#WARNING: Beware of Grins is still in the works

[pboogerswbb]

EARNED IT

Paige Bueckers x reader

In which reader wants a pair of shoes but instead of just buying them, Paige makes reader earn them, each orgasm bringing her $200 closer - loosely based on a request @d3arapril got and passed onto me (ty girl ily)

Warnings: SMUT (slight CNC, use of a dildo, overstim, P being a little sadistic), lowkey filthiest thing i've written so beware

Wordcount: 4.9K

A/N: SURPRISE! enjoy this little pre-game treat while I work on the prologue for So It Goes ;)

-

It had been a long day. Work had been killing you and frankly, you missed your girlfriend who had been training tirelessly in the past weeks. It was as if the only times you saw each other were when she was about to leave, coming into your bedroom and kissing you goodbye for the day, or the couple hours after she got home when you ate dinner together and went to bed. 

It was all okay, you understood the stakes, you always knew what it entailed to date the famous Paige Bueckers. That basketball was her life, that it meant a lot of lonely nights, sometimes for weeks during the season. But it was all worth it, because when she was there, you were the most spoiled, pampered girl in the world.

You could hear the shower turn off as you sat on the couch of your apartment, looking for something to spoil yourself with on your phone - you had received a bonus earlier today and thought you deserved something nice to celebrate. So naturally, almost out of habit, your finger was scrolling on the Louboutin homepage, admiring your dream shoes - the shiny leather and bright red sole of the shoe drawing you eye in. Maybe if you saved a little more, you could finally get them.

“You’d look so fine in those,” you’re interrupted by Paige, leaning over your shoulder to see what you were up to. When you turn around you find her shower fresh, wet hair still dripping and a robe tied loosely on her body. She smelled so delicious and clean you just wanted to bask in her. To throw yourself on her and have her hold you for days on end.

Paige kisses the top of your head from behind as she leans down and wraps two arms around you. Heaven is the only way to describe how that felt after days of missing her.

“Well gimme a couple months and I’ll save up,” you chuckle, tilting your head back to look at her. She smiles but scoffs a little at your words.

“I gotchu,” she laughs and yanks the phone out of your hands much too quickly for your reflexes.

“No!!” you yelp, jumping off the couch in a white top and underwear, following her around your apartment, feeble attempts to try and steal back the phone as she dodges you with ease, a smug grin on her face.

“‘S not even that much, relax,” Paige pushes your hands away gently, plopping herself down on the armchair in your living room that the blonde had reclaimed as “hers”. 

“Got that NIL money, can buy my girl whatever she wants,” she brags, leaning back in the robe that’s not doing much to cover her legs up. The sliver of white boxers on her muscular thighs electrify you, and the confident expression on her face doesn’t help when you feel the familiar ache fluttering between your thighs.

“It’s 800 dollars Paige,” you point out, sitting yourself on the blonde’s thigh, like you had so many times before. It was something about this chair that made her want to have you on her constantly. Perhaps it was the way you two fit in it just right, the way you felt small in her arms. Nevertheless, you had spent hours in this chair scrolling Tiktok, sharing a tub of ice cream, reading books or just talking after a long day.

Paige holds you bridal style, your bare legs sprawled across her lap. Her fingertips draw patterns up and down on your thighs, sending goosebumps everywhere. You loved these moments, they almost made up the fact that she was gone most days.

“That’s nothing baby, don’ worry,” Paige murmurs, already putting her card details in. 

“I’m serious P!” you groan, grabbing your phone finally from the blonde’s hands. Truth be told, you felt a little bad. Paige was always showering you with gifts, trips on your birthday, hell she had even convinced she should pay for your groceries since she was over all the time and ate most of them. She paid for every date, for gas, drove you around whenever she could. She spoiled the hell out of you and you let her. You knew she loved to do it. But still, something about it made you feel bad. To have your girl do so much for you without giving anything in return.

“I wanna earn it! I just got a bonus and if I save up some more I can get them,” you explain, the bewildered look on Paige’s face finally softening. A small grin tugs at the corner of her mouth as her blue eyes roam over your face, flickering to your lips. Her fingertips sneak further up your leg as her tongue licks over her pink bottom lip. All that was enough for you to know Paige had something dirty on her mind.

“Oh yeah? You wanna earn it?” she asks menacingly. With a confused look you nod, not quite sure what she meant.

Instead of explaining, she’s pulling you in by the back of your head, kissing you feverishly. The tension grows quickly, each kiss more passionate than the last. She wants you bad. Your hands entangle in her wet hair as you wrap your arms around the blonde. The fresh scent of shampoo, mango and guava, fills your nostrils. Paige moves her hand to your inner thighs, squeezing and caressing the soft skin, making a wet spot grow on your underwear embarrassingly quickly. 

She pulls her lips away with a struggle, attempting to catch her breath. You wince, already missing her mouth. 

“You wanna play a lil game with me baby?” She asks, hooded eyes blinking quickly as she refocuses on your face.

“What game?” Your voice is shaky from how much the ache between your legs had grown.

Paige sits up a little, clearing her throat. “Well, you said you wanna earn it,” she starts, walking her fingers up your thigh slowly. “and I really wanna touch you baby,” she adds. “How about each time you cum for me you get 200 dollars?”

The blush that sets on your cheeks is immediate, making your face red and hot. At first you want to shake your head, immediately turn it down. It felt so wrong. But then Paige’s fingertips inch closer to your core, and you can’t help but consider. She really wants to get you off after all. And if there was one thing about Paige, once she started she didn’t know how to stop.

The blue eyes roam your face, looking for a reaction. With a huff, Paige leans in and kisses on your earlobe. “Been away so much lately, need my girl,” she hums into your ear, chills taking over your body. That’s enough to do it.

“Okay,” you whimper, Paige grinning against your skin.

“Yeah? You not gon’ tap out?” She says with that arrogant lilt in her voice as your gazes meet.

“No.” 

Your tone is much more confident than you are.

“Bet.”

With that Paige’s fingertips press into your clothed core, dragging along your clit as you moan, your head already lulling back.

“You already this wet?” The blonde chuckles irritatingly, but you’re too desperate for her to do anything about it.

“Been missing you,” you whimper as her fingers rub in a circle, her lips returning to your ear as they suck on your earlobe, pulling on it with her teeth.

“Fuck I know baby, haven’t been giving you enough attention huh?” She coos, hot breath on your neck. You nod, agreeing with her, growing wetter, needier for something she wasn’t giving you yet. “Lemme make it up for you,” she whispers, nuzzling her nose against your neck. “Stand up.”

You do as she says as if in some sort of trance, willing to bend every which way for her. Paige looks up at you, spreading her legs further and reaching for your panties. With a swift movement she pulls them down, leaving you only in the tight white tank top in front of her. 

She pats her thigh, flexing the muscle there, inviting you to sit. It’s so tempting you don’t hesitate even for a moment when you straddle it. A gasp leaves your mouth when your wet cunt meets her soft, warm skin. She hisses, feeling your slick on her, licking her lips.

“Oh shit,” you whimper, Paige’s hands moving to your ass, kneading hungrily. You could already feel a fire in your abdomen, making you lightheaded. 

“C’mon,” the blonde urges you to move, her hands beginning to grind your hips back and forth. The way her thigh drags along your clit is making you see stars. Paige’s eyes are locked on the way you’re grinding on her, her cheeks turning red as she lets out loud exhales and hisses at the way your pussy feels on her skin. 

Grabbing onto her shoulders, you fasten the pace, needy for more. 

“That feels so- oh fuck baby,” you moan, feeling Paige flex her thigh underneath you, providing just the correct angle and pressure for you. Your legs are already shaking as her hands guide you, hips moving back and forth.

“Shit,” Paige whimpers as if she’s the one getting off. Leaning forward she begins to kiss your neck, sucking enough to leave a mark and a sting but it only spurs you on. Grabbing the hem of your top, she lifts it just enough to reveal your tits, eyes locked on the way they move with your body as you grind faster.

“Look so fucking good,” she murmurs almost to herself, one hand kneading your ass, the other your breast. “C’mon, you gonna get off on my thigh?” 

You nod desperately, hair falling all over your face as the coil inside you tightens, the pressure on your clit bordering on overwhelming. Your movements were turning sloppy as your orgasm approached you, desperately grinding your hips. To help you Paige’s hands return to your ass, assisting with the movements. 

“Fuck Paige, fuck,” you gasp, the burn in your core so intense it made your eyes roll back. A loud smack is followed with a sharp pain as Paige slaps your ass harshly, spurring you on.

“C’mon baby,” she groans, leaning forward to kiss your chest feverishly. As her warm tongue begins to circle your nipple, you can feel yourself starting to spill over. Hands gripping onto her shoulders, she flexes her muscles one more time, your clit rubbing desperately on her thigh as you come. 

“Oh-” you’re gasping, face scrunched up in pleasure as Paige’s hands guide your hips, soft lips sucking on your nipple to make the pleasure even more intense. Waves of pleasure wash over you as your cunt clenches around nothing, slick spilling out of you.

“That never gets old,” Paige moans as you try to catch your breath, your movements coming to a halt as the blonde keeps kissing along your neck and jaw. Your body already feels tired, worn out. But the night was just beginning.

“That’s 200 bucks for you ma,” she grins, finding your lips in a needy kiss. “You should know tho, you riding my thigh is worth a lot more,” Paige murmurs against your mouth. “Fuck, would pay millions to see that shit.”

Her words make you whimper into her mouth, giving her the opportunity to slide her tongue inside, meeting yours in a wet, sloppy kiss. Grabbing your thighs, Paige stands up from the chair and lifts you with ease, her robe falling open as she walks you to the couch. Placing you on the soft cushions, she watches you with hooded eyes.

“Wait here,” she murmurs before disappearing into your bedroom. When she returns, her robe is hanging off her shoulders loosely, chests and abs completely exposed. In her large hands she’s holding a purple, 7 inch dildo. A gift from the blonde but left unused because of how busy she had been.

You could still feel your core throbbing from your last orgasm, but the heat was quick to grow again when you see Paige holding it with a grin. As you lie on your back, waiting for her to touch you, Paige walks to the opposite end of the couch, leaning back and spreading her legs. 

“C’mere,” she says hoarsely, her fingers curling to invite you closer. Excited, you crawl to her. Paige’s impatient hands grab you and pull you onto her lap until you’re straddling her.

“You wanna put on a show for me?” She asks. Her head is tilted back as she watches you, the blue of her eyes completely blown out.

“Yes,” you whimper and gasp when her hand smacks your ass again, sharp pain following but making your pussy more soaked if possible.

“Such a slut huh?” She asks, making you only needier. Paige looks down between her thighs, holding the toy there in her hand, the plastic pressing against your stomach.

“Ride this shit,” she says, and you can tell it’s not a suggestion with the way she’s looking at you, her jaw suddenly sharper, eyes even darker. Your legs still feel shaky, but the urge to be filled up by her is so overwhelming you can’t help but lift your hips.

The tip of the toy presses against your folds, the blonde sliding it to your entrance teasingly. Your slick is already dripping down its length as you lower yourself on the tip, Paige’s hand on your hip guiding you.

A loud gasp escapes your mouth as Paige pulls you down on the length, making you take all of it. The stretch is too much, overwhelming you quickly, making your eyes roll back. However, Paige’s grounding hand grabs your jaw firmly, bringing your eyes to hers.

“Earn it ma,” she commands, leaning back and holding the toy steady with both hands. You knew exactly what she wanted.

With slow movements you begin to move up and down on the toy, letting it fill you up all the way. It feels so good it’s almost painful, and you can’t help but moan loud when it hits somewhere deep inside you you didn’t even know existed.

“Oh god,” you moan, eyes shutting in ecstasy. Paige is leaning back, watching you with hooded eyes and mouth slightly parted, moaning with you like she’s the one getting fucked.

“You’re so hot,” she groans, licking her lips. “Play with those tits for me.”

Without thinking your hands grab onto your chest, kneading as you pick up the pace, now bouncing on the toy that Paige is holding. The blonde can’t take it anymore, hand snaking around you to grab your ass hard. 

“Paige-” you gasp as she smacks your ass again, hard enough to leave marks to remind you of tonight for the days to come.

“That’s it ma, love it when you ride my shit,” she whimpers, her voice hoarse and deep. Watching you is getting Paige so wet she thinks she might come untouched, watching you bounce on the toy - what might as well be her cock. 

She can’t help it anymore, purely the way you look is getting her close enough to come. Her veiny hand moves off your ass, dragging down her stomach into her boxers where she’s met with her soaked cunt already throbbing. 

“Ah shit,” she moans as her fingers slip inside her, filling her up while you ride the toy for her. 

“C’mon, faster,” Paige commands. Whimpering and writhing, you maneuver from your knees to your feet, squatting on the toy now. Gripping Paige’s muscular shoulders for dear life, you begin to bounce on the toy, your tits in the blonde’s face.

“Such a good girl for me, shit,” she moans, her fingers pumping in and out of herself. She’s struggling not to come before you, her head lulling back and eyes nearly shutting. 

“Oh fuck,” you cry out, the burn in your thighs becoming overwhelming as you ride her, your pussy clenching around the length inside you. Leaning backwards to give Paige an even better view, you reach back to hold her thighs for support, making sure she sees all the inches disappearing inside you, stretching you out.

“Fuck baby you making a mess on my cock huh?” Paige whimpers, trying to sound together but there’s a whine in her voice that’s telling you she’s trying not to roll off the edge.

“Feels so good,” you gasp, the new angle letting the tip of the toy hit the spongy part inside you, making fire spread all over your abdomen. You’re dripping around the toy now, probably all over the couch, but neither of you seem to care.

“You like how my cock feels inside you?” Paige asks, voice breathy.

Nodding desperately, you allow your head to lull back, the squelching sounds coming out of both of you echoing around the living room. “Love riding your cock baby.”

“Aw sh- please tell me you’re close ma,” Paige cries out, her cunt throbbing around her fingers as she watches you.

“N-need to cum,” you mewl, tears filling your eyes.

“Shit- that’s right baby, earn it for me,” Paige rambles, her voice getting whinier as your pussy squeezes the toy tight, your movements on it turning rampant as you chase your high.

“Such a good girl for me, gonna make me cum,” the blonde continues, forcing her eyes to stay open as she spills over the edge so she can watch you come on her cock. All of a sudden intense pleasure takes over you, and your moans turn high pitched and desperate as you release all over the toy, the stretch making your legs shake.

“Aw fuck you look so fucking good, yeah ride that shit,” Paige moans loud as she comes with you. Plenty of high pitched cusses spill from her pink lips but you barely hear her, too focused on the ecstasy running through you. Once the feeling passes you crash onto the blonde underneath you, whole body shaking from the strain.

“That’s it baby,” Paige praises, sliding her fingers out of her cunt and carefully bringing them to your lips. They’re glistening in the light, covered in her slick. Eyes still closed and head resting on the blonde’s chest, you part your lips and swirl your tongue around them, tasting her. You wrap your lips around her fingers and suck on them as Paige pulls the toy out of you, leaving an uncomfortable emptiness behind.

“No more,” you whisper once the blonde’s fingers return to her side. She chuckles, brushing the hairs sticking to your sweaty forehead. 

“C’mon now that’s only 400 bucks,” she laughs but you shake your head. 

“It’s ok, I can save the rest,” you complain, your body sore and tired and way too sensitive to be touched.

“Well I’m not done with you yet ma,” Paige whispers. “So you might as well earn a lil sum.”

With that Paige is pushing you to your back, the robe finally falling off her body leaving her exposed, nipples hard and goosebumps covering her milky skin. Her hands grip your thighs spreading them wide and without warning, she leans down and begins to slowly drag her tongue along your cunt, taking her time.

You’re already squirming, two hands on her head ready to push her off. The two orgasms had left you sensitive and worn out. You’re not sure if you could do more. But Paige seemed to have decided for you.

She grabs your wrists, pulling them to your side against the couch. “Keep ‘em there,” she orders as she begins to lick against your puffy, swollen clit, humming contently as your body begins squirms. 

“‘S too much,” you cry out but she shakes her head, moaning into your pussy. 

“No it’s not, you can take it,” she assures, arms wrapping around your thighs to pull you closer, to hold you down. She’s lapping you up now, desperately trying to taste every inch of you. Her warm tongue swirls in your folds, moaning at your taste. If there was something Paige Bueckers loves it’s eating pussy. “Doin’ so good for me,” she praises.

The sensation is enough to make your legs tremble desperately, your third orgasm quickly building up. Every muscle in your body ached, and all touches and flicks on your clit felt heightened, making your eyes well up. You were a mess, back arching, hands grabbing the couch, the soft pillows thrown all over the floor now. Every part of you was writhing except your hips that Paige was holding down and still for her sake. She was eating you like she had never tasted you before, as if she had been starving for you.

“Fuck fuck fuck fuck-” you mewl, grabbing onto her blonde locks still wet from the shower. As you yank Paige moans, watching you from underneath her long dark eyelashes. She’s watching for every reaction, blue eyes filled with lust and locked onto every movement, every expression. She can’t look away.

Paige lays her tongue flat against your puffy clit and shakes her head from one side to the other, your cunt beginning to throb immediately. 

“Just like that, shit baby,” you moan, pulling onto the blonde hair. Paige pulls back, buried so deep in your folds she’s gasping for air as she comes up. Her gaze moves from your face to your pussy, a mixture of her spit and your slick dripping out of you onto the couch.

“Aw fuck I can see this pussy throbbing,” Paige gasps and immediately dives back in, the strain in her jaw quickly forgotten by the sight of you. Suddenly she spits onto your folds and urgently leans back in to lap it all up. It was so hot, so dirty that the sight was enough for your muscles to begin to twitch a third time around this evening.

“Oh fuck, Paige-”

“Right there?” She asks, staring up at you from between your thighs, her fingertips digging into the skin of your hips. Her tongue lies flat against your swollen clit, circling against it making all the muscles in your body tremble desperately.

“Yes, yes yes yes yes!” You gasp, real tears spilling from your eyes. You’re teetering right on the edge, only needing permission now from the blonde between your thighs.

“Fuuuuckk ma, cum on my face, please,” she moans, fastening her movements and gripping you harder, her eyes rolling back when you yank on her hair hard. “Please,” Paige cries out, clearly desperate, needing to make you come.

“I’m coming, oh fuck-” you cry out, your whole back arching upwards but Paige’s hand presses you down as her tongue keeps working you, drinking up all of it as you crash over the edge. The sounds coming out of you are muffled from how hard the climax hits you, seeing stars as Paige keeps lapping you up.

“Okay okay okay stop,” you whine pulling her hair, the sensation becoming too much too quickly as you come down. But Paige only grabs your wrists tightly in one of her large hands, pinning them together and holding them against your stomach.

“I’m not fucking done,” Paige says directly into your pussy, not slowing down for a second. You try everything, squirming, pulling your hands free, but it was useless. She was way too strong, and clearly wanted you way too much to give in to your whining.

“Paige please,” you cry, eyes welling up again as the tip of her tongue moves back and forth at an accelerating speed.

“You’re not done till I say so,” Paige commands and from the tone of her voice you know - there’s no fighting if she had decided to have you.

“‘S too much.”

“Shut the fuck up.”

Suddenly Paige has you flipped over, pressed against the soft armrest of the couch. Her strong hand quickly wraps around your hair and yanks on it, pulling your back flush against her exposed front.

“You want those shoes huh?” She asks with her lips pressed against your ear, a slight sadistic tone in your voice.

“Yes,” you answer weakly.

“Gotta earn it,” Paige says, kissing your neck before pushing you down by your hair till you’re bent over the armrest, ass high up in the air. Paige’s hands grip onto your ass and spread you wide open before you feel her tongue lick against your folds once, twice, until she dives and begins to lap you up even more hungry than before. 

“Oh fuck!” You gasp, completely forgetting about the thin walls and the poor neighbours next door. Nothing in this moment mattered except you, Paige and her plump lips sucking on your clit, still holding you wide open for her.

“Fucking love this pussy,” Paige groans, lips and mouth working hard, getting covered in a mixture of your mess and her spit. It’s simultaneously too much and so fucking hot, the way she’s eating you from behind, the way her nose is pressing against your entrance, rubbing against it teasingly.

Suddenly your pussy is throbbing around nothing, and it’s like the blonde can tell because next thing you know you feel a sudden stretch inside you. The toy from earlier suddenly pounds into you, making you gasp.

“Ohhhhhh shit P-” you can’t even form full sentences, the sudden sensation and the speed which Paige is fucking the dildo in and out of you with making you let out a cry louder than before.

“Ohh fuck ma, perfect pussy I swear,” Paige groans, pulling herself back to fuck the toy into you with more force, watching the way you’re getting stretched out. 

“‘S too big,” you cry, reaching back to push the blonde’s hands away. She grabs your wrists, holding both in one hand with ease and pinning them against your back.

“Don’t push me away,” she asserts, somehow finding a new angle as you crash flat against the armrest, making you take it even deeper. You could swear she’s in your guts now, and the loud squelching sounds your soaked cunt is making is only making your mind spin more.

Your whole body’s shaking as your front presses against the soft cushions of the couch, Paige pinning you down by your wrists as she keeps fucking into you. Your juices are everywhere, on the couch, on Paige’s face and hands, gushing out of you around the toy. 

“You gonna cum on this cock?” Paige asks, her voice hoarse with arousal. 

“Mmph-” you moan, face buried into the armrest. The blonde lets go of your wrists and smacks your ass, gripping it tight to fuck the toy even deeper, impossibly so.

“Answer me baby,” she groans, increasing her speed, the tip hitting the right spot each time to make you clench and throb so hard you could barely think.

“Yes yes yes ‘m gonna come fuck,” you cry, grabbing the cushions of the couch desperately.

“Yeah, you gonna cum for me just to get some shoes?” Paige sadistically says, kneading your ass. The wet sounds are becoming louder, your mess dripping everywhere.

“Yes Paige, please please please!” 

“Perfect girl, perfect fucking pussy huh? Letting me fuck your shit up just like this?” 

“Yes, please P-”

“Cum for me.”

She’s killing your shit, toy pounding into your guts. The stretch is so intense your eyes roll back involuntarily, and a loud whimper leaves your body as your pussy clenches around the toy, finally releasing and letting your climax wash over.

Paige is talking you through it, you’re pretty sure. But you can’t hear over your own moans, over the sounds coming from your body, over the way you felt like you might black out. Every muscle in your body is on fire, fingers gripping anything they could find. Next thing you’re being carried into your bedroom, Paige laying you down gently on your back and climbing next to you.

Finally your eyes flutter open as the blonde pulls you into her chest.

“What happened?” you murmur, and Paige chuckles.

“Just made you cum a lil too hard I think,” she laughs and kisses your forehead. Her hands are playing with the ends of your hair, stroking your arms and back, grounding you.

“Did so good for me,” the blonde coos, kissing your lips softly. You could still taste yourself on her. “You okay?”

You nod. All your muscles ache and the strain had made you exhausted, but that definitely made up for all the time Paige had spent away from you in the past weeks.

“That was hot,” you admit, which makes the blonde let out a loving giggle.

“Not you saying that, hottest thing we ever did I swear,” Paige praises, pressing kisses on top of your head again. “Let me go run you a bath baby.”

But as she moves you wrap your arms tighter around her waist, pulling her closer with all the strength you had left. 

“A little longer,” you whisper against her sticky skin. Paige couldn’t dream of leaving you alone, not like this, not when you sound like that - all of it makes her bend to your every whim, she couldn’t help it.

“Okay, a little longer,” she repeats. 

“And you’re ordering those shoes now,” you command, a slight shake to your voice from the prior activities.

“Deal.”

-

taglist: @thaatdigitaldiary @bueckersfive @sierrale8ne @lovegalor333 @xxloveralways14 @vamptizm @jadasogay @paigesbabygirl

[neckromantics]

*NSFW*

"You're on the brink of an orgasm that's going to wipe you off the face of the planet, and he's laughing at you again."

Pairing: GN!Reader/Astarion or GN!Tav/Astarion (Not really gender specific, but the MC is said to create slick, so do with that what you will.)

CW: Smut. Beware! There will be: Biting. Edging if you really think about it? Laughter (what). Maybe a liiiiittle bit of tears in the best way. Fingering? Astarion.

You're not listening.

Astarion's laughing at you, and you're not even listening.

It's not quite your fault though, as just about the only thing you're able to hear is the pounding of your own heartbeat against your eardrums.

A high giggle and the sharp exhale of his breath. So cold. So close to the sensitive flesh at the back of your knee that goosebumps prickle along the length of your thighs.

Even colder are the lips that trail up, soothing away those goosebumps before you can squirm too far off in your pleasure-drunken stupor. It's a rather sweet gesture, you think, until the sharpness of his teeth has your hips jerking clean off the bed. Those things-- an ever-present threat to the supple skin that he pulls between them-- digging in until you whimper out his name.

"Astarion." A silent plead for it.

Bite me. Mark me. Break the skin.

Please.

And yet (of course) he doesn't. There's the gentle pressure as he sucks. Works your skin between his lips until he can feel a bruise blossoming beneath his tongue and has to swallow back a mouthful of saliva before he begins to drool. Delicious as you and your sweet blood may be, he won't let it distract him.

Not yet, at least.

He nips a little (okay, maybe it's big) love bite through that downright evil grin that's been splitting his handsome face for Gods' knows how long, now. He could have been teasing you for a ten-day at this point, and you wouldn't be surprised.

You can feel the curve of that grin as it grows mischievous, and you feel tears prick at the corner of your eyes in anticipation. You turn your head to the side in an attempt to hide them, near delirious as he nips another bruise just beneath the space where your groin meets your thigh.

When he hums, it's a thoughtful sound. And, while you're still not listening yet, you can feel the vibrations of it from where his lips are still against you. He makes his move while you're distracted.

Your yelp chokes off into a moan so high that you would probably be embarrassed if you had half the mind. The familiar sting of his gnawing blends with molten hot pleasure as he sinks his fingers back inside of you with little warning this time.

Two of them, long since warmed by your heat from his prior teasing, taking their time to explore parts of you that you've never been able to find on your own. Reaching. Curling. Searching. It's so good. It's so fucking good, and you've been on edge for so long that you're going to full-on cry if he doesn't stop playing games with you soon.

Your heart nearly drops into your stomach when he pulls away only moments later, but he's quick to hush any whimpered complaints before they start. You don't even have time to mourn the loss of his fingers as they drag out of you because they don't go too far. Firm, slick circles rub quick against the rim of your twitching hole until you can barely keep your eyes open.

A wet trail of opened-mouthed kisses up your belly. A nuzzle against the center of your chest before he shifts about.

Your lover crawls his way up the bed until he's all but looming over you. Ruby red eyes peer down at your fucked out expression from beneath heavy lids- drinking in every square inch of you as you writhe amongst the bedsheets and beg so sweetly for him. Yes, this will do nicely.

He seems more than satisfied with this angle. Presses his free palm to the back of one of your shaky thighs and guides it up, up, up until your knee is against your chest and he's got you splayed out. Pinned.

You swear you can feel each knuckle as he fucks his fingers back into you. Three this time, you think, and then make the mistake of craning your neck to watch his glossy digits as they press in again just to see if you're correct.

Gods, you're making a mess of yourself. Of him. Everything is so slick. Every push and pull is punctuated with an obscene squelch that leaves your face feeling hot. You can't control your whimper as you feel it drip from the curve of your ass and onto the sheets below, no doubt creating a wet spot that you're both going to be annoyed about later.

But then, he's finding that spot inside of you that has you singing for him. Presses right into it and starts rubbing these quick little circles that make you cry out his name over and over again until your voice finally gives out and you can only whine with every breath.

And, that asshole, is grinning down at you again. 

With clumsy hands, you reach out to him. Shaky fingers tangle into the curls on the back of his head, and you do your very best not to pull when you guide him down into a desperate kiss that's more tongue and teeth than anything else. The weight of his body bears down upon you- does the job of keeping that leg to your chest even after his free hand moves up to brace himself.

Your hole clenches around him when he comes to you without a fight, sucking him in deeper as a result, and he moans, unabashed into your open mouth like he's fucking you proper. Your breath hitches-- cuts off completely for a moment along with your brain.

But, you're listening, now.

"I know, love. There you are." Astarion guides your focus back to him with a coo so sweet, then licks a stripe up your jawline to tug at your earlobe between those teeth again just to make you squirm.

You're on the brink of an orgasm that's going to wipe you off the face of the planet, and he's laughing at you again. Although, without humor this time. Incredulous, almost, as he watches- feels you come for so long that it'd probably be worrisome to anyone else.

He sucks in a hiss as you gush around him one last time, so hot and tight that he has to take a moment to steady himself before he gets too carried away.

"I've got you, darling." He assures as you shiver beneath him, cool hands soothing your heated skin as they knead at your (no doubt) tired muscles and rub away at more goosebumps as they form.

When you finally crack open an eye, he's smiling at you again. A small, but genuine little thing that you can't help but find contagious. You pull him down for another kiss before he can say anything about it, though. Smart ass.

