#and then the room is silent. there are no more echoes | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

eupheme · 3 days ago

Text

— i’ll be there

[part iv of sugar, sugar] | [masterlist]

wolverine/logan howlett x neighbor!f!reader

rated e - 4.5k

tags: baker!neighbor!reader, logan pov, soft smut & fluff, oral, fingering, multiple orgasms, manual restraints PiV, creampie, light angst, references to anxiety, guilt, memories of canon-typical violence/ death, logan handling his feelings in his own way

a/n: after finishing part iii, there were two ideas in the back of my mind (this, and then fixing [redacted]) so I am back with a little more 💕

Sometimes, it feels as if he’s still waiting for the other shoe to drop. Breath held - bracing for a blow that hasn’t yet come, each time the cracks lengthen in his walls. Letting sunlight seeping through.

So sure it’s waiting on the horizon for him, as it always had done. Has been, since that first night you spent together, all those weeks ago.

Finally allowing himself to exhale - for today, at least - in the darkened room.

It’s late when he twists the handle of the apartment door, easing it open. A habit now, how the keys drop into the ceramic mug on the table just inside, clinking against loose change.

His shadow stretching long across the wooden floor, cast by the light you left on for him in the kitchen. Fingers tug at worn laces, loosening boots that are left next to yours.

Funny how he’s able to navigate this space now, without thought. The old fleece from Wade’s closet slung across the back of an armchair. His feet taking him to the edge of the couch, fingers idly brushing over the stitching of the folded quilt left out for him.

One heartbeat passing, and then another.

He moves on.

The bedroom door creaks on its hinges, as he nudges it open wider.

Light pouring in, letting him see where you curl on your side. The space next to you open - as if waiting for him.

As if you knew he’d be coming.

All he’s wanted to do since Wade turned the car around was get back to right here.

Something loosening in his chest. Fingers working at the buttons of his flannel, then dropping to the heavy buckle at his waist. Stripped down, when he draws back the covers, and slides next to you.

You murmur his name, curl into him. Can’t pretend there isn’t a tugging behind his ribs at the sound.

His fingers drift across skin, tracing the strap of your nightgown. You lips curve up, eyes cracking open.

“You have a good day?”

Logan pauses for longer than he should, turning the question over in his head. Chooses to ignore it, for now.

Chooses to let his head dip, to press his mouth to yours, instead. Letting his mind shut off, letting it go silent for a moment.

Focusing on this, instead.

The tug of your fingers as they slide into his hair. Pulling him close - keeping him there, the sluggish movements turning more lucid as he deepens the kiss. Pliant becoming demanding, and even after the day he’s had, he can’t help the chuckle when your hand curls around his shoulder.

Urging, once more. Fully awake now, lips pressing against his jaw as he follows your whims. Settling between your thighs, cock stiffening with the way you nip at his neck. How you roll your hips upward, until he pins you to the bed himself.

“Missed you.” It’s sighed out.

Something inside his chest thrums, his heartbeat kicking up a notch. The answer coming easily, without thought.

“Missed you too, sweetheart.”

He means it.

Had left a little piece of himself behind when he left early this morning. The echo of your goodbye kiss lingering against his lips, as he had climbed into the car with Wade. Going north.

But he doesn’t want to think about that now.

Now, he’s letting his senses take over, an old habit. Focusing on warmth of you beneath him. Eyelids fluttering shut with the sting of your teeth against his throat. A twitching smile as his hands wander - letting you try to mark him as he finds the hem, slips beneath.

Fingertips dragging over bare skin. Rucking the flimsy fabric up higher each time his hips lift. A low sigh when he finally presses against your bare skin, nudging himself against the soft juncture of your thigh.

Your scent washes over him, drowning out the layer of thoughts that have chased after him all afternoon. Vanilla and sugar and you - he’s tried to taste it before, with the wet drag of his tongue.

Sometimes you smell like him, if he’s lucky, in the early morning, still tucked into bed. Cigar smoke clinging, from where you sat with him on the fire escape. Where he’s left himself painted across your skin.

It’s familiar. It’s as comforting as the pretty noises you make. Hungry for him, fingers tracing along his ribs. Slipping down the slope of his back, trying to tug you to meet him.

Logan is used to rushing things - wants to, after the day he had - but in the night, when he knows you don't have to get up early, it feels like time stands still.

He allows his movements to slow.

The mattress dips as he inches down it. Palms finding the curves of your tits, a soft squeeze against the giving flesh before he’s finding the taut peaks in the fabric with his teeth and tongue.

The silk darkens, as you squirm. A whine is wrenched from your chest, as his mouth closes around you.

The tip of his tongue flicking across your nipple. His other hand drifting down, hiking your thigh higher around his waist.

“Let me-“ It comes from you in a rush, hands tugging at the fabric.

He won’t ruin this one. Knows you like it - instead he balls the fabric from navel to sternum in his fist. Tugs, until your tits slip free.

“Fuck, Logan.” It’s laced with appreciation.

With need, as he sucks a mark against your skin. Another on the soft swell beneath, the pinch of his teeth soothed by the drag of his tongue.

Knowing what he’ll find, when he finally moves down. The fingertips that trail down as he kisses your stomach, your hip - ghosting across your folds, coming back slick.

They slide between his lips. An amuse-bouche to the feast laid out before him - unable to resist the urge to taste you, fingers spit-slick when they return.

“‘s for me?” He rasps, and a laugh slips from you - the soft, muffled sound dragging out into a moan as he traces your opening - sinking down to the knuckle.

“Always for you.”

It loosens a breath he’s been holding all day. Coming out as a rough sigh - your thighs inching wider as he kisses your mound.

Hovering then, just shy of where you need him.

“Really did miss me, huh?”

Can’t help it. Another unconscious nudge, seeking reassurance.

Your hips lift, seeking. Hands trailing down, fingers drifting over your tits, your stomach. Down to stroke your thumb against the bristle of his beard.

“Every time you leave.”

He leans into your touch. Eyes focused on the dark glimmer of your own, as he lets your fingers tangle in his hair. Let's you guide him, a low hum as he closes that final inch.

The tip of his tongue stroking against a spot he knows well, as your moan rips through the quiet. His name following with a soft whimper, and it’s then that his eyes shut.

Focused on the way you smear across his tongue. The wet suck of his finger, sinking into molten heat. Trying to grip him already, clenching around what little he’s given you.

A second teases. Slipping inside, as he tongues at your clit. As you pant, whining - nails pricking against his scalp. Thighs pressing into his shoulders, until he’s hiking one over, and then the other.

His hips flexing, rutting himself into the mattress as you surround him. Fingers curling and stroking, until you leaking against him palm. Until the quiet room becomes a chorus, his name a sweet song on your lips.

“Logan.”

Logan, Logan.

A name stamped on a piece of metal, but he’s grateful for it now. Grateful for the way it rushes from you, as if you’ve forgotten all else.

As he winds you up - your grip tightening, but it only spurs him on. Your breath shortens, as his free arm bands across your abdomen, leaving your hips to flex uselessly against his strength.

“Fuck me.” You urge. A hand kneading the flesh of your breast, the other circling around his wrist. Pleading, with the pinch of your brows, as your fingers flex against his iron grip, “Need you, Logan. Want, ah-“

“Come for me first.” It’s close to a growl, his own fingers never stopping. Feeling how you stiffen beneath his arm, on the cusp of something he’s more than happy to give you.

