)

You were the daughter of an Athenian philosopher. Sharp, eloquent, always questioning. You didn't fear the gods. You debated them. You would call Olympus flawed, and the Fates overrated.

Then he came.

They said he was a child of Ares, a savage hero. They said he couldn't bleed. That, once, he fought 100 men and walked away laughing.

It was your curiosity that made you ask him, "Do you like being mythologized?"

He had smirked then. "Would you rather know the truth?"

You fell in love with him slowly. You were drawn to his silence, drawn to the way he would never touch the food at feasts and the way he never looked at anyone the way he looked at you.

He didn't pray. He didn't kneel. But if you begged hard enough, he would tell you about other empires, about old temples and cherry blossom trees. Whenever you asked how he knew, he would stay silent.

In the moments between waking and sleep, he would hold you as if you would vanish if his grip was too loose, as if you would slip between his fingers like fine sand.

You were poisoned by a jealous student of your father, one who feared your brilliance, your ambition and your love for that bastard.

Once again, you collapsed in his arms. Only in your dying moments did you remember what was before.

He kissed you softly before he laid you down in your final resting place.

Athens burned that night. He made sure no flame touched you.

Later, stories spread that your demise was inevitable, caused by your defiance to faith.

The Renaissance (Florence, 1500s)

In Florence, beauty ruled, and only the bold were remembered.

You were born into a family of artisans. Clever with a brush, invisible to the elite.

He found you in the shadows of a chapel, watched the miniscule tremble of your hands as you painted saints.

He bought all your paintings. He never spoke your name.

He offered you a commission. Endless portraits. Of yourself.

You finally asked his name.

"Sukuna," he whispered, as if it were a secret.

"Have we met before?"

He gave a rare smile. "Yes."

He asked you to teach him art.

You never exactly believed in fate, but as your hands guided his, a sense of deja vu arose. It felt as if this was how it was always meant to be, your hands slotted in his.

You painted him just once, the only time he allowed it. You called the piece 'Remembrance'.

You burned in a fire this time. An accident had set your studio ablaze.

Sukuna was too late. He always was.

He ripped through the flames and pulled you from the wreckage, but your lungs had already blackened.

Florence never saw him again. But left in a burnt chapel was a sculpture of a woman. She had ash in her hair, and her eyes were closed peacefully with a soft smile. The plaque beneath read 'My Soul, Repeating.'

The artist is still unknown.

Modern day (Tokyo, Present)

You're a university student. Studio arts major, to be specific. You're quiet, skilled, observant, and known for painting things you've never seen. Temples that no longer exist, battles no history book mentions, and a man with red eyes.

Your professors say you have an 'ancient eye'. You laugh it off. Though sometimes, you cry in your sleep.

You meet him outside a museum. He stands still in front of your painting. 'Repetition' it is called.

In it, a woman bleed in the arms of a weeping man.

You stop and admire him for a moment before you actually approach.

"Do you like it?"

He turns, his all too familiar eyes meet yours. Your heart stops.

You don't know him. But your soul does.

His voice is quiet. "I've seen this before."

You sit with him on a bench outside. You ask him for his name.

He says it's Sukuna. You say yours.

You don't ask how he knows your favorite tea. Or why his hand slightly shakes when you brush his sleeves.

This time, you don't die. This time, he marries you.

He waited centuries to hold you close. He swears he will never let go.

—

a/n:- 400! wow cant believe it, honestly. i dont usually write this typa stuff, but with the power of the AOT soundtrack and determination, i pulled through. if this flops guess whos dying next

m.list

#in print #jujustu kaisen #jujutsu kaisen sukuna #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jjk #jjk sukuna #jjk x reader #sukuna x reader #sukuna ryomen x reader #sukuna ryomen #sukuna #ryomen sukuna #ryomen sukuna x reader #sukuna x you

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miraculouspegasus · 6 months ago

