#I’m feeling so normal about him today!!!

[abbotjack]

thinking about sending robby and abbot nudes but they’re both old and sext illiterate so they respond with something like 👍

Message Received (18+ MDNI)

Content & Warnings: NSFW (18+), suggestive photo reference, fingering (Jack), oral sex f!receiving (Robby), established relationship, dom!Jack energy, softdom!Robby energy, dirty talk, mild brat!reader, age gap, tension-heavy buildup, emotionally grounded smut, and just two very different men completely wrecked by one photo.

word count : 1,723

📩 Robby – “thumbs up.”

You send it on a whim.

Soft lighting. A lace bra you didn’t really plan to wear today. Not overt, but obvious enough.

You wait maybe thirty seconds before regretting it.

Another fifteen before his reply pops up.

Robby : 👍

Just the emoji. No caption. No follow-up. No “holy shit” or “you’re killing me” or “I’m leaving work right now.”

Just… a thumbs up.

You stare at it like it might change.

You : Are you serious?

Three dots appear. Then vanish. Then reappear again.

Finally:

Robby : Sorry. Was in the break room. Looked amazing. Shouldn’t be looking at you like that while Dana’s eating a yogurt next to me.

You laugh—because of course he’s being normal about it. Of course he’s being Robby.

You : Yogurt’s more important than me?

There’s a long pause.

Then:

Robby : No. You’re very distracting. I didn’t know what to say.

That makes you smile. Still, you want more.

You : Wish you were here.

It’s hours later when you hear the key in the lock.

Late enough that you thought he might not come. Late enough that part of you hoped he wouldn’t—just so you wouldn’t have to sit there pretending you weren’t still thinking about that dumb thumbs up.

But the door opens.

And Robby steps inside.

He shuts it behind him gently, like he’s trying not to make too much noise. Drops his keys on the table. Looks at you like he’s still catching his breath from something that’s been building all night.

You’re still in that bra.

The same one from the photo. Still waiting.

He exhales—low, unsteady.

“You’re so mean,” he murmurs. “You know that?”

You tilt your head. “I’m thoughtful.”

He starts unbuttoning his coat. “You sent that while I was sitting next to Dana.”

“I noticed.”

“I panicked.”

“You sent a thumbs up.”

“I panicked hard.”

He shrugs the coat off and crosses the room. Slower than usual. Like he’s not sure he can walk and think at the same time.

“I opened it,” he says when he stops in front of you. “And then had to sit there like I didn’t just get hit by a truck.”

You smile. “You seemed fine.”

“That was me dissociating.”

You laugh, but it’s quiet. He’s close now. Close enough to feel the heat coming off him.

He raises a hand and brushes it down your side—light, steady, like he’s grounding himself.

“I couldn’t stop thinking about it,” he says, voice soft. “What you looked like right before you took it. How long you waited to see if I’d say something else.”

“I wasn’t waiting,” you lie.

He just hums, stepping forward, crowding you gently until your back finds the wall. One hand braces beside your head. The other finds your waist.

“No?” he murmurs, dipping just enough to brush his mouth near your jaw. “You weren’t hoping I’d come home like this?”

Your fingers twist in the front of his shirt. “Maybe a little.”

He kisses you.

It’s soft, at first. Familiar. But there’s a tremble behind it, something fraying. You sigh into his mouth, and when you do, he groans—quiet, rough—and presses in harder. His hands move lower, gripping your hips like he needs to feel every inch of you.

“I wanted to say something,” he whispers against your cheek. “Wanted to tell you what I was thinking.”

“Then tell me.”

He doesn’t.

Instead, he drops to his knees.

You gasp, and he looks up once—just once—to make sure you’re still with him. You are.

He reaches up, hooks his thumbs into your underwear, and pulls them down slow. Gentle. Careful. Like he’s unwrapping something precious.

One hand glides up behind your thigh, lifting it over his shoulder. The other anchors you at the waist.

He kisses your hip first. Then your inner thigh. Then higher.

His stubble scrapes just enough to make you shiver.

And when his mouth finally touches you—hot, open, reverent—you feel your knees nearly buckle.

He holds you steady.

He groans softly at the first taste. Then again when you tilt into him.

You brace yourself against the wall, hand clutching the back of his head, fingers threading into his hair.

He moves slow at first. Methodical. Like he’s trying to memorize you. No rush, no teasing. Just full, devoted attention—lips, tongue, breath—all focused on pulling you apart with steady, quiet purpose.

When you gasp his name, he tightens his grip on your thigh and pulls you closer, mouth sealing over you deeper.

He doesn’t speak.

He doesn’t need to.

Because this is everything he couldn’t say. Everything he didn’t know how to text. Everything he’s been holding back since you first pressed send.

And it’s all here now—on his knees, in his hands, in the way he keeps going until your head hits the wall behind you and all you can do is feel.

📩 Jack – “what is that”

You send it because you’re bored.

Lying in bed. Still damp from the shower. Wrapped in a towel that barely covers anything, legs stretched out across the sheets like you’re not waiting for an excuse. The lighting’s soft—just your bedside lamp, low and gold. It makes your skin look warm. Intentional. You angled yourself toward it on purpose.

You look good. You know you look good.

And Jack? Jack’s on shift. Third night in a row. Which means you haven’t seen him—really seen him—in two days, unless you count that half-second yesterday when you passed in the hallway, both headed in opposite directions. He didn’t stop. Barely glanced. Just muttered “go home” without breaking stride—like looking at you for more than a second might’ve done something to him.

Like it already had.

So you take the photo. Legs just slightly spread. A caption typed with two thumbs and no shame:

You : come home, I miss you

Delivered. Read

Then:

Jack : what is that

You stare at your phone.

You blink.

You : What do you mean what is that. It’s a nude, Jack.

Read.

And then… nothing.

No follow-up. No typing bubbles. No emoji. Not even a fucking ellipsis.

You huff. Dramatic. Roll onto your side with a groan and grab a fistful of blanket like it’s going to do anything to cool the ache you definitely caused yourself.

If you didn’t know him, you’d think he didn’t care.

But you do know him.

And that silence?

That’s not indifference.

That’s a promise.

You’re in for it.

You’re lounging in bed in your underwear when you hear the door.

It’s late. Past midnight. You don’t move.

Jack steps in. Damp from the rain, scrubs wrinkled. He closes the door, sets his keys down, shrugs off his jacket.

Still doesn’t look at you.

You wait. Quiet.

Then—

“You send that picture just to piss me off?”

You smirk. “I was being sweet.”

He finally turns.

“You don’t do sweet.”

“Didn’t realize nudes were so boring to you,” you murmur, stretched out across the sheets. “I won’t do it again.”

His jaw ticks. “I was working.”

You tilt your head. “And now?”

He moves.

One step. Then another. Slow. Controlled.

Until he’s standing at the edge of the bed, looking down at you like he’s still deciding which part of you to ruin first.

He climbs onto the bed, slow and deliberate, the mattress dipping beneath his weight. You watch the tight line of his shoulders, the way his jaw works like he’s still biting back everything he couldn’t say earlier.

“Now you’re getting what you wanted.”

You blink up at him, lashes fluttering. “Oh? What’s that?”

Jack shifts closer, grabs your thigh—strong, steady—and lifts it over his hip, settling himself between your legs. His palm drags down your outer thigh like he’s lining you up. Holding you there. Making you wait.

“Me.”

Then he kisses you.

Rough. Steady. Like he’s been playing this on loop since the second that photo hit his phone and ruined him.

His mouth opens over yours like he needs it just to stay upright. You arch instinctively, back bowing into the pressure, thighs tightening around his hips.

“Thought about this all fucking day,” he mutters into your skin, lips at your throat. “You don’t get to send me that and pretend you didn’t know what it’d do.”

You smirk, rocking your hips into his. “Did it ruin your shift?”

He laughs under his breath—dark, quiet. Dangerous.

“Don’t push it.”

You grind into him again. Slower this time. Testing.

“I missed you,” you whisper, low and saccharine.

He hums—sharp, dry. “Yeah?”

Then his hand moves.

Fast. Precise.

His fingers hook under your panties and tug them down—slow enough to draw a shiver out of you, fast enough to say he’s not asking. They’re gone a second later, tossed somewhere near the foot of the bed.

He doesn’t break eye contact.

Doesn’t say a word as he slides his fingers between your thighs.

You gasp when he finds you—already wet, already aching—and his lips twitch like he’s smug about it. Like he knew.

“You’re soaked,” he says, voice barely audible. “Figured.”

His fingers move slow at first. Two of them. Deep. Steady.

You moan—quiet, caught—and Jack exhales like that was what he needed. The confirmation. The surrender.

His thumb finds your clit. No teasing. Just pressure—tight and constant and mean.

Your hips jump. Your fingers grip his wrist.

He doesn’t let up.

“Jack—”

He shushes you with a kiss, his hand working between your legs like he has all the time in the world.

You cry out—nearly choking on it.

He curls his fingers.

You jolt.

“There she is.”

His voice is steady. Like nothing about this has affected him. Like he’s not hard under his scrubs, not unraveling with every pulse of you around his hand.

He leans in, lips brushing your cheek.

“This is what you wanted, right?”

You nod, dizzy.

“Say it.”

“Yes,” you breathe. “God—yes.”

His mouth grazes your jaw.

“Good.”

He doesn’t stop.

Not until you’re shaking.

Not until you’re arching into him, hand clutching the sheets, panting his name through clenched teeth like that photo wasn’t the start—it was the warning.

And this?

This is what happens when he finally opens it.

[chuellas]

Shut Me Up | The Housekeeper generally stays in her lane. You mind your business and run the cleaners’ division of the Port Mafia with scary efficiency. But a particular Executive forces your hand and you finally have to put your foot down.

⤷ Ft. Nakahara Chuuya

Warnings | Fem!reader, mentions of alcohol, cussing, term “Doll” is used, possible minor spoilers to SB if you squint, edited but who knows how well andjajsjjas, WC: 4.5k

A/N | LONG TIME NO FIC POST I AM SO PROUD OF THIS ONE I HOPE YOU GUYS ENJOY READING IT AS MUCH AS I ENJOYED WRITING IT <33 Stay tuned at the end for a description of readers ability !!

Working for the Port Mafia has always been messy — having a whole division dedicated to cleaning up the chaos that this organization's members create is a testament to that. Most days are busy, dispatching several teams in an hour is normal for you when you’re head of the division and work directly with the elite teams and the executives. Well, the executives minus Ace, he evidently prefers his subordinates to do the cleaning up for him. You’ve always been suspicious of the vile and loathsome snake, but that’s above your paygrade and qualifications to worry about. You’re sure the boss knows what he’s doing.

With all that being said, despite the nature of your role, you generally like to mind your own business. That’s one of the reasons why you were given this division in the first place, you’re efficient and you never asked any questions. You’ve been commended for the trait and pride yourself in not getting involved in your assignments.

But even you have your limits. 

Today has been particularly busy — obscenely busy actually. You’ve been nonstop taking dispatches for the Black Lizard and one specific Executive. He just got back from a mission in the west and apparently things didn’t go as planned. It’s par for the course, you’ve heard he’s been known to have a bit of a short temper, one that he likes to take out on the Port Mafia’s enemies but it’s never been this bad. Usually it’s an extra one or two teams being dispatched, not your entire crew. You have to wonder what set him off so badly that he’s dropping bodies left and right, much to your dismay. 

Whatever it was, Nakahara Chuuya has now successfully made it your problem too.

Your phone rings again and the same caller ID pops up for the fourth time this hour, which causes your left eye to twitch in vexation as you reach over to pick up the line. “This is the Housekeeper.”

You pinch the bridge of your nose, displaying a clear signal of irritation—not that the person on the other side of the phone can tell—and you can feel the telltale signs of a migraine coming on. Your vision whites out for a split second and when it comes back, everything is rimmed in a multi-colored aura. You were supposed to go out with a few colleagues for dinner and some drinks tonight but at this point you think that plan has gone straight out the window. All you want to do now, after this dreadfully long day, is go home and rot on your couch or in your bed.

You internally curse Nakahara Chuuya for ruining your rare after work plans. You’re not even sure you’ll get out of the office at all tonight with the way things are playing out, let alone in time to meet up with your colleagues. Why do you have to pay the price for this grown ass man’s tantrum?

Men.

“Hello, Otetsudai-san.” Your mood lifts a little at the sound of Akutagawa Gin’s gentle voice, but then you can feel the way your body physically reacts, blood pressure spiking at the reminder of why she would would be calling and the pressure goes right to your already aching head—you’re officially nursing a migraine. “I’m sorry for all of the trouble you’ve been put through today, but we do have another scene that needs to be cleaned up…”

You let out a heavy sigh. “Right. Text me the coordinates and I’ll send my final team. You better let your executive know that this is the last team available. He needs to slow down. Your only other option is having myself personally come out to get my hands dirty and, trust me, he doesn’t want that.”

Gin swears to deliver your message and hangs up to promptly send you the promised coordinates. You’re quick to dispatch your only available team and sit back in your chair. You should be checking on the progress of your other teams but you need a break. A shooting pain runs through your temple when you think about the amount of reports you’re going to have to fill out just from the executive and his team alone.  

You think you wouldn't be so bothered by all of this if it wasn’t for the fact that the executive hasn’t bothered to personally call or contact you himself. He’s made his mess yours and his subordinates' problem, as if he’s too good to be bothered himself. The thought alone makes you scowl. His obvious arrogance puts you off and works you up even more than it probably should but you’re tired and annoyed and your head hurts thanks to this man. The least he could do is talk to you personally and thank you for your hard work.

You think it’s far too often that your division is taken for granted, as well as the mailmen. No one has proper appreciation for your work. No one seems to understand that without the cleaners and the mailmen, this organization wouldn’t run as smoothly as it does.

It’s insulting, you really need to have a word with the Boss about this and maybe devise a plan in which each member (including executives) takes a day to work in each division to better appreciate the hard work you all do, but before you can do that you have to get through this god awful day. You pick up your phone for the umptieth time and check in on the crews you have assigned to the several messes that have been made today and none of them have finished. You could pull some teams from other assignments but that would run the potential risk of falling short in staff for other divisions just because some ginger with questionable taste in head accessories is having a bad day. You refuse to let that happen.

Maybe you should consider cutting the executive off, for the day at least. You’ve been allowed the liberty by Mori himself to cut anyone off from your services that gives you a particularly hard time. luckily, you’ve never even considered it, let alone been forced to exercise the right to cut someone off. You cannot believe this carrot topped, below average height, freckled freak of a man is making you consider changing your stance on your right to refuse services.

Not even twenty minutes after Gin called, you receive yet another message from her alerting you of another scene that needs your attention. 

That’s it, you’ve had enough of this. If the ginger wants to throw a fit that’s fine by you but you’ll be damned if you continue to let him make it everyone else’s  problem, but more specifically your problem. You decide this man is going to get a piece of your mind whether he  likes it or not. You request both the coordinates and that Nakahara Chuuya be present for your arrival at the scene before getting up from your desk and calling for an escort.

Chuuya is irritated beyond belief, his patience is nonexistent today and now he has to wait for this “Housekeeper” person to show up. He doesn’t have the time for this. The longer he spends waiting around to speak with this asshole, the more time the Yokohama branches of the organization he met with abroad have to flee. He can’t let that happen. The traitors need to face the consequences of their actions for sloppily selling Port Mafia secured information to their rivaling organizations.

He’s already taken care of their overseas branch, now he needs to wipe out their entire domestic operations. He’s already behind schedule, he should’ve been done by this time, but now he has to send out more teams in his place because someone needs to have a word with him and apparently he isn’t allowed to leave the scene until that conversation happens in person. At least, that’s what Gin told him and she’s not one to exaggerate unlike her brother who frequently gets carried away.

The current scene is an abandoned factory building—or, the remnants of an abandoned factory, Chuuya has no time to care about how neatly things are done right now, he just needs to get them done. Although, he does have to admit, this job was particularly messy and maybe Chuuya shouldn’t have used his ability to knock down the entire structure, but again he is in a hurry and it’s not like anyone was using the building. Really, he was doing the city a favor by demolishing that factory for free. However, the ginger knows that the Housekeeper isn’t going to be happy about it.

“Is this a goddamn joke?! What the hell is all of this?!” A shrill voice pierces through the sound of waves hitting the nearby cliffs. 