[moonriseoverkyoto]

Ghosts in the family

Synopsis - aka all the times The Riley siblings have talked about eachother, and all the times Soap should’ve connected the dots but didn’t see the constellation.

cw/tags - MDNI 18+ making out, grinding, no piv or smut guys sorry, swearing, mentions of female anatomy, military inaccuracies, fanon versions of cod characters, threats, mild violence, mentions of guns, innuendos, etc. you’re dealing with grown men in the military that is your warning

Pairing - Johnny “Soap” MacTavish x Afab!Riley!Reader, John Price x Riley!Reader (Platonic)

Author's note - Soap is about 26, Reader is 24, Tommy is the name of Simon’s canon younger brother who later scares him with masks and anyways, just beware of that background. Pt.2 of this au, just this just shits and giggles background for later bc I dont know how to flesh out that cliffhanger I left in my Drabble, see you at the bottom! - Moon

Requests are open!

© moonriseoverkyoto 2023. please do not steal, copy, plagiarize, translate, or repost any of my works without my permission. do not steal any elements of my theme without permission.

1. Simon knew that Johnny’s intention wasn’t to piss him off, but yet he still managed to feel a migraine pool behind his eyes. All day, every mission just asking question after question. Simon wondered if this is what it was like to have a stable home. All he had was you from day one his baby sister. His lips jerk upward before he cuts off the muscle reflex of what we know as a smile. He’d rather keel over and die than let Johnny see his eyes krinkle.

“I have a sister.” He grumbles. Everyone in the truck goes silent. Johnny’s jokes stop, Gaz smirks to himself, even Price manages to watch through the rearview mirror.

“Really? And you waited so long to tell me. Oh my god what’s the like. Oh is she pretty- wait don’t answer that, that’s weird if you agree…” Simon sighs to himself as he tunes out Johnny again. Oh he wishes holiday would come faster.

2. Holiday was tough. Even worse was being stuck alone over holiday break because your only family was stuck in an operation. Especially since you just got the news after putting up Christmas decoration.

“Really Simon? I got football on the telly, your presents are all wrapped” you whined. Simon grinned under his balaclava, oh how he wished he could be there to receive your annual gag gift.

“I know I know I know, assignment came late and everyone else has families to go home to so I just suggested myself-“ he tried to calm you down knowing this would only add gasoline.

“Dammit Si, I’m your family too! Im gonna give you a new buzz cut when you get home at the rate you’re going with all these sudden plans.” Your voice cracked at his name, you know he didn’t mean to break your heart. But Simon couldn’t bare to see Johnny, Price, or Gaz not go home to their big happy families.

“Yeah I know. Im yer brother. No getting out of that one.” He said. “Why don’t you stay with Price again this year. You know he loves you around”

“Because he is the only friend of yours that I’ve met-“

“Yeah you’ll meet the guys someday. promise.”

“Maybe for this holiday present?”

“Maybe.“

“yeah yeah yeah. I love you Si”

“Love you too, and I hope that second date of yours goes well this Friday” oh if only he knew how well that date went with your mysterious Scottish man.

3. “I thought you said you don’t kiss on the second date” Johnny grinned into your lips. Your hands all in his hair.

“Only if they don’t show promise” you remarked back. You could feel his bulge grinding through your pants in the back of this telephone booth. A soft groan leaving his lips as Johnny responded

“Oh so I show promise.” You could practically hear the grin as his lips trailed down your jaw and neck, the slight friction of his scruff following as he moved aside your dogtags.

“Yeah promise that if you don’t hush up, you won’t be getting anything” you quipped back as equally as smug

“Thought you were gonna call that brother of yers” he slurred back as he smelled your perfume. The man practically drooling as your nails trailed down his neck scratching. If he had a tail it’d be whipping the air. A whimper passing through the air as his bulge caught the right part of your fabric rubbing your clit in a delightful direction

“he can wait, I have something else to call for now” you said as you opened the door of the telephone booth and whistled (or yelled if you can’t) as loud as you could do to call a taxi. Johnny had a light in his eye that he never thought would spark until he met you.

Soon you would find out later that Simon actually COULD wait and he did, 12 whole hours he stayed up staring at your apartment door to be let in - fresh on holiday too. Maybe being motormouth’d by Johnny into the window of a hummer didn’t sound so bad now

4. Simon kept a photo of you and him in his pocket everywhere that you went. I mean everywhere. No matter the place. And a lighter too incase he was captured by enemies so as to not compromise his location. But it was a photo from a holiday in France. You were both pillow fighting in the bed. Messy hair, toothless grins, back when Mummy was alive and Daddy hadn’t shown his true colors. Tommy took that picture,. Simon holds it to remind him what he’s fighting for.

“Oh is that yer little sister, she’s missin a few teeth there” Johnny grins looking over the sniper’s shoulder.

“You’re about to miss some bones if you ask about my sister again” Simon growls. fuck. Johnny is the last person he needs around his sister. It’s not like Johnny was a womanizer - he was the opposite. Johnny was perfection. He was from a happy home, a stable home, a place where you wouldn’t have to remember what happened at that old house. It scared Simon to death imagining you forgetting about him. Then he’d really be alone.

“She must’ve gotten the good genes.” Gaz pipes into the coms, what an instigator.

“Wonder what she looks like in jeans” Soap hummed as he cleaned out his gun.

Ghost hummed to himself as he secretly folded up the photo and put it right back in the pocket over his heart. Maybe you could wait another year before meeting them.

Authors note - I made a part 2, this is unedited. Im so tired. I will flesh more of this out before I take another break I promise!! Xoxo - Moon

[burnyouwithacigarettelighter]

IT’S YOU, HAPPY ALL THE TIME ─── jonathan breech ✧☾𖦹

ೃ⁀➷ “I ask Jessica what drowning feels like and she says not everything feels like something else." — ‘Jessica gives me a chill pill’, Angie Sijun Lou.

pairing. jonathan breech x reader

summary. you’ve bared your heart to your bestfriend, jonathan, more times than you can count, whilst knowing practically nothing at all about him. what is friendship if it is not equal… what is love if it is not returned? can your relationship survive such one-sidedness?

warnings. swearing, TW mention & description of suicide/attempts & depression, very introspective/kind of a character study???, alcohol & drug use, pining, ANGST!!!!, crying, fluff, smut with feelings, p in v, unprotected sex, oral sex (f), SMUT UNDER THE CUT! 

word count. 10k (WTF??!?!!??)

a/n. the title is from “she won’t go away” by faye webster:) btw this is… rly angsty (and SO long omg im still in shock) so beware🫡 ALSO IM SO SORRY FOR NOT POSTING IN WHILE!! SCHOOL IS KICKING MY BUTT & THIS FIC WAS AN ABSOLUTE MONSTER TO WRITE LMAO

i. 

There are very few words in your vocabulary you can use to accurately describe Jonathan Breech. 

The boy is an enigma, a matryoshka doll that never ends: he is witty and lighthearted and sarcastic, but you’ll always catch that edge, the air of malaise he carries around himself, the unspoken elephant in the room that screams WHO ARE YOU REALLY?

He had always been more of a figure, a landscape; something to witness, observe-- experience without letting it do the same to you. You don’t know if that’s something you want, either: there’s an imbalance in his hilarity, and he always takes things a step too far. Jonathan lights matches and lets them burn all the way down to his fingertips; he shaves and lets the blade leave stinging little nicks, rivulets of blood running down his neck; he chainsmokes cigarettes in his room and only opens the window when he feels his heart hammering in his chest, desperate for air. 

You meet him — or, first experience him in a similar fashion: he had been in the university library, standing on top of a creaky, old bookshelf, shouting something you couldn’t understand over the music blasting through your headphones. You could certainly see him though, gesturing animatedly, dressed eccentrically in his signature winter trapper hat and a velvet blazer. That thin, effeminate figure of his was making winding, marionette-ish steps along the wood, an action that had everyone readying themselves to catch his inevitable fall. 

Then, seemingly out of nowhere and catching you completely off guard, you caught his eye. He began stepping from one shaky shelf to the next, a complete miracle none of them toppled over, before stopping on one close enough for you to read his lips. 

“Hi,” he mouthed, shifting uneasily on his left foot before regaining a steady balance, “you’re in my class, right?”

You nodded, hesitantly— yes, truthfully, you’d seen him in your Introduction to Literary Studies course a couple of weeks ago, sporting the same outfit as he did now, but you thought nothing of him. He’d been generally well-behaved then, asking slightly odd but in-tune questions that more or less answered all your inquiries, so you didn’t think the guy would have a penchant for, well… book-shelf hopping. 

He grinned, about to say something else, before something — or someone, made him flinch. A professor, probably, considering the unintelligibly muffled, booming voice behind you. However, Jonathan made quick work of the situation, sneakily climbing down and escaping out the door. 

The next time you see him, he’s sidled up beside you in your shared class. “Mind if I sit here?” a familiar voice had asked, to which you murmured a non-committal knock y’self out, before realizing with wide eyes.  His presence had caught you off-guard, as he so often did, and you sensed a pattern blooming. 

Jonathan certainly made for an odd desk-partner; his personality warped the environment around you, and it was suddenly so much easier to tear your eyes away from the lecture and land on Jonathan’s own. It’s something you never thought you’d ever do, because you adore the material being taught. 

At the end of class, he asks you out for a drink: he’s just found the best Irish stout in the entire city, and what better way to make it known than to take anyone and everyone he knows there?

Rejection is written on your face clear as day— you have class tomorrow, an essay that needs to be finished, and honestly, pubs just aren’t really your scene. 

But in the end… you still bite. You can’t help it: he’s disarming and warm and looks like he should smell like a bonfire. Somehow, that just does it for your brain; it’s here you learn of the charm that is Jonathan Breech. 

That night goes everything and nothing like you expected: you expected not to be able to predict his actions, and that’s exactly what happens. When you meet Jonathan at the aforementioned pub, it’s not actually the one he’s meaning to take you to— it’s just the closest public place to the on-campus dorm, which is where he says he’s rooming. 

“‘ve got a neighbor m’pretty sure is trying to sleep with me,” he says absently, ushering you onto the back of his bike, which had been leaning against a NO PARKING sign. “He’s always toget’er wit’ our dorm advisor, so I should l reject him before I get kicked out, if y’get what I mean.”

Now, you honestly should’ve expected this from a guy who jumped from six-foot book shelves, but Jonathan’s biking is all swift turns and jilted stops, mere milliseconds from repeatedly running red lights. You want to ask if he just learned how to ride the thing yesterday, but can’t, not with how utterly reckless and shameless he is about it, his terrible steering making you instinctively wrap your arms around his chest. 

You clutch him tightly, making him hum in approval, and you feel your ears burn flusteredly. You would’ve pulled away, but then he cut from the right lane to the left in one swift move, barely missing several cars, and you practically shrieked instead. “Oh my god!”

“Sorry,” he apologizes quickly. You can’t see his face, having shut your eyes in fear, but after hearing the blatant cheekiness in his tone, you can imagine clear as day how gleefully it contorts. You want to slap him somewhere, anywhere, but that’d defeat the point of being mad at his recklessness, so you squeeze him tighter instead, and he chokes on his breath. “Jesus-- m’sorry, really!”

When the two of you make it to the pub — alive and uninjured! — annoyingly all the way across town, your first few steps off his bike are stuttered, dizzy: “We are-- not going by bike next time,” you gasp, leaning against a random brick wall. 

“Next time, eh?” He grins, and this time you really do slap him— just on the arm, bless your self-control and niceties not to beat this oddly comfortable-to-be-around near-stranger to death. 

The pub, with its forgettable name and dingy stools, has a minimal, lackluster crowd. A kitschy neon sign flickers and dies as you walk in, making you raise a brow, but Jonathan merely drags you by the arm to a cozy corner table, then disappearing deeper within the venue before returning moments later with two pints of black beer in tow.

“Go on, then,” he gestures, setting the tall glass on the table, sitting down in the chair in front of you and taking a hearty sip of his own drink.

You let out a little hesitant sigh at his words, before relenting and taking in a long gulp of the liquid. “…Huh,” you remark, impressed. Jonathan smiled knowingly behind his glass, letting out a smug little ah, you see? 

“Worth the long ride?” he inquired innocently, as if that was the only thing wrong with the night.

“Worth the ride, but not worth almost dying for,” you rolled your eyes goodheartedly, knocking back the rest of the bitter drink and making him whistle. 

The rest of the night goes like this: Jonathan orders two more rounds of the quality Irish stout before the two’ve you are stumbling out of the pub, exploring all the nightlife there is to offer, like the crowd surrounding an out-door live comedy group performing down the street that has you and Jonathan giggling for hours after, or the underground speakeasy you accidentally find yourselves shoved into, a nasally guitarist singing on a smoky stage, several more drinks finding themselves in your system despite how nauseous you already feel.

“You-- d’you fancy him?” Jonathan slurs behind you, steadying himself by pressing his hands to your waist.

“F-fancy who?” you blink blearily, leaning into his warm touch.

“Who else m’I talkin’ about, girl? The singer!”

You shake your head no numbly, practically collapsing into his arms now, your head lulling on his chest. You’re so close you can smell the distinct scent of his skin, that unique musk everyone has, and it’s strangely familiar, like those smells that evoke old, nostalgic memories. It’s like how sunscreen summons the smell of the sun after a childhood beach day, or how vanilla extract takes you back to the smell of your mother’s baked goods on a specific winter evening.

“Reckoned you wouldn’t,” he assumes, hands coming away from your waist to wrap his arms around your shoulders, swaying to the music slightly in the crowded club, “looks like a -- right bleedin’ dope… wit’ that mop of hair.”

You giggle, alcohol riddled beyond belief, unable to formulate a response with the conflicting blurry thoughts in your head: it’s telling you Jonathan Breech isn’t the crowd you want, that you need to go home and work, that you let loose too easily— but it also tells you that you can see yourself becoming friends with him very, very quickly. 

It’s there, in that club, Jonathan Breech moves into your life and fills a gaping hole you didn’t know existed, like a hole in your stockings you only notice when you get home. You have friends, certainly, more than you can count on both hands, but they never get as close as Jonathan does. After that night, an unknown force pulls the two of you together, making you run into him everywhere, and a tight friendship blooms like a lilypad in a raging storm; beauty within the chaos. In the multitude of close friendships you’ve harbored, he is the first to see so many sides of you. The last thing that did was your mother; it had only ever been your mother. 

He is an endearing, amazing friend, both the intent listener and the charismatic speaker all at once; he knows his friends like the back of his hand, can recount their life like he can count the number of moles on his face-- but you, and everyone else, know absolutely nothing about him. 

At least, close to nothing-- you know he likes ice cream and hanging out and going to the pub; you know he likes biking and doing drugs and women; you know he hates the sea and his brother and his father, but you don’t know him. All you’ve ever seen him do is smile or laugh or shout in mock anger; there is a carefully glued mask on his face he takes meticulous caution in preserving-- he is terrified to let go, despite the blasé persona he lets on.

Or maybe the mysterious matter of your bestfriend is tripping you up for no reason; maybe you’re psychoanalyzing something that doesn’t need to be psychoanalyzed, reading between lines that don’t exist. But if you were asked to answer honestly, there’s just something about Jonathan you don’t get. There is a split seam in the tapestry of his life, missing pieces in the story he pretends to tell with utmost accuracy. There are things that he never talks about, that he recoils when asked like you’ve poked a tender wound. 

“So, what were you doing before… all this?” You ask him once, laying on his messy bed in his dorm-room and scanning the water-damage constellations dotted along his popcorn ceiling. By all this you mean going to university, being the resident party boy, aimlessly pursuing a degree you’re 99% sure he picked blindfolded (culinary science) and standing here, with you, snorting a line of something on his creaky wooden desk. 

Jonathan freezes, still hunched over. “What d’you-- what d’you mean?” he says, tone breezy but, uncharacteristically tense… jilted and preoccupied. You could’ve brushed it off as him being seriously focussed on his drugs, but the way he shifts, how his shoulders curl in like he wants to disappear, tells you otherwise. 

“I mean, before going to school here… y’know, what were you like as a dumb teenager?”

You two’re twenty, barely not-teenagers, but it still makes a world of a difference: you’re living away from home, doing what you want, experiencing (a juvenile, naive version of) freedom and adulthood.

“I dunno… kind of a tool, that's f’sure,” he chuckled, rubbing his nose roughly. He’s being funny on purpose, a jester’s distraction: he doesn’t want you to realize his answers’ not really one at all. 

You shifted on his bed, now leaning against his headboard. His answer strikes you as odd and uncharacteristic despite his attempts to evade suspicion: usually, Jonathan pounces at the chance to yap on and on. “What, the great Jonathan Breech doesn’t have any wild stories to tell? No bones broken, girls dumped, houses trashed?” 

He snorted at that, like some inside joke you weren’t privy to was brought up in your words, and he descended back down on a carefully partitioned line of white. “I broke my baby finger once,” he relented vaguely when he finished, dusting off the table and licking the remains off his hand. “I cried and I cried and I cried.”

“Did it hurt that much?” you grinned, mind trailing off to imagine a baby-faced Jonathan Breech, a juvenile highschool boy, doing something silly to break that finger. Maybe he accidentally flung off his bike, broke it because of a dare, or maybe it happened just by slipping and falling. 

“It - uh… didn’t hurt enough,” Jonathan smiled, tight-lipped and paltry. All at once the air in the room had changed, like someone attached a vacuum to the window and sucked everything out. 

Your grin fell, and you watched him carefully: perhaps, had you not been as close to him as you were, he’d have let something show. A twitch in the smile, a break in the facade. But you were, and his face stayed the same, and your thoughts ran circles around themselves. This was… something else, something belonging to the part of his life he didn’t talk about. 

The atmosphere had grown tense, taut, a rubber band twisted ‘round and round, threatening to burst, so you leave the matter of his injury alone; of his life alone. You go back to staring at his ceiling, he goes back to his drugs; Jonathan collapses within himself, and you don’t notice how badly he suffocates… how suffering in silence is also accompanied by the overwhelming desire to be found.

ii.

Sometimes, despite his self-imposed distance, Jonathan lets someone look inside his head. 

You are both the sometimes and the someone; you don’t know why it’s always you, but you chalk it up to the fact that beneath his unpredictable demeanor, the murky and unreadable feelings he holds for others, is this uncharacteristic constant: he holds a softness for you. It’s what lets you know there’s something haunted lurking beneath his happy-go-lucky surface. 

You don’t know where this softness comes from, either. But you know you see it, in lingering touches, tender duchenne smiles unlike the devilish tilt his lips usually hold, how he clasps his hand around yours after a night at the pub and walks you home because he knows you get paranoid. You see it in how he comes over to your apartment when you don’t answer anyone's calls during exam season, how he remembers what your mother’s name is and what your childhood pet was and what your favorite flowers are. How his lips brush past your cheek when he pulls away from hugs, his hands shuddering around your shoulders, like he’s afraid he’ll crush you.

You only wish you could do the same. You want to sit by his side and mend his heart, lend an ear to his most mundane fears, you want to take his hand into your own and kiss it softly, return all that he has done for you, take the same as you have given to him: what is friendship if it is not equal, what is love if it is not returned? It is something broken, unable; split halves of one heart, an imbalance in the scale, Bonnie without her Clyde, a fish out of water. 

Jonathan pours his heart into your own, filling holes you know you don’t have, and you think he may be overcompensating for something else, seeing things in you that really belong to him. It is maddening, and you just want to beg and plead he lets you in. 

But you settle for the gentle pokes, the prodding, and try to decipher the vague answers he gives you. Most days, you can’t really make sense of it. 

“Sorry,” you apologize, about to leave the outing you planned with Jonathan — studying, or, trying to study, at an intimate coffeebar the two of you frequented — “my dad’s gotten drunk with his lads and my mum needs help dragging him home.”

 “Hey, hey, don’t worry. I get it: my dad used to do that all the time,” he waves your words off casually, but you don’t miss how jilted he says used to and the pain in his tone at all the time.

“Oh, surely she was fit to go to the madhouse?” you laughed once, responding to Jonathan’s complaints about an eccentric classmate in his agricultural studies. He laughs back, he always does, but this one is hollow, forced; barely stopping a grimace from coloring his tone. 

You notice these things like it’s a shadow following someone in the sun. He is lying, hiding; about something you don’t know but it is happening. It is happening, and you are so very curious: you pick up on the littlest tendrils of him, fed wholly on any information you can squeeze out. He is a mystery you want to delve within completely; answer that question of WHO ARE YOU REALLY? and leave no room for error. 

You’d give yourself to him the very same if he merely asked; you’d whisper childhood fears and tell the origin stories of faded scars on your knees and why you check under your bed before sleeping. You’d detail your entire life from sunset birth to starry night end if he even made a passing comment about knowing; you would trust your love, your heart, your entire life in his beautiful, shaky hands. This is the relationship you have built around yourselves, and it is beginning to feel terribly one-sided. 

Alas, your curiosity overwhelms him, and you take it too far, just once. Only once. 

“Where’d this come from?” you murmur, brushing your fingers over a scar above his eyebrow. It’s something you see only now, his hair mussed and wild from the various blankets and pillows on your dinky couch. 

He’s crashing at your apartment tonight, an invited event, because you often miss him like you miss home; the boy is sneaky— he slinks away like a street cat and only comes back for food. It’s only fair he lets you wrangle him back like this, making him stay by your side at least once a week.  

Your words make him freeze, like he often does; it reminds you of hikers, who freeze when they see mountain lions— he thinks if he stops and stares and pretends to disappear you’ll look the other way, drop the question, forget him completely.

But you don’t. You don’t know what’s affecting him -- not that he wants you to -- so you just stare back into his cornflower blue eyes. You stop and stare and see right through him; you hold the question like a knife to his neck, and commit him to memory. 

“The scar?” Jonathan pales, shuddering despite it having long since been healed over. The aftershocks of an earthquake. 

You simply nod, fingers pulling away. You’re still closer than ever though, the two of you being the only things in your cramped concrete apartment, the chosen movie on your telly still running and long forgotten. 

Your attention remains on him, brandished into something dangerous, like you’ll carve the answer out of him if you have to— but the moment passes. He doesn’t say anything and you accept that as the answer. Gone is your razor-sharp focus, and there is nothing more to the matter. 

But Jonathan doesn’t register this, no, he’s thinking, gears in his head turning and creaking. His tongue grazes against the backs of his teeth, jaw chattering like it was as cold as it was when… as cold as it was back then, and he doesn’t want to tell anyone— but it’s you. You’re not just anyone. 

You’re the one he holds a certain softness for. The one he equally bares his heart to and holds the most secrets from. The one he’s most terrified to know. The only one he wants to know. 

So, he decides to tell a partial truth— something digestible. People adore that which can easily slide down the gullet: news headlines don’t detail the goriness of a murder, they give the “insider” scoop of the scared neighbor. To be able to digest information is what makes the world go round, and he does not think you could digest the full truth-- he does not think he wants you to. 

He feels ill at the thought of anything between you changing— oh, how ruined he’d feel if you began treating him like fucking glass.

This abhorrent social pressure is what makes Jonathan grit this sentence through his teeth: “I got into a car accident,” he gulps dry, “when I was nineteen. Was drunk… went fer a spin. I skidded off a -- um, an empty highway. The tall sorts; high up, y’know. Fell.”

His voice makes you look back up at him, and your eyes are beautiful and tense— it breaks his heart. He knows you’re probably thinking it was in-character, how expected that is of Jonathan Breech, how you’ll easily take this partial truth, how you’ll never know the full one until it comes in a letter under your door and he’s long gone. 

“Tell me,” you ask him, lips falling into a near-frown instead of laughing or grinning wider. It’s hushed, whispered like a secret, “What did it feel like? Falling, I mean.”

Jonathan licks his lips, bores his shaking gaze into your own, and tells you not everything feels like something else. That the word connotes all you need to know. Falling meant he was falling; his arms raised and the air took him and that was it. 

It makes your brows twist and your lips press into a thin line: his nonchalance is worrying, no more his signature characteristic— there is something wrong about this apathy toward injury, toward the potential death. 

“Is that how you broke your finger?” You murmur, and it startles him. How you pieced the two things together, how you weaved a web from what little you knew about him; how futile his attempts to hide could be.

“What?” he responds, hoarse. There is a lurking shadow in his bones telling him he’ll taint you, telling him to be ashamed, telling him how badly you will never be his. It is such a damning reality, that no matter how much he may yearn for you, he is too incomplete to meet your needs; he is too hurt not to hurt you too. 

“The car accident. Is that how you broke your pinkie?” you repeat, and you gripped his hand resting at your side, bringing it up to present the finger to him like he forgot where his pinkie was. 

Jonathan’s gaze darts from you to the finger, and he feels his insides quiver; so badly does he want to spill his entire soul to you. But that internal reminder -- hurt people hurt people hurt people -- makes him settle for nodding, parted lips locking closed. 

Nothing special happens that night, no shocking revelation or bombarded confession; Jonathan nods, keeps his lips sealed, and gets up from the couch, figure dreary and fatigued. He murmurs an incomplete excuse, something half-baked and blatantly unconvincing that he has to leave, and you let him go. You think you’re imagining the shudder in his shoulders, the shake in his voice as he says goodbye, and you let him go. 

It’s there, like that club so long ago, you discover another thing about Jonathan Breech: push too far and he shuts down, closes shop and puts up his guard forever. It’s the mere fact of how attentive you are to his words; you remember how he broke his finger, and he realizes he cannot hide from you any longer. 

You’re reaching a point in your friendship -- your relationship, no matter platonic or romantic for all lines have been crossed; nobody is so raw to one another with love not involved -- where you’ll bare your hearts on your sleeves, share your every thought and dream and fear. But Jonathan won’t be able to reciprocate, and the very thought of rejecting you, betraying you, makes his stomach twist in knots. That crestfallen face of yours would haunt him for all time, your every melancholy feature burning into his memory like the scars left by cigarettes on skin.

So he leaves, hurt people hurt people hurt people echoes in his ears all the way home; he turns into an alleyway shortcut and prays death swoops down and takes him right there. He leaves his consciousness curled lovingly in your arms; his shell walks home and prays you’re none the wiser. But you’ve already reached that point in your relationship; you already know. 

When people die, or friendships do, sometimes they end with just a goodbye, a mild, casual goodbye because you think there’ll be dozens, hundreds more-- but there won’t be. Suddenly, alone in that cramped apartment, the buzzing from the tv filling your ears, your couch still warm from someone long gone, you know.

You know you startled him, that he’s left your apartment and he’ll never come back. Your heart cools, and she whispers that you took it too far, that you crossed a line you were never made aware of, that when you see him in class tomorrow he might not sit next to you, he might not talk to you, that you might lose him forever because he is too stubborn to open up and you are too stubborn to let him go. 

Well, you were too stubborn to let him go. 

It’s three weeks before you speak to Jonathan again. Three long, dragging weeks, moments in time where he avoided your gaze, evaded your presence, slipped past you before you got too close. You certainly try, of course— you seek him out every chance you get, trying to get an I’m sorry, please talk to me out before he runs off, but it’s virtually impossible.

Once, after class, you’d caught him in the middle of a flurry of exiting students by the velvet blazer, your hands curled around the lapel. “Jonathan,” you panted, trying to drag him off to the side to escape the bustling activity around you, “please, we need to talk--“

But then Jonathan had faced you, eyes widened and spooked like he’d seen a ghost, a never-before-seen-by-you fear covering his gracefully cut features, before he tugged off the black blazer and escaped into the crowd. He had seen you, widened his eyes, left. Such a simple action tore your heart in two; it had confirmed your suspicions— you’d gone too far, he was never coming back, and you were all alone. There you stood, fingers wrapped around one of his favorite articles of clothing starkly without its beloved owner, completely alone. 

In three measly weeks, he has put up a biting winter of distance between you two. 

Your feelings are unable to comprehend themselves— they fight and sob and run circles around your mind, they make you doubt, crumble, devour yourself from the inside out; they make you ask yourself what you can do to salvage this, what can you do to fix this? What is there to make of him, of his behavior; what do you do with yourself and this guilt?

If you could imagine time was a construct, you were certain you could convince yourself this stretch of time was nothing… propel yourself into a present where Jonathan does not afflict your mind, take over your every thought— does not ruin you like so. If only you could do that, you could close your eyes and reopen them when you’ve let go. But you were always too stubborn to let him go, weren’t you?

It’s three weeks to the day before you speak to Jonathan again, and it happens through the crack of his dorm door, your arm wedged through it because you know he is not cruel; he will let you in without a doubt.  

“Please,” you plead to Jonathan, “just— I just want to talk. Please?”

He stares at you straight, expression cold and reserved, before he breaks and pulls away; bites his lip, lets you in his room, doesn’t look you in the eye. Looking around, you sense something in his dorm has changed; it had gained a bereft quality, like it was attuned to Jonathan’s state of mind and felt depressed beyond your comprehension. There was a cold air to the place, an utmost frigid demeanor to a room incredibly warm just weeks prior. In your absence, the dorm had been neglected, gutted, abandoned. 

“I’m sorry,” are the first words that tumble out of your mouth. “I- I know you don’t like… talking about -- about your life before here, and I’m sorry. But please, Jonathan, just talk to me. Tell me what I can do to make it up to you.”

He sits down on the edge of his weak bedframe, pulling his knees up and pressing his face into them. “You don’t need to-- don’t… don’t apologize. You don’t need t’make it better, either. All’s grand.” he promises, words muffled and shaky. It’s a weeping kind of tone; you could just as easily imagine him sobbing with that voice. 