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why jalil kubdel was the ideal candidate for a second hawkmoth

in his focus episode we already know he was drawn to a spell to bring back to dead for some reason [looks at the mother shaped hole in the kubdel family]

he’s an archaeology student who would have the resources and know-how to investigate the miraculouses

hates ladybug because her war took away his little sister (and even if it’s technically hawkmoth’s fault, alix still had to go on the run because ladybug lost the miracle box). yes i know reunion technically resolved their issues but i think he should have still had a bone to pick with ladybug for putting her in this situation in the first place

strikes a really interesting balance between “realistically compelling” (his dad neglected him emotionally in favor of his golden child sister, possibly dead mom, and now the only family member that loves him has been taken away from him) and “frustratingly immature” (get the fuck over yourself and go to therapy for your daddy issues, dude) that i think works really well in a lot of villains

would have a different motivation from gabriel hawkmoth, opening the doors to new stories. in my mind, he would take up the hawkmoth mantle not because he wants the wish necessarily but because he wants ladybug and chat noir to give up their mantle as heroes, thinking that if all miraculous use ceased, the world would be a better place and his sister could come home. also maybe he can be nice to nooroo can we have that

would be an excellent case of a tragic self fulfilling prophecy. as we’ve seen before, family members wielding miraculouses at the same time only leads to disaster. even if alix tried to come out of the burrow and convince jalil face to face that the world needs ladybug, i think it would have resulted in some kind of world-ending fight or time paradox, forcing her to not intervene and watch her brother go down the rabbit hole into spiteful rage

#miraculous ladybug #ml #mlb #alix kubdel #alim kubdel #marinette dupain cheng #jalil kubdel #canigirl #bunnyx #hawkmoth #miracuclass #miraculous kids #akumatized civilians #heroes

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amjustagirl · 10 months ago

Text

Chapter 1

pairing: hoshina soshiro x f! reader

genre: romance, angst

wc: 4k

summary: you've loved soshiro since you were seven. he will always place his duty above you.

chapt 1 / chapt 2 / chapt 3 / chapt 4 / chapt 5

Once a month, Hoshina Soshiro drops by your apartment for tea with you.

It isn’t often that you both get the same day off. Him, with his vice captain duties that never end because Kaijus don’t deign to give him a break, as he often complains. You, spending hours if not days buried in the blade forgery at Izumo tech so much so your parents remark dryly that they’ve forgotten your face. But every so often, the universe smiles upon you and you get to spend an afternoon sitting on your narrow balcony with your oldest friend.

It always begins like this.

He drops a plastic bag full of fizzy drinks on the table that only he drinks, whilst you brew a pot of tea. There’s dessert in the fridge that you get to feed his sweet tooth, and he’ll consume both because you’ll claim you have no appetite. After a few perfunctory questions about your wellbeing - the same as always, nothing’s changed, he’ll turn his mind to the sole focus in his life.

“You gave the latest tech to my brother?!” he yells, outraged. “His main weapon isn’t even a blade.”

“Orders are orders”, you respond. “Besides, didn’t I just tweak your katanas last month?”

“About that”, he grins at you, somewhat sheepishly. “I’ve got more ideas -”

“Not again”, you groan.

He’ll rattle off a long list of things he wants you to work on next month. Blades made out of some kaiju bone, just to test its mettle. A blade to be worked into his boots - an idea he cheekily admits stems from some stupid shounen manga he reads in his spare time. So many of his ideas belong in the trash bin, but you entertain him anyway, studiously jotting down each of his requests.

“You’re lucky I put up with you”, you tell him.

Lazily, he flops onto the floor, rolling to lie his head in your lap. “As if you wouldn’t”, he laughs, poking up at your cheek.

You don’t get the chance to answer him. His phone goes off, as it always does, and he has to go.

“Seeya next time”, he waves, without leaving you another glance. The sliver of sky between the buildings surrounding yours is dark when you get up from your seat to clear the cups.

Your cheek still stings.

Your family always had close ties to the Hoshina clan. The clan of swordsmiths sworn to the Hoshina clan of swordsmen. A tie that can be traced centuries back to the Edo period to today. Your father crafted his father’s blades in the fires of your family’s forge, yet another in your family’s lineage who were born to serve the generations of Hoshina swordsmen.

Even though you were born a girl, you never accepted that it should be different for you.

You were only seven when you accompanied your father on a delivery to the Hoshina estate. Your stockinged feet echo in the wooden corridors that stretch out before you, seemingly without end. There are portraits of imposing swordsmen in every other room, blades displayed, their former owners’ eventual fate captioned beneath. You are too ashamed to admit that you’re afraid of one such painting with kaiju-like yellow eyes that seems to glare at you that you bolt when your father leaves you aside to talk business with the Hoshina patriarch.

Foolishly, you forget that the Hoshina estate dwarfs your family home. After the fifth rock garden you come across (which admittedly to your seven year old self, seems to blend into each other), you are well and truly lost, so you sit on the porch of some courtyard and wait to be found for a stern reprimand by your father.

Clang.

But you’re drawn by the sound of steel clashing, so you follow your ears, and your eyes thank you as you watch two boys spar with dull blades.