Chuuya winces, he hates how right he can be sometimes, and whips around to find the owner of the voice to be a neatly dressed woman no older than himself—maybe even younger. He’s not sure why, maybe it has to do with the fact that Kouyou is the only woman of power that he knows in the Port Mafia (one thing that has really never sat right with him due to the fact that it reeks of misogyny) or maybe it’s because of how efficiently the cleaners run, Chuuya has always been under the impression that the Housekeeper was an older man. One that held the same stature as someone like Hirotsu. It makes the executive wonder who her predecessor might have been and what they did to have such a young woman set to replace them.

Thankfully Gin has intercepted her and is seemingly trying to deescalate whatever fit the division head seems to be having. Why Chuuya has to be here for that is a mystery to him. His patience is waning even further at the fact that this Housekeeper seems hellbent on wasting the executive’s time.

The division head and Gin exchange a few more words before the (possibly?) older woman’s head swivels to the side, her sharp gaze narrowed in his direction. Suddenly he feels uncomfortable in his own skin, entirely too seen, a chill running through him that he can only explain as a sort of intimidation. Chuuya doesn’t get intimidated easily, he finds it hard too when he is both the strongest fighter and ability user in the entire organization. He hasn’t felt something like this in quite some time. Only one other person that still resides in the Port Mafia has made Chuuya experience this feeling and that was Mori Ougai himself, the boss of the entire Port Mafia. Besides the older man, there is only one other person that has elicited this kind of reaction from Chuuya.

Now he has to add one more person to that list. 

She moves with a sort of elegance that the ginger would expect from a dancer or a fighter, but with her stature and fragile frame, Chuuya couldn’t imagine this woman ever fighting. So a dancer then, she has to be, with movements as calculated and light as her’s there is no other explanation. The ginger realizes he’s blatantly sizing her up just a little too late, the expression on her face tells him she notices. The deep set scowl etched onto her face gives that away pretty easily. 

She crosses her arms over her chest and looks at him in obvious contempt. “Nakahara-san.”

“Housekeeper, I assume?” You nod your head at him, confirming his obvious suspicions about your identity, clearly it wasn’t really that hard to figure out with the way you made your entrance a bit of a spectacle. 

If your outburst when you first got here wasn’t an indication, the look on your face solidifies your clear annoyance with the executive. Chuuya internally flinches at the thought, he generally tries to stay on the good side of other members of the Port Mafia, always being respectful no matter the position, unless otherwise provoked. The last thing he wants is to have offended someone so vital in how efficiently the Port Mafia operates. 

Chuuya can’t imagine the delays in assignments if they didn’t have the cleaners to sort the messes for them or the mailman division to deliver important messages that cannot be delivered through a phone. Judging by your appearance here though, he has decidedly not made a good impression on you. Your presence alone was already a huge neon sign displaying that, the scowl on your face is enough to let the executive know he has in fact disrespected you in some way or another. The thought alone is enough to make the nausea settle in, feeling physically ill as his stomach churns uncomfortably.

“…You’re upset.” Admittedly, that’s not the brightest vocal observation Chuuya has ever made but something about you makes him nervous and it’s the best he could muster at this moment.

Your jaw tightens and your left eye twitches ever so slightly. “How very astute of you, Nakahara-san. It doesn’t matter who you are, where do you get off on ordering your subordinates to do the dirty work for you? Poor Gin alone has contacted me more in one day than she ever has in her entire time with the Port Mafia. Your arrogance truly astounds me. Y’know, I have never had someone so blatantly disrespect me and my division quite like you have today, congratulations. I’m highly disappointed, I’ve heard countless people rave about how respectful you are, but I suppose everyone has their limitations, right? Your courtesies clearly only extend to members that join you on the field and not for the aftermath.”

Your words cut into Chuuya’s chest like razor sharp blades. He does pride himself in his ability to respect others so outwardly, his words and actions always carefully mapped out. He didn’t start learning about proper etiquette until his mid to late teens, going from a street rat running a gang of other children from the streets to attending high society galas was a culture shock to say the least. It was hard for him to adjust, took years of constant guidance from Ane-san to completely sand away at the rough edges that once defined him.

So the notion that he would look down on anyone lower than him in the chain of command in the Port Mafia is laughable at best. However, the executive isn’t too sure that now is the best time to bring that up. Your anger is tangible as is, maybe it’s best that he keeps his mouth shut and lets you get your frustrations out. 

The longer you prattle on about your grievances toward the executive, the more Chuuya finds himself shocked at just how much he’s okay with it. His lips are parted slightly as he watches you in awe, waving your hands around to emphasize the way you’re harshly scolding him. It stirs something inside of him that’s slightly concerning.

Is he attracted to this? Or are you really just that beautiful when you’re angry?

Chuuya decides he would like to find out.

The ginger has to find out.

“Not all of us live, breathe, and eat the Port Mafia. Some of us would like to have a life outside of this organization and what you’re doing here today is hindering me from being able to obtain that healthy work to life balance ratio. I don’t care if you’re an executive—I wouldn’t care if you were the boss himself—I deserve the decency of getting a heads up from you personally that my teams were going to need to be prepared for a tantrum of this magnitude. Wouldn’t you agree?” Your shoulders visibly deflate, the tension in your body dissipating after finally voicing your issues with the way the ginger was handling this operation, but your gaze is still sharp and expectant, clearly wanting an answer to your question.

Chuuya can’t say he disagrees, after reflecting he has acted like a huge dick, making a mockery of you by not extending any sort of common decency towards you. Instead of speaking, Chuuya removes his hat from his head with his right hand and crosses his arm over his chest to rest the head accessory over his heart. He kneels down to bow formally and suddenly all the chatter from his subordinates ceases, everything going eerily quiet.

You splutter in embarrassment at his show and look around awkwardly. 

“I deeply apologize, Otetsudai-san, for both the disrespect and for ruining your after work plans. I agree, I should have allowed you the courtesy of being prepared for this—” Chuuya can’t help himself and peers up at you with an amused grin as he chooses his next words. “What was it that you called it? Tantrum.”

You bristle at his words, already flustered as your face flushes deeper. “You’re a Scoundrel, Nakahara Chuuya. I will be veiling this mess you’ve made and any others from this point forward until my teams can finish up at the other locations. I expect a direct phone call from you and no one else. Unless you feel like cleaning up your own messes. Do I make myself clear, Scoundrel?”

Chuuya chuckles at your retort and nods his head as he raises back to his feet, placing his hat back on his head. “Crystal clear, Otetsudai-san.”

You roll your eyes at him with a huff and spin on the balls of your feet, waving dismissively at him as you walk away. Chuuya relishes in your reaction, finding it quite endearing with the way a blush blooms at the tips of your ears and travels down to the back of your exposed neck. Even in your plain clothing and slicked back hairstyle, there’s no denying the fact that you have this natural beauty that shines through all of that. Maybe that’s why you make him so nervous, the executive doesn’t think he’s ever met anyone quite like you. 

He’s utterly captivated. 

His phone ringing lifts him out of his stupor, eyes never leaving your figure as he reaches into his pocket and answers the call. It’s Akutagawa—he’d stepped in for Chuuya when he couldn’t resume with this assignment himself thanks to your request. The executive picks up the phone, only half listening to the younger man’s mission report as you activate your ability. He watches in wonder as you make the rubble from the fallen factory completely disappear. 

Dangerously captivating.

It’s been a week since you personally met the notorious executive/scoundrel, Nakahara Chuuya, in the flesh and you no longer know what to think of him.

Maybe you’d have a better chance of doing any sort of thinking if it weren’t for the overwhelming floral scent swirling around inside of your office. Thirteen bouquets, all a variety of flowers from lilies to carnations to even dahlias. This was getting ridiculously out of hand. The first few deliveries were a pleasant surprise, but by the seventh delivery, you were completely out of surface area to set the massive and intricate bouquets down onto.

You feel like you’re swimming in a sea of petals. What’s worse is that, whether it’s a specific flower or all of their scents and pollen being combined together like this, something in here is making your allergies act up. Your sinuses are either clogged or leaking like a faucet, there has been no in between, and your eyes. They were starting to become unbearable with how itchy they’ve become. You’ve tried opening the windows but the clutter in your office is masking the fresh air and hardly doing anything to help.

The clutter is so bad that you had to start using chairs to house all of the flowers that were slowly but surely infesting your work space. The absolute worst part of this all, though, is that your subordinates have started whispering about the relationship between you and Chuuya. You too would love to know what that is because as of right now you’re completely unaware of your own standing with him. Last you checked he was simply some stupidly overpowered arrogant asshole that just so happens to have a pretty smile and striking eyes. Of course you don’t tell them that last part but you’re quick to remind them of the first part. 

They clearly don’t buy it, how could they when the flowers continue to flood in, the evidence overwhelmingly stacked against you.

Treacherous flowers.

Nakahara Chuuya is truly a pain in your ass, a bug crawling under your skin, a thorn in your side. 

Your secretary scurries in with an unusually nervous look on her face and you check the time while letting out a sigh. Six in the evening on the dot. That’s when the second bouquet has been arriving every day for the past six days. 

You close your eyes and pinch the bridge of your nose in exasperation, you take a deep breath but it only serves to wound you up further when the strong floral scent causes your head to spin. “Sign for the flowers and you can just keep them at your desk, I couldn’t care less.”

“Aw…You’re breaking my heart, Doll. Did you not like my flowers? Would you have preferred I sent you treats from Paris instead?”

Your eyes fly open at the sound of his smooth voice, you’re sure it’s comical how they almost bug out of your head because even your secretary has to stifle a giggle. To her credit she does catch herself but it’s too late and you give her a wilted look, completely mortified. She bows her head and backs out of the room, probably on her way to tell the others what just transpired.

He said Paris. As in, Paris, France? As in the City of Love? Who does this guy think he is? Casanova? It’s bold of him to assume you’re easily swayed by grand romantic gestures. Jokes on him, you aren’t huge on the lover girl aesthetic or mentality. You’re simply exhausted and maybe just a little emotionally unstable.

You thought your outburst and chewing him out last week was enough of an indication of that.

Your gaze finally focuses on the ginger and what he’s holding. A bouquet of red roses. You want to roll your eyes—you do roll your eyes at him, you can’t help it considering the absurdity of it all. Red roses. Seriously? And of course he’s standing there with that stupid ass smirk and a mischievous glint in his bicolored eyes.

You let out a scoff through your nose. “You expect me to believe that a scoundrel like you had these flowers flown in from France?”

You’re decidedly unnerved by the way his smirk turns into an amused grin and his eyes soften with a fondness that catches you off guard. You don’t think anyone has ever looked at you that way. It makes you want to crawl out of your skin.

“You think too little of me—kinda hurts, y’know?” Chuuya fakes a pained expression that’s surprisingly convincing—or it would be if it weren’t for the fact that his tone gives away his clear amusement. “No, I expect you to believe that every day for the last seven days, I have been personally going to France myself and picking out the bouquets and traveling back.”

You blanch at this revelation, eyes once again turning into cartoonish orbs on your face and mouth hanging open in utter disbelief. “Why would you go through all that trouble just for me?”

Suddenly you feel a pit in your stomach churning and it makes you nauseous. Guilt starts chewing you from the inside out as you realize all that he’s done to try and prove to you he’s sorry. You start to feel bad about ever thinking ill of him.

You looked into him. Two days ago your request for Chuuya’s personal files were authorized and Mori called you up to his office to hand the folder to you himself. You were shocked, having expected your on-a-whim request to be denied. So, when he had a strange gleam in his eye, his amusement palpable, you knew something was suspicious but you couldn’t figure out what. He sensed your hesitation and an even more unsettling grin curled at his lips.

He said something about how years ago, Chuuya’s files had been taken, unauthorized and this was his way of repaying that.

It was an odd interaction and maybe Mori was actually telling the truth. Or maybe the man was just bored. It doesn’t matter now, because either way you regret reading his file. Knowing where Chuuya came from, that he was not only a child abandoned on the streets, but he was…God you can’t even think about it without a wave of sadness washing over you. All of that contempt you held for him previously has completely dissipated.

You definitely shouldn’t have read his file.

Chuuya’s entire face softens, he almost looks embarrassed—no, he does look embarrassed. The slight dusting of blush blooming onto his cheeks and his free hand rubbing the back of his neck are all telltale signs of how flustered he is by your question. Maybe even the answer he has for it too.

“I think it’s pretty important for you to like me, or at least to tolerate me. Someone in your position deserves respect and I’m sorry my first impression was lacking. I’m also sorry for fucking with your plans. Let me make it up to you?”

He looks at you expectantly and you can’t help the incredulous laugh that slips past your lips as you shake your head, an involuntary smile creeping onto your face and brightening your features. “If these flowers were just the precursor to your apology, do I even wanna know what the real apology is? Anyone ever tell you that subtlety isn’t your strong suit?” 

“Nah, don’t think it’s ever come up. But…Let me take you out for dinner and drinks. On my dime of course.” 

You watch him fiddle with his bottom lip, scraping it nervously between his teeth, not quite biting it. You ponder on his question before coming to a realization. Today was oddly slow for you, which means it was a slow day for the mafia altogether. You can’t help but wonder if that had anything to do with the man standing nervously before you, still holding that damn bouquet of roses. You let out a sigh of defeat and tip toe over to the ginger, plucking the bouquet from his hand.

You bring the flowers up to your nose and inhale deeply, the scent of roses overpowering the rest of the other flowers. Despite never being a romantic, the scent of roses has always been your favorite. You peer up at Chuuya through your lashes and you swear you hear his breath catch in his throat.

“I suppose I can spare one night to dine with a scoundrel.”

⤷ More on reader’s ability |  Fukai Mask (Masks by Fumiko Enchi) - An ability to mask objects or a surrounding scene. This ability allows its user to also mask herself from others but she cannot apply her own ability to other living things apart from plants. The mask acts as a veil that hides things from the naked eye as well as making the objects or user permeable. When the user has the ability activated only she is able to see what’s been hidden. The ability can be activated in more than one scene at a time as long as the user has physically been there before but while the ability is being used externally, the user cannot mask her presence and vice versa.

[riverbends]

SECRETARY AU (jack abbot x f!reader)

part one: the blouse | mdni | MASTERLIST

tags: sexual content, mentions of smut, power imbalance, age gap, angst, perv jack, perv reader, dubcon elements??, masturbation wc: 5.6k cat says: this fic is a deviation from the source material, although i will include some of the other characters who play different roles in the story. i also initially wrote the entire thing as an abbotmohan fic and i spent so long deciding if i wanted to keep it that way. i changed all the pronouns and verb tenses to see how it looked and now i can’t be bothered to change it back to abbotmohan but also i think im okay with this anyway. i've planned a different fic for them. i’m also pretty much basing this off of the film secretary and i’m not familiar with the american healthcare system (if that still...even exists today...) so I’m just drawing things from an australian perspective (yeah ew). thaaaaaaank you bye

Five days a week. From 7 AM until only God knows when. Supposed to be 5 PM. Most of the time, 7 PM. On the rarest occasions, 8 PM. If you didn’t get paid overtime, you’d complain about it more. Not to him, obviously.

You never really share anything with him, much less your grievances. Nor does he, save for a random but contextual anecdote from his life in relation to a patient he’s just seen or maybe a very brief retelling of an encounter he had with somebody on the way to the practice.

Apart from that, the two of you tend to keep to yourselves when he isn’t giving you tasks or instructions for correspondence. A few glances when he enters the waiting room, some tight smiles at the reception. No lingering, no small talk, no jokes (it rarely occurs to you that you might be the one avoiding any interaction possible).

Though, to your embarrassment, he does seem to foster a habit of saying something very normal and, arguably, platonic in such a way that sends an agonising heat searing through your belly. This is only an embarrassment on your part because it feels nearly impossible to hide the effect he has. The dewy, sticky mess he leaves underneath your skirt with only a few words in a warm, hushed tone.

He has never indicated any awareness of this apprehension—at least, not to your knowledge—but you fear the patients might catch your eyes lingering on his back as he walks away. Your mouth drawn in tight, eyes shining under furrowed brows as you endure a throbbing ache down south.

The same praises you whisper at night against your sheets while you work yourself up, and up. Fingers pruned, sore—

Fear they might hear your heart punching your ribs or, God forbid, the soft chafe of your stockings against your skin as you squeeze your thighs together.

Thank you, doll.

What would I do without you, honey?

A whole year of casual praises and brief compliments.

You swear there’s something tucked between those words, something that tears away all the lights and the patients and the furniture. Like his voice dissolves the waiting room, sponging up the sludged air until your blood runs in your ears. Only you, in your chair. Him, standing at your side, mere inches away.

Dr. Abbot Dr. Abbot Dr. Abbot Dr. Abbot Dr. Abbot

Perhaps, he doesn’t mean it the way you think he does and it only sounds different to you, and you unprofessionally engineer unspeakable fantasies when you shouldn’t be…and you are unfit for this job and maybe you need to leave for good and hopefully you’ll forget the smell of him whenever he leaned over your shoulder.