“Want her nice and ready for me.”

You moan at the command. Head tilting back as your body obeys - the “yes” that’s chanted over and over, pitching higher each time.

Stringing out, and then breaking. Your back bows, as the pleasure alights within. Coming hard with rhythmic throb he can feel against his tongue, that tight pulse around fingers.

He doesn’t let up until you’re squirming away from the press of his mouth. Puffy and slick where you warm his fingers, your arousal already leaking down to the curve of your ass. Swollen with desire, and he swears he feels you clench one last time, when he slips them free.

Another kiss pressed against you, one that has you sighing. Wriggling out of the twist of your nightgown, hooking it around a finger until it pools on the floor below.

Still begging for him as he lifts himself up. Closing the space between you as he shifts forward, palms curving against your hips as he kneels between your thighs. Your eyes drunken with pleasure up close - soft and hazy, your smile coming easily.

His hips rock forward on their own in response, unable to help pressing himself against you. A sticky spot of need left behind, smeared against your skin.

Your fingers pinch against his forearms as you push yourself up to your elbows, eyes dipping down. He knows you can see what he can, as his own head tilts - the swipe of his cock against your folds.

How they part for him, when he teases you - slipping the fat head against your entrance. Knows you imagine it - you’ve told him what you think about when he’s away.

How it’s never enough. Never him. Watched you show him how you fit your fingers inside yourself, but you can never reach the places he can.

He sinks into your heat with a slow thrust. You’re heaven around him, tight and slick and familiar. Teeth clenched as you make room, until he’s buried flush inside you.

Can feel your pulse around his cock, when his eyes close. When he lets all his senses narrow down to the space you’re joined.

Could never last, if he stayed that way. Would get pulled over far too quickly with the way you clench needily around him, trying to coax him to move.

And it’s here, as you beg him for more, that he loses himself. Hands flattening against the mattress as he slips half-way out - the jolt it sends through you, when his hips snap forward.

The gasp it pushes from you, your eyes fluttering shut. A sharp pinch of nails again, but it’s welcome - a low grunt, as he drives home again.

Again, and again. Leaning into the snap of his hips. Your hand reaching, drawing him down to you - mouth tipping up to meet his.

A groan, when you taste yourself against his tongue. Letting his sweep against yours, until you’re panting against his lips. The angle deep, with the way he hovers over you.

His hands fisted in the sheets, now. Using them for leverage, the bed creaking as he ruts himself into you.

A growl slipping from his chest when your fingers start to drift. Knuckles brushing the whorls of dark hair across his chest. Following the trail that leads down, past his abdomen.

The tips ghosting against your clit, just a tease before he’s shifting - a hand curling around your wrist. Bringing it up, pinning it above your head.

“Don’t need it.” It comes out ragged, when it passes his lip.

“Just me, right?”

Logan can take care of you. Stoking the lot embers in your belly, coaxing them to a burning flame.

He needs this.

Needs to be the one to give it to you.

“Just you.” The reply comes automatically. Your other wrist offered as you give him the control he desires, lifted to press into the clutch of his grip.

It makes his own muscles tighten. A deep clench, his cock throbbing inside you. Fingers pinching as he sees the way you give yourself to him.

Face tipped up, bare and stretched out beneath him. The pretty jolt of your tits each time his hips snap forward, and it’s enough that he’s closing those last inches of space.

Fitting himself against you, as his nose buries against your neck. Your thigh hooked over his hip as you chase his mouth, until you’re sighing against his lips.

Knows you can come like this, squirming beneath him, as his hips tilt. As he strokes against the places his fingers know well, your lips parting with a cry.

“Come on, honey.” It’s murmured out. Mouthing at your jaw, the word rasped low in your ear, “One more and then I’ll give you what you want.”

His other hand drifting - elbow and knees taking the brunt of his weight. Down past your hip until his palm curves against your thigh, hiking your thigh up higher.

Opening you up further, when he bottoms out. His breath hot in your ear, panted out each time his heavy sack kisses against sticky skin.

Winding you up, higher and higher. Your body arching against his - toes curling, a heel pressing into the mattress for purchase.

“Oh fuck, keep going,” You beg, trying to meet him - unable to do anything more than take it when he has you pinned like this, “Please, I’m so close-”

“Know you are,” He answers with a rough sound - more growl than words. The flesh at your thigh denting with the press of his fingers, keeping you still so he can pound against the spot that has you seeing stars.

“‘ve got you. Come for me, sweetheart.”

The whine that leaves your lips pitches high, the rushed plea dissolving into needy sounds. Muscles stringing tight, head tipping back as your breath grows short.

His eyes fixed on your half-lidded ones, your lips parted in pleasure. Feeling the crest of your orgasm - the flex of your wrists in his hand, the grip of your thighs as they press against his hips.

It’s different, like this. The pulsing clench around his cock, the press of your body against his. The rush that surges through him at the way you come undone for him - always him - how he’s never been able to get enough.

He’s following soon after, with a snarl.

Unable to get a grip on his restraint. Usually can hold out, needing more.

Another. Another. Another.

Not finished until you’re boneless- pleasure-drunk - and only then does he give in to his own need.

But tonight he’s wrenched over with way you tighten around him. Tendons flexing as the steady saw of his hips grows sloppy.

A punch of metal through flesh, as he throbs - that tightly-wound tension snapping as he spills himself deep inside you with a ragged groan, thrusts going shallow as the tight clutch of your cunt milks him empty.

All those muted thoughts inside his head fading to white noise. Drowned out by the panting of his breath, the thrum of his heart.

The rutting of his hips slow, as he comes back to himself. Always losing control around you. That tight leash slipping between his fingers, piercing through. The pillow tucked under your head shredded, looking as if torn open by a beast.

“Shit.” Logan grunts - as he comes back to himself, flesh knitting together, “Sorry, sweetheart.”

A groan, as he leans back - only to find his grip on your wrists had loosened. That your fingers lace through his now, careful of the tender spots between his knuckles.

“I’ll get you another. I’m-“ He’s starting, but then you’re smiling.

“Good for it,” You finish for him, breathlessly - face tipping up to meet his, “I know.”

Still so soft and pliant. Legs still hooked around his waist as his lips press against yours - urging him to stay.

So, he does.

He still hasn’t moved.

Sometimes, it feels as if he’s still waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Breath held as he braces for a blow that hasn’t yet come, each time the cracks lengthen in his walls. Letting sunlight seeping through.

So sure it’s waiting on the horizon for him, as it always had done. Has been, since that first night you spent together, all those weeks ago.

Finally allowing himself to exhale - for today, at least - in the darkened room.

Your nails drag against his shoulders, scratching at bare skin. A little furrow in your brow at the weary sound - unable to help the question that he’s sure has been on the tip of your tongue all night.

“Did something happen at work today?”

It’s met with silence, one minute bleeding into another.

You always seem to know. An innate sense, or far too observant - and if he wasn’t so sure you were human, he’d be think you were like him.

His breathing low and steady as the hours replay in his mind again, a warm exhale against your throat. Still caging you in beneath him, your leg still hooked around his calf.

You don’t push him. He knows what he’s like - that you’ve learned it’s easier to argue with one of the brick walls in your apartment, or to talk sense and logic with Wade, when he gets in one of his moods.

Only when the scratches of your fingers slow to a halt, does he answer.

Finds it comes easier, this late in the night. In this room - his tongue loosened like the rest of him.