Your brows knit. Your emotions are wavering, treading brutally between disbelief, despair and rancor. “Then -- then why?”

“Why what?”

“Why did you avoid me? Why did you - why did we spend these last three weeks playing cat and mouse, if you weren’t mad at me? Is this your sick idea of a joke?”

“No! I-- jesus christ,” Jonathan looked up from his hands before immediately pressing two fingers between his eyes, “I wasn’t … avoiding you.”

“I haven’t seen you in weeks!” you point out painfully, exasperated. “You know, you’ve been avoiding me for longer than this. You— you push me away any chance you get. You’re afraid. I don’t know of what, but you’re- so fucking secretive, and it’s tearing me apart.”

“I’m not - afraid of anything. I’m just a private person— you know this. Would you, if I ‘pushed you away?!’” 

At his denying deflection, something within you snaps: “Why won’t you - fucking let me in? I’ve — I’ve bared my soul to you; you know me from the inside out. I trust you with my life— why, why can’t you do the same?”

“I didn’t ask you to do that! And I didn’t — I didn’t mean t’get so close to you, okay?!” He bursts, and you flinch. His hands shakily come up to his face once more; he wipes roughly but it’s no use— you’ve already seen his delicate tears threatening to spill, and it burns more holes in your heart than you thought his suffering would.

“What are you talking about?” you pry, now without any cautious reservations about his demeanor.

“I didn’t mean to get so fucking attached, because - ‘cause I…” Jonathan’s hands clenched into fists at his sides, “fuck.”

“What?” you repeat, but it’s softer, concerned; how quickly his body language shifted from irritated to terrified has you scrambling to support him. “Talk to me,” you ask, taking nervous steps closer, like you were approaching a wounded animal.

He sucks in a sharp breath, and holds it, like he did cigarette smoke, before exhaling heavily. “Okay- okay. When I was - nineteen, I drove a car… I drove off a cliff and tried t’kill myself. I was-- admitted to a psychiatric hospital for a year, and when I got out I moved here f’school. I- I… promised m’self I wouldn’t let anyone get too close.”

The confession hangs in the air, a lonely little thing; it’s a bleeding piece of his own heart he’s plucked and placed in your palms. He shudders, and you want to nurture it like nothing else. This is a culmination of a year’s worth of evasion coming to a close; you’re seeing him completely, rawly, for the first time.

“But- but why? You don’t have to— Jonathan, you don’t need to do that just because you - you… y’know.”

“I’m- I know that,” he starts brashly, defensively. “It’s b’cause I am very, very aware of my - of m’own self destructiveness…” His words taper off into something of grief; the Sisyphean struggle of wanting to live, while that depressive boulder pushes him back, colors him completely. “I just… I didn’t want to - t’hurt anyone in case I -- in case next time I succeeded.”

“Next time?” you repeat, and your voice broke in a way you wish was less vulnerable, less blatantly miserable.

“This is why I didn’t want to—“ Jonathan sighs, deflates, “I’m not telling you this because I want you to - t’fucking save me, okay? I’m telling you this because you wanted to know, and I couldn’t hide from you anymore. Because you asked.”

“You didn’t need t’hide it in the first place!” you exclaimed, coming closer to him. “You’ve never had to hide a fucking ‘ting from me.”

“You wouldn’t have understood!” He said back, volume nearing a shout. “You’ll treat me differently now, you see, you’ll look at me fuckin’ different—“

It made your heart sink-- how sure his words were, how certain he was of your rejection. How little trust did he have in you? 

(You remember he wanted to sink, too-- lose himself in the baby blue sea; let it swallow him whole and never be seen again.)

“You - you really think I’ll treat y’differently because of this? You know my every crevice, my every thought-- I have never once doubted that you’ll accept me.”

“I-I… why should I - expect any of this to stay the same?”

Suddenly, you took his face into your hands. “Because I-- I fucking love you, okay? And it’s not just friendly, or romantic, even if it’s both— I’m… I love you like nothing I’ve ever loved before. I accept and adore your every skill and flaw and antic; you wormed your way into my heart and I want to worm my way into yours.”

“That doesn’t mean—“ Jonathan tried to interject, a noise all utter disbelief. You cut him off, though, continuing your sudden confession; you hadn’t been privy to these own romantic feelings of yours till moments prior, but everything being said just felt right. 

“Jonathan, I don’t care if you drove a car off a cliff or cyanide-poisoned our professor or blew something up, because I love you. You, with all your problems and great, big, beautiful life. All I want is for you to want that life; I want you to want me in it. I feel it in my bones that I’m meant to love you; you are meant to be my home, you are everything I am supposed to know. It won’t fix you or fix anything at all but I just need you to know-- I need you to know the why to my every action. It’s because I love you.”

He looked up at you, wide-eyed, head resting in your gentle hold. “I - don’t know what to say… are you - for real?”

“As real as can be,” you smiled back at him, tracing circles along his smooth skin; you could’ve drank in that attentive stare of his for hours upon hours. “I love you, and nothing and no-one, not even you, can change that.” An aching grip had clenched around your heart at his words, that blatant disbelief: are you for real? God, had you ever been-- had you ever fucking been. 

Jonathan’s mouth opened to speak, but instead, he let out an agonizing sort of cry; an exclamation of utter surprise at the loving acceptance. Then, he hesitantly leaned into your touch, as if he’d never hugged before, wrapping his arms around your waist to snatch you as close to him as possible. He held you tighter and tighter as the seconds went by, like this was all a mocking dream his yearning mind had made up; that if he closed his eyes now he’d wake up desolate, alone, without you for eternity. His worst nightmare. 

“…God, I’m so - fucking stupid,” he grumbled, sounding angry, but you could feel vulnerable, hot tears soaking into the fabric of your shirt. “To assume you, of all people, would act that way… you of all people.” He said that tenderly; you of all people certainly meant miles more things you weren’t explicitly aware of, but you still felt the sentiment. “I’m not -- poetic or anything like that… but I love you, too.”

You chuckled a beautiful, wet laugh. “You don’t hafta’ say anything sweet or special. You’re everything to me.”

He squeezed his eyes shut, before wrapping his fingers around your wrist and pulling you onto the mattress with him. He flipped you beneath him, and held himself up by the forearms laying on either side of your head. “Fuck, I love you. I love you.” Jonathan repeated the words several more times, strange and foreign but right at home being said to you. Like his mouth was made to only ever say I love you to you. 

Suddenly, you pressed your lips to his, shutting him up momentarily. You could still feel the vibrations of I love you rumbling in his throat as you kissed him. Your tongues danced along one another, an all consuming waltz; you wanted to know everything about him, down to the taste of his tongue, memorize how sweet his mouth felt on yours. Oh, how you longed for this moment; how could you ever think about love again, and yearn for it, without thinking of Jonathan?

You reckoned that’s what this had been the whole time; your love started as a little flame, something under the guise of friendship, but the two of you had fanned it, nurtured it-- all of a sudden the miniature warmth of platonic love burst into a raging, adoring fire. You’d fed this flame with tenderness, and it responded in kind; you could never again look at Jonathan without a certain intimate reverie. Perhaps that’d been why Jonathan found it so hard to cut off this relationship as he had dozens others: something primal and unconscious within him had begged him not to let you go— some higher being knew his home was only ever in your arms. 

Jonathan deepened the kiss hungrily, pressing his weight onto you and pushing you into the mattress. Your head was spinning from the lack of air, and one of your hands had to sneak beneath his hat and tug at his hair to get him to stop. “Hey,” you panted, looking worriedly into his eyes, “what’s up?”

“Sorry,” he apologized sheepishly, hanging his head lowly for a moment before meeting your gaze once more, batting his long lashes. “Jus’ missed you. Thas’ all.”

“Missed y’too,” you murmured, pulling him back down to kiss you again. Your hands left the crown of his head and trailed down his backside, tracing over the curves and bumps of his frumpy yellow v-neck sweater. 

That touch of yours seemed to spur him on even more, and his kisses began to travel; along your jaw, to your pulse, down the long ravine of your neck, tongue darting out to lick the hollow of your collarbone, making you squeal. He chuckled against your skin, a genuine amusement rather than the mocking one you two so frequently practiced, and it all went downhill from there. His hands skillfully tugged off your tank top, knee between your clenched thighs, more teasing kisses being planted along your now bare -- save for your bra -- chest.

You didn’t mean to come over, profess your love and suddenly jump into a steamy, yearning makeout session (which, you were pretty sure was venturing off into sex…) but you supposed that apologizing— arguing, whatever —meant your relationship went back on track to wherever it was heading… which may have been set to end with an ardor romance anyway. This love of yours would’ve bursted at the seams of friendship; it could not be confined by such mere things as labels. 

“Fuck,” you groaned, arching into his teasing kisses along the peaks of your breasts, his hands ghosting around your clothed chest but never touching. “Please, Jon.”

You could feel his cheeky grin on your skin, “Tell me what you want, love.”

“…Take this off,” you demanded gently, referring to Jonathan’s sweater.

“Your wish is my command.” he snickered, obliging and removing the yellow knit-- as well as his white undershirt and pajama bottoms. He was left in a pair of boxer-shorts and that silly, silly winter-trapper hat, his fingers sneaking up to your supple thighs and tickling the edges of your jean-shorts; a silent plea. 

“Eager,” you mumbled, noticing his over-compliance in completely stripping, smiling and guiding his hands to the waistband of your shorts to tug the tight article off. 

When he did so, you shivered, both at the feeling of being only in your underwear, as well as Jonathan’s sharp, attentive gaze. “You’re so beautiful,” he panted, eyes exploring your every sweet feature. 

He was enamored with your bare body, not in a sexual way despite the blatantly sexual situation, but rather in a worshiping, religiously devoted way. It may’ve been blasphemous to think so, but Jonathan’s sudden chaste kisses along the curve of waist only seemed to prove you right; his mouth on you was gentle, like he’d held you before, except now without any guilt or hesitation. It was a holy way of loving you; something all-consuming, becoming the epicenter of a life, becoming the purpose, motivation, and belief all at once. 

That familiar broiling in your gut occurred as he made his way closer to the pulsing, lace-covered place between your legs; your hands were gripping the sheets tightly in pure anticipation, his hot breath on your sensitive skin. “Don’t be such a tease,” you pouted, legs fumbling for purchase along his body, trying to pull him closer to you.

“We’ve got all the time in the world,” he hummed, but his fingers still curled into the band of your baby-blue panties and dragged them down in one desperate go, “but I do wanna taste you….”

Jonathan’s veiny hands pried your quivering thighs apart, murmuring an offhand already stole y’panties, don’t get all shy on me now when you whimpered flusteredly, before he descended on your dripping lips, licking a flat-tongued stripe up to your clit. 

You gasped at the sudden action, but it quickly morphed into a choked moan when he pressed himself further and parted your lips, nose to your pelvic bone; he made quick work of you, artfully curling his long tongue into your hole and slurping your slick. 

“So sweet,” he praised, the vibrations of his voice making your thighs clench around his head. He hummed in amusement at your reaction, lapping you up quicker; he kitten-licked and slobbered, feeding on your sticky cunt, tongue darting in every direction, feeling your walls and prying deeper into your hot hole, which ached for the cock straining against the mattress now. The bottom half of Jonathan’s face was now positively soaked, glistening with his own drool and your needy wetness, all of it mixing dirtily and sliding down the length of his neck. 

“Jon!” you mewled, hands tearing off his trapper hat and flinging it elsewhere before curling your hands into his mousy brown hair and pushing his face deeper into your pussy, desperate to come. You were riding his face now — or, attempting to, more accurately bucking up into him — adoring his unceasing ministrations. He was basically fucking you with his tongue, overstimulating your clit with teasing licks then pulling away, feeling along the ridges of your walls.

“Pick m’hat up later, love,” he tutted, pulling away slightly to see where you’d haphazardly thrown it, and your desperate whine neared a sob. He breathed in sharply, taking in how quickly he’d undone you: in a matter of minutes, your expression had grown wanton, eyes blown out, drooling, hair askew, bra riding up your tits and revealing your sweet, puffy nipples. 

Jonathan quickly forgot about the state of his beloved hat, and went back down on you, mouth devouring in full force once again. You rolled your hips forward, and when he pulled his tongue out of your wet hole to suckle softly on your fleshy nub, your eyes rolled back into your head and your legs shook around his face, toes curling tightly. A choked moan left you alongside the sudden climax, sounding a hundred percent pornographic and all for him. 

You panted, silent and unmoving for a moment, and Jonathan began moving to get up and let you take a breather before continuing, absolutely terrified to push you too far or do anything you didn’t want to do— he was the spontaneous one, and you were the responsible one, but that didn’t mean he ever wanted to force anything upon you. His simultaneous decisions were made mostly in part with your interests in mind; he made the decisions you were too nervous and over-thinking to choose quicker. 

However, you took a long breath, then trailed your hand over the painfully noticeable bulge within his soft boxers. “Wan’… make you feel good,” you murmured, flattening your hand against his erection. 

Jonathan inhaled sharply, pitifully affected by the minor touch but holding back with an incredible amount of self restraint. “I can wait,” he offered sweetly, one of his hands coming up to your flattened hand’s forearm to rub the skin. 

You shook your head foggily, cupping him through the fabric, slowly adding friction by sliding your hand up and down. 

“S-shit,” he bit his lip, “you want this now, baby?”

You nodded vehemently with a whimper, and to make more of a point, you reached behind and unclasped your bra, tossing it elsewhere on his dirty dorm floor, before beginning to slip off his underwear. 

The hand on your arm stopped you, though, in favor of doing it himself and pressing his weight further onto you, your chests flush with one another. You were only able to take in thin breaths, making your head spin, but it also amplified the  arousal blooming in your cunt when Jonathan slotted himself at your soaking entrance, collecting his saliva and your slick on his tip. 

Before he pushed in, however, his head dipped into the hollow of your neck, plush lips brushing past the shell of your ear. “Is this okay?” he murmured, pressing a wet kiss to your temple. 

“Please,” you whined, hands pushing flat on his back to bring him closer to you.

With that, Jonathan slowly buried his length within your cunt, making your breath hitch. “I love you,” he groaned, entering you inch by inch, relishing how your warmth swallowed him whole. “Fuck, I love you so much.”

Your hole was stuffed beyond belief, but Jonathan was gentle with you, caressing your waist with the rough pads of his fingers and massaging you, trying to ease his entrance into something painless. Obviously, with that length and thickness it couldn’t be painless at all, but his attempts helped your mind drift off elsewhere and take some of the attention off the stinging stretch. 

After a long moment of ragged breathing, Jonathan cooing words of praise into your neck as he kissed you without moving, you dug your fingers into the skin of his back: “More,” you choked out, the fullness in your cunt now feeling delicious rather than cringeworthy. 

He smirked against your skin, “Looks like you’re t’eager one now.”

“Oh, get on with it,” you rasped and he let out a low chuckle, sliding out of your hole before thrusting back in. That first movement already made your hips jerk up into him, back arching. It was like all the warmth in your body had collected in your cunt, leaving you freezing from the tips of your toes to the top of your head, but still with a needy, burning fire in your insides. 

Jonathan’s pace was affectionate and rhythmic: you could feel the tenderness in his each and every gentle roll of the hips. It made you feel like the sun, how attentive he was, but he was also so fucking slow. If anything, that had your walls clenching onto him harder than if he hammered into you— that slow build-up of friction was dizzying. You squirmed, cunt clenching and contracting around his smooth thrusts— you wanted to take him within you completely, cause more friction for you were going stir-crazy with this lazy speed. 

“F-fuck! Faster, please,” you cried out, unable to take his sensual movements any longer. Your legs were twitching with his patient movements, and you could’ve sworn you saw a cheeky grin on his lips. The bastard— even in sex was he teasing you, wanting to torture you until you gave in to the pleasure and begged him to ruin you.  

Sure, this was your first time together, and was going extremely pleasantly and sweetly, but you were actually pretty fond of the idea of letting him pound into you like there was no tomorrow… 

At the lewd thought, your walls pulsed around his cock, making him buck up unintentionally, hitting that sweet spot within you. He grunted at the feeling of your tightened cunt, while you cried out his name, pleasure running like a current through your body. Your face was on fire, reminiscent of a raging fever, and your insides were coiling— god, how did his cock just feel so perfect within you?

“Oh,” he grinned in a pant, “found y’spot, didn’t I?”

Jonathan didn’t give you a chance to speak before he pulled out so far his tip was the only thing in your hole, before slamming back in and making your eyes roll to the back of your head. Props to him-- he hit your g-spot with utmost accuracy, and you let out a long, stuttered mewl, scratching at his freckled back, legs twitching. Your wail was almost catatonic, loud and cock-drunk, dripping unabashed, filthy pleasure. 

“Makin’ such sweet noises f’me,” he praised huskily, hair sticking to the sweat on his forehead, “fuck, ‘ve gotta hear that again.”

He must’ve noticed your neediness earlier, when he was slow and languid, for the new speed he set was double- no, triple that: his hips were snapping against yours, balls smacking filthily against your lips, left hand pinning your hips down and letting him sink into you faster. Shocks of pleasure tore through you at the sudden increase in speed- he’d inured you so well to the torturously slow pace from earlier that this new frenzied one felt like getting hit by a bullet train. You were overstimulated and needing more of him all at once, practically vibrating with need under his touch. 

“I’ve- hnngh- wanted this…” you gasped between moans, “f-for so long…”

“Wanted m’cock?” Jonathan questioned in a hiss, feeling with his every inch how your walls absolutely soaked him. His tone was, obviously, sarcastic, but it still made you feel incredibly lewd. 

You shook your head numbly, “Wanted you… I love you, Jon!”

“So fuckin’ beautiful,” he purred, fucking you faster and making you writhe beneath him, “love you s’much.”

Jonathan targeted the spongy, swollen spot deep within your cunt, suddenly filled with a renewed vigor and motivation to make you come as quickly as possible, and he pounded into that one, specific spot, watching how you twitched and squirmed, heavy moans exiting you. He was relentless, hands reaching to hook under your knees and spread you wider. 

At the new angle, his cock penetrated you even deeper, fuller, which you thought wasn’t possible with how goddamn full you already felt, but when his thick cockhead brushed up against your cervix you thought you were going to burst. Then, one of his hands came up to your tits to knead the flesh, and you squeaked when he tweaked your soft nipples. He was pawing at your sweet tits, fondling you in a needy, boyish way, like yours were the first pair of boobs he’d ever felt. 

“M’close!” you gasped, mind going fuzzy with pure ecstacy. Your skin prickled with goosebumps, cold  sweat running down your spine, a terribly stark in contrast feeling to the warmth buzzing under your skin. 

“C-can’t last much longer either,” he choked, still pumping in and out of your sticky hole and savoring the feeling of your tight warmness on his long length. He looked absolutely exquisite above you, and you lost yourself in the ethereal picture. Maybe you were in love, or maybe he really was just an empyrean beauty; you took in the sight of his focussed iceberg blue eyes, the cute flush spreading along his pale cheeks and bare chest, how he bit his pink lips to muffle his needy grunts and moans. 

Then, you mewled and convulsed around him, your walls spasming and contracting as you came undone, reaching the precipice of your pleasure. That made him fall off the edge— you had tensed all over- all over, and Jonathan couldn’t help how his hips stuttered, knees buckled, cock twitched; he only gave one last, powerful thrust into you before spilling himself inside of you. He painted your soft walls white, and you felt that familiar heat spreading within you; you welcomed it completely, and wanted such warmth to be there forever. 

You milked him for every last drop, cunt like a vice grip, and Jonathan gave you another wet kiss, this time on your lips, and your hands wrapped around his neck, allowing you to kiss him back. Your brows knitted at the sour taste of yourself on his lips, but it just made everything feel so real— Jonathan and you had “made love”. It was a phrase you always wrinkled your nose at, feeling uncomfortable and juvenile at the intimacy it entailed, but now you understood it completely. 

“I love you,” you repeated for what felt like the hundredth time, unable to say anything else that conveyed what you felt for him. 

Honestly, you weren’t sure anything could accurately do so— you felt infinitely about him, your love touching all edges of your mind, heart and soul, filling you completely. You supposed you felt about Jonathan how the sun felt about the moon— without one, there could not be the other. 

“I love you-- too,” he responded, pausing in the middle at the aftershocks of your orgasm, which had caused you to tighten around his softening, sensitive cock for a second. 

You peered deep into his baby-blue eyes, watching the utter love that coloured them; it was like submerging yourself in a great blue ocean, except you didn’t want to come out, because you knew you wouldn’t drown in those eyes. No, you knew Jonathan would always be there to pull you out. 

Speaking of pulling out… Jonathan slipped himself out of you softly, careful not to agitate that first stretch any more than necessary, before collapsing back into your arms. The two of you tangled yourselves in a messy flurry of limbs on his cushy mattress, sweaty and breathy, something that should’ve been terribly uncomfortable but just wasn’t— you swore you could fall asleep anywhere, no matter your own state or the circumstance, as long as you were with him. 

Blearily, both your eyes began to droop, until you gave into the familiar presence of deep, dark sleep. It was a dreamless sleep for you, but you had an ever present comfort at his weight on yours, something you could feel even in unconsciousness. 

Hours later, in a brisk, shuddering early-morning that you felt all over due to Jonathan’s unruly habit of opening his window at the peak of the day’s hottest weather and forgetting to close it before cold nightfall fell, you awoke to Jonathan watching you carefully, so close you could feel his warm exhales of breath on your cheek. 

There was no goodmorning or anything like that, just pure, uninhibited being, reveling in the space you two occupied together. Like you two were the only things left in the world. 

When Jonathan noticed you woke up, he shifted, presumably to extract himself from your grip. You stopped him, though, wrapping an arm around his shoulders and bringing him closer to you.

“What did it feel like?” you asked instead, for the last time. You brushed your fingers over his scar, and, knowing exactly what you were asking, this time Jonathan doesn’t flinch away. This time, he leans into your touch: it doesn’t burn, not anymore, and he wants your tenderness to swallow him whole. 

You didn’t mean what it actually felt like, of course. You meant, what were you thinking? What have you done, and what will you do to yourself? You meant, I love you.

“It felt like,” falling; not everything feels like something else; I raised my arms and the air took me and that was it-- “it felt like… giving in. Letting my desperation find its purpose. It felt like I’d reached a point of peace… gained clarity after a long stretching, wounded moment came to an end. It felt like becoming something only meant to be talked about in past tense.”

You don’t say anything to that; you know he doesn’t want you to. There’s no need for you to hush or plead or make better, you just need to listen, and love him. He knows you accept him for everything he is, all his flaws and his strengths; he knows your love is all accepting- it veers on saintly. 

At your silence, he melts into your arms and you can finally relax; there is an admission in the action, a release, an acknowledgement -- is suffering in silence not also accompanied by the overwhelming desire to be found? -- you have found him, at last, and you will never, ever let go.

You take it too far, just once. Only once. And you let him go just once, only once; never again. 

[ginnsbaker]

fic: if i bleed (you'll be the last to know) (15/?)

Part Summary: You and Leigh go on your first date, and nothing goes as planned.

Pairing: Leigh Shaw x Fem!Reader | Word count for this part: 10.700+ | Tags/Warnings: Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Angst, Smut | Author's note: The date chapter is finally here! It's basically Leigh and R getting to know each other. But beware of the tags ;) Thank you for being so patient! Please enjoy :) Only one or two more chapters to go!

Masterlist | Part I Part II | Part III | Part IV | Part V | Part VI | Part VII | Part VIII | Part IX | Part X | Part XI | Part XII | Part XIII | Part XIV

-

Your mouth forms a perfect ‘O’ as you come, Leigh's fingers moving deftly down your jeans. She is entranced by the sight of you falling apart in her hands, torn between kissing you and watching as you ride the final waves of your orgasm.

The moment she opened the front door and saw you, she couldn't resist. You’re dressed in a loose white button-down shirt, open at the chest to reveal the collarbones she recently discovered she’s so fond of. The sleeves are rolled up to your elbows, and your boot-cut jeans fit perfectly, accentuating all the right places, especially at the back. The subtle scent of your perfume, sweet and intoxicating like chocolate, drifted across the room, pulling her closer. Without a second thought, she grabbed you by the collar, kissing you deeply as she pulled you into the kitchen.

“You're so beautiful,” Leigh whispers, her breath hot against your ear. Her eyes are locked onto your face, mesmerized.

You gasp, your body tensing as you reach the peak. “Leigh, please” you breathe out, shifting uncomfortably. The tight confines of your jeans restrict your movement. Sure, they make your figure look fantastic, but at moments like this, you question if it's really worth it.

Leigh's lips hover just above yours, her fingers still working their magic. “I can't decide,” she murmurs, her voice low and husky.

“Decide what?” you ask, your voice quivering.

“Whether I want to kiss you or keep watching you like this,” she replies, her eyes dark with desire.

Your hands find their way to her shoulders, pulling her closer. “Both,” you whisper. “Do both.”

-

As you both recover, you adjust your clothes, tucking your blouse back into the waistband of your pants. Still catching your breath, you glance at Leigh, who is already rinsing her fingers under the running water of the sink.

“What was that for?” you ask, your voice still a bit breathless.

Leigh grins, glancing over her shoulder at you. “Payback for last week.” 

She moves around the espresso machine, then says, “By the way, I'm really sorry,” as if she hadn’t been driving you to an intense climax just minutes ago. “I can’t believe I overslept.”

You lean casually against the counter, your legs still weak from coming so hard, thoroughly entertained by her stream of apologies and quietly thrilled that she cares so much. The bagels you brought—laden with lox and a thick layer of cream cheese—wait patiently between you.

“It’s really okay,” you say, watching her make a fuss. Catching her hand as she goes for another apology, you squeeze it gently. “You… more than made up for it.”

She has the good grace to blush, a soft smile breaking through her earlier fretfulness. “Thanks for waiting,” he says, her voice still a little hoarse and, somehow, even more beguiling. “I’ve been looking forward to today. I guess last night just took more out of me than I thought.”

“You don’t say,” you tease lightly, observing the casual disarray of her hair and the relaxed hang of her clothes—it’s Leigh unplugged, and you’re increasingly fond of this version. 

Leigh's eyes shift to the side, landing on the two take-out lattes you had bought earlier, now sitting forlornly on the counter. She grimaces slightly as she realizes they've gone cold—leftovers from your long wait outside her house, where it hasn’t stopped raining. 

“Oh, you brought coffee too,” she husks out. “And I made you wait…”

“Yeah, I might have been a bit optimistic about the timing,” you say.

Leigh gives you a long, scrutinizing look, clearly baffled by your patience.

“I don’t get it,” she says, shaking her head in disbelief.

“Get what?”

“It’s just—I’m clumsy, you know? I forget things. I’m always late to appointments. I keep expecting you to realize how dysfunctional I am and run off,” she jokes, though her eyes tell a different story. The coffee maker gurgles, signaling that the brew is ready. She moves to pour the coffee, her shoulders tense, hesitating before speaking again. “But you don’t. You just... stay. And I don’t understand why.”

You watch her pour the coffee, the steam rising in soft curls. “I stay because I love you, Leigh,” you say simply. You’ve told her that three—maybe four—times now. Not that you’re counting, but each time it gets a little easier to say. And you hope, for her, it gets a little easier to hear.

She hasn't said it back, and while you’re unsure if she feels the same, you know she cares—maybe not enough to utter those three words yet, but enough to be here now. Her accepting this date, spending this day with you, it’s a concession you wouldn’t trade for the world.

Leigh's gaze flickers, eyes widening a touch, lips parting as though words are on the brink of breaking free. You hold your breath, waiting for whatever she might reveal. But then, she blinks—like she's snapping back from a distant thought—and quietly turns to pour another cup, her glance drifting off as she collects herself. 

She hands you a steaming mug, her fingertips brushing yours. You take it from her carefully, feeling the warmth seep through your fingers, spreading a comforting heat up your arms. 

“Thanks,” you say, your voice low, a smirk tugging at the corner of your mouth as you take a slow sip.

Leigh watches you over her own cup, her eyelashes casting long shadows on her cheeks as she takes a tentative sip. Words have the power to bring things into being, and for Leigh, speaking things into existence feels like an indelible commitment—a promise carved into stone. 

But maybe some things are beloved even before they ever take shape.

-

After breakfast, you both head to The Beautiful Beast to drop off Logan. Jules is happy to take care of him, as the house is empty with Amy away on a trip with friends. With Logan settled, you and Leigh head to the art exhibit you had tickets for.

Inside the exhibit, you find yourselves packed tightly among the throngs of people. The crowd presses in, and while the vivid artwork is a distraction, the constricted room makes it tough to fully enjoy the pieces. Far from the tech hubs and arts districts, the local community jumps at anything that breaks the monotony of their usual scene. Moreover, today’s rain has chased everyone indoors, turning this rare cultural event into a magnet for locals starved for something different. With the parks soggy and deserted, people had the choice between shopping malls or here.

As you and Leigh wade through the crowded gallery, people jostle for space, elbows occasionally colliding with your sides as they vie for a better view of the vibrant installations. Suddenly, a passerby brushes against you, nearly pulling you away from Leigh. Instinctively, you snatch her hand, holding fast for dear life. In the confusion, unsuspecting of the sudden tug, Leigh loses her footing. Her thick heel comes down hard on your foot, and you yelp in pain. Tears spring to your eyes, and you try to hold back a cry, but the pain is sharp and persistent.