Robust cologne. Blade slicing through fruit; bleeding sharp, heady wine—

Your name is called.

Out of focus, your eyes flit up. Frank stands behind the counter holding a takeaway box over the top of the glass case displaying sandwiches, pastries, and cookies.

“Oh,” you stop fiddling with the button of your coat and step forward, returning the smile. “Sorry, Frank. Thank you.”

“No need,” he laughs as you take your order from him. “I’d be out of it too if I sat at that desk all day.”

Internally, you grimace. You don’t even really mind the desk job. The paperwork, the phone calls, the patients, the hospital correspondence, the tidying, the pay, the hours of nothingness. You are good at this. Well-rehearsed and comfortably attuned.

It’s the dread that pulls you into wanton lapses, into daydreams. No, ‘dread’ just gives the feeling an ugly suit. It isn’t so much dread as it is anticipation. The anticipation is ugly. For what, you don’t want to admit. It even borders on hope, and it’s pathetic.

From hopping on the bus with a flame in your belly to opening the practice at 7 AM while your head spins to waiting for Dr Abbot to appear at the door half an hour later to bracing yourself for his greeting to expecting a task from him to imagining how his thumbs would pry apart your labia minora, nice and wide, so he can slot his tongue—

To secretly hope for whatever you are secretly hoping for. Yes, you do feel quite out of it.

“It’s not so bad,” You smile, shrugging. “Although, I sort of envy you. I’d kill for free lemon slices after every shift.”

“Okay, you know I don’t get free stuff every shift,” Frank raises his hands as if in surrender, “but all you have to do is ask.”

Two months after you initially got the job at the practice, you were already a regular at the café off the corner. You know all the employees, but it’s always been Frank Langdon who's given you discounts and, of course, the occasional freebie. Maybe he flirts a little sometimes and maybe you flirt back. It’s fun, you can’t lie. You also can’t ignore his momentary glances slipping below your eyes, settling on the valley of your breasts.

The blouse was a bad idea. You knew it the moment you buttoned it up this morning. There must be some kind of dress code that warns against it, but you’ve been having little to no sense these past few months anyway.

The sweet, silken pink flatters the slope of your waist with seven magenta buttons stopping right up at the source of Frank’s inhibited attention. Your breasts aren’t on complete display but anyone with eyes can make out the soft cleave between them, despite your many futile attempts to tug the fabric over the middle of your chest.

(A deviant part of you wore it for Dr. Abbot).

“Will do,” you salute before heading for the door.

Dirty. That is the recurring adjective.

Dirty, old man, Robby had once playfully mocked Jack in response to the small and, in his opinion, insignificant confession about you. Jack didn’t even say anything bad enough to warrant that kind of epithet. Definitely nothing as bad as the things he thinks about. Only that, sometimes, the way you look up at him from your chair puts his stomach in knots. And that, of course, you are pretty.

He didn’t dare mention that the look—the gleam in your eyes when you peer up at him, as if you are lost; unmoored. Like you need guiding and, oh, does he want to guide you—sends him over the edge. That his pants suddenly feel taut over his crotch when your mouth parts ever so slightly. A few warm breaths away from his twitching cock.

Dirty, old man.

Jack harbours a medley of perverted reveries, all of which are the fruit of a desire that has burgeoned from the moment you walked in for the job interview a year ago. He remembers it like it was only yesterday.

It had rained that day. Heavily, and evidently. You hadn’t anticipated the bucketing showers. The bus stop was a fair walk away, so it made complete sense that your hair was dripping and plastered to the sides your neck. Drops of water trailing down your temple, slipping over your throat to settle on your clavicle. You apologised profusely for the state of yourself while Jack tried not to stare at the imprint of your bra through your soaked shirt.

You scrambled for any and all explanations for your late arrival when Jack simply said your name, mouth softening into a half smile at the sight of your stunned, wide eyes. Said it like he had known you for years. You shut up. He had already made up his mind.

It’s still a mystery to you, how you ever got the job in the first place. But you needed it too badly to ask why at the time. Your résumé had listed an odd number of administrative jobs you had worked over the years. Twenty-something and cautious. You were polite and well-dressed (from what he could tell, even with the rain-drenched clothes). It wasn’t like there were people lining up to interview for the job either, so he had to take what he could get.

The practice belonged to his late father. A quaint block in the middle of a strip of stores hiding a small staff carpark out back for everybody. Independent surgery with loyal patients and a dedicated secretary, Mary, who worked for his father for over three decades. Jack took over the place five years prior to your interview, leaving behind his old practice with Robby and Heather, who were now joined with two new providers.

Conveniently, the patients have adjusted to Jack quite well over time, the elderly reminding him every now and then about how it was sad to hear that his father had passed, and does he miss him very badly? Oh, and does he have anybody waiting at for him at home and, if so, what’s the lucky woman’s name? And doesn’t he long for someone and isn’t he getting older? And isn’t his secretary just so sweet and have you settled down yet? And are you really so young and where did he find you?

(And why doesn’t he fuck you senseless?)

So vividly, he can still remember the sheer pleasure ripping through him as he pumped his cock in his hand, picturing you drenched in water earlier that day. He was fond of the tremble in your lips too. You were shivering. Your nipples were probably hard as pebbles from the cold. He came, then.

It had been too long since he bothered to get off like this, a grunting mess in his bedsheets. That first time, ashamed after he rode out his high. Dirty, dirty, dirty.

Jack is ravenous, and he has mastered indifference with great difficulty. It is, however, thrilling to think that his depravity knew no bounds.

Months and months of deterring his want. He has found some kind of succour in your inadvertent touches, his wrist brushing past your shoulder or your foot knocking against his. Your knee just barely skimming his shin when you turn in your chair to face him. Anything, any kind of innocent contact in lieu of your warm, wet cunt milking him dry. He is convinced he can live with that, just the momentary sweeps and grazes. But he’s had to pace himself, stretch out the weeks and refrain from thinking about you every night. Hand wrapped around his base as the showerhead (perversely) baptises him in freezing water, chasing his spend down his thigh. He can get off on the scent of you alone.

There was a day, maybe six months into your employ, where you both ended up in the break room at the same time. Jack had walked in to find you, back turned, leaning against the countertop on both hands. Fingers tapping the laminate as you stared at the simmering kettle of water. The coffee pot he was looking for sat near your left hand.

The hot churning of water seemed to conceal the sound of his footsteps for you hadn’t acknowledged his presence. He paused for a moment, a few feet away from you. You had worn a pair of slim black tailored pants that day, and he thanked whatever God he could for the sight of your ass stretching out the fabric. Thighs perfectly sculpted and visible to him. Had to suppress a groan when he caught the strip of soft, bare skin revealing itself between the bottom hem of your shirt and the low waistband of your pants. His knuckles paled and locked around the handle of his stained, empty mug.

Without a word, he softened his footing and approached you, heavy-lidded eyes boring into your spine. Blade slicing through fruit—

He sidled up to you, a little to your left, extending his hand around your frame to reach for the pot. So menacingly quiet about it. The movement in your peripheral and the sudden murmur of a breath over your shoulder ripped a sharp gasp from your lungs. In an impetuous panic, you stumbled backwards into the wall of his chest, haphazardly trampling over his foot. Jack’s free left hand jerked back and flew to your hip. Both of you were too stunned to realise that his other had abandoned the mug to latch onto to the meat below your right hip and above your thigh, far lower than where his left was situated.

His fingers dug into your pelvic bone. Couldn’t resist the temptation to press further. He let the tip of his middle finger prod the crease between your inner thigh and your mons, swearing he could nearly feel the faint imprint of your panties. Jack had half a mind to shove an angry hand under your waistband and slide a finger over that velvety bundle of nerves—

The clash and shatter of the mug drew a memory from your childhood many years ago.

Elementary: third grade. A classmate of yours shared an unusual object for Show & Tell with everyone. You pictured the hunger of it now, flashing in the backyard of your brain. A slender green neck with a pink mouth, eagerly open for prey. Spindly teeth, splayed out like eye lashes. An unsuspecting, though crafty, insect swooping into its treacherous jaws in search of nectar. Treading carefully around the trigger hairs, thinking it had plenty of time before it was too late. You and your classmates watched, enthralled, as the jaws enfolded its guest. Snapped itself shut, like hands interlocking fingers, to squeeze its victim in a carnivorous embrace.

“It’s just me,” he whispered, pinching your flesh between his hands. You shuddered; it didn’t go unnoticed by him.

You could wager this was far more paralysing than getting caught in a Venus Fly Trap.

Jack’s iron hold on the curve of your hip steadied the both of you. But, for him, the heat of your skin burning through your shirt was secondary to the way your ass had rubbed against his crotch from the moment you stepped back. He thought his blood was aflame, the way it surged and swelled between his legs.

Neither of you moved for what felt like an eternity. You could only focus on the steady rise and fall of your breath while he burned his fingerprints through your clothes. It took everything in him not to fold you over the counter and fish his cock out from his fly. Drive himself into your pussy as he toyed with your puffy clit. He wondered if you’d even object.

Split you open, tickle your cervix.

“You can return to reception,” he murmured over your shoulder, stiff cock notching against the cleft of your ass. His breath was strong and hot against your neck when he, to your quiet dismay, released your hips. “I’ll clean up the mess, sweetheart.”

You thought you’d soaked yourself through your pants, but wasted no time to follow his instructions. Nodding and catching your breath, you stepped aside when he didn’t move and spun around to scurry out of the break room.

Neither of you could look at each other for the rest of the day. Didn’t say goodbye to each other either. That was the first night he had left at exactly 5 PM. You kept your eyes glued to your keyboard as he strolled past the reception in his dress coat with his bag slung over his shoulder. Out the door without a word.

Walked around the back to climb into his car and dry-fuck his fist like a madman. Barely spoke to you directly for a week after the fact.

(You, on the other hand, have opted to erase the memory of it entirely. If you linger too much on the phantom pinches and his fingertips almost teasing the place you needed him most, you fear you’d do something mortifyingly regrettable. You’ve gone as far as to convince yourself that the delusion only arose from the lack of coordination between you two. A defect in your recollection. The semi that hardened in his pants and poked your rear could not have been real.)

The practice has always been something you considered near ‘cosy’.

A waiting room with space for at least a dozen chairs. An intimate reception is nestled to the left corner against the wall. You face the opposite side of the waiting room where the small flat-screen is situated on the wall, the glass doors and windows kept to your right. Not to mention the play zone wedged between the window and the short end of your countertop. The children are usually well behaved, aside from a few screamers.

Sometimes, if someone’s tall enough, they’ll stretch on their toes and claw at the countertop to beam at you. Shiny doe-eyes blinking for your attention until you turn your head to the right and smile.

For this reason, you’ve always kept stickers and gadgets behind the desk as small prizes for them when the toys in the play zone aren’t enough. And, if their parents approve, you hold out a jar of candies for their eager choosing (although, this is usually a reward for after their appointment, you’re not opposed to breaking your own rules once in a while. Especially for those damn screamers).

It’s not so bad for the most part. You’re always kept busy and distracted enough to stay awake. There is this relentless creeping dread, though. Working for him will do that to you. Waiting with bated breath when he grows closer in proximity, your fingers itching to hold onto anything. Keyboard, mouse, paper, pen, throbbing cock—

The majority of the patients are easy and conversational, many know you by name. You do your best to keep your eyes on your computer and off the TV.

Very early into the job, you had once been quite visibly tense at the desk and he frowned down at you in his own sympathetic way.

“Just a small headache,” you smiled, your elbows pinned to the desk while you rubbed your hands down the sides of your neck. He didn’t hide his scepticism. How did Mary work in this horrible lighting?

“You sure?” He pressed, and you managed a nod. “You can come in and see me, you know that?”

“Yes.”

“Don’t want to?”

“It’s probably nothing,” you sputtered hastily, fearing he’d take offence to your hesitation. “I’m okay, really.”

A small headache was bad enough. Being in that office alone with him—his soft reassurances and his close assessment of you and his watchful eye and his thumb on your slack jaw—would’ve atrophied your brain.

He shrugged, still doubtful: “Alright. If you say so.”

In the following weeks, he had the harsh overhead lights switched out for softer canned lights, washing the waiting room and reception in warm off-whites and yellows. Whether or not he detected the source for your headaches, the gesture is still fresh in your memory when you open up the practice most mornings.

A rectangular, high-rise countertop frames your workspace like an L and separates you from the patients, leaving a walkable gap between the countertop and the wall where you or Dr. Abbot can easily move in and out near the corridor.

Said corridor leads to the treatment room on the right, while Dr. Abbot’s door is on the left. Only one wall separates your reception from his office, allowing you only muffles of conversations you cannot cognise. There are, of course, many times where you’re both in the break room at the far end of the corridor, but never for long. One of you is either entering or exiting (the incident from six months ago shivers like a ghost between the two of you).

When you unlock the clinic in the morning, you prefer to keep the lights off and blinds drawn, door locked again, so as not to leave an invitation for people to creep in before appointments are actually supposed to begin. This means that Dr. Abbot’s arrival gives you at least five seconds to prepare yourself for a greeting when you hear his key click in the door.

At 7:30 AM, you’re stood and leaning over the printer with a stack of pristine white A4 sheets when you hear that click. To your relief, the blinds over the door always conceal him. And you.

He turns the lock and pushes on the handle to find you refilling the printer tray. Everything feels like a balancing act in front of him.

“Morning,” he greets, calm and mellow, as he locks the door behind him.

You wear the same sweet but not-too-eager smile: “Good morning.”

Looking away from him, you still notice the pause in his step. As if his foot stopped short before a pothole. You tuck the slab of paper into its tray, eyes trained on sharp white, waiting for him to say something.

In the blurred corner of your vision, he rubs a hand back and forth over his jaw. But he regains himself after a moment. Leaves the waiting room and disappears down the unlit corridor. The sound of his door quietly latching shut tugs your head in its direction. Soundlessness fills the practice again.

He lowers himself onto his chair, unbuttoned coat still on and bag between his feet. His hands run slowly up and down his thighs. Dress pants burning electric under his palms. Closing his eyes does little to fight away the image of you and the low neckline of that slippery, salmon-pink blouse perfectly framing your tits. The printer faces the windows so he was able to see you head-on the moment he walked in. Low yellow lights bathing your chest golden.

If he let his index finger tug on the curved hem, he could probably pop one out. Had he lingered near you any longer, he fears that is precisely what he would’ve done. Walked around the countertop and cornered you against the desk just to hook his fingertip in your blouse. Give himself a glimpse of your stiff, peaked nipple under his breath.

Lean down and suck—

Jack can probably get off on the thought of it now, pathetic as he is. First appointment isn’t for another half hour. Not like he hasn’t found release in his office before.

Are you trying to vex him? Part of him (all of him) considers firing you.

By some miracle, he contains his urges. His coat feels tighter the longer he keeps it on, so he tugs it off furiously to relieve himself. Most days, he wears a plain, long-sleeved dress shirt underneath a sweater; habitually rolls the sleeves halfway up his forearms. Pale, freckled skin laid bare.

Jack’s standard consultations run for fifteen minutes at best, with maybe an average of twenty-five to thirty patients per day, many of whom have attended the practise for years and years. The absence of his father, to Jack’s awareness, is somewhat mended. Or, at least, the patients seem to think so. Initially, he had worried he’d find trouble filling the gaps and building over the relationships they had already established with his late father. His worries diminished within the first month as he developed a strong rapport with all the regulars.

The very, very elderly often fall into lapses of time and lost recollection where they confuse him for old Dr. Abbot, referring to memories and stories with which Jack is not familiar (though, he is quite fond of this).

He is also moderately aware of his…charm, however dry it may be. Particularly with the women that come in. There have been too many offers and flirtations to count over the years. He doesn’t mind it, and it’s never gone anywhere dangerous. He knows how to keep things separate. Tidy. Clean. Untouched.

Once divorced and quite content on his own (or so he chooses to believe). He won’t deny that his fist gets old, the way he can only forage for fading memories of you when he gets himself going. He’s all leaky when he remembers the press of your ass in the break room. Or a skirt you wore one day, a tad too tight and stopping halfway down your thighs. You had dropped a pen on your way to the door of his office after handing him paperclipped forms. He watched you leave, as he always does. Didn’t expect to see you bend over slightly, just for a moment, to retrieve the pen.

He fooled himself into thinking that if you had parted your legs and leaned forward a little more, he’d just catch a hint of the lacey garters of your sheer black stockings.