The older, with silver hair, has a clear edge. He’s taller and stronger, so he bullies his younger opponent into a corner. The younger, with dark hair, doesn’t seem daunted, standing his ground with precise swings and savage slashes that his older opponent only manages to parry with difficulty.

Though you hide yourself behind a pillar, the older boy spots you anyway, breaking off the fight to grab you by the front of your top.

“Intruder”, he shouts, waving his blade at you.

“I’m - I’m sorry!” you squeak. You panic, fearful that he’ll throw you out of the estate, because if you can’t even figure your way out around the compound, there’s no way you’re going to find your way back home across half of Osaka, so you hiccup and cry and beg to be let go -

“Hey! You’re just looking for an excuse to get out of a losing fight.”

Courage has never been your strong suit. It’s easier for you to hide behind your father or older brother’s legs, so you’re taken aback by how quickly the younger boy jumps into the fray on your behalf, defiant even in the face of a larger opponent.

Your captor’s nostrils flare. “What did you say?!” he demands, but he lets you go with a sneer.

“Another round then”, the younger boy says, as he tugs you to your feet, brushing the dust off the pretty kimono your mother took the effort to dress you up in. “Maybe this time you’ll actually be serious -”

His brother brandishes the blade at him. “I’ll beat you to a pulp, you insolent brat.”

You spend the afternoon watching them from a safe distance until your father finds you, apologising to Hoshina-sama for his wayward daughter.

You’re formally introduced then to the brothers - Sochiro the elder, who doesn’t even acknowledge you with a nod, and Soshiro the younger, who smiles like the sun when you tell him that he’s amazing in a fight.

“I’ll show you more next time!!”, Soshiro says. His eyes remind you of violets blooming in spring.

Your mother hears of your adventures in the Hoshina estate.

She comes to brush your hair after your bath. “The Hoshina family sees ours as a vassal clan”, she states baldly, as the comb sticks on a particularly tricky tangle. At your noise of confusion (and pain, because she’s none-too-gentle at getting the snags out of your mane), she explains. “That means our family is bound to them by our usefulness in making katanas, the instruments of their success.”

She clucks her tongue at your obtuseness, as you stare at her, uncomprehending. “We supply swords, not brides to them. There are no engagements between their sons and our daughters. If you wish to associate with the Hoshina boys, you must be of use to them.”

Perhaps, in her ungentle way, your mother was trying to do you a kindness.

But you took her warning as instruction instead. So, though you’ve always been afraid of the loud forge your father and older brother work in, you badgered your father for enough lessons in sword making, hovering over him every minute you have out of school so you can learn everything you can.

It’s worth it, when Soshiro comments on the shiny scars on your forearms the next time you visit.

“I’ve been learning how to make katanas”, you explain, suddenly shy.

“Wow!” you catch another glimpse of violets through wide eyes. “You must’ve worked really hard!”

You peek at the blooms of bruises on his shins, the angry red scratch across his face. “So have you”, you reply.

He beams, dragging you off to play.

More often than not, that devolves into him showing off his latest moves, and you applauding his every action. He revels in the attention, which you find strange because surely everyone with eyes should be able to discern that Hoshina Soshiro is wildly talented, even at the tender age of eight, but then whenever his brother surfaces with taunt regarding Soshiro’s swordsmanship, you can see the chip of his shoulder grow, an invisible burden that drags him into the ground.

As an outsider, it’s not your place to comment on the unfairness of being knocked around by a boy five years his senior, so you try your clumsy best to bandage Soshiro’s wounds and slip in an encouraging word or two. You never want to see the violets in his eyes wither and die.

“I’ll make you the best blade in the world when we grow up”, you bump your elbow against his. “So you can beat him.”

“Promise?”

You loop your little finger around his. Half moons brighten into stars.

// how abt a blade that can separate into 2 //

// or or or //

// maybe three?! //

// would your ancestors roll in their grave //

You wake up to a text. Or three.

// you wound me //

// seeya later //

// visiting Izumo tech for my new suit!!! //

// make sure you lend me your lunch discount at the cafeteria //

You snort.

<Cheapskate>. The rhythm of your conversation thrums. <are you asking me to have lunch with you>

// someone needs to keep me safe from my fangirls //

// don’t leave me in their clutches //

An eye roll.

< Die >. You turn your phone facedown, resolutely refusing to respond.

Despite your complaints, you end up eating lunch with him anyway.