“Sorry, sorry!” Leigh's cheeks flush with mortification as she quickly steps back. “Are you okay?”

Trying to brush it off with a grimace that's more a wince, you manage a weak smile. 

“I'll live,” you say, half-joking, even as you gingerly test your foot. “But I think that was my cue to start wearing steel-toed boots around you.” 

Despite herself, Leigh chuckles. “I'm really sorry,” she laments, reaching out to gently squeeze your arm. “Let's find a place to sit, okay?”

You cautiously try a step, hopeful but hesitant. The sharp pain bites, making you flinch, and you end up limping. Immediately, Leigh slips her arm around your waist to stabilize you.

“Let's find someone to help you get to a first-aid station,” she suggests, eyeing your gait with concern.

“But the exhibit?” you protest weakly, looking longingly back at the art you were both eager to see.

Leigh gives you a wry smile. “I'm more worried they might have to amputate your foot,” she jokes, successfully coaxing a laugh out of you. Yet, as you chuckle, you wince again, putting weight on your foot without thinking.

Noticing your discomfort, Leigh guides you gently towards the front of the gallery. Soon, you're at the information booth, where a helpful attendant offers you an ice pack and points you to a bench near the entrance. As you try to get comfortable on the small bench, you struggle to keep the ice pack properly positioned on your foot, repeatedly bending down in an awkward dance of readjustment. 

“Here, just put your foot on my lap,” she suggests, patting her lap lightly. 

You start to object, not wanting to impose, but before you can finish your sentence, Leigh decisively grabs your leg and guides it onto her lap. She starts massaging the sole of your foot while holding the ice pack firmly against the swollen area. It's a simple, caring gesture, and you can't help but watch Leigh as she focuses on making you feel better. 

When she looks up and catches you staring, she smirks. “Penny for your thoughts?”

You shake your head slightly, a small smile playing on your lips. “I just didn't think we'd end up back here, and we haven't even seen a third of the art yet,” you say.

Leigh laughs softly. “It's okay, the exhibits weren't all that impressive anyway,” she says. “Besides, I was starting to feel claustrophobic there.”

A twinge of disappointment pulls at you. You’d been excited about the exhibit, about sharing something you thought would be cool and sophisticated. With your foot throbbing and Leigh’s less-than-enthused review, the day feels like it’s stumbled right out of the gate.

Leigh notices your sudden quiet and nudges you gently. “What's wrong?”

“I just thought you’d be into this. I was almost entirely sure,” you say, avoiding her gaze.

“I am,” Leigh says, still holding your foot. “I love exhibits, but right now, my top priority is spending time with you.”

You blush at that. “We are spending time—”

She cuts you off with a small laugh. “I mean, like, actually talking. It’s hard to have a conversation when we’re constantly moving and trying to look at everything.”

You mull that over, nodding slowly. “Yeah, I guess you’re right.”

A comfortable silence settles between you, the kind that feels more like understanding than emptiness. Then, out of the blue, Leigh asks, “So, how did you end up being an animal doctor?”

You’re startled by her sudden question, but it’s a welcome distraction from your foot and the disappointing exhibit. 

“It’s a bit of a long story,” you start. 

“I’ve got time,” she says with a smirk.

You take a deep breath and lean back on the bench, feeling more comfortable as your leg rests on Leigh’s lap. Her foot massage is so soothing, it’s almost putting you into a sleepy state. 

“Well, I always loved animals. My parents used to joke that I’d bring home every stray if I could. But it wasn’t until I volunteered at a local shelter in high school that I realized it was what I wanted to do with my life.”

Leigh tilts her head and smiles. “That’s sweet. What was it about the shelter that made you decide?”

“It was this one dog,” you say, your voice catching and your eyes getting misty. “A scrappy little terrier mix named Max. He’d been through so much, but he still had so much love to give. Helping him heal and find a forever home—it just clicked. That’s when I knew I wanted to help as many animals as I could.”

Leigh looks at you with a kind of awe, as if something beautiful is unfolding before her eyes.  “That’s amazing. I love that you found your calling through something so meaningful.”

You shrug, feeling a bit bashful under her stare. “What about you? When did you know you wanted to be a writer?”

She laughs, a light, airy sound that makes you grin from ear to ear. You could listen to it forever. 

“Oh, I’ve always known,” she says. “Actually, I was always writing in my diary as a kid. I'd write about my day, things I enjoyed, pretty much anything that came to mind. I loved reading pocket books, too, and I even tried my hand at writing fiction once or twice.

“But I quickly discovered that fiction wasn't really my thing. I loved writing, though—just the act of putting words on paper, sharing my thoughts and experiences. It felt natural, like breathing.

“And even though I wasn't making up fictional characters and places,” Leigh continues, “I realized I could still tell stories. They were my stories, rooted in the everyday things I observed and experienced. That was my niche, and I just ran with it.”

“Did you have a specific moment, like with Max?” you ask.

“Not really,” she says. “It’s just what I wanted to do, that’s all.”

You nod. “Knowing what you want to do or be saves a lot of time, doesn’t it?”

“I guess?” She smiles at your insight, then adds, “Though maybe in another life, I’d be a serious journalist. If I thought I had the natural knack or talent for it, maybe I would.”

You frown slightly at that, concerned by her self-doubt. “Why do you think you’re not good enough to be a ‘serious’ journalist now?”

Leigh looks surprised by your question, then thoughtful. “I don’t know. I guess I always see those roles as being for people who are more... intense, more investigative. But you’re right. Maybe it’s just a matter of believing I could.”

“You’re an amazing writer, Leigh,” you say earnestly. “Don’t sell yourself short.”

“How can you say that?” she asks, leaning in a bit closer. “Have you read any of my work apart from my tiny blurbs in the gossip column?”

You feel a blush warm your cheeks. “Well, I might have done a bit of Googling,” you confess, rubbing the back of your neck sheepishly. “Your articles popped up, and I... may have read all of them.”

Her eyebrows lift, and she gives your foot a careful pinch. “Is that so?” she teases, her voice dropping lower. The blush spreads down your neck and chest. “And what did you think? Did they pass muster with our impromptu art critic here?”

“Honestly, I was blown away,” you say, looking her straight in the eye. “Your writing is intuitive, engaging. It pulled me right in. You've got this strong, clear voice that really comes through, even in the straightforward pieces.”

Leigh regards you for a moment longer than usual, as if trying to read the pages of a particularly dense novel—searching for the truth in your words. Then, as if finding what she was looking for, her features soften, the guarded lines around her eyes relaxing.

“Thank you,” she murmurs, her voice carrying a tender gravity. “That really means a lot to me.”

You beam up at her, blissfully unaware of the profound impact your praise has had on her appreciation of her own writing. 

Before you can pick up the thread of your laid-back conversation again, a man who could easily double as an Instagram model approaches. He’s tall, broad-shouldered, with a rogue lock of hair artfully obscuring one icy-blue eye. Both you and Leigh pause, taken aback by his sudden, striking presence, and an instinctive wariness settles in between you.

“Hey there. Are you okay?” he asks, hovering slightly, his focus solely on you, as if Leigh is merely a shadow on the wall.

“It's nothing, just a bit of swelling,” you say. You look up at him briefly and force a smile before focusing your attention back on Leigh.  She's already staring down the stranger, as if trying to laser through his meticulously sculpted side-profile.

He presses on, “I could drive you to the hospital to get that checked out.”

You exchange a quick look with Leigh, catching the flash of irritation that crosses her face before she masks it with a polite smile. 

“That’s very kind of you, but I'll be fine.”

Despite this, he doesn’t give up. “Really, it's no trouble at all. You shouldn't walk on that,” he says, pointing at your foot that’s clearly on someone else’s lap. This time, his gaze lingers a little too long for comfort. 

Leigh gently lowers your foot from her lap and stands up, positioning herself between you and the persistent stranger. There's a considerable height difference between them—Leigh is notably shorter—but she doesn't seem intimidated in the slightest. Instead, she squares her shoulders and lifts her chin like she’s ten feet tall.

“Excuse me,” Leigh clears her throat. “We’re on a date here.” 

The man blinks, surprised. “A date?” he echoes.

“Yes,” Leigh confirms, her smile now a thin line of resolve. “The kind where I kiss her goodnight after.”  

You catch a few curious glances from nearby onlookers and feel a blush creeping up your neck. You duck your head, trying to shield yourself from their stares. More than anything, though, you're struck by Leigh's bold declaration to a near stranger—that she was going to kiss you by the end of this date.

Of course, you’re hoping she would, but hearing her say it out loud sends your stomach into a flutter of somersaults

His face registers the rebuff, and he nods awkwardly, stepping back. “Right, sorry,” he mutters before finally turning and walking away.

Leigh is heaving slightly, visibly tense, her back to you, and you gently take her hand to bring her focus back.

“Hey,” you mumble softly. “Sorry about that.”

“It’s not your fault,” Leigh says as she turns back to face you, her eyes now softer. You sense the tension easing from her as your fingers intertwine more firmly. “I’m sorry if—”

“Thank you,” you interrupt gently, wanting her to know her protectiveness was welcome. “I really appreciated that.”

She laughs, a sound of relief. “Okay, good. I didn’t want to come off too strong.”

You want to tell her that she does, that she's always been a force to be reckoned with. But you bite your lip, not wanting it to come across as criticism. You like this quality of hers, and you don’t want her to change anything about herself just because you're a completely different person with a different perspective.

She shuffles her feet, looking a bit unsure, then sits down beside you. “So... where were we?”

You smile at her. “I was saying how amazing you are as a writer.”

Leigh grins, her eyes lighting up. “Oh, right. Please, go on.”

You laugh, and the two of you spend the next hour in the art exhibit, talking about everything and nothing.

-

At 1pm, you and Leigh head out for a scenic drive to Santa Monica Beach.

A week ago, as soon as she agreed to this date, you booked a table at a beachside lobster joint that’s been trending locally for some time now. It seems like the perfect spot, with great reviews and a beautiful setting by the ocean. The drive is relaxed, the windows rolled down and the salty air filling the car, clearing away any last threads of the tension from earlier at the exhibit. 

Leigh is in high spirits, chatting animatedly about books and laughing more freely than she has all day. At one point, you find yourselves discussing The Great Gatsby.

“I just don't get the hype,” you say, shaking your head as you keep your eyes on the road, though you're eager to dive into what promises to be an interesting debate. “I mean, the characters are all so shallow, and the story feels more like a soap opera than a classic.”

Leigh's expression brightens, excited to dispute your claim. “But that’s exactly why it’s a classic,” she counters, turning to face you and resting her head against her arm on the windshield. “Fitzgerald captured the Jazz Age perfectly—the decadence, the disillusionment, the elusive American Dream. It's all critiqued through some really beautiful writing.”

You raise an eyebrow, intrigued. “So you think the shallowness is the point?”

“Exactly,” she replies, smirking slightly. “Gatsby's obsession with Daisy, who represents everything he can't have, mirrors the era's obsession with wealth and status. It's tragic and a little ridiculous because it's supposed to be.”

You pretend to mull it over, though you know she has a point. You can feel her gaze on you, and you're starting to relish Leigh's undivided and very welcome attention. You drag out your response, just to see how she reacts. You think you catch her rolling her eyes out of the corner of your eye.

Chuckling, you say, “You’re making it hard to stick to my guns here.”

Her smirk widens into a proud smile. “Good! Maybe it’s time to surrender those guns.”

You flex your arm, showcasing your slim and completely unimpressive biceps. “Speaking of guns, maybe I should keep these instead,” you joke, giving Leigh a playful look.

Leigh makes a face. “Oh, please, keep those guns. They're definitely more persuasive than your take on Fitzgerald!” she teases. 

You pout at her sarcastic comment about your physique, but your smile is good-natured. It's been a long time since you've felt this at ease—not just with Leigh, but with anyone else. You haven't enjoyed company like this in a while, not since... 

Well, not since Matt. 

After a while, you say, “Maybe I need to give it another read. You make it sound like a completely different book.”

Leigh shifts in her seat to face the long, winding road ahead. “We can read it together. Maybe you’ll catch some of the subtleties you missed the first time around,” she suggests.

You sneak a glance at her, catching her eyes just as she looks back at you, your dark brown eyes meeting her green ones. It's a bit ridiculous, but you find yourself wishing this drive would never end. The swelling in your foot stings with every press of the gas pedal, but somehow, it doesn't seem to matter.

“I’d love that.”

-

When you pull into the quaint parking lot of the restaurant, nestled right against the beach, you're greeted by stunning ocean views that truly live up to the hype. Inside, the nautical decor, complete with nets and life rings adorning the walls, is cliché yet undeniably still charming. The rain has subsided, but the beach remains unusually quiet, lacking the usual crowds that gather when the sun is out. 

As you settle into a table with a view of the beach, it feels like the right kind of perfect until you start discussing the menu and Leigh's smile drops a touch. 

“I should’ve mentioned—I’m allergic to shellfish.”

“Oh,” you manage, a twinge of embarrassment settling in your stomach. You feel a bit foolish for jumping ahead without checking first. It's not the first time this has happened with Leigh, and suddenly, her earlier hesitations about your intentions and feelings make more sense. You realize you've constructed a version of her that feels familiar, yet moments like these remind you that there's still so much about her you have yet to understand.

“We can go somewhere else,” you suggest, even though you don’t have the first clue where else to go.

“Really, it's okay. We don’t have to leave. I'll find something else. This place is too gorgeous to skip just because of that,” she says.

You hastily scan the menu for alternatives, but the options are slim. The only non-shellfish item is a fish and chips plate that looks unappealing at best. Then, tucked at the bottom of the menu, you spot a plain cheeseburger with fries on the side.

“Leigh, we should really head somewhere else,” you say, remembering how she mentioned she was starving just before stepping inside the restaurant. The last thing you want is for her to settle for a less-than-satisfying meal simply because the setting is picturesque.

Leigh gives you a reassuring smile, but you can sense the underlying frustration as she says, “You don't need to make such a big deal out of it.”

“But you said you were hungry.”

“I know you mean well, and I really appreciate it. But honestly, it's just lunch,” Leigh says.

You go quiet, not wanting to argue further, but inside, you’re still kicking yourself for not having a backup plan. Sensing your inner turmoil, Leigh sighs, dropping the menu on the table. 

“Hey,” she begins softly, waiting until you meet her eyes before offering a small, apologetic smile. She knows today hasn't gone as smoothly as you hoped—starting with her oversleeping, then arriving late to a gallery you were excited to see, only to find it overcrowded. And on top of that, the incident where she stepped on your foot. You’ve been brushing it off, insisting you’re fine, but she noticed your grimaces every time you pressed the gas pedal during the drive. Clearly, today hasn’t unfolded as you planned.

Leigh’s not trying to downplay the effort you've put into today, but she also doesn't want you to think that a single mishap could turn her away. She hopes you don't set expectations too high just yet, not when you're both still in the early stages of getting to know each other. Beyond the undeniable physical chemistry between you, she's looking forward to discovering how you both handle the less-than-perfect moments just as much as the perfect ones.

Once she has your attention, she continues, “I was married for seven years and had numerous relationships before that.”

Your curiosity prickles—Numerous? How many?—but Leigh keeps talking, pulling you back to the moment.

“I've seen all the grand gestures. They’re fine—they’re romantic, but right now, I just want to do normal stuff with someone I like.”

“Me, too. I—”

“That means not worrying about every little thing on a menu I can’t eat. I don’t need every outing to be perfect.”

You nod, a realization sinking in. Leigh doesn’t want you to treat her as if she’s delicate, like china that could shatter at any moment. She wants you, with all your flawed plans and your corny jokes.

Maybe, you realize, you and Leigh share more than just an intense attraction. You both harbor insecurities about being wanted for something you're not, rather than for who you truly are. Deep down, there's a fear lurking in you that maybe this—whatever this is—could evaporate. You're scared that Leigh might discover something about you that could change her mind, worried that all this might just be a fleeting curiosity or a complicated connection tied to her past.

So you aimed for perfection today—at the expense of not being yourself, perhaps becoming too cautious and too rigid in the process. Leigh's desire for authenticity over perfection makes you rethink your approach.

“Okay,” you finally say, setting the menu down. You signal a waiter and order their bestseller—broiled lobster in butter garlic herb sauce.

Leigh looks up from her menu. “And I'll have the cheeseburger,” she tells him. Then, leaning across the table, she adds in a mock-threatening tone, “But you should know, it’s actually breakfast and dessert where you really can’t go wrong with me.” She exaggerates her expression, widening her eyes for effect.

Perhaps it’s a good lesson to learn that not everything has to be perfect to be right. 

At least, not with Leigh Shaw.

-

After a hearty meal, with you having indulged in the lobster since Leigh couldn't partake, you both feel pleasantly full. Needing to stretch your legs and help settle the big lunch, you suggest a walk along the shore.

You roll up your jeans to your calves, trying to keep them dry, but the relentless little waves have other plans, occasionally splashing over and wetting the fabric. Meanwhile, Leigh, wearing high-waisted cotton shorts, meanders alongside you, unaffected by the water's reach. As the sun dips lower, it paints the horizon in vibrant shades of orange and pink. Endless stretches of beach host a few leisurely strollers, all basking in scenery that seems almost too striking to be real. 

Walking side by side, every now and then your fingers brush against each other—a fleeting touch that sends a subtle thrill through you. Despite the advanced nature of your physical relationship, you and Leigh exchange shy smiles, almost as if you're newly acquainted. It's a curious thing that here, in the open expanse of the beach, there are instances where it feels like you haven't crossed those boundaries at all.

You want to reach out and hold her hand, but Leigh is wrapped up in her own thoughts, her arms crossed as she stares out where the horizon swallows ships whole. Respecting her reverie, you shove your hands into the pockets of your jeans instead.

After a while, Leigh turns to you, her face catching the evening light, transforming her into something almost otherworldly. Her expression is open, inviting, and it makes your heart stumble over itself once more. 

“So, Y/N,” she says, her voice low and a little unsteady, as if she had second thoughts a moment ago about whether to even say the words. “Tell me about the girls and boys you've loved before.”

Once again, you’re unsuspecting of Leigh’s directness.

You scramble for a moment, trying to buy some time. “Well, what exactly do you want to know about them?” you ask, watching her closely. Ex-lovers are bound to come up soon, and you haven't really thought about your own answer. Truth be told, your track record feels lackluster, but somehow you think that might be a good thing.

Leigh bites her lip, seemingly pondering her next move. She kicks at the small ripples lapping at her ankles, sending water splashing in little arcs. After a moment, she looks up at you coyly. “I don't know, you decide what to tell me,” she says, unapologetically leaving the ball squarely in your court.

Her response puts you at ease a little, turning the pressure of the question into more of a gentle invitation to share what you feel comfortable with. 

You take a deep breath, tasting the salt on the breeze. “I didn't actually have a boyfriend until I was twenty-two,” you say, glancing at Leigh to gauge her reaction.

Her eyebrows lift in surprise, an expression that draws a small laugh from you. “Yeah, I was a late bloomer,” you say, a flippant shrug accompanying your words. “I think I was just curious, you know? Everyone around me was pairing off, and I felt like I was missing out.

“It lasted six months. It was more about exploration than anything else. And then, well, it took another two years before I found myself in something serious.”

“With who?” Leigh asks, slowing down a little. The wind picks up, teasing strands of her hair across her face, not bound today in her usual ponytail. She brushes them aside absently, her focus fixed on you.

“Her name was Alex,” you continue, the name rolling off your tongue thoughtfully as bittersweet memories flood your mind. You haven’t thought about her in a long time—she was your first love and your first heartbreak. “She was incredible—taught me what it really means to be with someone, to really be present. We were together for almost three years.”

Leigh suddenly stops and turns to face you. She grabs your hand, guiding you both to a weathered bench a few steps from the lapping waves. 

“How did it end?” she asks quietly.

“We moved in together after a year,” you say, trying to keep your tone light even though you’re about to rehash a painful past. “Things were really good, at least that's what I thought. But then, just a month after our third anniversary, I came home early from work and... I found her in bed with someone else.”

“Oh, Y/N…”

“It was her coworker, someone I'd always just thought of as a colleague of hers,” you conclude, managing a tight-lipped smile. Neither of you speak for a while, allowing the susurration of the sea to fill the gap instead.

“I’m sorry,” Leigh finally says.

You shrug, looking out at the horizon where the sun meets the calm waters. “It's a long time ago. From what I've heard through mutual friends, they're still together. Maybe they were meant for each other, and I was just a stop on her journey to finding that out. I mean, I shouldn't feel so bad for not getting in the way of true love.”

Leigh shakes her head, not buying into your attempt to whitewash what Alex did. “She should've ended it with you properly.”

You’ve pondered that moment countless times, wondering if it would have been easier if she had simply been honest about falling out of love. You picture different scenarios where you come home to Alex waiting to tell you there’s someone else, and each time, you arrive at the same painful conclusion.

“I don't know, it probably would have hurt just the same,” you tell her honestly. 

Leigh scoots closer, looping her arm around you and resting her head on your shoulder. In a whisper, she concurs, “I think so too.”

Then, Leigh starts sharing her story with Matt. It begins at a college house party, where they first met—just a couple of undergrads who had no idea what the future held. As she talks, you rest your cheek against her head, absorbing every detail. You chuckle at her lighthearted anecdotes, feeling the happiness they brought her. But as she talks about the tougher times, particularly the months leading up to his death, your smile fades, replaced by a tightness in your chest.

Soon enough the telling morphs into a session of self-reflection where it becomes unclear whether Leigh’s speaking to you or to herself. She suggests that she blames herself for his death, feeling as if she had somehow caused his demise. She confesses that when he died, it seemed like all the good parts of her died with him, parts she now thinks existed only because of him. 

When she finally breaks down, sobbing into your neck, you pull her closer, wrapping your arms around her as if you could squeeze away all the guilt and pain she’s carrying. Part of you wants to interrupt, to assure her that she’s wrong, that all her good parts were always there, maybe just brightened by her love for him—because isn’t that what love does? It casts everything in a better light. But you resist the urge to speak, understanding that sometimes the best comfort you can offer isn’t words, but simply presence and the quiet acceptance of her sorrow.

-

It starts to rain again a few minutes into your drive back to the city. As the droplets splatter against the windshield and the wipers slide back and forth, you notice Leigh holding up her phone, talking animatedly into it.

“Hey there, we're on our way back and look at this rain, it's really coming down! Oh, and I've got someone very special I want you to meet—this is Y/N.” She angles the phone toward you. You feel your cheeks warm as you give a small, awkward wave. “Aren’t those eyes incredible? Like deep, rich coffee... absolutely gorgeous.”

“What are you doing?” you ask, still a bit embarrassed.

“Something for my eyes only,” Leigh replies nonchalantly, lowering her phone but keeping that roguish smile.

“You didn't have to stop,” you tell her, still a bit amused by her whole vlogging act.

Leigh turns to face you fully. “I kind of want to look at you now without a screen between us,” she murmurs, her voice low and inviting.

You swallow, feeling a thrill at her directness. Leigh's approach is always bold, and it sends an excited shiver down your spine. You wish you weren't trapped in the driver's seat, confined by the slow crawl of traffic, so you could fully engage with her flirtation. Yet, there's a part of you that suspects Leigh enjoys knowing you're somewhat at her mercy, divided between the road and her teasing.

Trying to distract her from whatever she’s up to, you throw out a playful challenge. “Want to guess where we're headed next?”

It seems to work as Leigh glances out at the relentless downpour. “In this weather?”

“Yup,” you respond simply, a mysterious smile on your lips as you focus on the rain-slicked road ahead, keeping the surprise of your next stop just between the two of you for a little longer.

Leigh has this endearing habit of pressing the back of her fingers against her mouth, her thumb brushing her lower lip as she thinks. You've come to recognize this gesture as a sign she's deep in thought or uncertain about something.

“Bowling?”

You snort in amusement.

“At least give me a clue!”

“It involves a membership card,” you hint.

Leigh scrunches up her nose, clearly appalled at her next guess. “The gym?”

“The library, of course,” you reply with a grin, recalling an earlier conversation. “Remember I mentioned having a membership card?”

Leigh narrows her eyes, and in a skittish huff, slaps your arm lightly. “You're totally messing with me,” she accuses.

“Hey, I'm driving here!” you protest, trying to keep the car steady. Undeterred, she pokes at your ribs, discovering a ticklish spot. You can't help but burst into laughter. “Seriously, Leigh, we're going to crash if you keep this up,” you say between giggles, half-joking, half-pleading for mercy.

She pulls back, her laughter tapering off into a series of chuckles that fade into the rhythmic splatter of hefty raindrops on the car roof. Once it’s comfortably quiet again, she leans back in her seat, her expression turning curious and a little conspiratorial. 

“Speaking of books, there's something I almost forgot to tell you,” she says.

“Yeah?” you respond, somewhat distracted as a car swiftly cuts into your lane.

“Matt's comic is going to be published posthumously,” she reveals slowly. “Danny and I have been working together on it.”

You strive to keep your expression blasé at the mention of Danny's name. There's no room for jealousy when it concerns Matt's legacy. If Leigh needs to do this, whether Danny is involved or not, it's her choice and not your place to question.

“That's amazing, Leigh,” you say, trying to sound cheerful and supportive. “Matt would have been thrilled.”

Leigh gives you a curious look. Your focus remains on the road ahead, so you miss the reservation in her green eyes.

“You think so?”

“Yeah,” you respond, nodding. Without much thought, you add, “He used to show me his work, and I was honestly impressed.”

Leigh's expression shifts subtly at your words, and there's a moment of quiet between you. “Matt never showed me his works,” she says softly, almost to herself.

You feel a flush of embarrassment, realizing it might have sounded like you were bragging about being privy to Matt's work—a privilege Leigh, his wife, hadn't shared. You manage only a soft, “Oh,” which hangs awkwardly in the air.

“I found his sketches one day by accident, and he didn't like it—me seeing his work, I mean. He always wanted to keep that part of his life separate.”

You’re still processing this when Leigh speaks again.

“I used to tell him everything, you know? I’d ask for his take on my work, vent about the chaos at mom’s studio, and talk through the tough times we faced as a family when—well, when Jules was dealing with her addiction,” she says, her voice trailing off a bit at the end.

“I’m sorry,” you mutter, not knowing what else to say.

Leigh brushes off your sympathy with a gentle flick of her wrist. “No, it's not that he was trying to be secretive. I think... I think I was too critical of him, even about his depression.  I thought I knew everything, knew what was best for him.” She sighs, a shadow of regret crossing her face. “I guess I was kind of overbearing, so he stopped sharing things with me. He chose to keep it all to himself instead of having to constantly argue with me.”

You wince slightly, feeling guilty in some way, but Leigh quickly reassures you. “Hey, I’m not telling you this to make you feel bad that he shared things with you. I’m actually glad he did. His work deserves to be out there.”

You nod, taking in Leigh's reflections quietly. Wanting to steer back to a milder topic, you ask, “So, when is it going to be published?”

Leigh's fingers absently toy with the ends of her hair as she thinks. “It's set to come out early next year,” she finally says, her voice surprisingly devoid of excitement. You can't help but wonder why that is.

“And there's going to be a tour right after—it's promoting the comic along with some other new titles from the publisher. I'm... planning to go.”

“That sounds like an incredible experience,” you say, smiling at her.

Leigh makes a sound of agreement. “It's probably starting in late February,” She takes a deep breath before adding, “It'll take me all over the country. We need to attend conventions and such.”

You fall silent, digesting her words. The realization that this isn't just a short trip starts to sink in. “How long will you be gone?” you ask, trying to catch her gaze but Leigh’s eyes are trained forwards.

“I don't have all the details yet, but it could be anywhere from a few weeks to a couple of months,” she says.

“But you'll come back in between, right?” The hope in your question is palpable.

Leigh shakes her head slowly. “I'm not sure. It might be a good time to travel and go away for a while with this opportunity.”

The conversation drifts between you, muffled like the world outside the fogged-up windows of your car. It's becoming clear, maybe too clear, what this all means.

Leigh's gaze stays fixed on the shimmering road ahead. She's quiet, but you can almost hear her thoughts tumbling over each other. You know she's wrestling with the implications of her future plans, just as you are. She knows the reality of the situation, understands that there are only a few ways this could possibly go.

She can't ask you to wait, and it wouldn't be fair to ask you to drop everything and follow her. That leaves the looming possibility of a farewell that could stretch into something indefinite.

Minutes pass—one, then two—before you both lose count. It feels as though an hourglass has been unwillingly flipped. Watching the city lights blur through the rain, you can't help but feel they reflect the uncertainty of your future with Leigh. You're willing to attempt a long-distance relationship, though you know it might not be ideal. The prospect of being apart just as things are beginning to bloom between you feels akin to a preemptive goodbye.

Then, an idea takes hold—a bold, possibly reckless notion, but it clings to your heart with surprising tenacity. Yes, you have a clinic, a business that needs you, but suddenly, those realities seem negotiable, secondary to what feels more pressing—being with Leigh.

“What if I came with you on the tour?”