Dirty, old man.

Jack curses himself, alone in his office. That infernal blouse of yours is now slotted beside all of his other decadent memories. His own erotic memorabilia.

Throughout the day, he communicates with you as usual. Nothing out of the ordinary. He speaks with you when he needs to, maintains steady eye contact (anything below your nose is marked as a hazard zone in his head). Takes your calls, accepts your paperwork, says his pleases and thank yous. Makes sure he stays flaccid and unaroused. Impossibly.

Some time during lunch, when the waiting room is empty, you hear Dr. Abbot before you see him, approaching from your left with a collection of referrals. He doesn’t get a chance to speak because the front door is suddenly pushed open to reveal none other than Frank. The both of you look up to your right where he stands frozen in the doorframe.

“Shit, sorry. Hi,” Frank pants, mouth splitting into an embarrassed smile. “Uh, am I able to make an appointment? With him? Soon, if that's okay.”

You don’t know why, but you look back up to your left, almost like you’re trying to gauge whether Dr. Abbot is okay with it. You don’t need to, obviously. It’s your job to make appointments for him. The man just shrugs, unbothered.

“Yeah, of course, Frank,” you laugh softly. Dr. Abbot shifts impatiently beside you as Frank walks up to the counter.

“Thank you, thank you. I burned my hand on the panini press pretty bad. Few minutes ago,” he raises his left hand, revealing the flimsy bandage wrapped loosely over and around his palm. “I wasn’t sure if you guys take walk-ins.”

“Not often,” you smile, searching the appointment book on your computer for an open slot, “but I think we can fit you in.”

Frank nods, sighing another ‘thank you’ before silence circles the three of you.

Dr. Abbot places the referrals on the desk, “Fax numbers are in that email from Peter’s mother, thank you.” He’s just about to step away when Frank perks up again.

“You working late tonight?”

The both of you look up at him again, but he’s very clearly beaming at you. His curiosity is endearing.

“I don’t think so.” / “Yes, she is.”

A nervous laugh bubbles from Frank while you and Dr. Abbot flick eyes at each other after clashing your answers. You hope to God he didn’t mean it.

Politely, you try to answer differently, “Maybe, depending on—”

“Y’know what, I can probably just see him now,” Dr. Abbot interrupts, quite gruffly, as if he has somewhere else he desperately needs to be. Taps two fingers on the desk. “He can fill out the registration form in my office,” he says, nodding his head in the direction of the corridor.

He slips around the counter, leaving the waiting room before you can say a word. Returning to Frank, you just smile again and hand him the clipboard of forms with a pen, “Here you go.”

“Is he alright?” Frank quirks a brow, accepting the form from you.

“He’s just tired,” you falsely reassure him, very unsure of why Dr. Abbot responded so bluntly. He can be dry in tone, but he doesn’t usually have such an edge with patients. “He gets like that sometimes.”

“Okay, then,” says Frank. “Thank you, again.”

“Any time.”

Frank chats you up at the reception desk ten minutes later, eyes twinkling as he nurses a freshly dressed palm with his prescription in his other hand.

Sometimes, when you really let it, a small consideration crosses your mind. Presumably desperation bred from a lack of…venery from someone you cannot have. So, naturally, you’d feel inclined to look at the options more available to you. And Frank makes himself ludicrously available any chance he gets.

You’re not unaware of it. The dragging glances, the sweet-talking he’s peppered in over the past year. Preening your platonic relationship into this hazy in-between where he hopes he can bribe you into his bed with free food and (arguably) innocent banter. There’s nothing stopping you either. You’re free to latch onto the bait, get his hooks inside you. Curling horribly.

Can’t fill you up nice and good like Dr. Abbot.

Appointments ended at 5. It’s 8 PM when he finally fucking decides to leave his office.

He rounds the counter, ruffling through his pigeon hole at the wall behind you. “I don’t wanna see that Fred guy again.”

“You mean Frank? Was everything okay?”

“Does he bother you?” He ignores your question with his own, straightening up when he finds pamphlets held in a rubber band. He’s never cared to read through them, so it appears to you that he is, for whatever reason, stalling. “He seems eager.”

“He’s friendly.”

“Oh, come on,” a laugh jumps out of him, which compels you to turn your chair in his direction. “The way he looks at you, he’s dying to fuck you,” he smiles and it’s so sickening. Like it amuses him. “Kid probably creamed his pants, seein’ your tits peek outta that blouse.” You’re frozen in your seat, barely processing the utter bluntness of his wording. Serrated knives. “Y’should put the poor guy out of his misery.”

In an attempt to brace yourself, you turn back to face your computer. Your clothes kiss your body uncomfortably now. It’s impossible to soothe the ache pulsing between your legs.

He flips through the pamphlets indifferently and sighs. “Anyway, I think I wanna cancel that meeting with the psych rep on Thursday. The ginger with the goatee. Spencer, I think it was? Doesn’t take any of it seriously. You won’t believe the shit he said last time, that ignorant fuck.” Then, he laughs bitterly, running a hand down his face after he tosses the pamphlets in the bin at your feet. You can only nod, acutely aware of the slick flooding your panties. Slippery clit longing for his hot mouth.

The room tips on its side when he gently squeezes your left shoulder.

“Good job today, yeah?”

You swallow thickly, struggling to look up at him, “Thank you.”

Releases his hand. Though, it feels like he almost rips the skin off your shoulder. Like the sheer heat in his touch had fluxed your flesh with his. Amalgamation. The grooves of his fingertips leaving cracks in the molten rock of your arm.

“And don’t wear that again,” he orders as he walks back around the counter.

Your brows pull tight in confusion. “Sorry?”

“The blouse,” is all he says, passing you and disappearing out the door.

One morning, too many months ago, you had rummaged through the storage room at work in search of decade-old vaccination files for a stubborn patient. Hopelessly, you dug around papers in drawers to find the last thing you were supposed to be looking for. Old prints of Dr. Abbot’s headshots for practice advertisements and pamphlets from two years ago...

At present, on your bed, you are kneeling back against your feet, thighs spread. Loose top hanging on your form, pair of cotton underwear. His crumpled photo, pinned to the sheets under the heel of your outstretched palm.

He looks exactly the same in it. White collar folding out of his sweater. Cropped ashen hair, snowy stubble. An indecipherable vacuum in his eyes (if you aren’t careful, you could sink in and deliquesce into nothing). No doubt, he probably cringed at the idea of getting his picture taken like this.

But one of them has been yours for a while now, always folded and tucked away in your bedside drawer. It rarely leaves its nest, but you can’t help yourself sometimes. When your thoughts aren’t enough, the photo acts as a crutch for an orgasm. Something tangible; real.

With shame coiling in your belly and your free hand wedged between your thighs, you screw your eyes shut to think of him. If you try hard enough, you can probably feel the ghost of his hand trapping your shoulder. His hands clutching your hips. His hands on the desk. His loins obtruding your ass—

—seein’ your tits peek outta that blouse.

Long breaths pour from your open mouth when you feel your core string itself tight, hole clenching around your sore fingers as you thumb your clit. Electric shimmers dot the abyss behind your closed eyes. You pull yourself forward to lean on your other hand while you aimlessly grind against your working wrist. The hovering and the sustained pressure of your thighs set your knees ablaze with overuse. Pain is easier to endure with the precipice of pleasure drawing closer and closer to you in every stroke you manage to thrust into yourself.

One of many fantasies you’ve fabricated, where he drags his flushed tip up and down the seam of your weeping pussy. Mixing his pre with your slick. Playing with you. It’s almost like a memory to you in the way that it shoves you towards climax and sends your eyes flying open to lock in on the photo scrunched in your clenched fist. A strangled cry catches on your teeth before tumbling from your lips.

You come hard, looking at Dr. Abbot’s paper face in the low lamplight of your bedroom.

[stevieschrodinger]

Part One Ten

“Eddie?”

Eddie wakes up slowly, rubbing his face into the warm material under him, Eddie’s hand coming up without much thought to wipe away the wet drool pooled under his mouth. “What?”

Steve chuckles, and the firm chest under Eddie shakes with it, “it’s morning.”

“What?” Eddie says again, thoughts still slow and sleepy, dragging himself up.

It is light outside, a little daylight making it’s way though the blinds. Eddie can’t remember the last time he slept through the night like that, “I’m going to go let Falkor out in the yard, shower, and then make breakfast, okay?”

“Okay,” Eddie just agrees, latching onto the knowledge that he’s got at least twenty minutes to rub one out and get vaguely presentable before he’s got to go eat, the feel of his hard on and the accompanying arousal almost immediately pressing, “make sure you pick up all the shit,” Steve snorts a laugh as he slides out of bed and pads away.

“What are we doing today then Jedi Master?”

“Well, my young padawan-”

Eddie snorts, not at all surprised that Steve’s willing to play along and yet still disgusted and charmed by it in equal measure.

Steve gives him some side eye from where he’s rinsing dishes at the sink.

“I thought we could start by walking Falkor, then some yoga and maybe a little housekeeping on my part. Then you can have a bath and stuff if you like. I wanted to make pesto shakshuka for lunch, and then,” Steve shrugs, “whatever.” He starts drying dishes, putting them away.

Eddie nods, “got a couple of tunes I could work on.”

Steve smiles, like, genuine, but not overdone or anything, “that’s great Eddie. I’ll appease the green owl.”

“Then a movie, maybe? After we’ve walked the dog again, I mean.”

“Sounds like we have a plan for the day.”

“Such a boy scout.”

“I was never a boy scout, but what can I say, failing to plan is planning to fail.”

“Jesus Christ fucking kill me.”

Scenting Steve helps. Pinning Steve appeases Eddie’s Alpha. Eddie hasn’t jerked off this much in years.

Mostly because there’s, up until recently, been someone around to do it for him, but that’s neither here nor there.

He doesn’t have the horrible, half formed, gritty sensation he had through his whole last rut, and even Eddie recognizes how much better this feels than the last one. Much more clear headed, and, as much as he hates to admit it, much more reasonable. He feels so much better, but he’s not willing to admit that it’s anything to do with walking or yoga or eating vegetables.

Steve would just be unbearably fucking smug about it.

Eddie’s started viewing Steve as a big, annoying, fortune cookie. Crack him open and out pops things like, ‘tidy space, tidy mind,’ and ‘you’d be surprised by how much of a positive an effect something as simple good sleep hygiene can have,’ and ‘have a glass of water, dehydration can affect mood and cognitive function.’

Steve is agreeable about reading his notes to Eddie every evening before he sends them to Chris, and honestly, Eddie sounds like a fucking A plus student once he’s been polished through the filter of Steve’s professional linguistic skills.

Eddie knows he isn’t, not even remotely, but, still. Steve’s on side, which is really nice to know, despite how fucking Steve is…Steve about everything.

Which is why it’s kind of upsetting when, at the end of day four of Steve’s imposed routine, Eddie’s rut starts to cool off. It’s still a little long run for a rut, if Eddie’s rut starts on a Tuesday morning, it’s usually done and dusted by Thursday afternoon but. Still. Not that much longer than normal, and Eddie figures that means it’s balancing out.

Steve knows it too, if the way he keeps side eyeing Eddie is anything to go by.

“What?”

“I haven't actually emailed Chris yet today, I could call her, get out of your hair now. You’re pretty much done, right?”

Eddie faces the prospect of going to bed alone for the first time since Steve got here, and he doesn’t like it. Once the band aid was off, Eddie had no issues scenting Steve. Which has led to, and this is extraordinarily irritating, possibly some of the best sleep Eddie has ever gotten. It probably helps that, despite not usually being at all Eddie’s type, Steve is almost offensively good looking.

And the pectoral pillows are, just, well. Eddie’s more comfortable with company when he sleeps, he guesses. Having the warm lump that is Steve within easy reach has been...nice. Especially compared to the hospital. And his lonely little room at the center. Chrissy made sure that rock star status did not allow Eddie a single spec of preferential treatment when he was drying out.

Not so much as letting him have a tab at the commissary. Eddie couldn’t talk his way out of a single room search, no matter what he offered to sign or whose selfie he offered to pose in. Not that he had anything to hide, but the invasiveness of having his room tossed always made him feel itchy as fuck.

“Maybe, I mean, it’s still a little, like, you know?” Eddie hasn’t had trouble telling people what he wants since he had a number one track, but he knows making demands of Steve will almost, definitely, result in the opposite occurring. He’s got to rely on Steve being the perfect blend of contrary asshole and bleeding fucking heart, “I mean, actually, you know what yeah, you go. Fuck off. Be nice to have the place to myself again. Since it’s actually my house, and everything,” Eddie lets his voice shake a tiny bit, right at the end there, even as he lifts his chin and crosses his arms stubbornly across his chest.

Steve can be a tricky fucker, conning Eddie into scenting and yoga and hidden fucking vegetables, but Eddie’s no slouch.

Steve stares at him for what feels like a long time over the top of his laptop, “I’ll email her that this is the last night then. I’ll go tomorrow sometime, it’s late anyway, I probably shouldn’t leave tonight. If that’s okay.”

Eddie lets his head flop back on the couch cushion so that Steve can’t see his face, “fucking, just, whatever then,” he aims for disgruntled, and he thinks he nails it.

Eddie sighs, blinking at the shadowed blinds that cover his bedroom windows. He resists the urge to nuzzle into Steve’s tee shirt covered pec, then almost the moment he stops himself, his brain does it anyway, operating on autopilot.

Eddie sighs again.

“Can’t sleep?” Steve whispers in the dark, his hand coming up to gently rest on the small of Eddie’s back.

“What’s the suggestion doc? Meditation? Glass of water? Counting sheep? Organize everything in the fridge by expiration-”

Steve snorts a laugh, “it makes it easier to see what to prioritize. Less food waste.”

“Uh hu,” Eddie yawns, “starving kids in Africa would kill for that half a jar of pickle.”

“Probably.”

They lie quiet again, Steve’s hand wandering, dragging the material of Eddie’s vest. Eddie thinks vaguely about what kissing Steve might be like. Soft and pathetic Eddie guesses. Gentle, romantic. Steve probably only kisses people he really cares about, and it probably shows. Minty fresh and soppy and definitely everything Eddie hates.

He shuts that down.

“Tell me about being a boy scout, that shit will put me straight to sleep.”

“Pretty sure I already told you I was never a scout.”

“And I’m pretty sure you’re lying.”

“I don’t lie.”

“Uh hu, that’s exactly something a boy scout would say.”

“My integrity is very important to me.”

Eddie rolls his eyes, “of course it is. What do you do when you can’t sleep?”

Steve hums, thoughtful, “well, you didn’t sound too keen on mediation, so that’s out. So, read, sometimes, I guess.”

“Cop out,” Eddie says, even as he rolls away. He hasn’t read anything for a long time, can’t, truthfully, remember the last time he picked up a book. Eddie was a voracious reader when he was young, and it’s one of the habits that got replaced with...far worse habits. He suddenly misses it. Misses it viscerally. Something that he hasn’t had any interest in at all for...a long time, and at the mere mention of it, it feels like it’s coming back and making demands.

He pads down the hall in the dark; all the scrappy paperback books got banished from Eddie’s bedroom when he did the great redecoration. Probably shouldn’t have done all that when he was fucking high though.

He doesn’t know what he wants to read really, nothing heavy, not this late at night, but then The Gunslinger is staring him right in the face from the dead center of the shelf and Eddie thinks, fuck it, why not?

If Steve is annoyed when he leans over to flick the light on, he doesn’t show it at all. Doesn’t seem even slightly put out by having his sleep delayed, “what you got?”

“The Gunslinger. King.”

“Oh yeah, Dustin likes those, keeps telling me I should read them.”

“You should, they’re the best.”

“You start then.”

“Huh?” Eddie gets settled again on his back, leaning into the crook of Steve’s arm, “start what?”

“You read a bit, then I’ll read a bit, if you want?”

“I…” Eddie wants to protest, because this is dumb, and he doesn’t understand why Steve is showing any interest in it, not really. But he finds himself unable to articulate why it’s dumb, and he knows Steve is always ready to tell him he’s wrong if he points out that Steve doesn’t care, not really. He gives in instead. “The man in black fled across the desert, and the gunslinger followed...”

Falkor’s in the car, big pink tongue hanging out of his mouth, his head sticking out of the passenger side window of Steve’s car. Eddie vaguely wonders if Falkor is actually going to ride shotgun.

Steve’s got a dinky car; Eddie could buy him a new one.

Steve would fucking hate that, he’d probably donate it to charity or something.

“Okay, pretty sure I’ve got everything.”