“Didn’t go today.”

It’s accompanied by the shift of his hands. Grasping at your waist with a low hiss as he eases from you - your body carefully untangling, as if you’re expecting him to leave.

Logan doesn’t know if he has the strength to, tonight. Instead, he only sinks back against the mattress - his arm sweeping out, tugging you close as you tuck yourself against his chest.

Not knowing where to start, or if he evens wants to - his teeth still pinching at the inside of his cheek. Eyes drifting to the glimpse of the city outside your apartment window. The moonlight that cuts across the angle of his face, a path that you follow with the tip of a finger.

Supposes he could start at this morning.

“Wade’s been talking about X-Force again.” Logan’s fingers catch yours, flattening them against his chest. The words spoken to the ceiling, eyes still unseeing, “Keeps askin’ me to join him.”

You make a low sound at that.

“You don’t have to, Logan.” There’s a twitch of your hand beneath his, “I’m sure he means well, I can talk to him-”

There’s a bloom of affection in his chest, at how quickly you offer. Trying to protect him - as if you could put yourself between him and the ghosts of his past.

“That’s not what I’m getting at.” His eyes drag to you then, crinkling, “Thank you though, sweetheart. ‘s nice of you to offer.”

Unconsciously curling his arm a little more tightly around you when he sees the way you look at him - so fiercely, eyes unblinking. Before he goes somber, loosening his hold on something he’s held close to his chest for a long while now.

“Been thinking about it.” Logan confesses, quietly.

You’re silent, processing his words. The weight of your gaze settling over him.

He gets it - he’s felt the same. Hasn’t said it out loud before - no more than a non-committal sound, when Wade first brought it up.

“Think I liked being a part of something. Back in the void, it felt… good.”

He clears his throat, his gaze drifting from you again. The bob of his adam’s apple as he swallows, fingers twitching against yours.

Had forgotten what it was like. Had rebelled even then - brushing aside the planning until Laura had found him by the fire. Even then he had wanted to discard it. Even as it festered in the night.

But even after everything, he couldn’t let them go alone. Not when he could help, this time.

“So I went today. With him. He was headed up to the mansion, and I thought I could do it. Go in this time, but-”

The sentence hangs, half-finished.

It’s not the first time he’s gone back.

Went the week after he first started staying with Wade. Needed to see if it was still standing.

If the sky was still blue above, instead of being blocked out with ash.

His body had rebelled the whole drive. Had only gone back once in his world. That time no more than a blur and yet the memories had still crashed over him, threatening to pull him under.

Even with the reminder that this mansion wasn’t his rang in his ears, it hadn’t done any good. His mind was never one to truly forget. Spent two hundred years watching places, people change. Ones that once existed, ones that would never look the same - they all existed in him, somewhere.

And even after everything - even after those bouts of not knowing who he was - they still managed to survive, broken into bits and pieces. Tearing its way through his skin to be known.

So even if moss grew high, even as it sat there - overgrown - the memories flooded back.

His feet taking root, at the gate. Unable to make himself take another step further - held in place as if by a force he’d encountered before.

Fleeing, like a scared animal.

But he’d gone again.

And then again.

Drawn back - each time moving just a little bit closer.

Each time still a mile away.

Thought maybe he could do it this time, when he wasn’t alone. Pass over the threshold and inside.

Maybe they’d still be there.

But…

“I couldn’t.” He manages.

Logan knew they wouldn’t be. It had been another knife between his ribs, when he found out they were still gone. The Logan of this world with them, and maybe it was better that way.

He’s met a few that live inside, since. Those who still carried on didn’t bear the hatred that his world did. Didn’t know him like he knew himself.

Didn’t know what he did.

Had only told a few, and even they didn’t look at him the way he was used to - and he still wasn’t sure how he felt about that, either.

Ones like Wade - Wade who had noticed the way he stiffened at the steps to the Mansion.

Grown silent.

If it had been another day, Logan would’ve had something sharp and unpleasant to say about that. But there was a ringing in his ears. Tunnel vision, narrowing down to the old brick.

The dread hadn’t crashed over him this morning. Had been right - Wade’s presence had muted it. Made it bearable, until his eyes had lifted.

Reading the old placard affixed to the stone. The name - worn away, but he knew each letter, the shape of them, by heart.

But it had him giving into the feeling that he shouldn’t be there.

“Five minutes” he had been told. Didn’t know how Wade knew exactly how long five minutes had taken, but he had been back exactly as three-hundred counted seconds had passed.

The afternoon plans dropped - taking him along for a haphazard amount of errands. Laundromat. Grocery Store. Arcade. Discount Outlet. Logan forced to follow, until he’d been able to find himself again. Push down the memories, lock them away, as he always did.

Until it felt like it happened a week ago, instead of this morning. The endless chatter a balm, with its familiarity.

He tells you this now, slowly.

“Thought I was done running.” Logan sighs. A hand scrubbing a little too harshly across his face, pulled from yours, “Guess I was wrong.”

Your brow knits. The look you give him is soft, empty fingers curling.

A breath - as if you’re unsure how he will take what you’ve about to say.

But then it’s slipping from you.

“I don’t think you’re running.” It comes out quiet, but he can tell you believe what you’re telling him.

“It’s okay that you’re not ready. You know that, right? Not everything has to be all or nothing.”

Logan hums.

“Maybe,” You start, carefully. Another breath, and he lets his hand return to yours when you reach for it - resting across his chest.

“Maybe you keep going what you’re doing. Maybe you keep trying. Another step each time.”

There’s an age-old urge to rebel - to push your kindness away. To lean into the voices he’s brought over from his world.

But it’s hard to, with his heart thrumming beneath your palm.

“If you want me to, I’d-”

It drops off - but he’s certain he knows what you were going to say.

That you’d be there.

Go with him, be by his side - if that’s what he wanted.

He doesn’t know how to take it, your offer. Voice pitching low and gruff, as he twists his chest towards you.

The words coming slowly, and he finds he means them.

“Just knowing you’re waiting at home for me is enough.”

Home.

That’s what this place has become, hasn’t it? Wade’s apartment. Yours. This room, with his things tucked among them.

“I will.” You breathe, “Always.”

It’s a promise.

It’s one he thinks he might just believe.

His eyes flick down - and the dance begins once more, as leans into you. Done with words, for now.

The cracks deepen, as his hand slips up your bare shoulder. Cradling the back of your back, as your mouth meets his half-way.

Being the one to keep you close, this time.

Losing himself in you, once more.

Logan wonders sometimes what would have happened if Wade had pulled him into another world.

Would it have been enough, if they had been alive there?

But he might not have met you, there. Things might have not gone the same way, in the journey before. Another path taken, one where he had made it alone into the room with the Time Ripper.

Or worse, if he had been the only one to make it out.

Even those who worked outside of space and time had told him there was no going back.

He couldn’t fix what happened.

He could only move foward.

One step at a time.

Logan huffs, a breath of a laugh, as your own gradually slows. The second round and the late hour catching up to you, in the silence that’s gone soft, and the warmth of his embrace.

So many nights he thought about this. Certain he didn’t deserve it. Deserve you.

Always pulling away.

But tonight, your fingers lace through his. He’s tucked between your back and the wall of painted brick behind him, almost as if you’re protecting him.

Ears keen enough to pick up the faint clattering next door. A low murmur of voices, cadences he’s come to know well.

Maybe once, he can believe he’s safe.