It’s difficult to concentrate on your meal when your childhood friend turned the most eligible bachelor in the Japan Defense Force sits across from you in a skintight uniform, your giggly co-workers sitting two rows down watching his every move. So you push your tray away and just watch him as he chatters away through a mouth full of food (something he’d never do back home because he’s been raised with manners befitting the second son of the esteemed Hoshina clan, but around you he seems to turn into a demented manchild), but you’ve always found it endearing how he’s his chaotic true self around you -

“New recruits are coming in next month so I don’t know when we’ll have time to catch up -”

“There’s nothing to catch up on when you keep text me in the middle of the night with your train of thoughts - “

“That’s all work related”, he says. “I want to know how you are doing.”

You’re not about to tell him that your parents have informed you that they’re tired of you mooning after a man who’ll never love you back, and have started haranguing you via text to get your ass back to Osaka so you can meet suitable men your age who’d be willing to accept an unladylike wife with burn scars trailing up her forearms.

“As if you really want to know”, you grumble. “You’re only interested in talking to me when it’s about your weapons and tech.”

“You wound me”, he dramatically claps his hand to his chest, miming hurt. “You don’t believe that I care about my oldest friend?”

“Nope.”

“Rude”, he sing-songs. “C’mon.”

“The only reason we’re even lunching is because you wanted more upgrades - plus, now you want a shield against your fan-girls, who, by the way, are going to mob me in the bathroom and make me recount for the thousandth time, why and how I know you, the - I quote - cutest guy in the Japanese Defense Force, though they really should get their eyesight checked out in my opinion -”

“Oohhhh - people think I’m good-looking?” He runs his fingers through his hair like he’s in some 80’s shampoo commercial, throwing an exaggerated wink over his shoulder to the nearest fangirl. You hear a thump on the floor. You hope she didn’t hit her head too hard (but perhaps it might make her sole brain cell work a little better if she did).

You tap his knuckles with the back of your chopsticks. “Get that ego on a leash.”

His grin is cheeky. “I can’t help it if people think I’m good-looking.” Your heavy sigh makes him pout. “You don’t think I’m good looking?”

The lunch bell comes to your rescue.

“I have to get back to work”, you tell him, all too ready to make your escape.

“So do I”, he gobbles down the rest of his lunch. “Seeya around.”

“Stay safe”, you add. “Don’t let a Kaiju eat you up.”

“Eat me up?!” he squawks with mock outrage. “Don’t you know I eat Kaijus for breakfast?”

As if you don’t. In Tokyo, the third division is exceedingly popular. Captain Mina Ashiro of course, takes up most of the attention with her long, dark hair and prowess as the nation’s foremost sniper, but once in a while, the newspapers and magazines run features of Vice Captain Hoshina Soshiro, and you dutifully keep cuttings in a scrapbook that you hide under your bed.

In every interview, he talks about how it’s patently untrue that there’s no space in the Japan Defense Force for those who prefer to wield a blade rather than a modern gun. “Captain Ashiro believes in me”, he says, so seriously that it’s hard to recognise your usual jovial friend. “For that, I’ll be thankful for every day.”

He said the same thing to you the day of his promotion.

“She believes in me when no one else did”, he tells you in disbelief.

That’s a lie, you want to shout. You reminded him that there’s a snowball’s chance in hell that he’d fail the entrance exam into the Japan Defense Force, and he’d indeed pass with flying colours. You calculated his unleashed combat potential from your lab in Izumo Tech, saw him exceed and excel so much so that an exception was made for him to carry katanas which you spent sleepless nights crafting for him. He won his first promotion as platoon leader nary a year in after a stunning victory decapitating yonju across Tokyo, and your congratulatory text to him was ‘See, I knew you’d do it.’

So no, Mina Ashiro was not the first person who believed in Hoshina Soshiro. You are.

Unless, in his eyes, you don’t count.

<okaa-san>

<Yes, I’ll be glad to meet your friend’s son>

< No promises on anything more>

The date your parents arranged for you is a man with a pleasing smile who has as much romantic interest in you as you in him - which is to say, very little at all. “I’m too busy with my job, but my mother insisted”, he confesses.

You like him all the better for his honesty. “So did mine”, you respond with a wry chuckle.

Yamamoto-san is good company, nonetheless, even if his only interest in life other than his demanding job as a corporate slave is tending to his houseplants, so since you both share an interest in getting your overbearing mothers off your backs, you agree to have lunch once a month just so you can say to your parents without lying that you’re seeing someone.