“Right, yeah,” Eddie steps back in through his open front door, watching as Steve puts down his bags to pull his jacket out of the little boot room thing that Eddie was informed all rich people houses have.

“Yeah, so I’ve updated Chrissy, pretty sure she’ll be here later. Look after yourself, Eddie.”

“What, because you won’t be here to do it?” It’s meant to be snarky. It is snarky. It’s snarky for all the wrong reasons.

Steve grins though, huffing an almost laugh, “something like that.”

He shuffles through the door, negotiating his very sensible duffle bags, “you sure you got all the dogs stuff?”

“Pretty sure,” Steve shrugs, “but if I don’t that’s Dustin’s problem.”

They stand for a second then, staring at each other, “enjoy the ren fair,” Eddie says, just to drag it out a second longer before he’s alone again.

“Oh yeah! I’m sure I will.”

“You can, uhm, tell me all about it, maybe?” Eddie sticks his hands in his hoodie pockets to avoid fiddling. Steve might not be back. They both know they might never see each other again, that’s pretty much the reality here. Eddie’s rut was okay. He’s been out and dry for...well, few months now. He has a therapist.

He’s kind of doing okay.

“Sure,” Steve answers kindly. Or just...politely, which Eddie doesn’t really like. He much prefers the idea that Steve likes him, even though Eddie’s an asshole.

Maybe Steve likes people who are absolute dick heads to him.

The words are out before Eddie can really give them permission to go, “maybe we could get coffee?”

“Sure thing, Eddie,” Steve says, leaving with a smile and a nod. The smile was Steve’s bullshit professional one, and the words sounded kind of sad. Steve leaving suddenly feels kind of abrupt. Oddly...unfinished.

Eddie senses that he’s just fucked up, but he can’t...he can’t pin down why, because he’s not sure how.

He watches Steve’s little car trundle down the drive.

Chrissy crashes through the kitchen, slapping her bag down on the counter top, “Edward Munson what did you do?”

“What?” Eddie puts his guitar down, half climbing out of the lawn chair, ready to flee off the end of the deck if necessary, “what did I do?”

“Steve just emailed.”

“Right?” Eddie ignores the little twist of feeling in his chest.

“He said that he’s really thankful for the opportunity and really liked his time here, but, regretfully, he isn’t available to support you any longer.” Chris has her arms crossed over her chest, one foot tapping, and Eddie suspects he’s two minutes from having his blood sprayed across the lawn, “so why would that be?”

“I-I mean I don’t know?” Genuinely bewildered and doing his best to ignore just how sharp the hurt is.

“You don’t know?” Eddie’s heard the expression ‘thunderous’ before, and he’s pretty sure it applies now. Right to Chrissy’s face.

“Eddie, how can you not know? You must have done something. I told you not to push his boundaries okay, I told you this is not a sex thing, I told you he is a professional-!”

“Oh,” Eddie deflates. He puts his guitar fully to one side, flopping back in the chair.

“You know what you did?”

Eddie shrugs, “maybe. I mean. I didn’t think it was bad I just-” the warm squirming in Eddie’s chest is desperately unpleasant. The crawling embarrassment. The hurt. Eddie blinks a little too fast, trying to get rid of the sudden wetness accumulating on his lashes, “I didn’t mean it to be bad.”

“Oh honey,” Chrissy seems to turn on a fucking dime, she sits, taking the seat next to Eddie, “what happened?”

“I, uhm,” Eddie can’t even look at her, he’s so mortified, “I asked him out. For coffee. Steve probably saw that as like...encroaching on his professional boundaries or whatever. Not within the framework of his contractual employment. Fraternizing with the paying customers-”

“Eddie,” Chrissy quietly interrupts Eddie’s rambling, touching his arm gently, “why? I thought you didn’t like Steve?”

Eddie shrugs, angrily dashing away the one tear that’s broken free. He’s crying because he’s embarrassed and angry at himself, and now he’s crying he’s even more embarrassed and angry at himself because this is just so stupid-

“Oh. Oh honey that’s okay. I mean...Steve probably gets it all the time, I mean he does spend people’s ruts and heats and stuff with them. That’s probably...confusing for a lot of people.”

“I’m not confused,” Eddie protests quietly, looking across the lawn so he doesn’t have to see Chrissy’s pity face.

“Okay, sure,” Chrissy agrees way too fast. She doesn’t believe him at all. But then, she doesn’t know Steve, not like Eddie does, so she wouldn’t get it.

Eddie gets up, running away from whatever bull shit mess he’s created.

He’s never going to see Steve again.

Twelve

[baocean]

piss off your parents

chapter twenty seven - it was fake

you’d been acting weird ever since sarah all but exploded on you about why jj went awol. you’d barely been over to the house, barely looked at him, barely texted.

he'd freaked you out. he’d hurt you. you werent sure how to react to it.

today was supposed to be good, a group dinner that would smooth everything over, that would make things feel normal again.

he didn’t even let the back door shut behind you before the words were out.

“so that’s it?” jj said, his voice too calm to be anything but dangerous. “hooray, unc. now i’m just… done?”

you froze, fingers still on the doorknob. “what are you talking about?”

he stared at you, eyes sharp, like he was trying to piece you together and nothing was fitting anymore. “your parents gave in. we played our parts perfectly, and now you don’t even look at me.”

you turned slowly, face unreadable. “jj…”

“no, don’t do that,” he snapped. “don’t give me that look like i’m overreacting. like i’m fucking crazy.”

“i’m not—”

“you are,” he cut in. “you’ve been pulling away since the second it worked. you don’t text back, you barely talk to me. you’re acting like i’m something you’re trying to shake off.”

“jj, just...can we not do this right now?” your voice cracked like glass, thin and tight and exhausted.

he laughed, bitter and sharp. “too late. you told me to sell it. said it had to feel real. and i did, yn. i fucking did. i gave you everything i had.”

you flinched. just barely. “that’s not fair,” you said, voice rising, finally matching the heat in his.

“isn’t it?” he shot back. “because it sure as hell feels like i was just part of the plan. and now, i’m nothing but the reminder.”

you crossed your arms, jaw tight. “i never promised you anything.”

jj’s breathing stuttered. you stared at each other, chests rising and falling too fast, like you couldn’t get enough air. anger and fear and want all bleeding into each other, all tangled up beneath your skin.

neither of you spoke. and you so badly wanted him to just say what he was really feeling. but he didnt, he just stared at you.

so you said the worst thing you could think of.

“it was fake, jj.”

his face shifted, like a crack forming right down the middle. like something caved in behind his eyes. but it was only there for a second, before his expression hardened, darkened.

“then what the fuck am i doing here, yn?” his voice was sharp, cutting.

you didn’t answer for a second. you couldn’t. your throat felt like it was closing.

you shrugged, blinking back the tears that would have given you away in a heartbeat.

jj wanted to walk out right now. but he couldnt, wouldnt, he wasn’t ready to let it go, not yet. he was still angry. still hurt. and his best idea was to hurt you right back.

“right. because none of it meant anything to you, huh?” he said, stepping closer. “not the nights you stayed. not the way you looked at me like you meant it. not the kiss.”

“don’t you dare put this all on me,” you shot back, taking a step forward yourself, fire in your eyes. “you’re not the only one who’s been caught up in this, jj. i’m not some heartless person who used you. this isn’t my fault.”

jj’s expression faltered for a moment, but then he snapped, “yeah? feels like it is.”

you ground your teeth, chest tight with anger. “you want to talk about fault? you haven’t even congratulated me on unc, the thing i’ve worked so hard for! you disappeared for twenty hours, and then you came back acting like i’m the one who shut myself off!”

“congrats, bunny." his voice cracked. "you wanted your freedom? to revolt against your parents? your little rebellion before your perfect life at college? well, you’re free. you’re so fucking free.”

“jj—”

“a deal’s a deal, you got your end. we can finally be done now,” he said, his voice cold and rough, like he didn’t recognize it. “go ahead and leave. forget about all this like it never happened. just like you always planned.”

you stared at him, throat burning, chest tight. you wanted to scream. to cry. to tell him he was wrong, to tell him he was right.

instead you said, “fuck you, jj.”

it came out low. furious. shaky. and it made jj's face fall, his body go limp.

you didn’t wait for him to answer, and he didn’t stop you from leaving.

her phone

his phone

her phone

masterlist | next chapter

note from the author - i’m sorry please forgive me

taglist - @dr3amgrlll / @murdockcastleslut / @jjmaybankmylovee / @smokahontas-113 / @abigailovesz / @enchantedstarfish / @reeseswirl / @lmaowhatt / @moonywhisp3rs / @dylsdaily / @idli-dosa / @bloodofadoll / @cokewithcameron / @mariamadison6-blog / @rrosiitas / @always-reading / @sunflouer04 / @bambigirl10 / @mirellef2001 / @wasiasproject t / @bee-43 / @kissesandmartinis / @gublerstylesobrien1238 / @isinpfortvdmen / @sabrina-carpenter-stan-account / @mjwashere / @sideboobrry11 / @ameliacione13 / @wrtzia / @sanriobuny / @dramagodesss / @luvrclub / @yesshewrites1 / @ayy1234567 / @doesnt-care / @rainingcecilias

[monstersflashlight]

The curse (part 4)

A/N: You can find part 1 here, part 2 here and part 3 here. Enjoy!

Demon x fem!reader || sfw

Waking up by a demon running around the room was a first.

He fucked you three times during the night, excusing himself saying he needed to make sure you were still in one piece and the curse didn’t affect you, too. But you knew better after the first time he did it. As much as you liked his head between your legs and the delicious way he fucked you dumb, you needed rest to be able to take down whatever wards were in place at the bookstore.

But still, you woke up in a foggy state, with a huge demon pacing up and down the room. It shouldn’t be comical, but the second you saw him nibbling at his claws, you broke down in the most hysterical laughter you ever let out. It felt so otherworldly and mundane at the same time, the way he was just… biting his nails.

He stared at you while you held your stomach with a hand and let your whole body radiate with laughter. “Are you done laughing at me?” He asked, a tiny smile playing on his lips.

“Why were you pacing?” You asked after your breathing came back to normal and your eyes weren’t teary with amusement anymore.

His words were like a bucket of ice water over you: “I’m worried. With each passing second you could be in danger because you’ve been here a lot more than any other creature apart from me. I’m just… getting anxious.” You walked up to him, wearing nothing but one of his over-sized shirts with holes cut on the back.

“Nothing will happen. See? I’m completely fine,” you told him as you approached and hugged his middle. He held your face between his too big hands as you sighed happily. His eyes softened looking down at you, but you could still see the hint of fear in the depths of his eyes.

He kissed your forehead and said nothing, staring into the distance as your bodies merged in an embrace that made your insides twist and turn with longing. You wanted to be able to do this outside. You wanted to make out with him in public, you wanted to bring him to your workplace Christmas dinner, you wanted to have him met your family, your friends…

He pulled back and grabbed your hand, directing you to the little kitchenette he had at the back of the bookstore. He didn’t have much, but it was enough to cook a few things. You wondered how he got the ingredients, but before you could ask he was telling you about food delivery. You nodded absently, sitting down on a stool as he moved around the kitchen. It was too small to walk around him, so you stared at his wings as he moved and prepared whatever.

“I’m getting you out of here today,” you announced as he passed you a mug with coffee and a hint of cream.

“We’ll try, little human. But if we don’t find a way out, you’re leaving. I don’t want you subjected to the curse, too, and we don’t know how can it affect you if you stay here for much longer,” his worry permeated his words and your heart constricted. Fuck, you were so in love with this demon.

“Deal,” you let out in a breath.

You didn’t want to leave, but you knew you should. You didn’t tell him, but last night you started to feel a pressure building in your chest. At first you thought it was anxiety, but it didn’t stop weighting you down to the point you could feel it making your body slow. You tried to play it cool, it was nothing, but the worry in his tone was getting to you. You didn’t know how the curse could affect you, and at this point you were pretty sure you were in danger if you stayed much longer.

You sat at the back of the store as he walked around, greeting customers and acting like he wasn’t keeping an eye on you the whole time. By mid afternoon, your body was almost lax, your strength just enough to maintain you in a sitting position. He stood behind your chair and before he could say anything you offered him an escape.

“Okay, let’s try this one,” you pointed at the runes on the book.

He nodded, his eyes unfocused as he looked down. “This is the last attempt. If it doesn’t work, you have to leave,” his voice left no room for argument, but you tried either way.

“But I’m fin…”

He cut you off. “No, you are not.” He took a deep breath, clearly trying to calm himself down, and continued: “Do you think I can’t feel your pain? I can smell it. I know you aren’t telling me everything, but I can feel it inside of me. I can feel how it’s weighting you down.” You stood speechless, not able to deny what he was saying. He sighed heavily. “After this you are leaving.”

You didn’t know what was best, but you tried either way. “But…”

“No buts. You’ll leave and return tomorrow.” His eyes were shining with that longing and pain you got to know over the days. A different kind of pain bloomed inside of you, mirroring his emotions as you thought about another day of him in the bookstore, trapped.

You stood up, planting your hands on his chest to feel him close. And then you let it out, the true concern that was eating you alive every second of the day. “But what if I can’t? What if one day outside of these walls I forget about it and never come back?” Your eyes were teary, and you had to blink fast to get the fog away.

He stared at you, eyes unblinking when he said: “Then so be it.”

“So be it?!” You tried not to sound too angry, but you failed. You were angry, you were infuriated. “You aren’t giving up on us. I won’t allow it.” You were desperate, your voice vehement as you stared at him. You wanted him to snap back, to argue, to deny your statement. But he said nothing, and you held back angry tears.

The muscles in his jaw ticked when he broke the silence: “Try the runes, little human.”

You were still angry, but you did as told. You grabbed the chalk and drew all kinds of runes around the door, it was supposed to create an empty magic space for him to pass. Your anger dissipated the second he tried to cross the door, and failed.

You saw the exact moment the barrier rose up and stopped him. It was like a physical force blocking his way and making everything around the front of the store feel electrified. He turned around with a tiny smile playing on his lips, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

He looked heartbroken if you knew what to look for, and lucky (or unlucky) of you… you did. You saw it every time you left. And it didn’t matter that you could cross at any time, that you would remember him as soon as he touched you… The fact that he didn’t exist for you outside those walls was a weight that he carried on his own, and that drove you insane.

You were in love with a demon, and you couldn’t remember him half the time. It wasn’t okay, it wasn’t fair… But there was still a ray of hope on the horizon. Maybe you two got what you needed, maybe the curse lifted and just presented itself in a different manner.

“I’m going to walk through that door and I’m going to remember you,” you voiced out loud. You tried to manifest it with all your heart, with your whole soul… but there was a burning doubt inside your chest.

“Sure.” He didn’t sound sure at all, you could see the spark of hope leaving his eyes as he stared into the empty space of the door.

You kissed him one last time, lingering a bit more than necessary. And then you stepped through the threshold…

A/N: Sorry? (Not sorry.)

[writeriguess]

Would you mind doing a Shinsou x Reader where reader is his gf and it’s like their second year at UA and reader had been stressing over the last few days about a lot of different things and one day she’s excessively sweating and having chest pains. All of her friends are questioning what’s wrong , even her bf Shinsou who normally lets her have her privacy and doesn’t want to intrude on her business. But by the end of the day she’s in her room having a full blown anxiety attack after walking in on it, Shinsou is trying to help her through it and she tells him “anxiety is just a made up thing so that doctors can put you on medication and make more money” while having the attack. And she says this because that’s what her parents raised her to believe like when she would get anxiety as a child her parents would call her dramatic. When she tells him he’s just so pissed at her parents and he comforts her.

Taught to Ignore the Cracks

The past few days had been nothing short of overwhelming. Classes, training, exams—everything seemed to pile onto you at once. Sleep had been scarce, food had been an afterthought, and your mind refused to quiet down, buzzing with an endless loop of to-do lists and worst-case scenarios. You hadn’t told anyone, though. What was the point? Everyone was stressed. Why should you be any different?

But today felt different. Off.

Your body was betraying you in ways you didn’t understand. Your palms were clammy, and no matter how much you wiped them against your uniform, the sweat just kept coming. Your head was light, your chest tight, and every breath you took felt like it wasn’t enough. You had done your best to push through it, pretending everything was fine, but the people closest to you weren’t so easily fooled.

“Are you okay? You’re sweating a lot,” Uraraka asked during lunch, tilting her head as she watched you push your food around your plate.

“Yeah,” you said quickly. Too quickly. “Just hot in here, y’know?”

“Hot? It’s literally perfect weather today,” Kaminari pointed out, frowning.