Leigh turns to look at you, her eyes wide with surprise and something like worry. She knows your life is deeply rooted here, especially with the veterinary clinic you’ve poured your heart—and savings—into.

“I can’t ask you to do that,” she says.

“Why not?” you ask softly.

Your tone is so earnest, almost childlike in your confusion, that Leigh’s lips part and then close as she grapples with how to articulate her feelings about your rash offer.

“You have your clinic, your responsibilities here. It's too much for me to expect you to just walk away from that,” Leigh argues.

“But what if it’s not about what you’re asking me to give up?” you say, your fingers unconsciously tightening their grip on the steering wheel. “What if it’s about what I’m willing to sacrifice?”

Leigh's frustration shows clearly as she pushes back against your idea. “Sacrifices? It's about being realistic. We can't just make decisions on a whim.”

You turn to look at her, making it a point to focus on her for a second longer than you should while driving. “But I don't see it as a whim. I see it as choosing what matters most to me.”

Leigh sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose. “You're not seeing the whole picture. What about your employees? They depend on you.”

“I can arrange things at the clinic. I can find people to cover for me,” you say confidently. But Leigh is just as relentless with her objections.

“And what if you come back and resent me for taking you away from all that?” Leigh counters, her voice rising a little. 

“I won’t,” you reply quickly, even though you know it's a hefty promise to make in such a heated moment.

Leigh scoffs, shaking her head vehemently. “You can’t possibly know that.”

Before you can bolster your promise with more reassurances, your phone rings. It’s Sara, calling from the clinic. Leigh watches as you answer, her expression a mix of resignation and pointedness, as if to emphasize her earlier concerns about your responsibilities.

You excuse yourself, grab your phone, and answer the call. “Hey, what’s going on?”

“It's an emergency,” Sara's voice is tense. “Foreman needs you. Can you make it?”

You're just minutes from the city now, and your heart sinks as you realize the timing couldn't be worse. “Yes, I'll be there soon,” you mutter, feeling torn.

After hanging up, you turn to Leigh, who's been quietly observing. “There’s an emergency at the clinic, and Foreman needs my help,” you explain. “Can we stop there? It won't take long, and we can still make it to our next stop.”

Leigh gives a resigned nod, her earlier arguments about your responsibilities underscored by this untimely call. “Sure, whatever,” she says, her voice flat. You want to erase that look on her face, but for now, you’re needed elsewhere.

-

You spring from the car the moment it's parked, snagging your white coat from the trunk in one fluid motion. Leigh is right on your heels, her footsteps quick and questioning as you both scurry into the clinic.

You burst through the doors and immediately spot Sara at the reception, giving her a quick nod of acknowledgment. Beside you, Leigh’s steps falter slightly at the sight of Sara, her expression one of mild shock at seeing her there—a detail you realize you've failed to mention.

“What’s happening?” you ask Sara, pulling your hair into a tight bun.

“Room two, now,” she replies, gesturing briskly towards the surgery room.

You nod and break into a jog, with Leigh hesitantly trailing behind. When you reach your destination, you stop short and turn to signal Leigh to wait outside.

“I’m so sorry about this,” you say, your voice full of apology.

“Just go,” she whispers softly. You offer her a grateful smile before your expression shifts to calm determination as you slip into the surgery room.

Left in the waiting area, Leigh stands in a stupor, surrounded by unanswered questions and a sudden solitude, her eyes lingering on the closed doors you've just disappeared through.

-

Leigh has been noticeably quiet since you emerged from the surgery room an hour and a half ago. Right after you came out, she meekly asked for the car keys and walked straight out of the clinic. You didn’t think much of it at the time, busy giving final instructions to Foreman and Sara before heading out to continue your date with her.

Now, as you drive to the bar you planned on taking her to, you can’t seem to come up with a topic that doesn’t seem like you're evading the earlier argument.

“Where are we headed next?”

You breathe a sigh of relief as Leigh breaks the silence. You notice her glance at the watch on her wrist. The small motion feels like a small betrayal—does it signal impatience, or worse, a desire to escape this disjointed evening?

With everything that’s happened, you drop the pretense of surprise. “I had planned for us to catch a live band at a speakeasy downtown,” you say evenly. “But we're running late, and honestly, I'm not even sure it's worth heading there now.”

You risk a glance at Leigh, almost expecting she’d choose this moment to cut the evening short. But she merely hums noncommittally, and just like that, silence settles in once more.

When you arrive, the heavy rain makes the night feel even more somber. A few cars are still scattered around the parking lot, but the place otherwise looks almost deserted. You grab an umbrella from the backseat and offer it to Leigh as you both make your way to the entrance.

As you approach, the doorman stops you from crossing the threshold. “Sorry, folks,” he says, his voice nearly drowned out by the rain. “The performance was canceled, and we're wrapping up early tonight because of the weather.”

Disappointment settles in, heavier now with the official confirmation. You turn to Leigh, trying to salvage what you can of the evening. “Maybe we can have at least one drink?” you suggest, hoping to extend the time you have together.

Leigh pauses, her expression inscrutable for a moment before she shakes her head. “Actually, I think I’d rather not,” she says, throwing you off with her refusal. 

The doorman gives you a sympathetic nod as he pulls the heavy doors shut, sealing off the warm glow of the bar from the cold, wet night. Leigh takes the umbrella from you with a gesture that's both resigned and leading, and starts walking back to the car. Her steps are quick, purposeful, but she slows just enough under the umbrella to ensure you're covered and not getting drenched. But you barely notice the rain; your mind is clouded with thoughts of how the evening has unfolded.

As you walk, you replay the last few hours, how what began as an attempt to reassure Leigh of your willingness to go the distance by offering to join her on the tour quickly spiraled into a demonstration of all the practical reasons why it was a bad idea. And the unexpected revelation about Sara working at your clinic surely hadn't helped.

Leigh slides into the passenger seat, handing you the umbrella which you catch as several raindrops escape onto your arm. You settle into the driver’s seat, carefully folding the umbrella and tossing it behind you. 

“I guess I should drop you home?” you suggest, more as a formality than a question.

Leigh hums in response, her voice low and temporizing. It’s starting to irk you, this silent treatment. Throughout the drive to her house, the only sounds are the steady swish of the windshield wipers and the occasional splash of tires against puddles. You steal glances at her, trying to decipher her thoughts. Her face is angled towards the window, so that each time you pass under a street lamp, there’s a fleeting moment where her face is illuminated, revealing a tightness around her eyes and a slight downturn at the corners of her mouth.

Just before you turn onto her street, something inside you rebels. You can’t let the night end on this note—defeated, disconnected. You pull over under a massive tree beside an empty lot and shut off the engine.

Turning to her, you find your voice again. “Leigh, talk to me. Please.”

She sighs but remains silent.

“Are you upset because of Sara?”

That gets a reaction from her—an unpleasant one, but a reaction nonetheless. 

“Oh, please.” Leigh lets out a sarcastic chuckle. “Really, it's not my business who you hire, even if it's an ex. But considering you just told me you love me this morning, don't you think that's something you should have mentioned?”

You hadn’t intentionally kept Sara's hiring from Leigh; it had slipped through the cracks of a busy week. You never even considered Sara an ex-anything, so it was an honest mistake. If only you could convince Leigh that Sara is truly that insignificant to you.

“I'm sorry, Leigh,” you say, hoping to smooth things over. But she isn't having it. “It was an oversight, not a choice. Sara really doesn't mean anything in that way. I just didn't think it was important.”

Instead of pacifying her, your words have the opposite effect.

“Not important?” Leigh’s face sets like concrete. “When you say you love someone, everything becomes important, especially things like this. How am I supposed to trust you?”

Your own frustration flares. You didn’t expect such a harsh judgment over what seemed so trivial in your mind. A thought then strikes you, fueling your anger. “And what about you? You’re heading away for months, and you’ve barely spoken about it. When were you going to tell me all the details? Right before you left?”

Leigh reels as if you've slapped her. “That’s different. I was going to tell you—”

“When? Last minute at the airport?” You cut her off, your voice rising to match hers.

“It’s not the same, and you know it!” Leigh snaps back, her eyes alight with anger and something like hurt.

“You're right, it's not the same,” you snap back. “It’s much worse. Because you said you’d give us a chance. And now, when I’m telling you I’m willing to fight for a chance to be with you, you’re shutting me down.”

“I don’t want to make promises I can’t keep,” Leigh says tightly.

“You don’t need to promise me anything,” you reply, your voice softening. “All I’m asking for is a real shot at this. I know you want that too.”

Leigh’s eyes glisten, and for a moment, you think you’re getting through to her. But then her expression hardens again. “Not like this,” she says.

You feel like you're climbing an ever-growing wall between the two of you, but you refuse to give up on this—on her.

“It won’t be easy,” you acquiesce, changing tactics. “But nothing worth having ever is. We can figure it out together, Leigh. We can make it work if we both want it enough.”

Leigh’s jaw clenches, and she looks away, the rain streaking down the windows like tears. She can’t help but compare this moment to the beginning with Matt. He had been so eager, so willing to give himself to her completely. He had always assured her that he was happy just to be with her, to follow her wherever her dreams led. He had said yes to every plan she made, every crazy idea she had, always with that same smile, always saying, “As long as I’m with you.”

But then, one day, he wasn’t there anymore.

And Leigh doesn’t know if she can survive another abandonment.

You have no idea that all of this is racing through her mind as you keep making your case. “...just take a leap of faith. Don’t push me away before we’ve even had a chance to—”

You’re mid-sentence, almost convincing yourself that you're breaking through her defenses, when Leigh interrupts with a shout, “Maybe this was a mistake!”

Taken aback and hurt by her outburst, you risk calling her bluff, exclaiming, “Maybe it was!”

An impasse is reached. For a moment, all you can do is stare at each other, each of you gasping for breath as if the air itself has slipped from the car in those tense seconds. 

Is this it, then?

Is this the end?

But before you can retract any of your words, in a move you never see coming, Leigh reaches out. Her hand clasps the back of your neck, pulling you close. She kisses you fiercely, as if trying to settle the argument with just the pressure of her lips.

But she's not trying to win. Leigh doesn't want to come out on top in this argument. Instead, she wants to forget her usual realism and bury herself in the moment. She wants to give in to your optimism, to let you abandon everything you've worked for to be with her in the coming months.

But she knows that’s selfish.

And she finds herself unable to be selfish when it comes to you. 

You're just beginning to melt into the kiss, to lose yourself in the forgiveness it promises, when Leigh abruptly pulls away. She hurls herself back against her seat, her back pressed hard against the door, panting. 

“Sorry,” she gasps, her voice thick with both regret and need.

You look at her, eyes half-lidded and lips feeling bruised from the fervor of her kiss. All you can focus on is how she's starting to pull away—but you're determined not to let her go. Not this time.

“No, no, come here. Come back here, damn it.”

Leigh doesn't need to be told twice. She meets you halfway, the space between you disappearing as quickly as it had expanded. Her mouth finds yours once again, lips slotting together in a way that feels right, necessary—like solving a puzzle that neither of you knew how to complete until now. 

With all inhibitions cast aside, Leigh grabs the collar of your shirt with surprising strength, yanking you towards her so forcefully that half of your body ends up sprawled across the cramped passenger seat. Your hips press painfully against the gear stick, but any discomfort quickly fades as Leigh's tongue teases yours. Instinctively, you open your mouth wider, a low moan escaping as your tongues intertwine. You support your weight with one arm braced against the windshield behind her, careful not to overwhelm her with your weight. Your other hand rises to cradle her neck, feeling the heat of her skin rising by the second under your touch.

Leigh's hands are anything but idle; they're bold and determined as she reaches for the buttons of your jeans. It's the second time today since this morning, and she's all confidence as she pulls down the zipper, slipping her hand inside your soaked underwear. The moment her fingers trace the length of your slit, brushing against your clit with each pass, you nearly lose your balance.

But as much as you're caught up in the temptation of her touch, there’s something else on your mind—something you've been thinking about all week.

“Backseat,” you say breathlessly, the word more of a command than a suggestion. Without waiting for her response, you clamber toward the backseat of the car. Once there, you quickly turn to help Leigh slide in after you.

You gently push at Leigh's shoulders, and she understands immediately, lying back with a soft thud against the door panel. Her upper back curves awkwardly against the hard surface, but she doesn’t mind, consumed by desire and curiosity about what you’re planning to do next. She lies there, expectant and provocatively inviting, as your fingers hover over the waistband of her shorts. 

You lower your voice to a whisper, “May I?” 

She nods quickly and you make short work of her shorts and panties, tugging them down her thighs efficiently. With a firm tap, you signal for her to lift her legs. She complies, bending at the knees as you strip the fabric past her ankles and casually toss it to the front seat.

Your eyes widen at the sight of her waxed bare. “God, you're beautiful,” you whisper, pulling her closer until she's practically lying across your lap. Your hands roam over her creamy thighs, kneading the soft flesh there. You take your time, exploring every inch, your touch deliberately skirting the places she aches for you most. You’re teasing her, and her body responds ardently—her breath catches, her hips tilt seeking more.

Leigh’s skin is hot under your fingertips. She’s ready, practically quivering, but you keep the pace maddeningly slow. Your fingers dance closer, then retreat, building her frustration to a fever pitch.

“Patience,” you murmur with a teasing smile, savoring the way her body arches and responds to your touch.

“Don't be cruel,” she whines, her eyes the darkest you've seen them.

You lean in, your lips brushing against her ear. “I promise, it'll be worth it,” you whisper, letting your fingers finally drift to the spot she needs you most. Your fingers play with her, teasing her folds, drawing circles around her clit to get her wetter and wetter, each touch designed to increase her desire, her body responding with eager, heated movements. Her breathing becomes heavier, her chest rising and falling rapidly as she pushes against your fingers, craving more.

Seeing her so turned on, you adjust your position. You scoot backward until your back presses against the other side of the car, then gently maneuver Leigh's legs to drape over your shoulders, positioning her in a bridge. The pose might be demanding, so you look up at her, your hands supporting her weight by firmly grasping her buttocks. 

“Is this okay?" you ask as you prepare to bring her closer to your eager mouth.

“Just fuck me, please,” Leigh breathes out impatiently. 

That's all the permission you need. You lower your head, your lips finding the delicate, sensitive flesh of her pussy. Her taste is intoxicating, driving you to explore further with your tongue. Her hips rise to meet your mouth, the angle allowing you to take her in deeply. Leigh's response is immediate—her moans fill the car, guttural and unrestrained. The scent of sex begins to saturate the air, mingling with the dampness of the rain outside. You’re thankful for the dark tint of your car windows and the fact that the bad weather has cleared the streets at this hour.

You want to prolong this, to draw out every moment of her pleasure, but you can already feel Leigh tightening around your tongue, telling you she’s close. In a bid to intensify her impending release, you decide to gamble on your strength. With one hand you keep her lifted in the perfect position, while your other hand moves with a different intent.

Pulling your tongue back, you replace it with your lips, sucking her clit into your mouth, letting the slight pressure send ripples through her. Simultaneously, you slide your middle and ring finger deep into her, the slick heat of her welcoming you in. Leigh's response is visceral, a raw, “Oh fuck, fuck, that’s it, don’t stop…!” that she screams out as if it's being torn from her.

Fuelled by her cries, you pump your fingers harder, faster, curling them to stroke that perfect spot inside her. She's loud, unabashedly so, her moans filling the car, steaming up the windows even more, turning this space into your own sordid bubble. She's dripping down your wrist, your chin, but you don’t mind, existing in that moment solely for her pleasure.

“Y/N, I—”

She's right on the edge, her body slick with sweat and shaking from the relentless pleasure you're hammering into her. But as the climax washes over her, her voice breaks into something unexpected. Instead of the anticipated screams or the typical rush of expletives, something deeper bursts forth.

“—I love you!”

You almost lose your rhythm at her declaration.

Her body shakes violently, her screams of ecstasy almost a primal release. You keep going, pushing her through it, savoring every tremble and shudder, tasting every bit of her orgasm, all the while thinking, Leigh loves me.

She fucking loves me.

You’re cautious enough not to hang your entire heart on those three words immediately, but the confession still paints a devilish grin across your face. This wasn’t merely a heat-of-the-moment slip; it felt like Leigh was revealing something she'd been holding back for a while.

Carefully, you ease her legs down from your shoulders, noticing her wince as she adjusts from the stretch. Before you even get the chance to ask if she really meant what she said, Leigh answers by pulling you in close, her hands framing your face. She kisses you, so tenderly, and it’s nothing like the ones you’ve shared before. It’s the kind of kiss that slows time, the one you’ve been dreaming about since you were a little kid, the one you hope to keep until you’re old.

Leigh’s eyes lock onto yours, earnest and clear, “I do love you.” 

[gojokive]

❥ Beg For It, Petal.

» RATING › 18+ [M I N O R S D O N O T I N T E R A C T] » GENRE(S) › smut/fluff » PAIRING(S) › geto suguru x female!reader x gojo satoru » WORD(S) › 2.8k+ » SYNOPSIS › You simply want to make breakfast for your boyfriend's but they have something else in mind. » SMUT WARNING(S) › oral (female receiving), fingering, squirting, gojo & geto kissing, a smidge of dirty talking, allude to sub!geto, allude to anal, praise kink, begging, nicknames (petal, peach, love, pretty girl, honey, & gorgeous), loads of cuddling between the three of you, vacation vibes only! (half-ass edited so beware lol) » POST DATE › 03/21/2024

thank you for reading! & remember: you nice, keep going.❤️ comment/reblogs(s) and like(s) are totally welcomed! › read more work here: masterlist ‹

It’s merely morning when the sun begins to rise, casting a surreal glow into the room. Your body and mind decide to stir as you wake from your slumber. The black curtains hardly catch the glare that hits your face when you try to turn over. It’s then that you realize you’re laid snug on top of Satoru. You can feel his even breath against your neck as he smushes his face against your chest. His grip on your waist is tight and it stops you from being able to turn like you want to.

“Stop.” Satoru groans when you shift your body, leaving Suguru to grab you from his arms (or more importantly, before you can get up to leave). His hold is much firmer than Satoru’, his face is buried in your neck and you can feel him press soft kisses against it.

“Pretty girl,” Suguru chuckles the moment you moan. “Where are you trying to go, honey?” His eyes remain closed, his voice is soft but raspy and for a second, you melt into his embrace as he smothers you closer to his chest. One of the things you love to do is simply listen to this beautiful man talk. His voice is so calming and reassuring that you often fall into this state of bliss. You appreciate the feelings both he and Satoru give you while you're tucked into their arms. A sense of safety and security that everything will be alright. You close your eyes and savor the moment, knowing this feels like home.

“You’re staring, baby.” He wolfishly grins, bringing his hand up to caress your bottom lip. “It’s still early… It's only eight and you’re already trying to leave us.” Glancing over at the clock on the dresser, you realize he's right. It's eight forty-three and honestly, you can use a little more sleep. “Sleep.”

“I want to get up though,” You whine as he only chuckles about how cute you are. You want to get up, take a shower, maybe even get breakfast started for them but you can't do that since Suguru won't let you go. “And It’s not that early, ‘Gu. I could be cooking breakfast right now. I’m hungry.” As if on cue your stomach growls, alerting him of the basic need that hasn't been met. “Suguru…”

“But I’d rather you stay here.” He peeks through his left eye to get a good look at you. The ray of sunlight shining through the balcony door just right to radiate not only the room but you too. An angel in disguise. He can't help but reach up to brush his thumb against the side of your cheek as you lean into his warmth. You can't lie, you love being sandwiched between both of them and right now is no different. “That’s why we hired people for this so you wouldn’t have to move a muscle, honey.”

“But I wanna do it…” You frown, “I-It’s not t-the same-”

“Oh, but It is.” You don't see the smirk present on his face the moment he feels you bury your face in the crook of his neck to attempt to hide. “It's okay to relax. It's your vacation as much as it's ours, Petal. Just sleep.” He says, settling back with you in tow and you lose your breath. You can’t believe how beautiful this man is. He laughs, leaning back to rest his head against the pillows again. You snuggle into his chest, tracing circles on his collarbone.

As time goes on, Suguru’s out like a light again, and you decide to maneuver yourself back between them to get comfortable. Both men snore, one louder than the other. You feel Satoru cuddle up into your back as his hand finds your stomach. He rubs against it as both play tug-a-war with your body to see who gets more to cuddle with. 

The warmth feels good. And the butterflies in your stomach make you feel alive as you’re laid up and fiddling with Satoru’s fingers. 

It's times like this you cherish. The moments where Suguru isn’t in one of his moods and Satoru isn’t off doing god knows what. And neither of them has to leave for days on end. It makes you wish you could stay like this forever and keep them chained to the bed but sadly, you can’t. At least not in the way you want to. Suguru might like it. Satoru? Not so much. Then again, who truly knows? As much sex as you and Satoru have, you haven’t tried that yet. 

Which is surprising in itself and well, you make a mental note to visit a sex shop down the street from your apartment complex one of these days. 

Glancing at the clock again, it's nine-ten and you can't justify laying in bed much longer than you have. You want to see the scenery and all that so you decide it's time to get up and shower. You can even feel the grime of last night's activities start to feel crusty and gross and you can't take it anymore. You run a couple of scenarios through your mind or rather, solutions so you can get up and move freely without waking your boys.

Solution one. Try with all your might to wiggle your way out of their grasp. In which, you do but that plan ends in utter failure when Suguru groans for you not to move again. He turns over to throw his arm over your waist to keep you still. And with Satoru's hand awkwardly sprawled on your ass, they've got you locked in place again. 

Failure.

Solution two. Try to put a pillow in your place but, of course, that was also a failure because they can tell the difference. Hell, they won't even allow you to get up long enough to do the switch.

You're exasperated as you roll over to stare at the ceiling, groaning to no one but yourself. You glance to either side of you. They look adorable with Suguru’s face buried in your chest now and Satoru’s face mushed against the pillows, it makes his lips pucker. You just want to kiss both of them but right now is not the time.

Solution three. Try ripping yourself from their grasp. You try for about five minutes until you realize that's futile.

“Really?” It only serves to annoy you when you hear Satoru chuckle, no doubt listening to you struggle. And if he’s awake then you know Suguru is too even if he doesn’t utter a word. You just want to get up! Your stomach has been growling for a hot minute and you're hungry and gross and ugh!

“Just stay with us, Petal.” How can you say no to that? You don't know but you fix your mouth and tell them to get up when Satoru leans in close. His lips barely touch the skin of your neck and you can feel his gust of breath on your neck that sends a shiver down your spine.

“I was going to make us breakfast though…” You gasp the moment he nibbles against your ear, his warm hand resting against your thigh. So close to where you would like it to be but not right now. You try your best to sit up again but it’s no use. With them holding you the way that they are, you’re shit out of luck. “Well, can I at least take a shower?”

“Mm-mmh,” Suguru mumbles while kissing your shoulder. “Later...”

You roll your eyes at your boyfriend as a sigh falls from your lips. For both of them to be grown men, they’re acting like straight children right now but giving up is the last thing you want to do. Hunger overtakes everything. So you wait, somewhat impatiently for what seems like hours. You knew they were going to fall asleep again soon. 

It was just a matter of time. 

You end up wasting time on your phone, playing some mobile game Satoru told you to download until you hear both men snoring a little louder than before. 

With a shift of their bodies, you're finally able to slip out of their arms to get to the bathroom. You made it your mission to take a quick shower, trying to figure out what you want for breakfast. You don't want to linger in case they wake from their slumber again and try to tug you back into bed. Or you know, in case they decided to hop in the shower with you because breakfast will never be made then.

“Aww,” You coo, seeing them closer with Satoru’s face buried in Suguru’s neck while his leg is hiked onto his front. The blanket covers nothing but their lower half. his arm loosely draped over his tiny waist. Suguru’s waist was a gift from the heavens, you loved it. Especially whenever he’d wrap your legs around it.

You quickly shake those thoughts before they even enter your mind, instead, you snap a picture to tease them later. 

Waltzing over to the drawer, you pull out one of their band shirts, a random one they let you have (since they had so many), and settle for some black panties. Being comfortable was the main thing. 

Stepping out, you close the door quietly and start toward the kitchen. Searching through the fridge to find something to make something simple came to mind, a little bit of both of their favorites.

You're so into what you are cooking, that you don’t hear the door to the suite bedroom open. You also don’t hear either man making their way to the kitchen. 

“Baby?” Satoru whines, wrapping his arms around your waist. You’re startled, mind drawing blanks as you almost drop the hot skillet.

“J-Jesus,” You giggle, turning to face him to push him away, “You scared me.”

“I’m sorry,” Satoru smiles. He peppers kisses down your neck as his hands caress your inner thighs and you can feel the start of his bulge poking into your ass. Suguru stands from the island and pulls you to stand in front of him while Satoru sandwiches you from behind.

“I’m trying to cook,” You whine, feeling Satoru’s hand dip into boy shorts as he rubs his finger over your slit. You throw your head back with a soft moan. Suguru steps away long enough to turn off the stove so the food doesn’t burn, but he steps forward to pick you up and wrap your legs around his waist to sit you on the counter. Neither one says a word, Satoru attacking your neck to hear you groan as Suguru kisses your lips, your body melting into their touches, “I just wanna finish cooking...”

“Maybe we just want you for breakfast,” Satoru growls, nipping at your earlobe before yanking your underwear down and off your body.

“You can finish after we’re done,“ Suguru teases, “You’re already so wet for us, Petal.”

“Fuck yeah, she is,” Satoru smirks, tilting his head so he could get a good look at you. You’re blushing softly, the tint of red turning you into a tomato. “Was it from me touching you or is it the thought of what we’re going to do to you.”

“What’s turning you on, baby?”

“‘Toru…” You don’t want to say it out loud, resulting in you simply nodding your head. Of course, they’re not falling for it. Suguru grips your chin a little harshly but you can’t help but nibble on your bottom lip. Your cunt clenching around absolutely nothing at the blatant show of dominance. Satoru knows that look on your face, you’re slowly falling into that headspace of yours but Satoru doesn’t want you to completely lose yourself. 

At least, not yet.

“Words baby,” Suguru mutters, kissing the corner of your mouth once you take a deep breath to try and ground yourself. 

‘We need to hear you, Peach.”

“Yeah! Yes! Please…” You’re breathless as you throw your arms around Suguru who gets a grip on your thighs to be able to pick up and move you to the kitchen island. You’re going to need more room for the orgasm he’s about to give you. Your hips buck the moment he starts to slowly ease his middle finger inside you. 

“So tight.” Suguru places kisses on your trembling thighs, and all the while, Satoru hops onto the island to settle behind you. He’s glad he sent the chef and maid away for a couple more hours. Let’s be real though, they would have gladly given them a show too. He didn’t care but he knows you do.

“You’re so wet, Peach.”

“She’s sucking my fingers right in.”

Satoru chuckles, bringing his finger to press into your clit before rubbing it while Suguru's fingers continued to pump in and out of your cunt. The sounds cause both men to grow hornier as they watch your orgasm build, you're falling back against Satoru’s chest as he moves to the area above your clit. Suguru takes the opportunity to roll his tongue over your clit before flicking it a couple of times.

“That’s it, love.” Satoru kisses his way down your neck as your mouth falls open and your breathing continues to pick up. You’re right there if the way you try to squeeze your thighs around his hand and Suguru’s head says anything. It’s so hot. Fuck, you’re fucking gorgeous. “Let Sugu take care of you. Feels good doesn’t it?”

You moan in response, reaching for Satoru to bring him closer for a heated kiss. Your eyes close as he wastes no time, his tongue dancing with yours for dominance but ultimately winning.

“Taste sweet.” You throw your head back once more when Satoru starts to play with your bottom lip, gently running his thumb over it. You take it into your mouth, rolling it around your tongue and sucking on it lightly. You can feel how hard he is in your back, wanting to take care of them like they were taking care of you. You let go of his thumb with a soft pop as Suguru leans up to face both of you and quickly runs his palm back and forth over your clit.

“Please- ‘m- Fuck!”

“That’s it,” Satoru teases, running his tongue up your neck and over that spot that makes you shudder. “Don’t be shy, love.”

“Let it out, Petal. Let us hear you.” He whispers, looking at Satoru whose eyes are fixated on you. He wants to taste you until you scream their names. Nibble at your exposed skin until you’re whining for him to stop. He loves the sex-crazed look you get in your eye when you’re about to cum, especially when it’s directed towards him. 

Their faces are so close that Suguru's lips hover not quite touching yours as Satoru is still buried in your neck.

You’re fucking dripping onto the counter, their goal obvious once they catch each other's eyes again and smirk.

“You going to squirt for us, Petal?” Suguru keeps going, hearing you whine but your moans grow louder the moment your body lets go. He leans down, not wanting it to go to waste as his hands slow down but his tongue makes up the work. He continues to lap at your pussy as Satoru watches with sharp lust-filled eyes. 

“Taste good?” Satoru asks as Suguru smirks, giving your pussy a lasting kiss before coming up to meet you and Satoru. It doesn’t take long for Satory to grip his chin to tug him closer. Running his tongue from his chin to his mouth before making out and tasting you all on Sugur’s tongue. Satoru moans into the kiss as Suguru deepens it, all the while, you try to catch your breath before leaning forward to rub Suguru through his boxers.

“Fuck…” Suguru gasps, feeling you lap at his neck while Satoru still has his tongue in his mouth.