A part of you that you tuck deep into your chest hopes that word gets around to Soshiro, who’ll come beat your front door down, demanding that you, instead, turn your eyes to him (as if you’ve ever looked elsewhere for as long as you’ve known him). And when Hoshina Sochiro, Captain of the Sixth Division, pops into your office for his own tweaks to his tech and rounds upon you with a wicked twinkle in his eye, you’re sure that whatever you share will be conveyed as salaciously as possible to his younger brother.

“Soooo”, he drags each word out obnoxiously. “Your older brother mentioned that you’re seeing someone now who isn’t my younger brother.”

You smile blandly. “Soshiro-kun and I have always been just friends.”

“Just friends my arse”, he retorts. “You’ve had a planet sized crush on him since you were seven. It just can’t be helped that my brother’s got a katana up his arse.”

You try your best not to wince. “Is there anything else I can do for you, Captain Hoshina?” you gesture at the door. “As you can see, the mountain of work that’s been piling up ever since you stopped by my office needs to be done, and I really don’t have time to sit around and gossip like old women.”

“So grumpy”, he hops off your desk. “So, should I tell him that he’s missed the boat?”

“Tell him whatever you want.” You begin to type furiously on your laptop. “As if he’ll care.”

Five minutes later.

// u have a bf?! //

// and i had to find out fr Sochiro?! //

// AND u said there’s nothing to catch up on? //

You lock your phone in the drawer beneath your desk.

// are u ignoring me???? //

“You ignored my texts!”

This is a first. Hoshina Soshiro, cranky even when a stack of golden brown pancakes soaked in maple syrup wobbles enticingly in front of him. “I was busy at work”, you say. A flimsy excuse, one that fails to placate him as he continues to pout, childlike at you.

“So?” he demands, slicing right through the pancakes with his butter knife. “Is it true?”

“Is what true?”

His eyes narrow as he waves his knife accusingly at you. “You decided to tell Sochiro that you got a boyfriend before me?”

You take a sip of coffee to steady your nerves. “You know I don’t talk to your brother unless he decides to invade my lab. But I guess he and my brother still text from time to time.”

“Hrm.” he puffs out his cheeks, blows out a breath heavy enough to flutter his bangs. You restrain the urge to reach over and straighten his hair. “Fine.”

“I’m just seeing a guy that my parents set me up with.” You rehearsed exactly what you wanted to say, but your insides churn, the coffee you drank not doing you any favours. “I guess they’re just worried that no one will ever want me as I grow old and unmarriageable.”

His chuckle is blithe, uncaring. “Parents are all the same, aren’t they? Just last week, my mother called me to ask if I’m interested in being set up on a date with someone - as if I’d ever be interested, I barely have time to sleep, let alone date, and besides, she probably just called because my older brother’s a master at dodging such calls -”

You let him ramble on as you gather the remnants of your courage deep within your guts for a final advance.

“Soshiro.”

“Hm?” he looks up, mid-chew. “Sup.”

“If I really did get a boyfriend, you wouldn’t mind, would you?”

“Why would I mind?” He laughs, reaching over to prod at your cheek. “I mean, I guess as long as you don’t stop making me awesome katanas, and as long as he doesn’t mind that I text you my brilliant ideas on improvements -”

Unknowingly, he cuts right through your heart. But in fairness to him, you offered your heart on a silver fucking platter, even handed him the blade to stab it with.

“I was just worried you’d be unhappy”, you mumble, blinking back tears furiously.

Thankfully, he’s too focused on clearing his plate. “I thought you were going to ask me something serious”, he laughs. “What a silly question.”

“Yeah”, you manage to croak. “What a silly question.”

He goes on to fill the rest of the afternoon with chatter about his new recruits. You sit numbly and listen to his tales of a Shinomiya slip of a girl who blows all recorded numbers for a recruit out of the window, an old man who confounds his techs by registering a big fat zilch on their combat scales, but he entertains his candidacy because he’s a great source of entertainment.

“You okay there?” he frowns, stopping mid-story. “You kinda look down.”

“Indigestion”, you lie through gritted teeth. “Never you mind.”

“You shouldn’t take milk in your coffee if you’re lactose intolerant, silly”, he teases, confiscating your iced latte.

“I’m just an idiot”, you try your best to smile. Fortunately, he accepts a pained grimace.

Your mother was both right and wrong. You know that Soshiro cares for you as a friend, because he could never be callous enough to reduce you to your usefulness to him, but it’s true that he has no space in his heart for you.