Shinsou, who had been sitting beside you, remained silent. He was watching you, that much you knew, but he didn’t push. He never did. That was one of the things you loved about him—he gave you space when you needed it.

But you could feel his eyes on you throughout the rest of the day. Every time you winced slightly when your chest felt too tight, every time you wiped your hands on your uniform, every time you took a deep breath like you were trying to calm yourself down. He saw it all.

By the time classes were over, you could barely focus. Your head was spinning, your heart was racing, and it felt like the world was closing in on you.

And then you made the mistake of heading back to your dorm room alone.

As soon as the door shut behind you, it was like a dam broke. Your breathing turned shallow, your hands shook violently, and suddenly, you weren’t just sweating—you were drenched in fear. Your chest felt like it was caving in, your throat was closing, and your mind was screaming at you to calm down, but you couldn’t.

This was fine. This was nothing. You weren’t dying. You couldn’t be.

And yet, you felt like you were.

Then the door opened.

Shinsou stood there, eyes widening as he took in the sight of you—curled up on your bed, gasping for breath, clutching at your chest like you could somehow hold yourself together if you just pressed hard enough.

“Hey—hey, what’s going on?” His voice was firm but gentle as he rushed to your side.

You shook your head frantically. “I—I don’t know—”

He crouched in front of you, placing his hands on your shoulders. “Breathe with me,” he instructed, inhaling deeply. “In for four, out for four. Come on.”

You tried. You really did. But your body refused to cooperate.

Shinsou cursed under his breath. “Alright, okay, that’s fine—just focus on my voice, okay? You’re safe. You’re not alone. I’m right here.”

Tears stung your eyes, and before you knew it, words were tumbling out of your mouth between ragged gasps. “I—It’s just—It’s just anxiety, right? It’s not real. It’s just something doctors made up so they can put people on meds and make more money—”

Shinsou froze.

Your voice wavered as you continued, “It’s not real—it’s not real, it’s just me being dramatic, that’s what my parents always said, so I just have to—I just have to ignore it, I—”

“Are you fucking kidding me?” His voice was sharp, and when you looked at him, his jaw was clenched, his fists tight. Not at you—never at you—but at the people who had put this idea in your head in the first place.

He took a deep breath, forcing himself to stay calm for you. “Listen to me. Anxiety is real. What you’re feeling is real. Your body isn’t making this up, and you sure as hell aren’t being dramatic.”

Tears spilled over as you shook your head weakly. “But my parents—”

“They’re wrong,” he interrupted, his grip tightening on your shoulders. “I don’t care what they said. I don’t care what they made you believe. You are not making this up. You are not weak for feeling like this. And you sure as hell don’t have to deal with it alone.”

Something about his voice—about the absolute certainty in it—made you break. The sob you had been holding in finally escaped, and the moment it did, Shinsou pulled you into his arms.

“It’s okay,” he murmured, running a hand up and down your back. “I got you.”

You clung to him, gasping into his shoulder as the panic slowly, slowly started to fade. His presence, his warmth, his voice—it all grounded you in a way nothing else could.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered.

“Don’t be.” His fingers carded through your hair. “Never be.”

Minutes passed before your breathing finally evened out, your body no longer trembling. Even then, he didn’t let go.

“You don’t have to believe me right away,” he said quietly. “But I’m gonna keep telling you the truth until you do.”

You swallowed hard, nodding against his shoulder. Maybe, just maybe, he was right.

[inseobts]

Hi!! Hope you're doing well. If you feel up to it, would you be ok with doing an imagine or headcanons about Jinbe comforting and insecure s/o?

Insecure S/O - headcanons

a/n: since I wanted to keep it generic to not include something different from your imaginary I choose to do headcanons, but I have to admit I’m not really good with them T.T

masterlist || ko-fi

• Jinbe possesses an innate ability to sense when something is amiss. Even before you voice your insecurities, he notices the subtle changes. Like the way your shoulders slump, how your gaze avoids his.

• Without pressing, he offers his presence, allowing you the space to open up only when you’re ready to.

• When you finally share your feelings, Jinbe envelops you in a warm, protective hug. His large arms wrap around you gently, providing a safe space where you can let your guard down.

• He doesn’t rush you. Instead, he holds you until your breathing steadies, offering silent support.

• In his deep, calming voice, Jinbe reminds you of your worth. He speaks of the strength he sees in you, the kindness you show to others, and how much you mean to him. His words are sincere, aiming to rebuild the confidence that your own self-doubt has eroded.

• He knows very well that comfort isn’t always and only about words, so Jinbe engages in small acts to lift your spirits. He prepares your favorite meals, ensures you rest properly, and even shares stories from his past to make you smile. These gestures, though simple, are his way of showing love and support.

• Jinbe also knows that healing takes time. He doesn’t expect immediate changes or for you to “snap out of it”. He actually remains by your side, offering a steady presence that reassures you that you’re not alone in your journey.

• Whenever you doubt yourself, he gently encourages you to see yourself through his eyes, highlighting your achievements and the positive impact you have on those around you, especially the impact you have on him and his life.

• Jinbe’s approach to comforting you is with patience, understanding, and unwavering support. His actions and words aim to create an environment where you feel valued and loved.

• Even after you start feeling better, after the heavy thoughts begin to fade and the days feel a little lighter, Jinbe doesn’t ease up on his support. Not because he doubts your strength, but because he knows healing isn't a straight path. One good day doesn't mean the storm is gone for good.

• He stays close in that quiet, unwavering way he always does. He doesn’t hover, but you feel that calm presence at your side, like a steady current guiding you home.

• He asks things like "Are you feeling a bit lighter today?" but he's not expecting anything. Just making room for the truth, whatever it is.

• He also prepares your favorite meals, even if you haven’t asked for them in a while. Still insists you rest when you’re tired, not because he thinks you’re fragile, but because he wants you to feel cared for, always.

• And when you begin to doubt yourself again, because it's only normal that it happens, and he knows it will, but he never sighs or asks you to “be strong”.

[moralisist]

jjk men and how they deal with the aftermath of an argument

notes:

— NANAMI KENTO

nanami hated when you guys would fight. he believed you guys could always talk it out, and that every problem could be solved with communication. this time, yall just couldnt get it right.

you and nanami got into it because of the many times you’ve told him that his overtime doesnt leave much time for him to be a boyfriend. he always promises he would fix it but instead of being honest, it’s the same thing everyday. he comes home at 2 am, leaves at 8 am and the cycle repeats.

nanami told you he has responsibilities that he’s had since before he met you and he can’t drop them. he says he understands where you’re coming from but you can see it in his eyes that he doesn’t understand why you’re tripping so hard about this.

normally, he can admit his faults and you guys can kiss and make-up but he just couldn’t budge this time.

it was the day after the argument and nanami tried calling you but you wouldn’t pick up. he was at work and he wanted to see if maybe he should pick up some food to lessen tensions between the two of you.

my kento; 6:21

Would you like chinese for dinner?

y/n; 6:30

nah, made dinner.

my kento; 6:31

Oh, okay. What’d you make?

you didn’t respond after that. nanami decided to leave work early today and go to the flower shop before it closes.

he comes home and he’s not greeted by your usual self who comes and gives him a kiss while taking his jacket off while telling him the next crazy thing that happened during your day. he goes to your bedroom and sees you lying there, scrolling on your phone, not once looking up at him.

he walks to your side of the bed and sits, although he hates outside clothes on the bed. “i’m sorry darling. i hate when we fight. i see where you’re coming from and ill make more of an effort to come home at a regular time. i’ll talk to the higher ups.” you finally look at him and sit up.

“you can’t keep making promises to me kento. i need you to take iniative like you do with everything else. i don’t want to ask you for much but i need you here sometimes kento.” you cup his cheek.

“i promise my love, i dont want to be the man to ever disappoint you.” he smiles while leaning into your hand and kissing the palm.

you wrap your arms around him and hug him tight. “the flowers are beautiful.”

“yeah? now give me a kiss.”

— TOJI FUSHIGURO

toji was a stubborn, stubborn man. you couldn’t tell that man anything if he truly believed he was right in an argument. but when you think he’s wrong and he’s hell bent on being right? oh baby. it’s hell.

you needed toji to pick up some responsibilities. you felt like he wasn’t doing enough for the house and hated that sometimes he’d prioritize things like fixing his car, working out for hours when he left a mess behind or training outside when he hasn’t put the drinks he bought back into the fridge.

it drove you nuts. you didn’t like feeling like a pestering person but you voiced your concerns while being annoyed about it all. toji didn’t take it very well and saw you as “ungrateful” and that you didn’t really “notice his efforts”. words were thrown and you both ended up in a screaming match.

you decide to give him space throughout the whole day and visit a friend and leave him to tend to his thoughts and his messes.

once toji realized you really haven’t texted or called him all day, his egos hurt. but his pride is what keeps him from calling. he doesn’t care, you’ll be back. right?

you werent tripping and you were having a great time with your friend. you had a self care day with them and talked about how you felt about this toji situation and your friend spoke their mind as well. it was great for you and it led you to be ready to go home and speak to toji.

you open the door to the kitchen nice and neat, similar to the way you clean it. the living room is put together as well, a bit unusual for toji. you see toji sitting, manspread on the couch like your body was meant to mesh there.

he’s staring at you with those love sick eyes he’s had since he met you, the “im crazy in love with you” eyes. “c’mere doll, sit.” he’s tapping his lap and you immediately go to sit in between his legs. “i’m sorry. i know you do a lot to keep this house together and i’ll uh- ill appreciate it more. i’ll pick up my slack, promise. forgive me?” he says the last part gruffly, almost like it hurts.

toji hateddd to apologize but to you? he’d do anything to see that look on your face that showed he was the man you took pride in. he’d apologize and change as much as he needed to to see that look.

“you’re forgiven but toji, i’m gonna need to see some action to go with that.” toji gives you a kiss, a tough one but with a hint of desperation. “i promise baby, i won’t disappoint.” he picks u up bridal style and takes you to the bedroom. “now lemme show you i’m really sorry.”

— GOJO SATORU

gojo was a person who hid things behind laughter and jokes. he didn’t like talking about the real stuff because the real stuff would have to make him vulnerable and who needs that?

gojo hated being vulnerable and open more than anything. he’s supposed to be the strongest, he isn’t meant to cry to you about things that happen during his day to day or the pressure of being the best has on him.

but you desperately wanted him to. you felt there was a bridge between the two of you where you communicated your needs and how you felt while gojo only gave you surface level things to go off of. the best you’ll get out of gojo is that he doesn’t like when you forget to make him breakfast if you make one for yourself or your products would be all over the bathroom. the emotional wavelengths weren’t there.

you and gojo were fighting about small things like the fact he leaves the toilet seat up but you were revving up the argument so you could get something out of gojo other than just his nonchalant silly behavior.

“babe can you relax? i’ll remember to put the seat down, geez.” he begins to walks away.

“stop walking away from me satoru! that’s all you do, you don’t tell me anything, we have stupid arguments like these instead of meaningful ones! i tell you everything that happens with me. what makes me mad, sad, or happy. you don’t ever tell me about your day or your deepest desires. i want to know you on more than a surface level. you don’t let me in and we’ve been together for more than a year and i still don’t know you other than “the strongest” persona you put up. i’m supposed to be your person, treat me like it.”

gojo stands at the doorway, looking at you and doesn’t know what to say. he hugs you and guides you to the bed, so you both can lay down. gojo begins to let everything flow, as gut wrenching as his life is. he doesn’t shed a tear, as if he’s telling a story. a story that wasn’t about him. you sat and listened intently while he told you, and you played with his hair giving him some type of comfort as he shares.

it was a long conversation and you didn’t say anything because you know gojo wouldn’t want your pity or your emotions at the moment. “thank you for telling me baby. i appreciate the effort you made and it must’ve been hard for you to tell me. i’m sorry i tried to push you so hard but i want to be able to understand and grow with the man i have in front of me, you know?” you sigh, feeling a bit silly.

gojo looks up at you with his bright, blue eyes. “i’ll open up more baby, i swear. i don’t want to keep you at a distance like the way you’ve been feeling.”

he gives you a kiss on the lips, very tenderly. “now can we get something to eat? all that trauma dumping has me hungry as shit. come on, let’s get sum down the street.”

[qualitynightmarelove]

♡ Warnings : age gap (college student x professor), explicit content (18+), heavy tension, possessive behavior, semi-public setting, morally grey dynamics, obsessive thoughts, slight degradation, power imbalance, praise kink, fem reader, dom professor.

Words : 1,851k

♡ A/N : this is my first fanfic on this platform so please bear with me and sorry for any typos.

♡•♡•♡•♡•♡•♡•♡•♡•♡•♡•♡•♡•♡•♡•♡

I shouldn't be thinking about him like this. Not here, not now not during a physics lecture. But the way he looks when he leans over the desk his thick black framed glasses perched at the tip of his nose, that quiet confidence in his velvety voice when he explains an equation, the way his sleeves are always rolled up just enough to show the veins in his forearms—it drives me insane.

And somehow, in the blur between boredom and longing, my mind slips into places it shouldn’t.

In my daydream, he’s no longer standing by the whiteboard. He’s on his knees. Devoted. Starving.

He starts slow—teasing, like he knows he has all the time in the world. His hands grip my thighs like I'm something sacred, and his mouth... his mouth is sin incarnate. Each stroke of his tongue sends heat spiraling through me, and I can practically feel his breath against my skin, feel his groan reverberating where it matters most.

My fingers tangle in his thick chestnut hair, tugging just enough to make him groan again—and he doesn't stop. Not even when my thighs tremble around him. Not when I gasp his name like it’s the only one I remember.

By the time I reach the edge and fall over it, I imagine him ruined.

My hand is buried in his hair, still clinging to the remnants of pleasure. His lips are slick, glistening with my essence, the taste of me dripping slowly down his chin. His breathing is heavy, uneven, and his eyes—God, those eyes—glazed over, pupils blown wide, like he's high on the taste of me.

And the worst part?

I blink back to reality, still sitting in that hard plastic chair as he scribbles equations on the board. Completely unaware. Innocent. And I’m left burning, hand clenched around my pen, trying to look normal while my imagination begs me to go back.

 

I’m still recovering from the daydream when it happens.

He turns. Looks right at me.

Not a passing glance. Not a quick scan of the room. His eyes lock with mine like he felt it—the shift in the air, the way my thoughts wrapped around him just moments ago. My breath catches. His expression doesn’t change, not fully, but there’s something different in his gaze now. Something knowing.

Did I stare too long? Did he see it on my face? The heat? The guilt?

The hunger?

“Everything alright?” he asks, voice low and smooth, just for me.

I nod too quickly. “Yeah. Just... thinking.”

His brow lifts, just slightly. “About?”

God. If only he knew.

Or maybe he does.

His steps are quiet as he moves down the aisle between desks, but somehow, each one echoes in my chest. He stops just beside mine, leaning in to glance at my page, but he’s too close. That cologne—something clean and warm—hits me first. Then the sound of his voice, a soft murmur right beside my ear.

“You’ve been zoning out a lot today.”

His words are innocent. But the way he says them? Loaded.

I swallow. “Didn’t sleep much.”

He hums, low and thoughtful, still far too close. “You look flushed,” he says, almost like an afterthought.

I don't dare meet his eyes.

Instead, I focus on the paper in front of me, pretending like my pulse isn’t going wild, like I’m not reliving every second of that daydream—my essence dripping from his lips, the way he looked up at me, addicted.

He pulls away slowly, giving me one last glance before walking back to the front. And this time, when he speaks, he doesn’t look at the class.

He looks at me.

“Let’s try something a little more... stimulating.”

And I know I’m done for.

    ______________________________________

The bell rings, but I don’t move. I can’t.

My fingers twitch with the memory of his voice—low, teasing, almost like a challenge. I need to get out of here before I melt into the seat, but I can't tear my eyes away from him. Not when he’s standing there, flipping through the papers on his desk with that casual grace.

I’m the last one left.

He notices me immediately, his lips curving just slightly as he glances over his shoulder.

“Need help with something?” His tone is smooth, but there's an undercurrent I can't quite place. Like he knows.

I swallow hard, trying to steady myself. “Uh... yeah. A little confused on the last question.”

He stands, straightening his tie, and moves toward me. I feel the air shift with every step, his presence getting closer, overwhelming.

He stops just beside me, too close. I can feel the heat radiating off his body, the intensity of his gaze burning through me even though I’m looking at my notebook, pretending to focus on the problem I don’t even care about anymore.

His hand slides onto the desk next to mine, fingertips brushing against the paper. It’s casual. It’s innocent.

But it's not.