This is fucking heaven and god, he doesn’t want to break this.

“Beg for it,” Satoru smirks, pulling away from Suguru but keeping him close enough to feel his breath on his lips. “Beg us to take care of you.” You give Suguru’s cock a gentle squeeze before leaning back against Satoru’s hard chest.

Suguru closes his eyes, swearing he could cum right now. Your gaze is so intense that he knows he’s going to be in for it once you get back to the room.

“Satoru. Petal. Please touch me.” He’s practically begging both of you to do what you want with him. 

“You think that was good enough, Peach?”

You grin, pushing him down to kneel in front of you. 

“I think you can do better than that.”

Satoru hums as both of you stand in front of Suguru with wide grins on your face.

“I know he can too. Guess we’re going to have to fuck it out of him, right Suguru?”

And god, does Suguru's mind grow completely cloudy just thinking about it. 

He can’t fucking wait.

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[lupin-et-rose]

Delivery Service

Inspired by this prompt list

Dazai x Pregnant F!->Reader

Incomplete.

Warnings: Angst & Hurt/Comfort. Beware of mild curing, mentions of pregnancy, lactation, breast pumping, sexual organs, themes of bodily insecurities/dysmoprhia, maternal depression/mental health + Playing it fast and loose with maternity/paternity laws and practices.

Keywords/Kinks: 'Gentle & Commanding'

On a midday morning, you find yourself sitting on the edge of your bed, gazing into the full-length mirror across the room and feeling strangely…distant. Sitting there in what used to be a loose T-shirt, smoothing your hand over the swollen curve of your stomach as you stare at yourself in the full-length mirror, the room is empty, the house is empty, everything is quiet, and you are alone.

Every weekday morning has been like this. Only a few weeks into maternity leave, you already find yourself staring into the bedroom mirror every morning. After Dazai has bustled off to work for the morning and kissed you goodbye. After you’ve had the time to fully wake up and roll your pregnant self upright for the day - you catch your reflection in the full-length mirror, and it stops you in your tracks. Your hands wander over the swollen curve of what used to be a loose and oversized T-shirt. —You barely even recognise yourself anymore….

Staring back at you from that mirror is an almost foreign image. The girl looking back at you has grown. The soft, slender features that had graced her face have expanded a bit, her hips are wider, and the once flat stomach is almost entirely eclipsed by the swollen bump sitting there. That was you…but at the same time, it wasn’t.

You have to admit, the sight was almost surreal. It was hard not to stare at yourself in the mirror, watching the once familiar curves of your body disappear slowly into their soft, gravid shape. You’re so focused on the mirror that you almost don’t notice Dazai standing in the doorway, watching you with that usual soft, lovestruck look on his face. His voice, however, brings you out of your thoughts when he calls to you….

The sound of his voice startles you from your reverie. Sure, she'd sometimes daydreamed about her lover coming home early. But even in all her visions, picturing mirages of his love and comfort…he'd never indeed spoken. So, to hear his voice now-

But that doesn't make sense. He's supposed to be at work right now. The day would've just started, paperwork awaiting at everybody's desk, clients coming through the door. There was no way…The bed creaks beneath you as you crane your neck to see--oh my god, he's actually--

"You're here…"

He smiles in that slow, easy way of his, leaning against the doorframe as his eyes wander down your figure, taking in the subtle changes in your form since he was last in your presence. He makes no move to cross the space that separates you, choosing to watch you instead, taking in the sight of you as he replies.

“Of course I am, did you think I’d miss out on seeing a pretty sight like this?”

"I-I thought you'd already left for work-" Yuzuki glanced at the alarm clock on their bedside table. "It's already half-past ten--"

Dazai chuckles, stepping back from the doorway and entering your room, crossing the space in long strides before moving to sit on the edge of the bed next to you. He reaches out to you, placing a hand on the curve of your stomach as he looks up at you, his smile still in place on his face as he gently rubs his hand back and forth, admiring the bump there.

“A few clients won’t kill me. Besides…”

He grins widely.

“I think I’d rather be here with you than out there.”

"Please tell me you at least cleared things with Fukuzawa before you left-" You scanned your lover's face. The last thing you wanted was for your beloved to risk his job or any good standing with your friends, all for the sake of impulsively playing hooky just to look after you.

Dazai keeps smiling, the hand on your stomach moving up to push a strand of hair behind your ear before kissing your cheek affectionately. He laughs at your question and shakes his head. Of course, he did - he might be impulsive, but he’s not stupid.

“Of course, belladona. I told him I had a very important…responsibility~ that I needed to be here for…”

He smiled, leaning forward to kiss your belly gently. Then he looked back up at you. He was only partially sorry - he could never truly bring himself to feel too guilty for choosing to spend time with you.

You smiled and moved his hand to yours, intertwining your fingers. "Okay," you acquiesced, with just the slightest sigh of relief. "I'm glad you're here…"

Dazai squeezed your hand affectionately, moving over on the bed until he was sitting next to you and pulling you against his side, wrapping an arm around your waist and holding you close to him in a gentle embrace. He tilted his head to the side as he looked down at you, still smiling, his thumb rubbing small, soothing circles against your side. You knew he liked to do little things like this, especially now that you were pregnant. He was always touching your stomach, or gently rubbing your sides, or resting his hands and head on it as he tried to sense for movement.

***

[b4nka1]

inked. satosugu x fem!reader.

warnings: lots of sex, crying, nude photography, choking, needles, tattooing, mentions of reader being curvy and chubby, pussy eating, tongue fucking, oral (both receiving), hair pulling, come eating, double penetration, dick in pussy sex, fingering, dicks rubbing, lots of squirting, big dicks, unprotected sex, deepthroat, foul language, dni if uncomfortable. not proofread.

having two best friends who are tattoo artists makes it easier for you to search for a good parlor, relying on them for a tattoo. you had multiple tattoos all over your body, but you still wanted more. you pushed the doors open of their tattoo parlor, "coming in, satoru and suguru!"

you were welcomed by the sweet receptionist, ieri shoko who became a good friend overtime. "here for them again?" she grinned, winking at you. you laughed and nodded, "who would miss an opportunity to be tatted by their two very talented friends?" i replied, sitting comfortable on a chair.

after a while, a white head popped out of a room, greeting you with a big, almost mischievous smile, "ah, welcome now, (y/n). me and suguru are just finishing off, so please wait for a moment~" he sang as he went back inside to complete whatever he was working on.

"sure, satoru! i'll wait." i replied, looking around the walls. after almost a good 10 minutes, someone walked put of the room, and suguru came out, taking your hand in his, a big grin on his face, "my my, guess who decides to grace this small but cozy tattoo parlor with their presence." he guided you inside the room, motioning for you to sit down on the tattoo bench.

you sat down, "say guys, i want 2 tattoos today. one, maybe like, a bunch of flowers scattered only across my spine and two, a pair of black and white wings on my inner thighs, the one on my left being white and the one on my right one being black."

suguru took the notes down, and satoru had already begun sketching his ideas down on a sheet of paper. he had sketched a few designs, showing them to you, "here, choose the one that you think fits you right."

you tool the sketched from him and scrutinized them carefully, picking 2 of the best. suguru took them from your hands and started making a stencil, while satoru got the equipment ready for the tattoo on your back.

"that's gonna hurt a little so beware, little one." satoru whispered, placing a bottle of red ink and the tattoo gun down on the table. he took a sterile cotton ball and motioned for you to take your shirt off.

you did as you were told and laid down on your stomach, as satoru wiped the skin on your spine with it, making sure to sterilize the area. "you want some numbing cream on before we start?" he asked, taking another sterile cotton ball and sterilizing the needles.

you shook your head, which quite surprised satoru, "my my, you're the first one to deny a numbing cream for the spine." i cooed, taking his sunglasses off his face as suguru handed him the stencil. he placed it on your back and peeled it off once the temporary ink settled onto your skin.

"let's begin now, princess." satoru said, gently stroking your back, "buckle up, princess. it's gonna hurt a little." you heard the buzzing of the tattoo gun as he brought it to your skin and began tattooing your back, suguru waiting patiently for his turn to ink your thighs.

suguru could see the distress on your face from the pain. he took your hand in his, gently rubbing your knuckles. "it's just a matter of maybe an hour, princess. you'll be okay." he whispered, sitting down next to you as satoru continued inking your skin.

after what it felt like en eternity, satoru was done, switching the tattoo gun off, placing it down on the station. "there, princess. it's all done." he smirked, taking a few steps back with his hands on his hips to admire his work.

suguru took a look, "that's really good, satoru. show it to the princess for herself to see." satoru took a photo of the tattoo and showed it to you.

"wow, that's very pretty! just like i imagined it. thank you, satoru!" you beamed up at him, and satoru patted your head, "it's no big deal, cutie. anything for our bestfriend." he smirked.

satoru got up, stretching, "do you wanna take a break before we proceed to complete the tattoo on your thighs?" he asked, making sure you were okay. you nodded and replied, "just a few minutes, it hurts and burns a little."

as soon as you said that, satoru got a cooling aftercare gel and applied it to the new addition of your tattoos. you sighed in relief once it began cooling your skin down.

after a few minutes, you nodded towards geto. "i'm ready for the one on my thighs." you said, fiddling with the hem of your skirt. suguru gave you a smile, patting your head, "fine, i want you to evenly spread your legs so that i can stencil it." the smile turned into a smirk, as he gently sat you up on the seat.

you blushed and nodded, pulling your skirt up and did what you were told to. suguru hummed, sensually stroking the skin of your inner thighs a little before placing the stencil on your left thigh accurately. "perfect." he spoke to himself, getting his equipment ready.

satoru came to you, sitting down next to you and put a hand around your shoulders, "this one is gonna hurt too, sweetie. just inhale and exhale and relax, and divert your attention to somewhere else."

you nodded, inhaling a deep breath once suguru brought the gun to your skin, starting to ink your chubby thighs. you bit your lip in pain, wincing as he continued to outline the wings.

once he was done outlining, he put the gun down, deciding to give you a small break. "shading comes in now. that's gonna hurt a lot more. say, satoru. why don't you help her in diverting her attention away from the pain?" he gave a wink to satoru, and satoru rose from his seat, smirking down at you.

"princess, i know the perfect way i can help you divert your attention away." he whispered into your ear, ghosting his fingertips over your thighs, tugging at the elastic of your panties. without warning, he slid them off your body, tossing them to another corner of the room.

you squeaked like a rat, and suguru placed a soft kiss on your calf to calm you down. "relax princess, i'm helping you to not focus on the pain. be a good girl now."

they book looked at you with hungry eyes, and you couldn't help but give in to your best friends. you nodded, and suguru picked the tattoo gun up again, bringing it down to your skin.

"toru, open her legs wide apart and do your work while i do mine." he commanded, and satoru immediately obliged, placing a sweet kiss to your now exposed cunt, holding your legs wide open.

you moaned, as the needles pricked your skin, while satoru continued placing kisses all over your cunt and the other thigh. the trick definitely worked. you focused more on the pleasure than the pain itself.

satoru poked his tongue out of his mouth, teasing your clit with just the tip of his tongue which sent shockwaves throughout your body. "stop squirming." suguru growled, not looking up from the art he was creating.

satoru shook his head, continuing to lap at your clit with his tongue, as your wetness dripped onto the seat. he whistled, "suguru, the princess has made a mess all over the seat~," he sang, dipping his head back down to gently suck your clit into his mouth and a loud moan tore itself from your throat.

suguru smirked, "satoru, it seems like her focus is towards the pleasure. continue doing so, we can't let our best friend endure pain, can we?" he chuckled, going back to his work.

satoru grinned, licking and sucking your clit, while one of his fingers rubbed your entrance, pushing it in with force. another moan escaped past your lips, squirming more.

suguru was enjoying the little show, smirking every time you squirmed. it made you look so cute. so submissive under your bestfriends.

satoru being a cocky bitch, nibbled on your clit, tongue brushing against your clit. you were squirming too much at this point, which disturbed suguru so much. he grabbed your face with force, making you look into his eyes. "princess, stop squirming unless you want the needle to stab you to death." he growled, letting go of your face and going back to work.

"oopsie." satoru said, holding your juicy pussy lips apart, spitting on your clit and going back to tickle and kiss and suck on it. you were a moaning mess, thighs trembling as you came.

"my my, thank fucking god that the princess didn't make a bigger mess." satoru cooed, continuing to assault your clit, nibbling, tweaking it with his fingers, licking, sucking and kissing on it.

before you knew, suguru was done with both the thighs. satoru gave a final lick to your slit, pulling back.

"her pussy is more swollen than her thighs." suguru joked, taking his gloved off and putting a cooling gel onto the tattoo. "a-are we done...?" you asked, chest heaving up and down due to the 2 orgasms satoru gave you in one sitting.

suguru smiled sympathetically at you, "no princess, only satoru has had his fun." he grinned, one of his hand coming down to gently slide his fingers through your slit.

"awe princess, you're so messy~" he teased, bringing his fingers coated in your cum to his mouth, sucking them clean, which made you moan.

satoru ran his fingers through your hair soothingly, whispering into your ear, "we both are going to take our own time to deal with you, pretty princess."

you swallowed hard, feeling their hungry gazes on you. satoru, being the impatient little bitch he is, made his first move, kissing you with full force, holding you down with one hand and roughly fucking you with two fingers, while suguru simply watched, a huge bulge visible in his pants.

now getting impatient as well, suguru unzipped his pants, pulling his boxers and pants down enough for his huge dick to spring free. it was too big. a little over 7 inches, at least. it was very fat, and you were worried about taking it into your mouth.

he brought it to your mouth, tapping it thrice against your lips and without word you took him, jaw stretching as he shoved it entirely into your mouth.

satoru licked his lips, "mmh that's a huge dick, suguru...didn't know that you came with the whole package." he joked, shoving a third finger into you while sucking on your clit, lapping up at your juices.

suguru grunted and fucked his dick into your mouth as tears made their way down your cheeks due to his dick being shoved in roughly. satoru pulled his fingers out, shoving them in suguru's mouth.

"mmh, so sweet, just like nectar..." suguru whistled, fastening his pace of thrusting into your mouth. you held onto his thigh, feeling brain fucked. the fat tip of his dick repeatedly hit the back of your throat. he grunted, gathering your hair into a ponytail, pulling harshly as he thrusts got sloppy. "mmh i'm gonna cum..." he grunted, his hips stilling.

to his shock, satoru pushed your mouth away from his dick, deepthroating suguru himself as suguru groaned loudly, emptying his load into satoru's mouth. he came so much, some of it even dripped down the corners of satoru's mouth.

you swallowed hard as satoru turned towards you with a grin, kissing you roughly, sharing suguru's come with you. it was so hot, so fuckin hot that suguru went half hard again.

"s'good..." he licked his lips, eating off the rest of the cum. you wiped your cheeks while satoru helped you onto the floor, on your knees, "time to suck my dick now, princess. it's nearly the same size as suguru's, just a little smaller and thicker." he grinned, pulling his thick, veiny dick out of his boxers, positioning it in front of your mouth.

just as you opened your mouth to take it in, you heard the flash of a camera. suguru, with a wide smirk on his face, took a photo of you in this position. you were so fucking vulnerable.

"ah, just right." he spoke to himself, tossing his phone onto the seat. he palmed himself, waiting for satoru to get done.

satoru shoved his dick into your mouth, and his girth was definitely bigger than suguru's. you moaned, while he bottomed out in your mouth. soft grunts escaped his dick as you sucked on him, tracing every vein on his dick.

satoru wasn't someone who lasts long. within a few minutes he was spilling his seed into your mouth, grunting in satisfaction.

"now now, princess. time for the real deal." suguru put you back onto the seat, pressing his chest against your back. "this is super uncomfortable." he grumbled, unhooking your bra and tossing it to the side.

satoru whistled, face coming close to your exposed boobs, ghosting his tongue around your nipple. he took it in his mouth, suckling on it while you moaned. suguru tweaked the other one in between his index and thumb, making you arch your back.

satoru let go of you nipple with a pop, grinning at you, shoving three fingers back into you, "mmh perfectly stretched out. suguru, shove it in." he grinned, holding you up and suguru put you on his lap, rubbing his dick along your slit before shoving it in, as you cried. once his dick was in completely, he let you relax around him.

"tell me when to move and i will." he grunted, tilting his head backwards as the tight heat surrounded his pulsating cock.

satoru cooed, rubbing your clit a little before sliding a finger next to suguru's cock. "hm, i should fit in along if i stretch you out just a little more." your vagina clenched around the girth of suguru's dick when satoru shoved one more finger in, rubbing your clit with his thumb.

once he was satisfied, he pulled his fingers out and shoved his dick in with great difficulty, moaning at the extreme tightness of your cunt pulsating against their own pulsating dicks.

suguru began thrusting in while satoru relaxed, letting himself adjust. once he got used to it, they alternated in thrusting into your cunt, which made you scream in pleasure.

satoru moaned into your ear, having a vice grip on your sides, thrusting upwards as his thighs trembled, shuddering aa he moaned and came into your cunt, being overstimulated from your mouth already.

suguru scoffed, "can't even last for at least 5 minutes, satoru?" he teased, pulling satoru's fave close to his, roughly kissing him.

satoru moaned, kissing him back as he kept thrusting into your cunt sloppily. you whined, shaking as your orgasm approached you. a few more thrusts from them is all it took for you to squirt like a fountain all over their dicks, messing the seat and the floor in the liquid.

satoru pulled out, feeling super overstimulated as he continued kissing suguru who was busy chasing his high. with a final grunt, he thrusted up into your cunt, dick pulsating as he came all into your cunt, and there was a lot of it.

he stayed like that for a little, pulling out after sometime. he moaned looking at his and satoru's come leak out of your cunt.

"oh suguru, don't you think we need to take a photo of her tattoos?" satoru grinned. suguru nodded, a mischievous grin playing on his face as he grabbed your thighs, holding your legs wide apart. satoru angled his phone, taking a photo of the tattoo on your thighs while your cunt leaked of their cum.

"i'm gatekeeping this to me and suguru." he licked his lips, shoving his phone back into his pocket. he leaned down, gathering all the leaked cum and thrusting his tongue into your gaping cunt, fucking the cum back in, as a sob escaped your lips, feeling too overstimulated.

suguru groaned, "you never have enough of it, do you?" he pulled satoru away from you, pulling him on his lap, kissing him roughly. their dicks shamelessly rutted against each other, and it took just a matter of seconds for satoru to tremble and shiver and cum all over his own and suguru's dick again.

"satoru, shit, i didn't know you were so fuckin...horny." he grunted, pressing satoru's body close to his, as satoru kept on rutting his dick against suguru's, wanting suguru to come all over him. and suguru did. white ropes of his come shot out of his cock, painting satoru's chest white. they both panted, collapsing onto the seat.

satoru sighed, looking at you and stroked your hair, giving you a sweet smile. suguru shoved satoru off his lap, pulling your head to rest against his lap.

"did you like it?" he asked, stroking your cheeks. you blushed and nodded, hiding your face into your hands. suguru laughed softly, stroking your head.

satoru grinned at suguru, "are you done?" he asked and suguru nodded. "well, i'm not." he said, bringing his face to your cunt and eating you out, ready for round two.

[hungharrington]

Could you write some smut of Steve with a girl who’s insecure about her thick thighs and he’s like obsessed with them

thank u for the request honey! hope this is okay <3 1.3k. warnings: afab!reader, steve eating r out, fingering, r is very critical of her own body image so beware!) remember babies, every body is a good body <3 ur all hot as fuck

By the time Steve’s kisses reach your stomach, you’re beginning to squirm.

Not for the reason’s one might hope for though.

Somehow, Steve notices as well — which is a surprise considering you’re focused entirely on trying not to show this part of you, literally and figuratively. Maybe you should be endeared that he’s so keyed onto you that he can tell the moment a concern worms into your head. It’s all love, after all.

“Uh oh,” Steve says, mouth still hovering just above your belly. He presses one more quick kiss and moves up a bit more so he can see your face clearer. His own brows knit together as he says, “You got that little wrinkle between your brows—”

He pokes between your eyebrows with his finger lightly and you realise he’s right, your face smoothing as you try to school it. Too late.

“Something’s wrong.” He states obviously. His next words are softer, kinder. “You not in the mood anymore?”

You’re shaking your head before he’s even finished his sentence, sitting up a bit straighter. “No, no, it’s not that.”

Steve relaxes a bit at you words, more of his weight resting back on the cradle of your hips. You can feel the hairs of his happy trail press against your tummy, the bend of his arms pressed against your sides. He ducks his head low and plants another kiss to your ribcage.

“Mm, what is it then?” He hums lowly. Another kiss, his bottom lip scraping as he drags his mouth along your skin lovingly. They drop from his mouth easily, one after the other, leaving a mess of wet kisses across your midriff.

You sigh softly, desire churning up inside your belly, fiery hot. Steve trails down, hands slipping to pinch at the edges of your panties and he begins working them down. You let him, breathes turning to pants as Steve’s kisses turn a little meaner. He nips and nibbles as he travels down.

Pulling back for a moment, Steve grins as you kick out your ankle and send your panties flying— his hands settling back on your knees and gliding down to hold your thighs tenderly. You can’t help it— you squirm again.

“There!” Steve says, about to lean back down to kiss you but pausing when he notices it again. “What are you- why’re squirming, honey?”

And oh, he’s figured you out completely.

You fight the urge to pout and find it hard to meet Steve’s brown eyes when he’s doing that goddamn sweet look that makes you want to tell him everything. It’s stupid. It’s stupid.

Steve tries to give you a comforting squeeze but he doesn’t seem to realise he’s squeezing the very problem; your thighs. You squirm again.

“C’mon, what is—”

“I just don’t… like my thighs that much.” You admit, swallowing back your embarrassment. You stare at the ceiling, a little annoyed that you’ve interrupted sex so you can talk about this. “And when you touch them too much… it just draws attention to them and— ugh! Can we not talk about this right now?”

Your try to press your thighs closed, feeling too exposed, but Steve doesn’t let you. His hands are gentle but firm and you look back down at him, wilting a bit at his sad and confused expression.

“What’s wrong with your thighs?” Steve asks earnestly. He sounds genuinely a bit devastated.

“Steve.”

“No, I wanna know.” He insists, hands still on your thighs, fingers pressing in. “What’s wrong with your thighs?”

You feel like you might cry — in frustration, in your own freakin’ self pity. Your voice is a weak whisper when you say, “Steve, they’re huge.”

Your eyes crush close so you don’t have to see Steve’s face, sighing to yourself and the ugly emotion wrestling with your chest. You wait for the touch on your thighs to retreat but… it doesn’t.

“And?” Steve says finally. He seems to remember his hands, fingers moving deftly to start massaging the flesh of your thighs. All the moves of a well-learned lover, devoted.

“And you don’t think that I love that?”

He bends and peppers kisses along the inside of your thigh, slow and purposeful. You can’t help how you squirm under the touch but this time Steve is expecting it. He doesn’t let up, just switches to the other thigh and murmurs against your skin, “You think that I don’t love that there’s more of you I can love on?”

You feel like, maybe, you want to cry again for a whole ‘nother reason this time. He’s so fucking nice to you.

Steve’s kisses grow more fervent, his teeth nipping at the skin — his hands slide down to your hips, grabbing at the doughy flesh appreciatively.

“Can’t believe,” he murmurs between his kisses. “You don’t think I love these— that these aren’t one of my favorite things about you.”

His kisses are so far down your inner thighs, it sets your arousal spiking high, you’re slick just inches from his hungry mouth. This time when your say his name, it’s in a whiny keen.

“Steve.”

“I got you, honey,” He assures you, his fingers gliding along the softness of your inner thighs, finding the well of slick building at your entrance. He teases at it, fingers gathering your slick and spreading it through your folds.

His kisses resume where you thigh meets your hip, easing his finger into your cunt and this time, when you start to squirm and write, it’s because of the blazing lust that aches deep in your gut. You can’t help but moan.

“Shhh, I got you.” Steve whispers, his finger fucking slowly in and slowly out. Every movement is paired with a dozen kisses along your thighs, dropping little reminders of his love. Your heart blazes nearly as hot as your cunt, especially as Steve’s murmurs continue. “Yeah, that’s it, I got you, sweet girl.”

You mewl pitifully at his words, torn between the urge to squirm at how he grips your thighs again, fingers spread wide and grip hungry — but it’s devoured up instantly when he leans down and puts his mouth on you.

His tongue is warm, poking around your clit almost experimentally. He hums, a deep nearly growling noise of content, and dives in. His lips wrap around your clit and he flicks his tongue expertly, in time with his finger pumping in and out of you, making your back arch and another whimper of his name leave your mouth.

“Steve, fuck— Steve,” you pant. One of your hand begs to be holding his but he’s too enraptured by doting on you and your particular insecurity.

Steve pulls off, reaching his thumb up to roll your clit beneath it tantalising well. He nuzzles into your v-line adoringly, planting even more kisses. “My pretty girl, mmm,” He says, voice raspy. “So good, letting me make her feel good, yeah? Letting me love on her thighs.”

You nod without thinking, just agreeing with whatever comes out his mouth. You’re getting warmer and warmer, wound tighter and tighter. This time when you go searching for his hand across the sheets, Steve spots it right away and his free hand lurches out to intertwine with yours. He gives it a quick squeeze.

“You squeeze real hard to tell me how good m’doing, okay?” He says, not really asking — because then his mouth is back on your clit, his finger in your cunt joined by another and moving with renewed vigour. A moan warbles out your throat, hips rolling in your pleasure as he plays with your body in that perfect way only he seems to know. Pleasure mounts, close to blooming. Your thighs start to tremble.

Your hold his hand is so tight, you must leave indent marks, half moons on his skin — and you don’t let up the whole entire time. Testament to how good he is, at loving you and making you feel good.

[dfortrafalgar]

I'm Losing You

Having a family isn't always as easy as fairy tales make it seem.

Warnings: Read chapter 1 for warnings. posting two chapters today just because chapter 11 was so short in comparison! Beware... chapter 13 is when things start to get heavy again </3

Taglist: @phsycochan | @mirillua | @augustanna | @chaixsherlock

Chapter 12

[Prev] [Next]

While Law was busy with work, Shachi and Penguin had become more akin to doting brothers than friends during your post-op care… but today your apartment was bustling.  Penguin had taken the liberty of using your phone to invite Ikkaku, who brought Nami and Usopp in tow.  As you laid in your bed fighting off a mild headache, the sounds of chattering and cleaning in your apartment filled your closed off bedroom.  At one point, something heavy had clattered against your kitchen floor, followed by harsh shushes warning the perpetrator of keeping silent so you could catch up on sleep.  Not like that made a difference.

You checked your phone that was set charging on your bedside table.  1:00PM.  You were thirsty.

Standing, you grabbed your empty glass and began to pace out of your room and toward the kitchen.  Your recovery had been incredibly swift, and you had achieved a total of five days off from work with the help of the weekend.  Your incision site healed quickly with a barely-visible scar, and while you still had a bit of recovery left, you had begun to feel much more like yourself.  Helped in part by your official diagnosis: endometriosis.  Not that you were surprised by that, but it definitely felt good to have an actual answer to your troubles.  The few cysts that were found on your ovary were also benign, and your call with Dr. Robin to discuss your results left you feeling surprisingly refreshed.  Things felt like they were finally starting to look up.

You rounded the corner of your apartment and entered your living area, the smell of pine and lemon-scented floor cleaner invading your nostrils and making you grimace.  Your gaggle of friends were seated around the kitchen table, digging into more left-over chocolate chip cookies that, at this point, had to be beyond stale.  

“Hey, there’s the woman of the hour!” called Usopp.  “Sorry if we woke you up.”  He flashed a toothy grin as he popped a cookie into his mouth.

You smiled, meandering to the sink to refill your glass with fresh water.  “Nah, it’s all good!  Thank you guys for cleaning up and spending time with Bepo, I really appreciate it, you know.”

Nami leaned back in her chair, tossing her arm over the back of it to twist her torso and gaze at you.  “It’s no problem at all, it’s the least we could do!  You deserve all the rest you can get after everything that’s happened.”  Her friendly grin quickly morphed into one of mischievous intent.  “Though, if you wanted to Venmo me, I wouldn’t say no.”

“Nami!  The poor woman is struggling!” Ikkaku placed a firm slap to Nami’s shoulder, making the red-head wince.

You were laughing as you approached the table to sit with your friends, politely denying the stale cookies that were offered to you.  “No no, she’s right.  I’ll think of something I can do to repay all of you for all the help you’ve been to Law and I.  I don’t feel right not treating you guys back in the same way.”

Shachi stretched his arms above his head and cracked his knuckles, uttering a deep groan at the feeling of his shoulders extending.  “Give your future kid my name, and we’ll call it even.”

“No fair, I wanted my name passed down!” shouted Penguin.

You sputtered a laugh against the lip of your glass.  It still filled you with a bit of discomfort to discuss the topic of pregnancy so soon, but your friends’ lighthearted attitudes made your feelings a bit easier to cope with.  “Not to disappoint, but Law and I already have names picked out.  None of you were on the list.”

Two disappointed sighs came from your husband’s best friends, but Ikkaku excitedly leaned forward against the table with her head in her hands.  “What are the options?”