Not everyone gets a second chance. He knows that now, and vows to grab onto it with both hands.

Sink his claws into it, if he has to.

And as his arm tucks around you like an anchor - he finally lets sleep take him.

if you've come back - thank you so much for reading. this series has meant so much to me, so it was very exciting when I was struck with inspiration for two more chapters of their story (exploring some ideas I hadn't yet been able to get to) 💖 I am planning to post another part next week, and this will be holiday-themed!

#logan howlett x reader #wolverine x reader #wolverine x you #logan howlett x you #wolverine smut #logan howlett #james logan howlett x reader #xmen x reader #logan howlett x fem!reader #logan howlett x f!reader #deadpool & wolverine #wolverine imagine

481 notes · View notes

bladeux · 2 days ago

Text

✶⋆.˚ when you reunite after a long time apart !

pairings : sunday, aventurine, blade, jing yuan, gepard, boothill x reader (separate) | fluff, angst (?)

➜ Sunday

The room was quiet, filled with the hum of machinery and the soft glow of screens. Sunday sat at the very center, his posture tense as he poured over a map projected on the table. You lingered at the entrance, your heart pounding. After everything, would he even want to see you again? The soft creak of the door caught his attention. His head snapped up, his golden eyes narrowing in suspicion until they locked on yours. For a moment, he simply stared, the silence stretching between you. Then, slowly, he straightened, his guarded expression giving way to disbelief. "You," he breathed, his voice barely audible. "You’re here." "Sunday," you whispered, stepping closer. He shook his head, as if trying to dispel a dream. "I thought I’d lost you. I told myself you were gone, that I couldn’t waste time hoping—" His voice broke, and he looked away, his fists clenching at his sides. "I never stopped trying to come back to you," you said, your voice trembling. "I’m sorry it took so long." He exhaled sharply, his cool slipping. When he looked at you again, his eyes glistened with emotions he rarely let show. "Don’t you dare apologize," he said, his voice low and raw. "You’re here now. That’s all that matters." You took the last step, closing the distance between you. Hesitantly, you reached out, and he caught your hand, his grip firm and grounding. "I’ve missed you," you said, tears threatening to spill over. Sunday’s lips pressed into a thin line before he pulled you into a fierce embrace, his arms holding you as if you might vanish. "I missed you, too," he murmured, his voice unsteady. "More than I can ever say."

➜ Aventurine

Amidst the chaos, Aventurine was a striking presence. He stood at the center of it all, his eyes scanning the bustling crowd with an air of easy confidence. You stood at the edge, hesitant. Would he even want to see you again after all this time? As if drawn by an invisible thread, his gaze shifted and locked onto yours. The world seemed to still. His confident smirk faltered, his posture stiffening as disbelief flickered across his face. You took a tentative step forward, and then another. Before you could reach him, he was already moving, cutting through the crowd with long, purposeful strides. When he finally reached you, he stopped just short, his eyes searching your face as though trying to confirm that you were real. "So," he said, his voice softer than you’d ever heard it, "Penacony finally has a view worth admiring. "You laughed shakily, your throat tight with emotion. "Still the same smooth talker, I see." He smiled faintly. "I thought I’d lost you," he admitted, his voice dropping to a whisper. "Not a word, not a trace. And now you’re here, walking into my life like it’s the most natural thing in the world." "I was trying to get back to you," you said, your voice trembling. "It just... took longer than I wanted." He reached out, his hand brushing against yours before his fingers wrapped around it. "You’ve got a lot to explain, but we’ll get to that," he said, his voice steadier now. His other hand came up to cup your cheek, his touch warm and grounding. "Right now, I just need to know you’re staying." Tears welled in your eyes as you nodded. "I’m staying. I’m not leaving again."

➜ Blade

The ruins of an abandoned space station were eerily silent, with the occasional groan of it settling in the vacuum of space. You pushed open a rusted door, your breath catching when you saw him. Blade stood at the edge of the room, his back facing you, staring out a shattered viewport into the abyss. His sword leaned against the wall beside him, with his shoulders down in a way that seemed uncharacteristically vulnerable. "Blade," you called softly, your voice echoing in the hollow space. He froze. For a long moment, he didn’t move, didn’t even turn to face you. "I thought it was a ghost," he finally said, his voice rough. When he turned, his crimson eyes locked onto yours, and you could see the storm raging within them. You took a cautious step forward. "It’s me." His hand clenched into a fist at his side. "Why now?" he demanded, his voice breaking. "Why come back after all this time?" "I never stopped looking for you," you whispered, your heart aching at the pain etched into his features. "I’m here now." For a moment, he seemed ready to pull away, but then he closed the distance between you in an instant, his arms wrapping around you tightly. "Don’t leave me again," he murmured, his voice trembling.

➜ Jing Yuan

The sunlit garden of the Xianzhou Luofu was tranquil, the scent of blooming flowers mingling with the faint hum of distant bells. Seated beneath a tree, Jing Yuan looked every bit the picture of calm, his white hair catching the golden light as he rested with his eyes closed. You hesitated at the edge of the garden, the sight of him stealing your breath. He hadn’t changed, as he is still the composed general he has always been. Yet, as you stepped closer, the faint lines of weariness on his face became clearer, as if time apart had weighed on him just as much as it had on you. "Are you going to stand there all day?" he called suddenly, his voice laced with amusement. His golden eyes opened, meeting yours with an intensity that made your chest tighten. You laughed softly, stepping forward. "I didn’t want to disturb your nap." "And yet, you’re the only disturbance I’ve been hoping for." His voice softened as he approached, his usually calm expression hinting a flicker of vulnerability. When he stood before you, he paused, studying your face as if committing every detail to memory. "It’s been a long time," he said, his voice low, almost hesitant. "Too long," you replied, your throat tightening. Jing Yuan’s hand lifted, his fingers brushing gently against your cheek before settling there. "I wondered if I’d ever see you again," he admitted, his golden eyes shining with a rare openness. "You don’t have to wonder anymore," you said, placing your hand over his. "I’m here now, and I’m staying." His lips curved into a faint, genuine smile as he pulled you into a warm embrace, the weight of his arms grounding you. "Then let’s make up for lost time," he murmured, his voice steady, yet filled with quiet emotion.

➜ Gepard

The city square of Belobog was alive with celebration, the people dancing and singing in the glow of warm lights. You stood at the edge of the crowd, scanning the familiar faces until your eyes landed on him. Gepard was in his full armor, commanding yet approachable as he spoke with a group of citizens. His laugh carried over the noise, and it struck you how much you had missed that sound. As if sensing your gaze, he turned and froze. His usually steady composure faltered, his eyes widening in disbelief. Without excusing himself, he strode toward you, each step faster than the last until he was standing just a breath away. "Is it... really you?" he asked, his voice hushed, as though speaking too loudly would shatter the moment. Tears welled in your eyes as you nodded. "It’s me, Gepard." His hands trembled as they reached for you, his fingers brushing your arms before pulling you into a crushing embrace. "I waited," he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. "I didn’t know if you’d ever come back, but I couldn’t stop hoping." "I’m sorry I kept you waiting," you said, burying your face in his shoulder. "You’re here now," he murmured, his grip tightening as though he never intended to let go.