“Let’s take a look.” He leans over, the scent of him drowning out everything else. His breath brushes the side of my neck as he points to the problem, and for a moment, I can’t even hear the words he’s saying. I’m too lost in the feel of him, in the thudding of my heart, in the way he’s so close I could reach out and touch him, feel his skin, his warmth.

And then, like he’s testing me, his hand moves slightly closer. Just enough to make my breath catch.

“I think you missed a step,” he says softly, but his voice drops, something darker lurking beneath the surface. “It’s okay. I’ll show you.”

His fingers brush over mine, just a touch, but it sends a jolt straight through me. I can’t stop the shiver that runs down my spine.

He notices.

His eyes flicker to mine, the teasing smile playing on his lips, but this time, there’s no hiding what’s there. The desire. The tension.

“Maybe we should take a break,” he murmurs,his hand running through his slicked-back hair leaving it disheveled, leaning in even closer, his lips just inches from my ear. “I think you’ve worked hard enough today.”

I don’t trust myself to speak. My lips part, but no sound comes out. My body is on fire, and every instinct screams to pull him closer, to give in to the heat, to the chemistry sizzling between us.

But I can’t.

Not yet.

    _____________________________________

I don’t even remember how I got here. One second I was asking about math... the next, I was gasping, spine arched, seated right on the edge of his desk—legs parted, skirt pushed up, breath hitched.

And he?

He was on his knees, right where I imagined him. Right where I needed him, his eyes no longer obscured by his glasses they were narrowed focused, but pooled with lust.

His hands gripped my thighs like they were made to fit in his palms, thumbs digging into soft skin as he pulled me closer to the edge. My legs instinctively wrapped around his shoulders, then locked behind his neck, my thighs clenching around him when his tongue finally met me—slow, deliberate, like he was savoring every taste, every reaction.

I was soaked. And he loved it.

The sound—his soft groan, half-muffled against me—sent heat flooding through me. His lips were wet, slick with my desire, and every movement of his tongue made me tremble harder. My head tilted back, one hand gripping the edge of the desk, the other tangled deep in his thick chestnut hair.

I tugged.

Hard.

And he moaned in response, like he wanted the roughness. Like he wanted me to ruin him.

“God—” I breathed out, barely a whisper, eyes fluttering shut as he lapped at me, devouring like a man starved. “You’re... you’re so good at this...”

His pace didn’t falter. If anything, it deepened. Grew more intense. More possessive.

My thighs trembled again, instinctively clenching tighter around his head as another wave hit me, my fingers fisting his hair as if I could pull him even closer. My hips rolled against his mouth—helpless, needy—chasing every flick of his tongue, every sinful glide.

When I came, it was like falling.

My whole body tensed, mouth falling open in a silent cry, and I felt it. All of it. The heat. The release. The satisfaction. And the mess—my essence dripping down onto his lips, his chin, his tongue.

But he didn’t stop.

He kept going, riding out every aftershock, licking me clean like I was something divine.

And when I finally opened my eyes, breathless and dazed, I saw him looking up at me—mouth wet, eyes narrowed as he looks at me with a dark desire almost possessive, lips parted like he wanted more.

Like he wasn’t done

[itsmerelliwellie]

Love Language | N. Seba x Reader

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For this pretty over here

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7.) “I’m not good with words… so I bought your favorite snack.”

Prompts

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Warning(s): Nothing much...

Important Warning: NOT REALLY BETA READ

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Seba wasn't great with words.

Never had been.

He could rewire an explosive device with a bent screwdriver and a chewing gum wrapper, and hack into security systems with a potato if you dared him. But stringing together a sentence that sounded even remotely human when it involved feelings? Yeah. No. That was well outside his skillset.

So instead, he was standing outside your dorm at 11:47 p.m., with a grocery bag in hand, half a hoodie sleeve tucked into his palm, and a stomach full of static.

Inside the bag?

Your favorite snack.

Not just one, but five different varieties of it, because he couldn’t remember which one you liked best when you talked about it last week, so he just bought all of them like an idiot.

He could’ve messaged you. Texted. Called. Hell, he could’ve waited until morning like a normal person.

But no. You’d looked off today. Tired. Distracted. That smile of yours hadn’t quite reached your eyes. And something about that had sat wrong with him all night. It itched under his skin like a signal he couldn’t decrypt. So here he was, heart in his throat and groceries in hand, trying to help the only way he knew how.

With quiet, awkward, absolutely wordless care.

You opened the door in a hoodie that didn’t belong to you. It was his, and that realization nearly short-circuited him. Hair tousled. Eyes soft with confusion and warmth.

“Seba?”

“I—uh.” He held up the bag like a peace offering. “You mentioned this snack thing once. I remembered.”

You blinked. Looked at the bag. Looked back at him.

“Are you... okay?”

“I’m not good with words,” he mumbled, suddenly very interested in the scuff mark on your doorframe. “So I brought this instead.”

There was a pause. A long one.

“You’re such a dork.”

He flinched.

But then you smiled.

God help him, you smiled. A real one. Sleepy and crooked and fond. You reached for the bag and tugged him inside with your free hand, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“I was having a crap day,” you admitted as you set the bag down. “Didn’t really want to be around people. But... I always want to see you.”

His ears went red. Like immediate red.

You tilted your head at him, eyes glinting with mischief. “You really bought five different kinds, huh?”

“I panicked.”

“You overachiever.”

“Shut up.”

You didn’t. You stepped closer instead, close enough for Seba to catch the subtle citrusy warmth of your shampoo, close enough that your fingers brushed his wrist.

“You do this thing,” you said, tone softer now. “Where you always show up when I don’t even realize I need you to. It’s like—like you see right through me. And you don’t say anything about it. You just act. You just show up.”

Seba opened his mouth. Closed it. Swallowed.

His throat felt like it had caught fire.

You were looking at him too directly. As if you knew. As if you’d always known, and were just waiting for him to figure out how to catch up.

“Sometimes,” you continued, voice low, “I wish you’d say what I think you’re trying to. Out loud.”

Seba’s heart stuttered in his chest.

He wanted to. God, did he want to. But every word that clawed its way up his throat got caught in a tangle of nerves and static. So instead, he reached up—trembling—and cupped your cheek.

You didn’t move.

Didn’t flinch.

Didn’t even blink.

So he leaned in.

And kissed you.

It wasn’t careful. Wasn’t calculated. It was messy and warm and real. The kind of kiss that short-circuited logic and replaced it with heartbeats and stuttering breath and the faint, helpless noise you made when you gripped the front of his shirt like he was the only solid thing left in the world.

You pulled him closer.

Seba nearly lost his balance.

You both half-stumbled into the couch, laughing into each other’s mouths as you fell into the cushions, limbs tangling and lips barely parting. Your hands slid under his hoodie, palms flat against his spine, and he gasped into the kiss—like you’d flipped a switch he didn’t know he had.

“I brought snacks,” he muttered against your mouth, breathless.

“What a sweetheart.”

Seba groaned. “I hate you.”

“No you don’t.”

He buried his face in your neck. “No. I really, really don’t.”

Your fingers tangled in his hair. Tagged gently.

“You can say it,” you whispered.

“I’m trying.”

“I know.”

You kissed him again, deeper this time. More promise than urgency. More comfort than chaos.

Seba had kissed you.

You had kissed him back.

And now you were both tangled together on your couch, limbs interwoven like the world outside didn’t exist anymore. There were half-empty snack wrappers on the table and his hoodie swallowed your frame, sleeves bunched around your hands as you curled into his side like you belonged there.

You’d always belonged there.

Your fingers were tracing lazy circles on his chest, the touch light and soothing, like you were trying to calm down his racing heart without mentioning it.

He was trying not to panic.

You were warm. So warm. Not just your skin, but the way you leaned into him like he was safe. The way you kept looking up at him, soft and sleepy-eyed, with a kind of quiet affection that completely unraveled him.

“I should probably go,” he murmured, even as his arm tightened around your waist.

“Liar.”

You shifted against him and pressed a quick kiss to his collarbone, the fabric of your hoodie slipping slightly to expose your shoulder. He didn’t even try to hide the shiver that ran down his spine.

“I’m not good at this,” Seba admitted, voice barely audible.

“I know.” You looked up again, voice a little teasing, a little too tender. “But you’re trying. That counts.”

He looked away. Your living room was dark except for the faint glow of the kitchen light. Everything was quiet. Still. Like the universe had decided to give him a moment of peace in the middle of the noise.

“Why are you being so gentle with me?” he asked, almost accidentally. “You always pick fights with people at school. You’ve got bruises every other day, and yet… you’re soft with me.”

You smiled slowly. “Because I don’t need to fight you to be seen.”

Seba’s breath caught.

“And,” you added, nuzzling closer, “Also probably because I’ve been in love with you for a long time. I’m not gonna hurt you just to prove I feel something.”

Your words hit like a sucker punch.

Seba didn’t speak for a long moment. He just looked down at you like you were something he wasn’t supposed to touch. Scared that if he breathed too hard, the moment would vanish.

You leaned up and kissed him again. Filled with honesty. The kind that made his hands shake as they slid up your back, bunching the hoodie as if to anchor himself to this moment. To you.

You climbed onto his lap slowly, letting your thighs settle on either side of him. It felt natural. Comforting.

Because Seba didn’t stop you.

Didn’t want to.

His hands found your hips. Hesitant. Reverent.

You looked at him like you knew. Like you saw every inch of the mess he was—and wanted him anyway.

“Seba,” you whispered, breath fanning against his cheek, “it’s okay to want this.”

He swallowed hard. “I do.”

Your fingers ran through his hair smoothly while humming.

You both eventually collapsed back onto the couch again—chests pressed together, bodies warm and limbs entangled, your face buried in his neck as his hand found the rhythm of your spine.

After a while, your breathing slowed. You started to drift.

Seba didn’t move.

He just held you, his thumb brushing your side.

And for the first time in what felt like forever, he didn’t feel broken for not knowing how to say the right words.

Because this?

This was the right language.

And somehow, you’d always understood it.

---

A/N: Wrote this while eating MY fave snack that I bought MYSELF becaue I am SINGLE

---

[notablenotions]

Mask's of Noblity-Chapter 24:

She was human.

Hans Capon had known this intellectually. Legally. On paper. It was, after all, a requirement for marriage.

But it had never felt real before. Not like last night. Not like this morning. Not with the blood and the shaking hands and the soft breath of her sleeping against him.

She was human. A female human. With... with a waist. And... breasts. And those lips. Those lips he’d looked at far too long for a man in a devoted love affair with another man.

“Fuck,” Hans muttered as he half-ran, half-stumbled through the keep, his thoughts a jumbled snarl of guilt, lust, confusion, and a haunting memory of Jitka sleepily wrapped like a very sarcastic sausage roll. “What even was that.”

There was only one person who could possibly fix this. Only one man who knew his soul, his sins, and once held his hair back while he threw up at a monastery.

He needed Henry.

He burst into the barracks and slammed open the door to Henry’s office.

It had changed.

There were now two desks. Two. The small room was crammed with parchment, embroidery hoops, weapons maintenance logs, and a deeply concerning pile of dried herbs that smelled vaguely like pine and guilt. Henry sat at his desk, calm as a monk, needle in hand, embroidering a man weeping into a turnip.

He looked up, blinked once, and said, “Are you alright?”

Like this was normal. Like Hans bursting in like a harlot on fire was part of the routine.

Hans paced. He paced like a man possessed. “No, I am not alright. I—she—last night she broke and I held her and then this morning I looked at her lips and she looked at me and there was drool and blankets and fuck, Henry, I think I almost kissed my wife!”

Henry set the embroidery aside slowly. Folded his hands. Watched Hans with a familiar look of long-suffering amusement.

Hans flailed.

“I’m committed to you! Entirely! Monogamously! I haven’t even noticed another man or woman since you walked into my life with your sodding jawline and your brooding! And now she’s got feelings and breasts and I’m concerned! Do you know how horrifying that is?”

Henry tilted his head. “You’re upset because you’re attracted to a woman. Who is also your wife.”

“Yes!” Hans flailed again. “And you’re not even—jealous!?”

Henry raised an eyebrow. “Hans. Our relationship was founded on drinking, hunting, war, and wenching. You remember wenching, don’t you?”

Hans opened his mouth. Closed it. Blinked.

Henry smirked. “You remember that tavern near Uzhitz. The one with the twins and the red wine and the hay loft.”

“That was an intense spiritual male friendship,” Hans muttered defensively.

“We wenched,” Henry said, grinning. “Together. Eye contact and all.”

Hans made a noise like a kicked lute. “That was different! That was—bonding!”

Henry shrugged. “We wenched. And we always knew you’d have to marry. Produce heirs. I didn’t expect monogamy. Frankly, I thought you’d have bedded her by now.”

Hans looked vaguely scandalized. “She terrifies me.”

“She recommends balms, Hans,” Henry deadpanned. “She tells me which oils won’t chafe. That’s not terrifying. That’s... supportive. Thoughtful. She even cancelled embroidery today because your wrapping job turned her hands into linen hives.”

Hans covered his face with both hands. “I should have left. I should have not held her. But she sobbed. And she looked so—small. And then she started crying about lemon cakes and being alone and—”

Henry stood, moved closer. His voice gentled.

“I know what she’s like. And I know how she breaks. She’s not easy, but she’s kind, in her way. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

Hans peeked through his fingers. “But I wanted to kiss her.”

Henry paused. Thought about that.

Then said, “You still want me, don’t you?”

“Desperately.”

“Then that part hasn’t changed.” He smiled, small and sure. “I’m still very attracted to women, Hans. It doesn’t shut off because of you. And I don’t deny that, because denying that would be denying me.”

He walked back to his desk, picked up the turnip man again.

“And let’s be honest,” Henry added, stabbing the needle through cloth, “Jitka’s arse is a masterpiece sent by God to ruin men.”

Hans choked.

“That’s my wife!”

Henry smirked. “And I say this as a man who respects you both: the way she walks? Scandalous. Should be outlawed.”

“You’re a monster.”

Henry grinned. “You’re the one who married her.”

Hans slumped dramatically into the chair across from him, covering his eyes again. “I don’t know what’s happening to me.”

“You’re evolving,” Henry said dryly. “Like a very dramatic beetle.”

They sat in silence for a moment, Henry stitching, Hans trying not to cry.

Then Hans murmured, “You really aren’t jealous?”

Henry looked at him, serious now. “What hurt, once, was the fear. That she’d take you away from me. That marriage would mean I lost you. But I haven’t. Not really. And honestly? I think I’ve found a friend in her.”

He paused. Then added with a smile, “Or a very annoyed younger sister.”

Hans snorted. “She’s feral. I once saw her blackmail a bishop into apologizing for using too much incense.”

Henry nodded solemnly. “That tracks.”

And like that, the storm passed.

Hans felt lighter. Not solved—but steadier. Seen.

He watched Henry stitch a weeping turnip with the focus of a scholar and thought, I love this man. And I’m possibly developing feelings for my terrifying embroidery tyrant wife. I’m doomed.

And somehow, he didn’t mind.

[rollinouttahere-writes-misc]

Hi hope you’re doing ok ! Would it be ok if I request yandere Itadori with his best friend reader who nearly gets killed by a cursed spirit please 🙏

(If possible can the reader be female if not gn is fine with me ^^) (romantic if possible if not platonic is fine as well XD )

Lassitude

Yandere Itadori Yuji x Reader

2.9 k words

Summary: You just got to meet up with a friend you hadn't seen in a while, and now you're headed home after a fun day out. But you can't shake the feeling of being watched. It's nothing... right?

Warnings: female presenting reader, universe typical violence, injury to reader, death, yandere if you squint

“Thanks again for meeting up with me today, I know it was really short notice.”

“Don’t thank me, I’m just happy to see you again. When you transferred out of school so suddenly, I got really worried about you. I’m just glad that you’re okay.” You look over at Yuji and smile half-heartedly, “Sasaki and Iguchi have been asking about you a lot. You should probably reach out to them, too. I feel a little bad hogging you all to myself like this.”

A glimmer of hope sparks in your heart. Maybe there’s a reason he reached out to only you?

“Oh, are they? I didn’t think we were close enough for them to be worried about me.” Yuji scratches the back of his head, looking a little flustered. “But thanks for letting me know. You’re such a good friend.”

Ah. There it is. “Friend”. 

It’s not that you’re ungrateful for your friendship with Yuji, but… you would be lying through your teeth if you said you didn’t want it to be something more.

Yuji is the kindest person you’ve ever met, and he held the first place title by a significant margin. Anyone would be lucky to call him a friend, and you were, but you couldn’t help how your heart felt. How it skipped a beat when he would lend you his hand to help you up. How it fluttered when he remembered your favorite snacks and drinks and would make sure to get one for you. How it felt like it was going to explode when he shot you a text asking if you could meet up today.