You circled one of your fingers around the rim of your glass.  “Law really wanted his family to be honored in some way, so right now our favorite choices are Cora, Rose or Rosa, and Lami.  He said he felt a little strange having our kid’s first name be his sister’s, so if we have a daughter her middle name will probably be Lami.”

Usopp sighed dreamily.  “He’s so sentimental, isn’t he?”

Ikkaku giggled.  “Never say that to his face, though, or he’ll–”

The front door cracked open.  From the corner of the room, Bepo picked his head up.

“Say ‘what’ to my face?”  Law entered his apartment with a grouchy expression, closing and locking the door before shrugging off his light jacket and placing his hat on a hook behind the door.

“Hi, honey!” you called, your eyes immediately lighting up at the sight of your husband.  “You’re home early!”

Law stretched his back and wobbled toward the kitchen, opening the fridge and grabbing an energy drink from the door.  “Well, I had a surgery this evening, but the patient ended up coding.”

Nami cocked her head.  “What does that mean?”

“He croaked,” replied Law, taking a sip and assuming a protective stance behind your chair.  “Can’t perform surgery on a dead guy.”

“Aw, that’s too bad…” Ikkaku chimed in, her excited posture manifesting into a more forlorn slouch.  “You must see that a lot, huh?”

Law shrugged.  “Not really, most of the time it’s elderly people who die before they get treatment.  It’s hard when you’re old.”

You reached a hand up behind you, placing it on your husband’s shoulder.  He took his free hand and wrapped it around your own.  “Well, I’m glad you got to come home early.  Everyone spent the entire day cleaning the house while I was in bed.”

“Is that why it smells like pine cleaner in here?” he asked, somewhat confused.

“Usopp spilled the bottle on the floor,” Nami piped up.

“It was an accident,” the curly-haired man replied with a perturbed hiss.

—

The plate of cookies was discarded, the kitchen was finished being cleaned, and your friends had all departed for the night, leaving you and Law cuddling alone on your couch as a brain-dead comedy rerun played on the television.  Bepo remained on his plush bed in the corner, his entire body upside down and snoring away peacefully.  You laid against Law’s chest as his lean hands ran up and down your sides, ghosting the skin beneath your cotton shirt with pleasant electric tickles that made you stifle a giggle occasionally.

“Hey, can we talk?” Law asked, eyes still trained on the television, but clearly not absorbing any of the half-assed jokes and canned laugh track.

“Yeah, of course,” you replied, shifting a little against his body to face him.  You reached over his head for the remote that was sitting on the arm of your couch, pressing the power button to turn off the television and envelope you and your husband in a calm silence.

Law smiled weakly, his golden eyes now trained on your own.  “Did you get a call back from your doctor?”

You nodded.  “I do have endometriosis, and the cysts on my ovaries are benign.  She actually said they were quite small and said if they started causing me more trouble, then they could be dealt with.”

Your husband ran his hand over the back of your head.  “And how do you feel about that?”

You sighed, leaning your head against his chest, listening to the way his heart thrummed against his rib cage.  “I feel… strange.  It’s weird to know that this entire condition was under the radar for my entire life until we started wanting to have kids.  And everything’s been happening so quickly, sometimes I feel like the entire world is spinning around me.”

Law hummed.  “I bet… it’s been a hard few months.”

You closed your eyes, your own hand trailing fleeting touches up and down his shoulder.  “Thank you for sticking with me, Law.”

Your husband picked his head up to gaze down at the top of your head.  “Why would you have to thank me for that?”

“Well…” you began, struggling to form words.  You felt too ashamed to face him head-on, and chose instead to keep hiding your gaze in his chest.  “We’ve been married for over two years, and I still haven’t been able to give you a baby like we’ve wanted.  So the fact that you’ve stayed with me–”

“Let me interrupt you right there.”  Law’s tone was firm and authoritative as he interjected.  “Do you remember what I told you before I got my own test done?  That I’m your husband and that I refuse to leave you over an idle issue?”

You dug through your brain’s memory bank, finally settling on the vision of the two of you in much the same position as you were now.  You smiled faintly.  “Right, the issue that might be resolved.”

Law pinched your cheek in his fingers.  “Will be resolved.  And do you remember what we promised each other on our wedding day?”

“Law, why are you quizzing me?” you questioned, voice barely higher than a whisper, as you finally lifted your head and made eye contact with your husband.

He didn’t answer you, instead continuing his own train of thought.  “On our wedding day, one of the promises we made to each other was ‘in sickness and in health.’  I feel sick to my stomach when I imagine a world where I leave you over this.”  His hands continued rubbing your back as he spoke.  “No one could have predicted this outcome.  No one could have ever expected a reality like this, but it’s a reality that we’re sharing.  I’m happy without children just as I’d be happy with children.  What matters the most to me right now, at this moment, is that you’re still here with me.  Right now, your health and wellbeing is more important than any hypothetical child.”

Law’s words were rapidly provoking heavy, salty tears to well in your eyes, which quickly overflowed down your cheeks and into the fabric of his shirt.  One of his hands caressed your cheek, feeling as your jaw shifted and you sniffled away the snot that was also forming in your sinuses at his words.  You blubbered, a weak smile crawling onto your weary lips.  “How do you always know how to make me cry?”

Your husband’s chest bounced slightly with his own chuckle.  “You bring the sap out of me.”

You laughed into his neck.  “For someone who claims to be shit with emotions, you’re surprisingly eloquent.”

He responded to your words by placing a tender kiss on the crown of your head.  “Well of course.  I need to make sure I keep my wife smiling, after all.”

After a few brief moments of gentle caresses, your tears subsided enough for you to ask, “When we get the okay from my doctor… Do you still want to try again for another baby?”

Law smiled.  “For as long as you want to keep trying, so do I.”

[karlachismylife]

Masochistic Kid With a Split Lip

CW: gn!sergeant!reader, descriptions of injuries and violence, brief descriptions of hospitals and medication, hurt/comfort.

(Title from Ren's song "Suic*de" , although I'm not sure the asterisk is by author's design. There is nothing about this theme in the fic itself!! Just a really good song with a fitting lyric.)

Also I wrote the fic first, then saw this art and it's kinda fitting. Beware, depiction of injuriess!! Go support the artist, it's beautiful work.

Usually you didn't have a single complaint about staying on a sniper position, providing cover and watching the main action unfold through a well-tuned scope or a pair of binoculars. Keeping your head clear, hands steady and ready to shoot whenever an order came in or the situation demanded.

However, this meant a lot of things escaped your attention, only coming through the comms as a radio play - and as any radio play, it relied heavily on your own imagination painting the picture, often much more saturated and vivid than reality turned out to be whenever you were re-told the events by your fellow teammates.

Close combat and buildings infiltration stayed outside your sight. And you were content with not witnessing someone's heroics firsthand - up until today.

Today you cursed the order that held you in your place.

Now, looking at Soap's face, beaten to a pulp, blood literally gushing down like a full-water river from his split eyebrow and nose that got almost evened out into a flat surface - that must've been that horrifying wet crack you heard before his microphone got torn off and trampled - you could put every hit, groan and thud to a visual aftermath. Limping and nursing a hand with a wrist that should have never been able to take that angle, he hung off Ghost's shoulder like a flabby, ratted scrap of cloth, but even as his inhumanely bloodshot eye struggled to focus or simply stay open, he still looked at you and tried to grin, teeth painted red behind painfully stretching split lips.

You held his one good hand that didn't get shattered into pieces after being repeatedly stomped on all the way back to the base.

"Get some sleep. You look exhausted," told you your Captain, his big supportive hand squeezing your stiff shoulder. You tried to voice a protest, sitting upright in the uncomfortable chair across from the infirmary bed, where Soap was already out like a light on the generous painkillers cocktail, but Price shoot you a warning, stern glare and furrowed his brows. "That's an order, Sergeant. Soap's gonna sleep for hours straight, and he'll need ya fresh and awake by the time he comes back, not a barely coherent sleep-deprived mess. Take a shower. Grab a bite to eat. Drink a cuppa. Have some sleep."

"Go. I'll stay in case he wakes early, I'll shoot you a message." You nearly snapped your neck as you turned to the source of the gruff voice - how long had Ghost been standing there, arms crossed, hunched back supporting the bleak medical green wall, eyes with some black still clinging around even after a shower glued to what could barely be recognized as Johnny's face.

Leaving this little room reeking of hospital seemed terrifying, but arguing with both your superior officers was a losing game - especially when they were right.

You still could barely sleep, waking up twice to the phantom feeling of blood from a broken nose filling your sinuses and throat, thick, viscous irony mass preventing you from breathing. Your sheets sticked to the wet patch of cold sweat between your shoulderblades, heart racing as you tried to push away the invasive thought of Johnny silently choking on his own blood in a closed off medical wing.

Morning found you with a warm thermos of sweet black tea - liquid energy - clutched in hands hanging between your knees on the same chair you were banished from mere hours ago. Ghost left an hour later after you sat down and showed no intention to move, probably satisfied with the bare minimum of rest you took and unwilling to argue with you when your eyes had that crazed glint of desperation deep inside pulsing pupils.

The first sound Soap produced sent a shockwave down your spine, jolting your whole body and immediately forcing you close to his bedside with the power of a gravity field of the sun that Johnny was.

"Well, good morning to you too," you smiled at him weakly, gripping the healthy hand he outstretched towards you and bringing it to your lips. "You're still handsome, you know?"

"LT said Ah looked lik' shite yesterday, " his own smile was timid, small, constricted by the pain of fresh wounds - his pouty lips were a swollen mess with dried blood stuck in the deep cut in the middle. "Dinnae ken whom tae believe oot of ye two."

Even the softest chuckle, successfully elicited from you, made Johnny's eyes sparkle brighter - beaten or not, he still charged off other people's energy, and now you were grateful to your Captain and Lieutenant for the fact that you weren't an exhusted knot of naked wires ready to shortcircuit and burst into tears due to plain emotional exhaustion.

"So you'll take Simon's word over mine, huh?" An unsaid I'm glad you're alive and laughing fell onto the stale sheet, barely avoiding Johnny's fucked up hand, put together like a puzzle in the course of several hours yesterday. "I want to kiss you, you know."

"I wanntae kiss ye too, bonnie," he rasped, licking his dry, bruised lips and glancing at yours. "Doc didnae say we cannae, ye ken? Gonnae kiss me a'right and Ah'll be good as new, aye?"

"Are you sure I'm not gonna hurt you, sunshine?" Oh how tempting he was, even lying with a broken nose and stitches in random patches of skin - still victorious. Ye shoulda seen th' other guy, bonnie - he told you in his dazed state yesterday. Ghost chuckled darkly and muttered there wasn't anything left to see under his nose.

"Ah'm sure. C'mere, Ah missed ye." Johnny's good hand gripped you almost desperately, barely a shiver of pain in fingers weakened by huge doses of whatever they pumped into him to keep his shocked body stable. He tugged on your wrist insistently, and you gave in, leaning down carefully and timidly touching his lips with yours.

Of course it wouldn't do, it was Johnny you kissed.

He pressed his mouth into yours greedily, breath stuttering with a poorly muffled grunt - startled, you tried to pull away and check on him, stop causing him pain and soothe the wounds you disturbed, but he already cupped the back of your head, digging his fingers into your scalp harshly, and showed no intent of stopping.

"Mmph, Johnny, you're- hurt... mmh!"

No chance. Wincing and grunting like an old man with a broken back, Soap kept kissing you, giggling into your worried mouth like a little troublemaker.

You decided, you were going to tell Ghost.

[junkissed]

Imagine sweet sweet junnie letting you put make up on him while you're sitting in his lap and he ends up looking so insanely pretty with glittery eyeshadow and cherry red lips that you're moaning at the sight and he grabs your hips to start grinding into you 'why are you moaning so prettily my love? do I look that good?' and oh wow look at that somehow you ended up butt naked with lipstick marks all over 👄

i literally fell off my bed and rolled around on the floor for an hour after reading this oh my god what did i do to deserve this anon you're criminally insane

member — junhui x f!reader genre — smut, fluff word count — 2.5k synopsis — jun wants you to put makeup on him for the party you're going to tonight, but why go out when you've got a gorgeous man right here instead? warnings — reader has a vagina and breasts, nicknames (my love, baby, sweet girl, good girl), a bit of dry humping, fingering, jun has a hair pulling kink (?), marking, briefly mentioned big dick jun, creampie (what did you expect from me), a very improper use of lipstick, established relationship, it gets really soft at times beware

“you should do my makeup,” jun says nonchalantly, sitting in the chair in the corner of your room.

you glance up at the mirror, holding his gaze in the reflection, your hand paused with your eyeshadow brush inches away from your face. “since when do you want makeup for a frat party?”

“since now.” he shrugs, leaning back against the chair and stretching out his legs. your eyes automatically fall to the empty space in his lap before darting back up to his face. “why not? it looks so pretty on you. we can match.”

you give him a look at the sudden compliment, but you set the brush down and turn around in your chair to face him. “fine. what do you want, just eyes? or the whole face?”

he runs a hand through his hair once, blond hair falling across his forehead. “up to you. but i want the lipstick you’re wearing.”

you stare at him for a second, noticing the troublemaking gleam in his eyes that hints at his true intentions. but finally you grin, grabbing the eyeshadow palette from the table and bringing it over to him. 

you could just as easily have him sit in front of the mirror like you had done, but he’s not the only one who can play games. you cross the room and sit down on one of his spread legs; to anyone else, it may seem like an innocent enough gesture, but both of you know what you’re doing. teasing.

you sweep your brush through a glittery powder, a shade not far from yours but still bright enough to stand out. he did want to match, after all. but just as you’re about to apply it to his face, you feel his hands reach out to grip your waist.

“you’re too far away,” he says casually, but you could swear you heard a whine in his voice. he tugs on your hips to draw you further up his leg. “don’t you have to get closer to do it?”

you keep as straight a face as you can as you stand up to adjust yourself, sitting back down so you’re straddling his lap with one leg on either side of his hips.

“is this better?” you ask, sinking down just a little bit more so your thigh brushes against the bulge you had suspected might be there.

he lets out a barely audible sigh as his hands trail down your waist. “mm, yeah.”

you try not to smirk as you bring your hand up to his cheek. “now close your eyes for me, junnie.”

he does as he’s told, pretty eyelashes fluttering shut as you begin to work. each brushstroke spreads the glittery substance across his lids, and you can’t help but smile as you watch his face, studying the way the shadows from the cheap yellow overhead light fall so gracefully across his cheekbones.

you rub at the corner of his eye with your thumb and then stand up, walking back over to your makeup bag. jun huffs, and in your peripheral you can see him not-so-subtly adjusting his pants.

you grab what you were looking for and sit down again, this time pushing down a little rougher on his bulge and eliciting a louder whine from his pretty lips. “forgot my eyeliner pencil,” you say coolly, resting your hand on his cheek again.

“mhm,” he says in a way that you know he doesn’t believe you, but he closes his eyes anyway.

you smudge the dark pencil at his eyelashes, giving him directions about where to look so you can apply it at the right angle, but more than once you catch him staring up at you instead. pretending like the look in his eyes doesn’t make your stomach flutter is probably the hardest thing you’ve ever done.

you finish with his eyes and sit back to admire your work, resting your full weight on his lap. he muffles a groan, but neither of you mention it.

finally, you bring out the finishing touch: the lipstick he’d been admiring earlier. and by admiring, you mean he’s been staring at your lips for the better part of the last hour.

“why are we even going to this party, anyway?” he asks, and you scoff, telling him to stay still as you press the bright red stick to his lips in careful strokes.

“why else do we go to parties? because it’s almost the end of the semester, and i wanna get drunk and make out with mildly attractive guys.”

“well, i’m right here,” he says with a laugh once you give him the go ahead, rubbing his lips together at your instruction. “and i’d argue i look way more attractive than anybody at that party.”

“mm, i’d have to agree. i am a pretty good makeup artist, aren’t i?”

“you are, but you know what would make it even better?” he asks.

you shake your head, waiting for him to tell you. but he doesn’t tell you. instead he cups his hands behind your head and draws your face towards his, pressing his lips against yours. his mouth moves slowly at first but his kisses turn rough when you start kissing him back, lips parting slightly to give him better access.

but just as you start to melt into him he pulls away, studying your face as you exhale deeply. his lipstick is smeared across his chin and you’re certain yours is now too, but you couldn’t care less about what you look like when jun is sitting in front of you looking absolutely fucking delectable.

“now you look perfect,” he says under his breath, and you let out a gasp when his grip on your waist turns tighter, holding you down against his lap so you can feel every part of him. you’re sure he must be able to feel your throbbing heat through his pants, but he doesn’t say anything; he just pulls you back in, his sloppy kisses settling on your lips.

he grinds his hips up against you, slowly, experimentally, and you moan into his mouth in response. you can feel his lips turn upwards into a smile at the sound, clearly pleased with your reaction. whimpers escape you as you chase his lips, desperate for more of him.

his hands that were guiding your hips at first have stopped and you move your hips continuously on your own now, practically riding him over his clothes as you grind across his lap. he pulls away again suddenly, leaving you panting for breath once more.

“why are you moaning so prettily, my love? do i look that good?” he asks. his tone is innocent, though he knows exactly the answer to his question, gleefully ignoring everything you’ve just been doing as he teases you.

“jun,” you breathe out his name, both a plea and a question.

“yes, my pretty baby?”

you moan out loud at his words, and in response he attaches his lips to your neck and begins to suck at your skin. you can feel the waxy stickiness of his lipstick on your neck, and you inhale sharply as one of his hands starts to dip into your pants.

“tell me what you want, my love,” he says, lifting his lips away from your neck for a moment to speak.

your breath hitches as his fingertips brush across the skin beneath your belly button, his touch far too light to do anything but still more than enough to drive you wild. “want you, jun…” you repeat his name, and he hums, fingers skimming lower until you can feel the tip of his finger run through your folds once.

“so wet for me, baby. all this just from me wearing makeup? you’re dripping all over my hand, sweet girl.”

you let out an impatient whine, and he presses another kiss to your stained lips. his eyes raise to meet yours again, and after what feels like an eternity he nods, and your hands jump into action, eager to free yourself from your clothes.

the party and the makeup you spent so much time on are both long forgotten as you fumble to pull your top off. jun smiles, his hands circling around you to grab underneath your ass and hoist you up as he stands up from the chair. he tosses you on the bed in one swift motion as your shirt falls to the floor.

you kick off your pants and jun unbuttons his jeans, climbing on top of you as you tug his shirt up and over his head. immediately his lips attach to your breast, the remnants of his lipstick leaving bright red marks across your skin as his teeth skim over your nipple before moving on to your other breast.

you look down at him and moan at the sight as he works his way across your chest, a trail of red leading down your body as he kisses his way down to your stomach.

you dart out a hand to pull at his hair, stopping him from going any further, and he moans, leaning his head back to strain his hair in your grip.

“you’re not eating me out with lipstick on, junnie,” you say, and he huffs like he’s disappointed but he accepts it, moving up your lipstick-covered body to kiss you once more. 

he hovers over you, almost laying at your side with how close he is to you, and you crane your neck up to meet his lips again. his hand slides down to poke at your entrance and slips one finger into you, then quickly adds a second when he meets no resistance. you gasp and let go of his hair, hands falling to clutch at the sheets beneath you instead, but he pulls his fingers out and hums at your action, displeased.

you find his eyes and study his expression as he grabs your wrists and places your hands back on his head. you can feel his fingers that were just inside you smear your wetness across your forearm. 

“want you to pull on it,” he says by way of explanation, and you nod, winding your fingers through his soft locks. “good girl,” he says softly, and gently he pushes back into you, drawing another whine from your lips.

his pace starts slow, but his hand quickly speeds up when you tighten your fingers in his hair. it’s too easy how he finds the perfect angle that has your eyes rolling back, building you up until you can’t hold back anymore and you’re clenching so hard around him he can barely pull his fingers out to push them back into you.

he doesn’t let up, adding a third finger and bending his thumb to rub at your clit, and before you can say anything to let him know, the coil that’s been building in your abdomen snaps and you’re gushing around his fingers as you let out a constant stream of whines and whimpers, stumbling through your high.

if your ears weren’t already ringing from how powerful your orgasm was, then they’re ringing from hearing the praises that fall from jun’s mouth, telling you what a good girl you are for him and cooing about how beautiful you look all covered in marks.

when you’ve come back down to earth enough to continue, he sits back on his heels, pumping his cock with one hand before he lines himself up with your dripping pussy. he pushes into you, the girth of his cock creating more resistance than his fingers did but still fitting snugly inside you.

you lean your head back and moan, consumed by the feeling of being so perfectly full that it’s hard to focus on anything else but how good he feels. he waits for a moment, feeling you clench so tightly around him as you adjust to his size, and as he waits he takes the time to look at you. 

your face, half covered in lipstick but your features scrunched up in pleasure in that familiar way he could see with his eyes closed. in fact, he does see it when his eyes are closed; whenever you’re not around and he recalls each perfect time you’ve had together, and he pictures the face you’re making right now and he knows how good he’s making you feel, the only one making you feel like this, and how good you make him feel, too. predictable in the very best way.

he feels your fingers lace through his hair and tug gently, and it brings him back to this moment, here and now, your eyes silently telling him—no, begging him—to move.

so, of course, he complies. his hips push against you once, twice, setting a slow but deliberate pace that has you right up at the edge already with hardly anything from him. just the feeling of him inside you is all you could ever want, all you could ever need. 

you moan his name and he responds with a sharp thrust that makes you yelp but feels better than anything you’ve ever felt before. you push your fingertips into his scalp, and he speeds up, nearly doubling his pace. you clench your muscles around him and he lets out a yelp of his own, his rhythm faltering for a second but he recovers quickly.

it’s not long before his hips begin to stutter, signaling his coming orgasm. he leans forward and puts his arms on either side of your head, caging you in with his forearms. he’s so close you can feel his breath on your face, see the dried clumps of lipstick on his cheek. 

he tucks a piece of your hair behind your ear with his thumb before pressing a kiss to the tip of your nose. at this new angle you can feel him so much better, and the gentleness of his kiss is enough to make you fall apart all over again.

he captures your moans in his mouth as he pushes into you a last few times before his own orgasm hits and he’s burying himself as deep into you as he can go, your pussy spasming around him as his cum fills you up.

he collapses next to you, his cock beginning to soften inside you, and you both lay there panting for breath, sweaty and dirty and content.

it takes a while to scrub the makeup off your skin, but you couldn’t think of a better way to spend your time than throwing a makeup wipe at jun’s face and giggling as he chases you around the room, still naked. but eventually the lipstick smudges come off and a warm shower relaxes your bodies, and you help each other pull on pajamas and make a snack and a couple mugs of tea.

“are you disappointed we missed the party?” he asks once you’re in bed together, tracing his fingers along your arm.

you had completely forgot about the party, the reason you had even put makeup on him in the first place. “there’ll be other parties,” you sigh. “besides, you’re prettier than any frat boy i could ever meet.”

“with the makeup?” he asks.

“without the makeup.”

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[ronearoundblindly]

Fire & Ice (a RoAR drabble)

Flufftober Day 12, Ransom Drysdale x rich!Reader (see series)

I blame @jaqui-has-a-conspiracy-theory and @brandycranby for encouraging HughSaison. This is fairly loosely related to the prompt but there are a bunch of temperature references/illusions. 🤷🏻‍♀️Hey, I did my best. -> While I'm at it, does anyone want to own up (privately) to being the person who first asked about rich!Reader over a year ago??? I always wonder if that anon is still reading 🥹

Uhhh, angst with a fluffy ending... yeah, yeah, Ro loves writing arguments, we get it.

Warnings: If you've never read my Ransom before, beware. He curses like an angry sailor, inside and outside of his brain. Plus super suggestive language/mentions of sex. LOTS of dialogue. Zero editing. MINORS DNI. WC 1.8k

He cannot fucking believe it's come to this.

"Don't you fucking dare," he snips. “You cannot use a veto. You put me in charge.”

He watches you walk calmly, put away a dish calmly, sit at his couch calmly.

"I've made my decision, and that's final."

"Fuck you." Ran means it, but in his own way. "You said I could choose--"

"Not that," you say, so calmly, too fucking calmly for someone who managed to turn Ransom Drysdale into this, this thing that cares about something so petty for all the wrong--or just different--reasons.

He stretches to his full height and sucks on his tongue for a moment.

You continue to scroll through your phone.

He never thought he’d get married but he’s always loved a good party. Since the ring's not flashy, he wants you in the tiara. He hasn’t given you the ring yet either because…well, because it’s been less than a year and you practically live on the other side of the planet. Call him old-fashioned, but Ransom wants to be home for all the big things. He can plan a damn party though—and the look to match— whenever the hell he wants and for however long he wants.

At length in the quiet, he asks, "why not?"

"Because it's ridiculous, and I'm saying 'no.' Veto."

"You don't get vetoes for--" Ran smothers his frustration, but barely. "Does this have to do with...money? Because you know I’m not talking millions of dollars in real diamonds or something.” But, ya know, he’s expecting a couple hundred thou between colored and semi-precious stones, plus the setting in—would gold or platinum work best for your skin? Grandma Thrombey’s ring is made of yellow gold. Ran guesses he should match that.

The false calm never lifts from you.

Eyes icy and blank, you look at him while his plans keep running amuck. "No."

Two letters. One word. He fucking hates it.

"You'll look beautiful," he yells in annoyance.

The phone drops on the leather couch. "I'm not wearing a crown to be married in. It'll look pretentious, ostentatious. I won't do it and that's that."

"It's a tiara," Ran corrects, "and with a veil, it's near invisible. It’ll include the wedding colors with the stones."

"No."

His blood starts to boil. Don't say it, don't say it, he thinks fleetingly but fails.

"Says the woman with shit taste."

Slowly, calmly, coldly, you walk over to him, stretching to your full height, holding his gaze. You’re wearing one of his sweaters again and nothing else. That’s his favorite look, but only for him.

It’s winter outside, the heater turned up so that your naked skin stays comfortable. You stay comfortably exposed all the time, when he has his way. Comfort is king in Ran’s house. 

Despite being exposed though, he can see how you've made it so far in business—in life—even with shitty taste. Your poker face rivals champions, and you are stalwart in your dedication. There's a hard (and hardening) edge to your simple, sly grin.

You take a deep breath in,  a whiff of him, a sample for assessment.

"Poor--" you sigh "--boy."

His teeth grind together, jaw tight as a vice. How dare you.

Ran's petty, spiteful even when he tries so damn hard to keep it together, and the wound of disinheritance is still fresh enough he cannot abide that sting.

"Burn in hell."

You don’t take the bait and simply cock your head, waiting for his guilty meltdown. So far, he does this at least once a week, sometimes multiple times a day. It bothers you, you’ve told him, that he questions everything instantly, that he can’t trust you or your feelings or his surroundings, that he panics over the idea of ever having to get a job, but it’s also great ammunition against a man-child.

The grin never leaves your lips. You're in fine fighting form tonight. Ran shouldn't have tangoed.

"Go fuck some bimbo's ass."

Oh.

Oh, you bitch.

That's low.

Ransom's face contorts. "It was one time," he gripes, "and we weren't even dating."

Your palm lies flat against his chest. "We'd slept together several times, and you even volunteered for me by then so..."

Ran grabs your hips and brings you close, avoiding your gaze while hoping you keep looking at him, cooling him down, evening his hot temper.

"Of course," you add casually, "that wasn't the first time you did that, was it?"

This is where it gets tricky for him. Ran never had a real relationship before you--not even his 'bond' with his parents compares--but old habits die hard.

He shoves at your hips, spinning you two until your back hits the glass block window between the house and the bare woods outside.

His head ducks to mirror the angle of yours. "Doesn't have to be the last either."

"Hugh," you warn, as threatening as wind across his cheek.

He's gonna regret this. He knows he will, but curiosity gets the better of him.

"Tell me. Tell me why you don't want to wear something gorgeous and fancy for an occasion where you are meant to be gorgeous and fancy."

The turn in your expression is pronounced. He didn't expect you to be more alarmed by his caring than his come-ons.

"Bad form," you finally admit. "Some rich bitch thinks she's a princess. Looks really bad."

"You are rich. You are a--"

"Careful..."

"--I'm saying 'princess.' Calm down," he says to the perfectly, eerily calm woman in his arms. "Would you just fucking let me compliment you?"

Ran fiddles with some hair around your ear, noting proudly how your eyes droop shut slightly at the smallest touch from him. He likes that you respond to him, his distance, his fury, his doubt, and his passion. You make feeling okay. You are his safe space since you've seen him at his lowest.

You see him.

There's very few things in life that make more sense to Ransom than his wife will be the one who sees him and he lets see him. Everyone else and everything else can piss off.

God, he fucking hates that he loves you so much. Why won’t you just wear the fucking crown? You’ve earned it; you’re the one who conquered his demons, not Ran.

He could buy it anyway, have your veil sown straight on it, not give you the chance to argue, or he could take you out to shop, put one in your hands, knock it onto the floor, and claim ‘you break it, you bought it.’ Problem solved, but he’s a petty bitch.

He tucks the edge of his lip into his cheek.

He should be less of a petty bitch.

“What do you want?” Ran asks. “What’s it gonna take?”