➜ Boothill

The trail stretched out before you, the horizon painted in hues of gold and crimson as the sun dipped low. Boothill was waiting, leaning casually against a wooden frame, his wide-brimmed hat casting a shadow over his face. When you approached, he tipped his hat back, revealing a crooked grin. "Well, ain’t this a sight for sore eyes," he drawled, though his voice was tinged with something softer. "Missed me?" you asked, your own smile faltering as emotions bubbled to the surface. "More than I care to admit," he replied, pushing off the post and sauntering toward you. His steps were slow, deliberate, as though savoring the moment. When he reached you, he stopped, his hand lifting to brush a strand of hair from your face. "Thought I’d never see you again," he admitted, his grin fading. "I’m sorry," you said, your voice breaking. "I didn’t want to leave." His arms wrapped around you then, pulling you close against the warmth of his chest. "Don’t matter now," he murmured, his voice low and steady. "You’re here, and that’s all I care about."

a/n : i've been enjoying this so much and i would really like to say thank you for the love especially on my recent post hehe, if u have any requests or ideas in mind then feel free to send a message !!! <33

#honkai star rail x reader #honkai star rail #hsr fluff #sunday x reader #sunday x you #aventurine x reader #aventurine x you #blade x reader #blade x you #jing yuan x reader #jing yuan x you #gepard x reader #gepard landau x reader #boothill x reader #boothill x you #i love u all #mwah

602 notes · View notes

i2sunric · 2 days ago

Text

𝐒𝐇𝐀𝐃𝐎𝐖 (p.js)

PAIRING: hades!jay x persephone!reader

SUMMARY: labelled as unable of being loved, jay decides to steal a mortal to rule his realm with. what he hasn’t expected, though, is that it wasn’t you who he kidnapped, you had stolen his heart.

WARNINGS: kidnapping, enemies to lovers (but only reader hates jay), greek mythology, mentions of other idols as Gods, kisses. lmk if more. NOT PROOFREAD.

PUBLISHED: 22nd December 2024

WC: 3.5k

TAGLIST: (permanent) @stolasisyourparent @jaeyunsbimbo @jwnghyuns @bangtancultsposts @shawnyle @jooniesbears-blog @skzenhalove @ro-diaries @onlyhyunjin @xcosmi @strawberrhypen @heeheeswifey @jakeflvrz @astratlantis @tunafishyfishylike @branchrkive @insommni4 @kirinaa08 @leiclerc @nxzz-skz @laurradoesloveu @beomluvrr @heeshlove @17ericas @riribelle @cloud-lyy @who-tf-soddhi (oneshot) @monstaxdirtywonk @love4choso @heechwe

a/n: guess who’s back, back again. lol, i’m so happy with how this turned out! and i sincerely hope y’all like it too 🩷 have some nice holidays!

The gods of Olympus were never silent. Their laughter and taunts echoed across the heavens, filling their golden halls with noise and light.

Among them, Hades — so few knew him as Jay — was the quiet shadow in their midst.

Rarely did he grace their celebrations, his duties below pulling him away from the vanity of their world.

But he wasn't deaf to their jests.

“He'll never know love," Hermes — whose former name was Jungwon — had said to one banquet, leaning onto his caduceus with a smirk.

"Who would want to walk in those dark halls with him?" Aphrodite chimed in, her melodic laughter cutting through the room.

Jay had sat silent, his face impassive, but their words lodged deep within him.

He had never been a creature of longing— his domain demanded stern control, not vulnerability. And yet, as centuries passed, a hollow ache had begun to grow.

Perhaps the others were right. Perhaps he would remain alone. But then, there was the smallest flicker of rebellion within him.

“Let them doubt me," he whispered, his voice cold as the mist of the Styx. "I will find someone who can see me for what I really am."

♡.

Jay seldom visited the mortal world. It was too loud, too bright, too alive.

But something had pulled him there that day, a whisper in the back of his mind, a tenuous tug he could not ignore. And so, he walked among the mortals, his dark robes altered to blend in with their simple garb.

The sun beat above, merciless. Apollo — also known as Heeseung — really enjoyed making mundanes suffer. Mortals bustled around him, their voices a cacophony of trivial concerns.

He had nearly given up, retreating toward the shaded edge of a golden orchard, when his eyes fell on you.

You stood beneath an ancient apple tree, reaching up toward the highest branches.

Your hands grasped the fruit carefully, inspecting each apple before placing it in your basket.

The sun played in your hair, catching the edges of your figure like a halo. But it wasn't your beauty that arrested him; it was the way you moved— with confidence, with purpose.

Suddenly, a strange thought assailed him: You belonged in no one's shadow. It seemed as if not even the apple’s shadow could make you lose your spark.

A step closer he came, and almost faltered. You laughed softly as you took a bite of the sweet fruit, a slice of sound that cut through the din around him. Something in his chest stirred. An unfamiliar pull, sharp and insistent.

Before he knew better, he acted.

The earth had shaken beneath your feet, and you had stood stock-still, startled.

A chill had saturated the air, unnatural and heavy. You turned, your gaze darting around for the source, but the orchard had fallen silent.

Then the earth rent asunder. Shadows poured from it, twisting and coiling like living things. Swimming around you like water would from a waterfall.

Up from the chasm rose a chariot of black iron, its wheels spinning silently above the broken earth. The horses were ghostly, their eyes glowing like dying embers.

Your breath caught in your throat as a figure stepped from the chariot, the bitten apple falling on the ground, rolling. He was cloaked in darkness, his hood obscuring his face, but his presence was overwhelming.

Power radiated from him, pressing down on your chest like a physical weight.

"Who—" Your voice broke, trembling with fear and defiance. "Who are you?"

He didn't answer, only lifted a hand. The shadows surged forward, binding your legs like chains. You cried out, struggling against them, but they held fast.

"Let me go!" you shouted, anger flashing through your terror.

Jay raised a brow; he moved closer, and for the first time, you caught a glimpse of his face beneath the hood.

His features were sharp, almost otherworldly, and his eyes were a cold, unyielding gray.

"I cannot," he whispered, and then before you could reply, he took you into his embrace.

You struggled against him, your fists pounding against his chest, but it was like hitting stone. He stepped back onto the chariot, holding you fast as the horses reared and plunged into the chasm.

The world above disappeared in a swirl of darkness as you lost your senses.

♡.

When you awoke, you were no longer in the orchard.

The air was cool and heavy, carrying a faint metallic tang that sent shivers down your spine.

You sat up slowly, your heart pounding as you took in your surroundings. The chamber was huge, its walls carved from gleaming black stone that seemed to drink in the dim red light emanating from the ceiling.

And there, sat on an obsidian throne on the other end of the room, was him.

He watched you intently— his hood discarded, with pale skin and a face chiseled, striking yet severe. His dark eyes felt to see right through you, and you hated the way your breath caught under his gaze.

Hades. Ruler of the Underworld.

"Why?" you demanded, your voice hoarse. You stood shakily, glaring at him. "Why did you bring me here?"

"I needed a queen," he said simply, as if that explanation was enough.

You laughed bitterly, the sound echoing off the walls. "A queen? You think I'd ever agree to rule this… this pit with you?"

His expression didn't change, though you could have sworn you saw a flicker of something in his eyes-annoyance, perhaps, or amusement.

"You misunderstand," he said, his voice calm but firm. "You don't have a choice."

That struck a nerve. Your hands curled into fists, and despite the fear twisting in your gut, you stepped closer. "No one owns me," you hissed. "Not you, not anyone.”

For the first time, his calm cracked.

He rose with a slow, deliberate movement, and all the weight of his presence came down on you.