And today had been fun. You met with him at a local arcade that you two used to go to all the time. Despite all of the months apart, you fell into the same synergy and easy conversation that had always come naturally. It was as if you’d just seen him yesterday. He even won you a little Cinnamoroll plush from one of the claw machines.

“Is everything okay? You got quiet all of a sudden.” Yuji is just ahead of you, walking backwards with a concerned look on his face.

A well practiced fake smile is plastered onto your face following his question. “Everything’s fine.” Your fingers mess with the ears of your plush, “I was just thinking about how I wish we could do this more often, like we used to.”

The guilt that flashes across his face makes you immediately regret your words. Guilt tripping Yuji into hanging out with you more is the last thing you would want to do to him, so you quickly try to backpedal, “Not that I’m blaming you or anything! I get that you’re busy.”

“It’s okay,” the smile he flashes you makes your heart feel fuzzy, “I get it. I wish we could see each other more often, too. I’ll try to make more room for you from now on. I promise.”

“Really?” You can no longer contain your excitement. Without even thinking about it, you leap forward and all but tackle him in a hug, “Thank you! That’s the best news I’ve gotten all week!” More like all year, but you’re trying to at least pretend to be normal about this.

It dawns on you that this isn’t very laid back and casual of you. You release him and step back, clearing your throat and trying to act nonchalant, “I mean, only if you’re sure you have the time. I don’t want you going out of your way just for me.” You do. You absolutely do.

Yuji flashes his signature smile, “I want to go out of my way for you. You’re important to me, (Y/N).” 

Critical hit. Your face feels hot and you avert your eyes. How can he say something like that so casually? This would basically be a confession from someone else, but sweet sentiments like this are a staple of Itadori’s lingo. It almost makes you want to scream. How can he be so amazing and dense at the same time?!

“Thank you… I really appreciate that.” Oh god, you feel like your heart is going to burst again. “A-Anyway, it’s getting late. I should head home before my parents start to worry.”

“Do you want me to walk you home?”

Yes. Absolutely. More than anything. “No, that’s okay. I know you still have to get back to your new school.”

“Are you sure? I really don’t mind.” The smile on his face was adorable, and it almost made you crack. But no, you need some time alone to calm yourself down.

“I’m sure. My home isn’t far from here anyway.” You decide to indulge yourself and give him another hug before turning to go your separate way. “I’ll see you later. Bye, Yuji!”

Yuji holds his hand out toward you, and for a second you think he’s going to say something. But instead, he retracts his hand and rubs the back of his neck, “Yeah, see you later. Stay safe, (Y/N).”

A combination of disappointment and warmth fills your chest. His well wishes for you are nice, but you can’t help but be bummed that he didn’t say whatever was on his mind. It’s fine. You’re used to not getting exactly what you want from him. At least he’s still your friend despite the distance.

Walking home doesn’t take long, you weren’t lying when you said your home was nearby. But as you walk, you can’t shake off the feeling of being watched. You keep looking over your shoulder, hoping to see Yuji, but he isn’t there. No one is. It makes a chill run down your spine, prompting you to walk faster and hold your plush tighter. It’s nothing. You know it’s nothing, but that doesn’t make you any less creeped out.

Just as you make it home, your phone rings. Feeling like you’re safe now that you’re on the front steps, you slide your phone out of your pocket and check the caller ID. It’s Yuji!

Without waiting another second, you answer the call, “Yes?” Did that sound too eager? Probably. Too late to do anything about it now.

“Good, you answered.” Yuji sighs in relief and lets out an embarrassed chuckle, “Uh, I don’t suppose my wallet is still in your purse is it?”

Oh, that’s right! You offered to hold onto it for him after it flew out of his pocket while you two were playing DDR. As expected of him, Yuji got way too into it and his wallet got sent sailing through the air as a result of how hard he was dancing. “Hang on, let me check.” You hold your phone to your ear with your shoulder as you sift through your purse, “Yep! It’s right here.”

“Great, I’m glad I at least know where it is now. My bus pass is in there, so I’ll have to come get it from you. I’ll be there in a few.”

“Wait, I would feel bad making you walk all the way here and back. I’m home now, I’ll ask my dad if he can drive me there so you don’t miss the next bus.” Yuji starts to protest, but you silence him, “At least let me ask first. I’m sure my dad will be more than happy to help.”

You push open the door and get ready to call out to your father, but the words are knocked out of you. Something huge slams into your back, launching you through the air. You yelp from the surprise and pain of it all, then crash down onto the coffee table. It snaps under your weight, and you are left coughing and gasping for air after… an attack? What the hell was that?

“(Y/N)? What was that? Are you okay?” Yuji’s voice comes through your phone, and for a moment all you can think is that you’re amazed that you were able to hold onto it through that.

Before you can muster the strength to speak, you scream instead as something sharp sinks into your leg. You shriek and look down, finding blood pouring out of several holes in your leg and staining your sock, but- but nothing is there! You can feel something, but you don’t see anything!

More calls of your name ring through the home, this time from your parents. You don’t answer, you can’t. Whatever pierced your leg starts to move, and it’s strong! You continue to scream as you’re shaken violently, getting slammed into furniture and the floor by whatever has a hold of you. Your grip on your phone relinquishes, sending it flying away and into a wall as you’re flailed about.

“What’s going on?! What’s hurting her?! I don’t see anything!” Your mother sounds as confused as she does terrified. Her eyes dart all over the room, but she can’t see anything either. 

“Mom! Dad! Help me!” You wail and kick blindly with your free leg, and then you feel it. Your foot connects with something. Something is here, but why can’t you see it?!

Your father picks up the broken top of the coffee table, then slams it down over where your leg is bleeding from. Instead of hitting you, it stops about a foot above and breaks. Whatever was holding you lets go and appears to back up into the wall, making the framed photos fall off of it. A scratching noise cuts through the air, and when you follow them to the source, you see four sets of claw marks on the floor.

It’s when you look up that you start to get an idea of what attacked you. The thing is still invisible, but your blood is now staining its teeth. Several rows of long, razor sharp teeth glisten red, finally revealing something about what is in here with you.

“What the hell is that?” Your father looks dumbfounded, but he’s still clearly on high alert. He watches the dripping maw closely as it begins to move, circling to the right, blocking the pathway to the front door. “Get to our room and call for help! Now! I’ll hold this- this thing off!”

Mom didn’t need to be told twice. She had already been crouched down next to you when he gave the order. With a strength you didn’t think she possessed, your mom heaves you up onto her shoulder and runs.

The sound of scraped wood echoes through the house as the beast lunges at your father. He slams what remains of the piece of wood he was holding into what you assume is the face, but that’s the last thing you see before your vision is obscured by the walls encasing the staircase leading to the upstairs bedrooms. You want to cry out for your dad to come with you, but your voice fails you.

As soon as she makes it into the room, your mother locks the door and wedges a chair under the handle. You’re dropped onto the bed as she fumbles to get her phone out of her pocket and dial the right number, all the while looking over your wound.

It’s truly a sickening sight. The meat of your calf has been shredded from the monster that bit you. Is… Is that bone? You feel like you’re going to throw up or faint. Maybe both.

“We need help!” Your mother’s voice draws your attention away from the horrendous state of your leg. “Something broke into our home and attacked our daughter! I- I don’t know what! I couldn’t see it, but it bit my daughter and was throwing her around! She needs an ambulance, now! Hurry!”

Loud crashing and yelling is coming from outside of the room. It escalates to screaming, then cuts off abruptly into complete silence. No. No, no, no! This isn’t happening, this can’t be happening!

Your mother cries out her husband’s name, but there is no reply. “Oh god! Please hurry! I think it just killed my husband!”

Something heavy hits the door. Then again, each time harder than the last. The wood is starting to break, and the wall is cracking. It’s breaking down the door, and it feels almost certain that it’ll get through before help can arrive.

This is a fact that your mom seemingly also picked up on. She scoops you back into her arms and runs to the closet, sliding open the door and practically throwing you inside. She tightly clutches one of your hands in hers and holds your tear soaked face with the other, “Y-You need to stay quiet, okay? Don’t make a sound. I love you so much.”

She retreats and slides the door shut again before you can put together anything resembling a coherent thought, much less a sentence. No… Why is she doing this? She should be hiding too! Come back! Please come back!

The door to the bedroom gives in to the tremendous force of the monster outside of it and shatters. You can hear your mother let out a startled shriek, then a sob.

“P-Please… I don’t care what happens to me, just leave my baby alone! Don’t hurt her anymore, I’m begging you!”

There’s just enough of a gap in the closet door to let you peer through it. Part of you knows this is a bad decision. But you can’t bring yourself to look away. Remnants of the door crack and break under the weight of the blight attacking your family as it enters the room and encroaches on its prey. Your mother stumbles back and her phone is thrown at it in a last desperate attempt to ward it off.

When it finally steps into view, it’s covered in blood, and you instinctively know that it’s your father’s. The monster is almost as tall as your mother and quadrupedal. The mouth is disproportionately large, being almost as big as the misshapen head it’s a part of.

It corners your terrified mother, then attacks. She screams and tries to fend it off, but it bites into her arm and rips it from her body. Her wails of agony and fear make you begin to sob harder despite her pleas for you to keep quiet. It doesn’t matter. Nothing matters. That thing is going to kill her and then you, just like it did your father.

You tear your eyes away from the carnage just as your mother’s head starts to disappear into the razor sharp abyss. You can’t do it. You can’t watch. You know it’s over when her screams are cut short.

All you can do is sob as the beast approaches the closet. You don’t even attempt to move or defend yourself as the door is ripped out of its track, fully exposing you. There’s even more blood on it now. Worse yet, clumps of mom’s hair are wedged in between its teeth.

This is it. This is how you die. Massacred along with the rest of your family. At least you three won’t be separated for long. You stare in horror as it steps closer. You blink. Someone is over it. Then the monster is sent through the floor with the person you saw falling right with it.

What? Was that… pink hair? I- It can’t be…

A loud struggle is happening on the floor beneath you, but your brain is struggling to process it. It’s struggling to process any of this. You should be dead. Why aren’t you dead? You’re so numb to your surroundings that you don’t even notice when the fight stops. The only thing that tears you from your stupor is your name being called out.

After a few slow blinks, you focus your attention on the person in front of you. Yuji. It is Yuji. This doesn’t make any sense.

The complete lack of a response from you frightens him, and he shakes you, “Talk to me, (Y/N)! Please let me know that you’re okay!”

No. You’re not okay. Nothing is okay.

“Mom… Dad…” Your voice is hoarse and cracks with each word.

His expression becomes even more devastated. “I’m sorry… I’m so sorry that I didn’t get here in time to save them.” He moves, then hugs you close to his chest, “But I saved you. I made it just in time to save you.”

Distantly, your mind registers the fact that he is continuing to speak, but you don’t really hear any of it. It’s all a white noise to you. Why is this happening? Why are you still alive when your parents are dead? Viciously murdered by a thing that none of you could even truly see. Was this your fault? Did you unknowingly bring that thing home with you?

Itadori picks you up, but you just hang in his arms limply. The sound of sirens echoes in the distance. They’re far too late to be of any use now.

“I’m going to get you some help, but we can’t stay here. Just hang tight. You’re safe now.”

Safe? An invisible monster just murdered your whole family. You’re never going to feel safe again. But you don’t say any of this. You don’t have the strength, the will. You have nothing left, not anymore. What your friend does now is of no consequence to you. Nothing is.

You may have a pulse, but your life ended when your parents’ did.

[multiversefanfics]

Jealousy Is a Killer

Pairing: Steve Rogers x Fem!Reader Warning: jealousy, threats promises Summary: A girl keeps flirting with Steve, and you can't help but feel jealous. Steve finds it amusing. Word Count: 624

It was like any other day, you woke up, trained, ate, and damn near almost beat up some girl for flirting with Steve. Yup, you almost beat up a new recruit that Tony hired for flirting with your boyfriend.

Now I know what you’re thinking “Why is the reader mad about that, Steve only has eyes for her” Well— Steve finds it so amusing that sometimes he’ll flirt back just a little, to make you jealous.

I know another thought that went through your head. “Why would Steve do that?” He’s a damn menace and loves to see you claim what’s yours, he just didn’t realize that this time you were willing to rearrange someone’s face because of it.

You were standing next to Sam, not listening to a word he was saying because your eyes were fixated on Steve and the new recruit. Your fists were balled, your jaw clenched, if you were a cartoon character you’d have steam coming out of your ears.

Steve noticed and laid it on thick, normally you’d wait for the person to leave and then give Steve a piece of your mind, but today was different and before you knew it, you were marching over to the both of them. She did one of those annoying giggles and right before she got a chance to touch his arm you stepped in between them, her hand landing on your shoulder.

Her eyes went wide, she knew about you, she knew Steve had a girlfriend, did she care? Of course not. Did you care that she was now terrified? Absolutely not. She saw you train before she knows what you’re capable of and yet here she is risking her life and for what? Steve? ha.

“I’m going to give you 3 seconds to remove your hand, before I break it.” You stared deep into her eyes and she immediately removed her hand.

Steve looped his finger in your belt loop to keep you from going anywhere, and he was ready with his other arm to pick you up and drag you out if necessary. Steve also knew what you were capable of and knew the recruit wouldn’t stand a chance.

“If I catch you flirting with my boyfriend again, I will rearrange your face so bad your own family won’t recognize you.” You looked her up and down “Do I make myself clear?”

She nodded and quickly walked away, once she was gone Steve turned you around to face him, resting his hands on your hips, placing a sweet kiss to your forehead.

“Must you scare every new recruit we get? Tony isn’t going to be happy about this.” He smirked down at you, knowing that he won

You crossed your arms over your chest and looked up at him, angrily. “Must you flirt with every new recruit, just to make me jealous?”

Steve chuckled and leaned down to kiss your cheek, but you moved your head just before he connected. You glared at him watching his face change from shocked to playful.

"Oh, come on, baby I'm only playing around, you know I love you and only you." He caressed your cheek reeling you in with his touch

You rolled your eyes and kissed his palm. "Fine, but I'm telling you right now, I will rearrange her face."

He chuckled and wrapped his arm around your shoulders, pulling you close to him. "I know you will, honey, I know you will."

The two of you spent the rest of the day on the couch watching movies. You tried your best to keep your jealousy in check, but Steve pushed you, he loved seeing you claim him, and to make it clear that you were his, and only his.

A/N: I hope you guys like it, if you want to be tagged in future fics comment here or send me a message. Likes, comments, and reblogs are appreciated. 🥰

Main Masterlist - Steve Rogers Masterlist

Taglist: @megamindsecretlair @tdbooth @kjah97 @thiquefunlover63 @nekoannie-chan @angelilacsworld @sleepysongbirdsings @samfreakingwinchester @iwudbutnah @cherryresidence @roofwitty779

[sugarwarachan]

frothing at the mouth over sweet lover boy hawks who genuinely loves taking care of you

you’ve got a headache? this man is literally flying to the pharmacy to pick up medication and ginger ale and crackers and a weighted blanket that he makes sure to wrap you up in as soon as he gets home

you’re stressed about work? he’s talking you through every scenario and ranting about your boss (behind the scenes he’s checking through your company’s records and keeping tabs on your coworkers for blackmail to make sure everything’s above board, gotta make sure his baby’s not being exploited)

he’s a giver through and through, almost doesn’t know how to stop himself from going too hard, from falling too fast

so he channels all of that giving nature, that overwhelming almost animal instinct to take care of you, into his performance in bed

keigo is not satisfied unless he’s pulled at least three orgasms out of you—only then will he finally stuff your pulsing needy hole with his big cock

loves loves loves the little squeal you make when he finally bottoms out, drives him fucking crazy to hear you struggle to take him all the way

“that’s it, little bird, told ya we’d make it fit, huh?”

holds your hips and fucks into you mercilessly, “don’t you fucking run away from me, dovey, this pretty pussy’s been begging for my cum all day, hasn’t she?”

props you up on his thighs and spread yours legs apart so you can see his cock splitting you open, both of your juices smeared across your skin. makes you watch yourself cum in the mirror, whispering praise to you the entire time about how well you take him, how good you are, how fucking pretty you look like this—

has the aftercare of a fucking god—feeds you, bathes you, takes you back to bed and tucks you up against him until you fall asleep to the sound of his heartbeat

[seventh-district]

“Why’s he call you Darlin’?”

on my knees begging my brain to stop trying to associate this song with Sam