He keeps his sharp eyes locked to yours, watching understanding shrink your once-dilating pupils

Change in demeanor. “Oh my god.”

Aaaand there’s the regret. “Don’t make a big deal—“

“HOLY SHIT.”

“It’s not—I’m just—“

“Hugh Fucking Drysdale?! Trying to compromise??? I’ve see it all now.”

“Stop,” he whines, dropping his head to your squirming chest.

“Wait—” you whip out of his arms and hustle back to the couch, retrieving your phone “—do it again.”

He’s too lost in staring up the sweater as you bend over to notice right away.

“Are you filming me?” Disgusting. Childish. Petty, just like him. Maybe he’s had more influence on you than he realized.

“Your face is priceless.”

“Give me that.” Ran doesn’t put much effort into reaching the phone. He would rather win for his cause. “Seriously, what do you want?”

The arm held up falls lax. He has a clear view of your home screen, so you weren’t taking a video. You just wanted to tease him. Fuck, you love to tease him.

Dramatically, your hand frames your chin in thought. “Well, I don’t want something that extravagant to go to waste, but it won’t go with every outfit…”

“No, not with colored stones,” Ran says absently. He guesses you want to get more use out of it. Gross.

“Okay, my compromise is whenever I wear it, you treat me like a princess, or perhaps, your queen.”

“Uh, sure,” he snorts. You already get treated better than any woman he’s ever known…by him, of course. He’s vaguely aware that some people do even more than the bare minimum, but those are other people. Baby steps.

“If that tiara is on my head, Hugh, you become a perfect and adoring gentleman.”

Ran wrinkles his nose. “What?”

“You heard me. That’s my compromise. Dress me that way and you have to treat me like royalty.”

“Like…” He rushes forward to sweep you up, wrapping your legs around his waist and thrusting his hips. “Princess Pussy?”

“Ran. Ew, no.”

“Queen Cunt?” Heh, he chuckles, King Comfort and Queen Cunt. No, don’t say that out loud.

You gag slightly. “Super not what I meant.”

“You’re already going to marry me, but you want me to worship you? No fucking way.” Ransom flat-out laughs.

“How did you get worship out of ‘treat me nicely?’” Your arms tighten around his neck, pulling your faces closer.

He exaggerates a groan. “I don’t know. That’s asking a lot.”

“Oh, right,” you say with a roll of your eyes. “Just keep on being shitty…even to your future wife. What could possibly go wrong?”

He huffs.

Ran is passionate about making you look good, not just because you are on his arm. Sure, he probably focuses on all the wrong things—all the selfish things,—but you easily think of the big picture and completely forget about yourself.

That’s already a balance. That’s already a big compromise.

And yet…

Ran’s looking at your face and admiring your playfulness when he could be ordering you to unzip his pants. He’s more excited to see you decked out pretty things than he is to say he dressed you. He’s concerned with how you refuse to spend money for you even though you’ve put no restrictions on him. That’s…that’s just a different Ransom Drysdale. That’s a man he wouldn’t recognize if he weren’t watching his reflection in your eyes.

Ran pecks a gentle kiss to your waiting lips.

“Okay, princess,” he coos, his arms snaking tighter over your back and his fingers plunging into your hair. He keeps you close, noses touching, hot breath mingling. “Shh, shhh.”

He hears the faintest whine escape you, and he just can’t help himself. He’s a petty bitch.

“Don’t worry, princess. I’ll fuck your ass.”

🙈🙇🏻‍♀️😝

sorry not sorry.

@supraveng @1950schick @patzammit @whiskeytangofoxtrot555 @yiiiikesmish @ashesofblackroses @starkleila

[Main Masterlist; The Root of All Ransom Masterlist; Ko-Fi]

[cookiesupplier]

Hell Aint So Bad - Part Twenty

pairing: Noah Sebastian x ofc (Ellie)

warnings/tropes: slow burn, smut, angst, fluff, mentions of death, mentions of torture, thoughts of religious ideology, minor violence, swearing, cheating. Also, for this chapter, CLOWNS.

summary: Ellie was lost in the world, homeless with no idea what to do and nowhere to go.. Who would have thought that one day, she’d end up working in hell itself.. And what does this even mean?

author’s note: Unbetaed, readers beware. And again, I leave you with Noah at the end.. I'd apologise, but...

tags: @spicywhenspeaking @bngurngheart @cncohshit @valiantroeagleangel @blackveilomens @dominuslunae @tearfallpixie @nyxthedestroyerofworlds @wild-child-7747 @notingridslurkaccount @lyschko666 @lacktoesandtoddlerants @jilliemiw86 @emmmm127 @laurpartyprogram

Ellie had a good night with Nicholas, they sat, and they talked, but not about Noah. He kept to his agreement to avoid continuing with the subject of the other demon lord, and she appreciated that. Instead, they talked about everything else under the sun, almost. Movies, music, what was happening in the mortal world, and how reincarnation in effect worked now that it was in reality something that she had to think about. It was about the soul, about being reborn, a new life, that she wouldn’t be her as flesh and blood, that she was a new person. Which brought about the big question she just had to ask him. Could she become a cockroach in her next life? That was entirely something that she would not look forward to, ever, and if that was a possibility, she called bullshit on Jolly and Folio’s reasons for not doing it. Absolute bullshit!

Apparently, with the way Nicholas had explained it to her, with his amused grin after her little rant, only those who reincarnated without learning their lessons ended up that way, which shocked her. Ellie had been under the impression that they didn’t allow that, and Nicholas had shaken his head. There were levels of punishment, and while there were some that were here for eternity, there were others, that got to a point that any form of punishment became derivative and pointless. The souls themselves demanded reincarnation, and if those that punished them came to a point that they caved and gave in, that was exactly what happened. Maybe it wasn’t a cockroach, maybe it would be something equally detestable to the soul, but either way, it was always a vile gamble they had to make.

So, thankfully, if she chose to do this, she wouldn’t end up as a cockroach, and for that, she considered it a blessing, but also, the thought of becoming someone else, and having no control over what could happen in another life, she wasn’t sure how she felt about that. She needed time to think. At that, Nicholas had nodded and agreed, that this wasn’t a decision anyone should take lightly. Hearing all of this, made everything with Jolly and Folio staying back from reincarnation make so much sense, she’d never questioned it too much before anyway, selfishly if she was honest, never wanting to consider the thought of losing her friends while she was here, but this just settled even more for her.

As a whole, the night just left her with so many questions, and yet, also, helped give her a little hope. Funny. Talking about being dead, finally talking about it, and what it meant, gave her hope.

The next morning, it wasn’t as hard to get out of bed. Not only that, Ellie got up, and she got dressed, made her food at home instead of a delivery this time… and then even managed to make it to work for the first time in over a week.

Ellie paused at the door to the office, taking in a breath, she could do this, she’d talked to Nicholas for hours last night. They were her friends, they were still her friends, it wasn’t like any of them had truly changed after all, it was just, different. Yes, in some ways it felt like her world had been turned on its head, literally upside down, inside out, all over again, just like when she came here in the first place. Just like when she first became homeless. She’d survived it before, she could survive it again. Ellie was a survivor, she always had been, right from childhood. She’d survived her birth mother who didn’t want her and abandoned her, a father and stepmother who had neglected her, friends that, were only her friends when it was convenient for her. When she’d needed them most, they’d all conveniently disappeared from her life. The streets had been no easier, though, surprising, Ellie would say living on the street, it was there she found kindness in some places than she had in the rest of the world. Then she had come to Hell. A whole new stage in her life, well, death.

Pushing the door open, she walked into the office to find Jolly and Folio already there. Not that it was that surprising, she was about an hour later than she would have usually arrived to work on a normal day.

“Sorry I’m late, only about a week, but I made it I guess?”

Glancing between them, there was a hesitation there, she could see it, they were wary. Ellie supposed she couldn’t blame them, she’d been avoiding them, for all they knew she was here to blow up and scream absolute fury at them for their part in the deception.. and that was, well…

“So, I was thinking, for lunch, pizzeria, down the road, who’s in?”

It wasn’t just that she forgave them for not telling her, it was that, and she wanted her friends back. If they had to build their friendships back up from scratch, she’d do it, if not…

She missed her friends so badly, and she felt so alone right now she needed them, her friends.

“Holy shit, YES!”

Folio was the first one to speak, which didn’t surprise her one little bit, as he was right there, jumping at the chance to rush over and wrap her up in a bear hug. His arms wrapped around her so tight she would swear that she couldn’t breathe for a second there, not that she really needed to, but even while dead, as a soul, it was kind of a second habit.

“Folio, can’t, breathe.”

Hearing him chuckle in response confused her for a second until she was patting him on the back and heard Jolly from off to the side, who was patting Folio’s shoulder,

“You’ll get used to not really needing to, Sweetheart, but come on, let her go, I want a hug too.”

When Folio let her go, she blinked at him, Jolly’s words sinking in, but despite knowing that he was right, and she didn’t need to, the human innate instinct to breathe kicked in, and there she was taking in a deep breath, letting the air fill her lungs. Looking over to Jolly, eyes wide, he just smiled to her warmly,

“Don’t worry, we all do it. Just because we don’t need to, doesn’t mean it doesn’t feel good. It actually feels a bit like a high if you can stop breathing long enough before taking that first sweet breath. Such a rush. My record for not breathing is half an hour.”

“TWO HOURS!”

Folio exclaimed with a bright grin, proud that he could claim the title here, as competitive as ever, Ellie just laughed, shaking her head, ridiculous. Of course, he would take pride in that. However, the fact that Jolly actually threw in the titbit about not breathing about experiencing a high, prompted her to raise an eyebrow at him, which was, wow, cheeky. She wondered what other things they could get up to being dead that they hadn’t told her about before.

“That was while you were drunk, and right before you passed out on the floor. No one can prove whether passed out from the liquor or the lack of oxygen, or both.”

“Despite the fact that neither of those things is supposed to have quite the same effect on him in Hell as they used to?”

“Exactly.”

Jolly raised an eyebrow as he smiled, Ellie got his point crystal clear as Folio rolled his eyes, waving off the entire back and forth between them, declaring them as bullying him and deciding that making fun of him was pointless, he was better when it came to this no matter what. Even against demons, they might have fantastic lung capacity, but they actually needed to breathe. They were alive and while they could probably rival Jolly’s half an hour, apparently not Folio’s two hours, not at all. Human, souls, while their bodies functioned normally, sure, but it was just different here, in Hell, it was confusing to think about really, not needing to breathe, but still feeling hungry and eating. See, confusing! Where was the line? All Ellie could think, when it came down to it, was magic. Answer to everything, right? Right. Otherwise, she just couldn’t wrap her head around it. As it was, bonding with these two in a whole different way than before, over being dead and what that meant for them, it was going to be interesting indeed.

Giving into a Jolly hug was sweet, his arms wrapping around her soft and warm after being accosted by her Folio hug, giggling softly as he hugged her tightly, and said softly,

“Good to have you back Sweetheart, I’ve been going crazy dealing with his zoomies every day.”

Smiling as he let her go, Folio and his zoomies, honestly, he was like one of those tiny little puppy dogs sometimes, running around with no off switch. Not that any of them told him that. Mostly because if they dared, he’d probably get that puppy dog awful pout on his face and whine at them about it. But at least it also made him easier to handle, fun, games, and treats! Even so, she was sure Jolly would have been just fine without her, he had been before her, and he would have been again, when she’d said that to him, he’d just turned and given her a look, just because he would have been, didn’t mean he wanted to be, because life changed with friends, and friends changed you.

The souls that came through the office for the morning were thankfully pretty quiet, and easy to handle for her first day back with the guys, and they could skip off to lunch, which, ever since she had mentioned the pizzeria, Folio hadn’t let her forget it. Her shout, he made sure to remind her, not that any of them had to pay, but still, it was a principle of the thing. She said she would, so, that was how it went.

Once they got to the pizzeria, Nicholas joined them,

“I’d asked how you knew where we were, but then I’d come back to mind reading.”

They had all laughed at that, it had become an ongoing gag in the months she’d been in Hell, every time it had come up, they’d had a good laugh about it. It felt good to know that despite her issues, that joke wasn’t going to disappear any time soon either. She was okay with that, it was nice to know that they hadn’t treated her differently, even if she did notice they had tip-toed around some subjects. As it was, it was on the top of her tongue right now, to ask about whether the resident food thief of the group was going to show his face at any point during lunch. She didn’t though. As much as Noah was always in the back of her mind, the thought of bringing him up, asking about him, made her feel a little sick, she didn’t want to know.

So she just kept the thought to herself.

It was a cowardly move, she knew, but he also wasn’t here.

He wasn’t here, and she hadn’t gotten another message from him since Nicholas had arrived at her doorstep last night.

She knew she hadn’t, because she’d been checking her phone, compulsively.

As much as Ellie might not want to admit to that, she had been. Yes, she has said to Nick that she didn’t know if she could forgive him, but that didn’t mean her feelings for the man, the demon, had completely disappeared. As painful as they were with the massive secret, the fact that he’d lied to her for months while involved with her, and no matter how he swung it, he had lied to her. The others were her friends, Noah had been more. Ellie missed him. It hurt thinking about him, but she did miss him.

She didn’t want to see him, but she missed him.

Wouldn’t it be wonderful, if dying, made things easier to handle, instead of just as complicated as ever?

Seems she wasn’t that lucky, not even close.

Didn’t stop her from enjoying lunch with Jolly, Folio and Nicholas at least. Sure it was pizza, again, but it was a meal that was easy to share with friends. You could order any number of toppings on a pizza and people would pick off what they didn’t like, it worked just fine with Ellie. Despite this, they still ended up with three pies on the table between the four of them. That's what happened when one of them was a demon, and two of them were grown men, one of which was a hyperactive puppy that would take a challenge and try to eat them all under the table with a look. There was no look today.

Ellie’s weakness was garlic bread anyway, so she was good, she got some of the extra cheesy kind to share.

They spent lunch laughing and joking, talking about the last week, about the souls that had passed through, and joking about everything that Ellie had missed out on. Apparently, there had been one guy who had walked through the office in a clown costume, in a full-on clown costume, squeezing a honking horn in his hand with each step he made. That was his only means of communication. Just hearing about him truly gave Ellie the heebie-jeebies and made her glad she hadn’t been then, when Folio saw her shudder as they talked about him, he raised an eyebrow.

“What, clowns are creepy, okay, don’t look at me like that!”

“Well, this one certainly was.”

Jolly agreed, with a nod, Folio agreeing immediately  as well before Nicholas gave him a look with a glance to Ellie,

“What..”

She looked between the three of them and cringed slightly,

“What did he do, oh no, oh damn, he’s in Hell, still in his clown costume.. Do I even want to know?”

“Probably not.”

Nicholas reached over and patted her hand gently.

“You better tell me, otherwise I will think of the worst-case scenario,”

“Serial killer.”

Folio supplied succinctly,

“Kids?”

“Nope, no kids, never kids.”

“Oh, good, 'cause that was the worst case.. Good.. good..well, I mean, not good.”

Her face flushed as she babbled a little, shaking her head, she had just not wanted him to kill kids.

“You know what I mean.”

The guys chuckled at her awkwardness, but they were okay, they were all okay, and no more talk of creepy serial killer clowns please and thank you. No. No more.

It was later that night when she was in her comfy PJ’s, the long warm ones, sort of, not that they were a matching set, they were mostly just lounge pants and an old soft worn shirt of Noah’s, it was comfy, and he’d left it here one night so she’d appropriated it. She’d not worn it all week, but after today, and how much she missed him, she was, she was just weak, okay? So, while she was staring at her phone, considering texting him, but no clue what she’d even say to him… she was wearing it, her finger tapping against the side of her phone as she stared at the screen, and then she heard a knock at the door.

Sighing, she got to the door and opened it, only to be greeted by the sight of a demon lord on the other side.

“Noah.”

Dividers by @saradika-graphics

[forwhump]

Beware Of Dog

a/n; thank you !!!!!!!! thank you thank you thank you so so much to everybody who was so so nice to me about my last blurb I don’t deserve it at all but I’m in love w you <3

I obviously have an immediate follow up to that blurb but because I refuse to post these chronologically or with any actual rhyme or reason at all here’s something completely different & unrelated 🤩 completely random pov in fact ! not even an actual chunk of the overall story but a random blurb I wrote to feel for a vibe ! gotta love it :’)

tw/cw: rape, noncon, attempted rape, attempted rapist pov, implied animal cruelty, implied animal death, misgendering, transphobia, dehumanization, graphic depictions of violence, beating

living weapon whumpee, creepy whumper, captivity, military, revenge, outside pov

Initiation, they’d called it.

It was really a punishment, but Vitriol was too green to know that.

He’d been expecting some kind of hazing, at any rate, so an initiation hadn’t surprised him. It’s no easy feat, getting a job in the district, and it’s next to impossible to make it through the next steps, the orientation. The soldiers in the district are the best in the country and Vitriol figured he was in for kind of a hard time, for a bit of hazing. He figured he’d have to prove himself.

But he fucked up, his first day, and he didn’t even know it. He’s punished all the same.

He was introduced to his faction and shown to the barracks. His platoon leader, Point, a decorated soldier, had looked up at him with a grin that wasn’t quite human and Vitriol should’ve known then that something was really wrong with him.

He’d been distracted, though. Truthfully, he’d barely looked at Point. Hadn’t thought much of his weird smile at all, really.

Point had a toy. A girl. A girl from the unit, if Vitriol had to guess — my favourite plaything, Point had cooed at her, holding her naked and facedown on the mattress of his bunk, forcing her thighs apart. Daddy’s favourite whore.

Vitriol didn’t need to ask to understand exactly why. She was magic; pretty hair and prettier skin, the mouth and the waist of a whore. Vitriol wanted to play with her, too — he tried. He wasn’t allowed. That was his mistake.

That nerve of you, greenhorn, Point had told him, lazy. He was still inside the girl, and he’d coiled a length of her hair around his fist to wrench her face up from his pillow. I don’t like to share. You’ll have to work for her.

Vitriol wasn’t entirely sure which one of them he was mocking but he found himself not caring too much either way. He’d barely heard Point, actually.

The girl was fucking enchanting. Her flush was splotchy and her mouth was swollen and her huge eyes were blown even wider with tears. She was magical. She sobbed, and it echoed through the barracks like ringing bells.

I’ll do whatever you need me to do, he said.

Initiation.

In the district, well below the chaos of the barracks and the unit, are arenas, made up to look like urban settings for the practical training of the super soldiers.

Hunt the girl down, Vitriol was told, and she’s fair game. Do whatever you want to her.

It had kinda seemed like he was being set up. It seemed too easy.

Nobody had warned him about Point’s vicious protective streak.

He’d grinned at Vitriol as he’d said, just look out for her dog.

Still, Vitriol hadn’t been concerned. He wasn’t really all too worried with the girl getting to have a dog — he had three to track her.

It took the better part of a day and a half, but the dogs chased the scent of her through an empty cityscape and cornered her villainously in an alley like a scene from a scary movie.

Vitrol’s heart beats a little quicker in turn and he can’t keep himself from grinning. They’d let him pick her dress, tiny and flimsy. She’s gonna have to wring it out when he’s done with her. She looks very pretty and very scared and it isn’t hard to see why Point likes her so much.

And y’know what? She doesn’t even have a dog.

He whistles, and his dogs hurry quickly back to his side. The girl tips her head back against the wall, chest heaving, and Vitriol is gonna have a lot of fun with her, he thinks. He grins a little wider. “Hey, baby.”

“Fuck you,” she spits, but her voice breaks. She’s crying.

God, he’s hard. He might also be in love with her.

“You and me are gonna have ourselves a lot of fun, I think,” he says, and he imitates her accent but he doesn’t really mean to. “Gonna put you to work, girl.”

“Get the fuck away from me,” the girl says, and she probably means to spit it at him but her voice breaks again and it sounds like a plea.

She’s magic.

And she has nowhere to run.

He presses her up against the wall. She fights, she’s more of a fighter than Vitriol had been expecting, but she’s a tiny thing and it isn’t hard to hold her there with his weight as he gets his hands beneath her dress. She screams bloody murder and it’s music to his ears.

“Well, I’ll be,” he says, and he’s still mocking her. It makes her flush, dark across the bridge of her nose. “You’re really something special, ain’t ya?”

“Fuck you,” she spits, and struggles like hell in his grip as he forces a leg between her thighs. “Get the fuck off me. Get off me!”

“I don’t think I will,” he tells her. He takes his time as he slides his hands up, over her hips, across her skin, delighting in the way she writhes against him, grinding against her as she tries to get away. He falters only for a moment, startled only when a roar echoes down the alley towards him from somewhere much closer than Vitriol would’ve expected. Her dog, apparently lying in wait, but Vitriol already knew she had a dog. Vitriol was prepared to deal with it.

He clicks his tongue at his own, angles his chin out of the alley, and the dogs take off obediently, snarling between them as they follow the roar. “I’m not afraid of your dog,” he tells the girl.

She breathes out a sound, so much more like a laugh than Vitriol would’ve expected that he looks back at her quickly. “You should be,” she says.

Another sound, this one just as thunderous but uncomfortably wet, chased closely by a pained howl that ends too suddenly. Vitriol looks quickly towards the opening of the alley but his dogs don’t come running back. He doesn’t hear them anymore. He looks back at her. “What the fuck is —“

He cuts himself off. The girl doesn’t interrupt him, and her dog doesn’t speak. Whatever the fuck she’s got, it’s no regular dog. Vitriol doesn’t need to turn to know when it materializes behind him; it’s so massive Vitriol can feel the force of it behind him, so massive it blocks out the fluorescent daylight.

It doesn’t say anything. Vitriol doesn’t, either. He stays frozen, his hands on the girl’s skin. She doesn’t urge her dog to attack, and for a moment, for a moment much too long, silence stretches and tension builds.

He looks at her blankly. She looks up at him and she smiles, bright and mocking. There isn’t a trace of fear left in her face and she looks more like a predator than Vitriol would’ve thought her capable, especially in such a demeaning little dress.

Her dog lingers behind him, and it isn’t even just that it’s big but that there’s a sort of violent rage radiating from it that Vitriol has only ever seen in videos of animal attacks.

Slowly, he places her back on her feet. “I’m fucked,” he drawls, “aren’t I?”

The girl’s smile widens. “Bless your heart.”

And then a truck barrels into the back of Vitriol’s head.

It’s the single hardest blow he’s ever taken. He knows his skull cracks because he can hear the sound it makes from the inside. White spots burst across his field of vision and his ears don’t start ringing, they squeal. He staggers into the nearest wall, dizzy, and his nose cracks as that truck crashes into him again and crushes his nose and both of his cheekbones against the brick.

A hand takes his hair, and his face is crushed against the brick again before he’s thrown to the ground. A handful of his hair is ripped out as he goes.

His already cracked skull ricochets off the concrete and the way the pain ripples all the way through him is an echo. It throbs not just in his head but every inch and ounce of him. The pain makes everything white, and Vitriol tries to blink through it as he peers up at the girl’s dog.

Except it isn’t a dog, and Vitriol had been set up; looming over him is a fucking monster. It isn’t a dog but it isn’t human either — it’s an abomination. It’s so massive it barely fits between the walls of the alley and it looms so far above Vitriol they aren’t sharing the same atmosphere. But it crouches down, sinks into Vitriol’s personal space, and it’s grotesque up close, patchwork flesh and thick, lifted scars. Its hair hangs in his face and it grins at Vitriol with all of its teeth.

“You have something that belongs to me,” it says, and it has the low, rumbling voice of a nightmare.

Vitriol is bleeding so much his head is floating on the concrete. “I,” he chokes out, and he’s surprised by how difficult it is to speak. His tongue feels weighted. “I’m sorry.”

“Not yet,” it tells him. It cracks its knuckles as it stands. “You will be.”

[these-written-reveries]

ok but like, the post you reblogged with the pics of ledger putting the makeup on,, imagine you and J getting ready for the day and sharing the bathroom together while he's putting his makeup on. idk just sounds cute and domestic uwu 💖

Omg nonnie, I was literally thinking these thoughts the moment I saw those pics! I knew I had to write them down, so here ya go! 💖

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Getting Ready With J (Headcanons)

*Inspired by this post

‣ Pairing: Ledger!Joker/Jack Napier x GN!Reader

‣ Genre: fluff, domestic bliss w/cute deadly clown man

‣ Warnings: None!

‣ Notes: Besides the rare occasion of J spreading some daytime chaos across the city of Gotham, most of his work would be done at night. Because of that, I don't think he would always feel the need to put on his makeup early in the day if he's just gonna be at home—especially after he's reached a point of being able to drop his mask around you (literally & figuratively). That said, I can see this situation playing out in 2 different ways...

L!Joker/Jack Napier Masterlist

Main Masterlist

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« Scenario 1: » ♡ He and you get ready together in the morning/afternoon.

‣ Maybe you have work or some errands to run, or you're simply getting ready to spend the day lounging comfortably at home.

‣ As for J, he has some important "business" to attend to.

‣ The two of you start by brushing your teeth together, J trying to make you laugh the whole time just to watch you struggle not to spit toothpaste everywhere. He gets a good kick out of this, a shit eating grin on his face as he continues to brush his teeth.

‣ You both share the counter space, your self-care items scattered around as you carry on with your routines. There are very little words spoken during this time, but you still communicate through your own secret language; sometimes being able to read each other's minds just by sharing a simple glance.

‣ You both know each other's routine so well that you hand each other the items you need next before either of you ask for it.

‣ On days where J is particularly clingy, he's glued to your side, having such a strong need to be touching you at all times—even if this means just barely touching arms while you get ready in the mirror.

‣ If your daily routine includes brushing your hair, he totally enjoys doing this for you. So much so that he's now in the habit of grabbing your brush and gently running it through your hair while you do something else. He often takes a little longer than necessary, but that's only because he loves to feel the beautiful texture of your hair.

‣ You sneakily give each other occasional kisses on the cheek or anywhere your lips can reach as you continue getting ready. You always love to see the small blush that creeps over J's bare face in the mirror after you've given him a smooch and maybe a gentle caress on his back that just happened to drift a bit lower 😉

‣ Sometimes you play music together while you get ready. A playlist of songs both you and him like. He loves it when you sing or dance to your favorite songs, or even to some of his favorite songs that have started to grow on you too. If you're quick about it, you might be able to catch him looking at you fondly through the mirror just before he looks away and pretends to be focused on something else. Depending on his mood that day, you might get to hear him hum along to some songs as well.

‣ If you wear makeup, you also do this part together. If not, you sit on the counter or hug him from behind while he does his own (he much prefers the latter).

‣ If you ask, he'll definitely let you do his makeup for him. He loves to just sit back, relax, and soak up your touch during this time. He particularly enjoys the part where you draw the smile over his lips and scars with red lipstick and the concentrated look on your face while you do it.

‣ Beware to makeup wearers, Jack will steal your red lipstick if he's suddenly run out or lost his! And he's definitely not gentle with his application. But it's alright, he'll steal buy you a new one!

‣ If you choose to sit back and watch, you'll witness him create his personal masterpiece with nothing but some lipstick, greasepaint, and his fingers. He only uses one brush and that is to dab on a little bit of setting powder at the end (a trick he learned, thanks to you), though if he's in a rush, he'll sometimes skip this part. After doing it for so long, it takes him less than 5 minutes. But he'll often go slower just so he can spend some extra time with his love.

‣ When he's all done, he chases you out of the bathroom, threatening to cover your face with sloppy red kisses. In the end, he settles for a small peck on the lips before the two of you part ways for the day.

« Scenario 2: » ♡ Darkness has settled over Gotham city, which means it's time for J to clock in.

‣ You're already settling down for the evening when J gets up and makes his way to the bathroom. You're right on his tail, following in his footsteps. He smirks when he realizes and playfully comes to a halt, just to get you to bump into him. When you whine/pout over this, he coos teasingly at you and gives you a kiss on the forehead before taking your hand and leading you the rest of the way there.

‣ You perch yourself on the counter or the toilet while he sits in a chair in front of the mirror. You watch him work, admiring the focused look in his eyes and the way he contorts his face to apply the paint to his skin.

‣ He occasionally glances over at you and scoffs at the heart-eyes you're giving him.

‣ Don't you dare give him a flirty compliment unless you want to see him roll his eyes and brush it off all while trying to hide his flustered smile (do it, do it, do it).

‣ The two of you talk about whatever is on your minds and J finds himself lingering on the black around his eyes for far longer than usual just to keep listening to your sweet voice.

‣ Once again, if you ask, he'll let you finish his makeup for him. This time he'll have you sit in his lap while you do it, giving your thighs a light squeeze and running his thumbs over your soft skin.

‣ Upon finishing, you press a little kiss to the tip of his nose and fix his hair a bit. He watches you with a soft smile tugging at the corners of his lips, reaching up to cup your face in his hands. You stop what you're doing as he pulls you in for a kiss that speaks on behalf of words left unspoken.

♡ J loves you. And he cherishes these little moments with you more than you know.

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‣ Have an idea for a fic you’d like me to write? Send a request here. But first, make sure to read my Request Info!

‣ If you’d like to join the taglist for L!Joker/Jack Napier, or be tagged in all of my future writings, let me know by sending me an ask/message!

‣ Taglist: @jslittlebirdie @alittlesmartcookie