"I am Hades," he said, his voice thundering with power. "God of the Underworld, you are here because I chose you, and you will learn to accept that."

Your heart hammered in your chest, but you refused to back down. "And if I don't?"

The silence hung heavy between you for a moment. Then, to your surprise, he looked away. "Then you'll remain here as my prisoner. Either way, you belong to me now."

You swallowed hard, anger and fear warring within you. But one thought rose above the rest: You will not let him break you.

With the snap of his fingers, two servants in the form of a skeleton appeared in front of you. They looked at you with their void eyes and then turned around, walking.

You glanced up at Jay, who only beckoned you to follow them.

A scoff escaped your lips as you did just that, anything would be better than staying in the same room as him.

The skeleton's bones made a funny noise as they walked you down the neve -ending hallways. The castle was huge, crimson coated the walls as well as dark black.

“So,” you cleared your throat “Is your boss always like that? Or does he change expressions sometimes?” you tried to joke, but the skeletons didn’t reply.

Of course, they didn’t even have lips, “You can’t tell me anything, uh? Not even where the exit is?”

They just stopped in front of a door, opening it for you. Taking the hint, you slowly stepped inside, cautious.

The chamber was so spacious for only one person, a bed stood in the middle of the room, its sheets a dark shade of red.

The walls were coated with drawings of black dahlias, the ceiling so high it made you think the room never actually ended.

The skeletons closed the door behind your back, leaving you there, alone.

You walked to the bed, sitting on its edge. At least, the mattress was soft, the sheets silk and warm.

You finally allowed a sob to escape your lips, another followed and then another again.

Gods always did what they wanted, never truly considering someone’s feelings. You hated them, but more than anything, you hated Hades.

Your fingers gripped the sheets, if he wanted a wife, you’d show him just what you were made of.

♡.

The tension hung between you like a storm cloud.

Jay had come to visit you when you woke up, followed by a skeleton that placed a trail of pomegranate on your bed.

You didn’t know how much you slept, neither of it was morning or night. The Underworld had no light.

“I hope the chamber is of your likings.” He spoke after an awkward silence. You dared glance at him, but daren’t reply.

Jay let out a soft sigh, “It is the only fruit that grows in my realm, if you want anything in particular, I’ll have one of my servants fetch you something from the orchard in the Olympus.”

Finally, you reached down, picking up the pomegranate. Its scent was sweet, and the faint shimmer of the seeds made them look like tiny jewels.

Usually, you’d go crazy for the bittersweet fruit, but the Underworld made even that look dead, poisonous.

You turned it in your hands as if inspecting it. "And what if I refuse to eat?" you asked, tone sharp.

Jay's lips quirked in what might have been amusement, though it was fleeting. "You won't," he said simply, his voice soft but sure.

Your glare deepened. "How do you know?"

"Because you don't hate life," he said. "Even here, in this place you claim to despise, you'll find a reason to keep going.”

The words struck deeper than you wanted to admit. You opened your mouth to fire back a retort, but no words came.

You picked up one of the seeds between your fingers, observing the way the surface shimmered before finally placing it into your mouth.

The flavor burst on your tongue, sweet and tart, and for a moment, you were reminded of the orchards above— the sun on your skin, the breeze in your hair, the simple joy of being free.

Jay watched you in silence, his expression unreadable. When you finally set the pomegranate down, he inclined his head slightly. "I'll leave you to your evening," he said, turning to go.

So, it was evening.

But before he could go, your voice stopped him. "Wait."

He turned back; his eyes were steady but questioning.

"Why do you keep trying?" you asked, quieter now. "Why not just leave me to my misery? Use me just for your plans?” after all, it would be typical of the Gods.

For a moment, he said nothing. Then, stepping closer, he spoke in a voice so soft it barely carried across the room, “Because I've spent eternity surrounded by shadows, and for the first time, there's a light here."

His words had left you speechless for a moment. He bowed his head slightly and then left the room, the door clicking softly behind him.

♡.

The Underworld had a strange beauty to it, though you’d fought to see it.

The palace gardens, in particular, drew your attention on restless nights— or days. They were like nothing you’d ever encountered in the mortal world.

The flowers glowed faintly, their petals a soft silver-blue, and streams of water that sparkled like liquid starlight wove between them.

It was here, one evening, that you sat on a stone bench, your eyes fixed on the ghostly blooms. You didn't hear Jay approach until he spoke.

"You come here often," he said, his voice quiet.

You startled slightly but didn't turn. "I don't have many options," you replied, your tone still edged with defiance.

You had tried to wander around the castle, and Jay let you, but whenever you came too close to the exit, a puddle of shadows rose from the ground and brought you back to your chamber.

Jay sat beside you, leaving enough space to show he wasn't trying to intrude. He looked out at the garden, his gray eyes contemplative. "These flowers," he said after a moment, "Only grow here, nowhere else in existence."

You glanced at him, surprised by the hint of pride in his voice. "You care about them?"

"They're life in a place where life shouldn't exist," he said simply.

The words hung in the air between you, and for the first time, you felt a flicker of understanding: the Underworld wasn't just a prison to him— it was a responsibility, a realm he nurtured despite its darkness.

It was the realm given to him by his father, and it was his job to keep it going, no matter how much he despised it.

After a moment, you exhaled, leaning back slightly. "Why do you do that?"

He looked at you, brow furrowed. "Do what?

“Say things that make it hard to hate you,” you said, a faint, reluctant smile tugging at your lips.

You didn’t know how much time had passed, perhaps weeks or months. Time seemed to flow slower there.

But you thought it would be easier to hate him, had he been scarier and less gentle. His sharp edges always seemed to soften whenever you walked into the room, and his clothes clung to his form, revealing a body any girl from your village would go crazy about.

Not that you stared at it too much, of course.

To your surprise, Jay’s lips curved into a faint smile of his own. “I thought you’d hate me forever.”

“I’m still considering it,” you shot back, though the teasing note in your voice was unmistakable.

Jay chuckled softly, the sound low and unfamiliar. For the first time, the weight between you seemed to lift, if only slightly.

“Will you ever let me see the light again? The orchard?” or your family. Would your parents be worried, or had Jay already cast a spell on them?

“Depends,” he spoke, “Will you run away if I do.” fair point. The moment the sun kissed your skin again, you were sure you wouldn’t step inside this gloomy castle anymore.

Seeing your lack of reply, Jay just got up and turned around, murmuring “That’s what I thought.”

And for a seconds, you thought you saw something like hurt flicker in his eyes.

♡.

More time passed, and though you had resisted at first, you found yourself softening toward Jay. He had a quiet strength about him, a steady patience that wore down your walls like water against stone.

You spent most of your days in the library. Though your eyes weren’t used to the light anymore, your imagination worked just as fine.

You daydreamed of the life outside the suffocating walls of the Underworld’s castle, you dreamed of someone rescuing you.

And sometimes — but just sometimes — you fantasised about Jay, and his heart made of iron.

One night, as you sat by the fire in the great hall, he joined you, a small bundle wrapped in dark cloth clutched in his hand. "I have something for you," he said; his voice held a rare note of uncertainty. You lifted an eyebrow, curiosity pricked despite yourself. "Another 'gesture'?"

"Of a sort," he said. He unwrapped the bundle, revealing a delicate necklace of silver and black opals.

The stones shimmered like starlight, their glow faint but mesmerizing.

You stared at it, then at him. "Why?"