A year or two ago, you piled yourself in a car with both Hoshina brothers to brave the Obon traffic to get back to Osaka for the holidays. You hadn’t been able to afford the jacked up prices for the shinkansen, and Soshiro only found out yesterday that Captain Ashiro took pity on him for missing consecutive New Year holidays that she gave him Obon off as a consolation price, so their parents nagged Sochiro into ferrying you both home.

“Shouldn’t you have your own car?” Sochiro groused.

“Why would I need a car if I’m on base 24/7”, Soshiro replied. “Why do you need a car? Unless the sixth division is slacking off -”

The car screeched to a halt. Sochiro kicked open the door, yanked Soshiro by his collar and shoved him into the driver’s seat. “To keep your smart mouth occupied, you can drive us the rest of the way to Osaka.”

“Aren’t you scared I’ll crash?”

“If you do, I’ll skin you alive.”

Your forehead nearly split open from all the bickering. “Guys, I can drive -”

“No!” Both brothers yelled at you in unison. It’s the first time they’ve probably agreed on anything in their life.

The bickering finally ended when Sochiro fell asleep in the back, head pillowed against the window glass on one side in a way that he’s bound to wake up with a neckache. Still, you’re forced in close proximity to Soshiro, the puffs of warm air from the overworking air-conditioner blending with the scent of steel and citrus, from the shampoo he probably uses, you mused half dizzy, head heavy -

“If you puke in the car, Sochiro’ll make you lick it up.”

You squeezed your eyes shut. “Talk to me so I don’t focus on your terrible driving.”

By the time Soshiro’s done with his recounting of the last four fights he’s been involved in, the massive disappointment of this year’s recruitment exercise and his admiration for Captain Mina Ashiro (which made you want to scream, kick your foot through the windshield, perhaps), the afternoon sun is low to the ground, streetlights along the expressway flickering on.

You couldn’t help but ask. “Do you ever think about anything other than your job?”

“Nah.” he chuckled. “I don’t have time for anything else. I gotta spend time to train y’know, otherwise I’ll really die on the job.”

“Soshiro!”

“That’s why I got good life insurance”, he deadpanned.

“I guess that was a silly question”, you slump back in your seat.

“It really is”, he teased. “So, what else d’you wanna hear about my all consuming job?”

The memory stings your eyes.

You make up an excuse to return to your apartment without haste, waiting until he disappears around the corner before you give in to the tears that you’ve been keeping at bay all afternoon. Strangers on the train ride home give you a wide berth, because they certainly don’t want to catch whatever malady you’re clearly suffering from with your swollen eyes and hiccuped sniffles. You stumble into your shoebox apartment, kick your shoes off at the genkan.

Tonight you’ll give yourself the grace to mourn the death of a dream.

You crack open the beers he previously brought, one after another. Drunk, you sit on the balcony, the half-moon reminding you too much of a certain vice captain. You let your mother’s words flood your mind. You are meant to offer him blades, not a bride. In another lifetime, in every lifetime, perhaps, the noble born son of a samurai clan would never open his heart to the lowly daughter of a swordsmith. He would be raised to always put duty before love.

You don’t know why you hoped for anything different.

So when you roll off your sofa in the morning, you glare at yourself in the toilet mirror, eyes rimmed red, a hangover in full effect.

“You are an idiot.” you slap your cheeks so hard it turns pink.

You will not allow this to continue. Hoshina Soshiro is not yours, has never been yours, and will never be yours. You are pathetic for hoping otherwise, stupid for living in hopes that he’ll look at you some day, an utter idiot for letting every choice you’ve ever made in your life be guided by your infatuation with a boy who doesn’t have space in his heart for you.

You could’ve been like your older brother, been content with sticking to the family business of sword making instead spending every spare minute on your engineering studies so you’re well positioned to be snapped up by Izumo Tech as a weapons specialist. You had the leeway to be based in Osaka near your family, but accepted a position in Tokyo just to be closer to where Soshiro’s based. You could’ve had a social life, perhaps even friends outside of work, if you’ve not dedicated your life to your job, working after hours tirelessly, just so you secure promotion after promotion, cementing yourself as Izumo Tech (and by extension, the Defense Force) go-to for anything blade related, just so you fulfil the promise you made to Soshiro all those years ago.

You cannot live the rest of your life this way.

a/n: so...i know i've only ever written for the hq boys but the way hoshina soshiro grabbed my throat in a chokehold in that gym training scene just forced my gremlin brain to start typing and get to work on this story for him.

hope you guys like it <3

#soshiro hoshina #hoshina soshiro x reader #hoshina soshiro x oc #kaiju 8 #hoshina x reader

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