"It reminded me of you," he said simply. "Strong.. luminous, unyielding."

Your heart skipped a beat, though you fought to keep your expression neutral. "You think flattery will make me forgive you?"

"No," he said, holding the necklace out to you. "But it's the truth."

You hesitated, then reached out to take it. The metal was cool against your skin and for a moment, an odd sense of belonging overtook you, like this place, this moment wasn't entirely foreign.

"Thank you," you said softly and surprised yourself.

Jay's eyes relaxed, and for the first time, you saw not the god who had stolen you but the man beneath— the one who had spent centuries in solitude, yearning for connection.

for someone understanding, someone to love. Perhaps, you could learn to be just that.

You handed the necklace back to him, he looked at it, hurt. He thought you had rejected his gift, but as you turned around and held your hair up, his breath hitched.

“Would you help me put it on?” you questioned, your voice soft, unlike the usual bite it held.

“Of course.” Jay murmured quietly, his touch gentle as he put the jewel around your neck.

It fit perfectly, the dark necklace adorning your once tanned skin.

You smiled. holding it between your fingers, “It’s beautiful.”

He smiled.

Your eyes widened when he took in the sight, he smiled so warmly, and for a moment he even looked human.

“You’re beautiful.” Jay spoke, his voice so soft.

“Hades—“ You said, but he shook his head “Call me Jay.”

You gulped, the room suddenly feeling too hot, “Jay.” you repeated, the name rolling sweetly down your tone.

He let out a soft groan, like it both pained and healed him.

“I know you keep thinking ‘Why me?’” He murmured, caressing your cheek. The first time his skin met yours voluntarily “But for me, it has always been you— from the moment I saw you picking those apples, my heart belonged to you.”

You didn’t even have time to think about it, but your feet went on their tip-toes as you pressed your soft lips on his.

To say he was taken aback was an understatement. His eyes wide as body rigid, and for a moment you thought if maybe, he didn’t love you as much as he claimed.

But then, his hand held your face, the other tangled in your hair as his own lips moved on yours passionately.

Your fingers curled around his shirt, grounding you as uou got lost in the taste of him.

You took the hand that was on your cheek and guided it to rest on your racing heart, “Maybe you have the same effect on me.” You murmured on his lips.

His eyes darkened and he pulled away, “Will you marry me?”

You blinked faintly, your breath hitching at his straight-forwardness.

“Do I have a choice?” He stepped away, his breath still heavy from the kiss, “Yes— yes, I’m giving it to you right now.”

Your brows furrowed, so he added “If you think your future still belongs in the Olympus, then go. The door is actually just around the throne room.”

Jay gulped, hope flickering in his usually gloomy eyes “But if you have some sense of future here, with me, then stay. Stay and let me be your husband.”

You clenched your jaw and looked at the door of the throne room. If you exited it and followed the long hallway, you would be out.

You would see the light, feel the sun tickle your skin, see your family, your friends.

But you weren’t sure that was what you wanted anymore.

Your eyes set again on Jay. His expression had lost hope, like he had already lost.

But you smirked, crossing your arms over your chest “So,” you cleared your throat “When’s the wedding?”

A smile, brother than Apollo’s sun lit up his face as he closed the distance he had put and claimed your lips once more.

“Whenever you want, Y/N.”

♡.

In time, the Underworld became your home. Though the darkness remained, it no longer felt oppressive. The palace, once cold and foreign, now echoed with your laughter. And Jay, once a figure of hate, had become something else entirely.

One day, as you stood by the garden's edge, watching the silver streams flow, he approached you. His steps were quiet, but you felt his presence before you turned.

"You've changed this place," he said, his voice filled with quiet reverence.

You looked at him, a faint smile playing on your lips. "And you've changed me.

He reached out and took your hand in his, holding it to his lips and pressing a soft kiss on the ring. For a moment, neither of you spoke, the silence between you heavy with meaning.

Then he bowed his head slightly, his voice a low murmur "Will you teach me how to love you right?”

You looked at him, at the man who had once been your captor but was now so much more.

Slowly, you nodded. "I will."

370 notes · View notes

hoshifighting · 3 days ago

Note

do you think you could write some bratty sub minghao? I feel like he’s totally a brat when he feels like it hehehe

bratty sub!minghao

WARNINGS: smut, sub!minghao x dom!reader, tit slap, orgasm denial, teasing, face riding oral [ f. receiving ], hair pulling.

in a dom side, he would be a hard dom. in contrast, if he were the opposite, he would be a hard sub bratty sub.

minghao’s the brattiest sub you’ve ever had to deal with, hands down. like, he’s not even trying to hide it—rolling his eyes, crossing his arms, letting out that annoying little huff every time you tell him to do something. you’d think he’s allergic to behaving. “yah... why do you always have to be so bossy?” he whines, dragging out the word as he looks at you like you’ve just personally ruined his life. his pouty lips are so damn pretty it’s hard not to kiss him.

“bossy?” you echo, quirking a brow. “hao, baby, you’re about five seconds away from finding out exactly what bossy looks like.”

his response? an eyeroll so dramatic it could rival a reality tv contestant’s. “whatever,” he mutters, flipping his hair. “like you’re gonna do anything about it~~”

oh. oh. challenge accepted.

next thing he knows, your hand’s in his hair, pulling hard enough to make his mouth drop open in a shocked little gasp. his eyes go wide, his bratty mask cracking just a little as you tug him closer.

“what was that?” you ask, your voice calm, but your grip firm. his breathing’s already shaky, and you can feel the tension in his body as he tries —and fails—not to react.

“n-nothing,” he stammers, the slightest tremble in his voice. but he’s still got that glint in his eye, that little spark of disobedience that drives you crazy.

“nothing, huh?” you hum, tilting your head as you study him. “then why are you squirming so much, baby? can’t handle a little discipline?”

he scoffs, but it’s weak, barely holding up under your gaze. “i’m not squirming,” he mutters embarassed.

“oh, really?” you let go of his hair, only to deliver a sharp slap to his nipple. the sound echoes through the room, and he yelps, his body jerking instinctively.

“what the hell—” he starts, but you cut him off with another slap, this time to the other nipple, making him hiccup silently.

“what was that, hao? you were saying something?”

he’s blushing now, his cheeks a furious pink as he glares at you. but he doesn’t say a word, just bites his lip and looks away, his bratty confidence shaken.

“thought so,” you say, smirking as you trail your fingers over his heated skin. “maybe this’ll teach you some manners.”

but, of course, minghao being minghao, he can’t let it go. “you’re so mean.”

“mean?” you laugh, leaning down until your face is inches from his. “oh, baby, i haven’t even started being mean yet.”

and then comes the real punishment—your hand sliding down between his legs, teasing him by playing with the shiny pre cum on his cock head, just enough to make him whimper, but not giving him anything more.

“please,” he whispers, his voice breaking as he looks up at you with wide, pleading eyes.

“please, what?” you ask, feigning innocence as you pull back just enough to leave him on the edge.

“please, i... i need—” he cuts himself off, his face turning even redder.

“you need what, hao?” you press, your smirk widening as he squirms beneath you. “use your words.”

he groans, his head falling back as he tugs at the restraints holding his wrists now. “i need to cum,” he finally admits.

“aw, that’s too bad,” you say, your tone almost pitying as you pull your hand away completely. “because brats don’t get to come.” you’re already shedding your clothes when minghao, with his clever little smirk, pipes up from his spot on the bed. “so… are you gonna let me eat you out?”

he’s always watching you with those sharp, scheming eyes, already trying to figure out your next move. always too smart for his own good. you don’t answer, just slide your top over your head and toss it aside. his gaze drops to your bare skin, and you can see the way his throat bobs as he swallows hard.

“oh, come on,” he presses. “don’t leave me hanging here. you’re just gonna ignore me?”

you bite back a smirk, taking your sweet time with the rest of your clothes. minghao shifts on the bed, his fingers twitching like he’s dying to touch you but knows better than to try.

“you’re so quiet all of a sudden,” he says, trying to look cool, butedning up sound more desperate than ever.

you step out of the last piece of clothing, completely bare now, and climb onto the bed. minghao’s breath hitches, his lips parting as he watches you crawl over him. you roll your eyes, settling yourself over him, your knees bracketing his head. his smirk fades instantly, replaced by a look of pure, unfiltered need.

“oh, you’re… you’re gonna—”

you lower yourself onto his face, cutting him off, and his reaction is immediate—his tongue darts out to meet you as he closes his eyes.

“that’s right,” you murmur, grinding lightly against him, your breath hitching as his nose bumps against your clit.

his response is muffled, but you can feel the way his tongue works, desperate and eager, trying to please you. “you’re lucky,” you coo. “i treat you so well, give you everything you need… and how do you repay me?”

minghao groans against you, his tongue faltering for a second before redoubling its efforts. you can feel the frustration radiating off him, but he doesn’t stop—not for a second.

“you don’t respect me,” you continue. “you’re such a little brat, hao. always testing me, always pushing.”

his tongue moves faster now, llike he’s trying to prove you wrong. you can feel him shaking beneath you, putting everything he has into pleasing you.

“there you go,” you murmur, tilting your head back as you feel yourself dripping more and more with every lick. “put in some effort for once.”

you’re close, so close, and minghao knows it—his tongue working overtime, his moans vibrating against you.

but just as you’re about to cum in his mouth, you lift yourself off him. his mouth follows instinctively, his tongue flicking out into empty air as he lets out a pitiful whine.

“no, no, no,” he pleads, his voice cracking as he tries to pull you back down by rubbing his chin on your inner thigh. “please, i was—i was doing good—”

you laugh cruel, watching as he squirms beneath you. “oh, baby,” you say, brushing your fingers through his damp hair. “you really thought i was gonna let you have it?”

213 notes · View notes

kittykat-suki · 3 days ago

Text

Clingy 𓇢𓆸

Pairing: Jeongin x Reader Warnings: angst with comfort

Jeongin’s passion, his dedication to his fans, the way he pushed himself to perfect every move, every note and every performance captivated you.

So, when you were made aware that he had been overworking himself, you naturally decided to show up at practice to treat him and the other members to your well known sweet treats- y/n’s chocolate chip cookies and blueberry muffins. You hoped that this would provide all of them with a bit of energy to endure the long hours of rehearsals.

Smiling to yourself, you were excited to see the way Jeongin’s eyes would light up when he sees you. However, as you entered the studio, a unfamiliar atmosphere hung in the air. The usual bickering and laughter were absent. Instead, the tension was thick, almost suffocating.

The room was solely filled with the sound of exhausted footsteps and heavy breathing as the members rehearsed for their upcoming performance.

Jeongin stood at the center, his posture stiff as he wiped the sweat off his forehead, looking worn-out, as though his energy had been drained from every corner of his body. He hadn’t noticed you come in yet, but you figured it would only be a moment before his face broke into the warm smile you knew so well.

As the practise came to an end, you stepped forward, holding out the tub of treats. "Hey, Jeongin," you said softly, your voice warm but cautious, sensing the underlying tension. "I brought you all some snacks. I thought you might be hungry."

The other members turned toward you with friendly smiles, immediately taking the treats from you and offering their thanks. But Jeongin didn’t look up. He continued adjusting his shoes, his body tense as if the weight of the world rested on his shoulders. You tried again, more gently this time.

"Jeongin… you’ve been working so hard. Maybe you should take a break," you said, placing a hand on his shoulder.

Finally, he looked at you, but not in the way you had hoped. His eyes were tired, bloodshot from lack of sleep, but what caught you off guard was the hostility in his eyes, which was supported by the sharp edge in his voice. "I don’t need a break, Y/N."

You stepped back, a little surprised by the distaste in his tone. "I just thought you might need some support—".

He cut you off with a scoff. "Support?" His voice grew louder now, filled with irritation. "I don’t need you hovering around me all the time, y/n. You’re being the opposite of supportive right now. It’s like you don’t get it."

The words stung horribly, but you tried to ignore it, hoping this wasn’t really happening. Maybe he was just tired. "I didn’t mean to annoy you… I just wanted to help. I made these for you guys, it’s your favourites."

"I don’t need your help," he snapped, the words hitting you harder than you expected. "You’re always so clingy, always trying to be there when I’m just trying to focus. It’s exhausting being with you."

The room fell silent. You felt your stomach drop as his words echoed not only around the room, but in your mind and all the way to your heart.

Clingy. Such a simple word, but it cut deeper than anything else he could have said. You had always been insecure of this, and now your caring boyfriend had just unknowingly confirmed your deepest fears.

"You’re right. I’m…sorry," you whispered, keeping your eyes down and onto the now bitter treats in order to stop the tears form rushing out. Your hands clenched around the tub, trying to keep your composure, but it was all unraveling inside you.

Before you could say anything else, you shoved the tub into Jeongin’s hands and turned away quickly, your heart pounding in your chest. You didn’t even look back to see if he was watching you. With a slam, the door shut behind you, and you walked down the hallway, feeling the weight of his anger pressing down on you.

The cold air hit you as you reached the exit. You hadn’t expected your surprise to end this way, and now you felt more alone than ever. The streets added to your discomfort, seemingly more emptier than usual, with the night sky above you dark and unforgiving.

You wanted to just go home and drown in your own sorrows, preferably with a tub of ice cream, but your phone and keys. You hadn’t even realized you’d left them in the practice room.

You knew you couldn’t go back, so you wandered aimlessly, knowing you had nowhere to go, nowhere to escape. It felt like the weight of his rejection was following you, echoing in your ears.

And then, as if the world had conspired against you, the rain began to pour. First, it was a few droplets, but soon it turned into a downpour, soaking you through. But you barely noticed, your mind too clouded with the sting of Jeongin’s words to focus on anything else.

You wished you hadn’t come. Wished you hadn’t tried to help him, to support him. Maybe you had overstepped. Maybe you were too much. Maybe, just like Jeongin had confirmed, you were clingy and just a burden.

Tears mixed with the rain as you stumbled down the deserted streets. You didn't even care that you were soaked to the bone. You didn’t care about anything anymore, the words of the person you most trusted hurt more than anything.

It wasn’t until you heard hurried footsteps behind you that you even registered someone was approaching. You turned, startled, only to see Jeongin, breathless and soaked, running toward you.

"Y/N!" he called, his voice filled with panic. "Y/N, wait!".

You turned back and kept walking, anger and hurt still looking in your mind. However, he caught up to you, blacking your path.

Jeongin stood there in the pouring rain, his soaked hair plastered to his forehead, the dark strands clinging to his face like the weight of his regret. His drenched jacket stuck to his body, outlining his frame, and he looked smaller than usual, like he was struggling with the enormity of what had just happened.

His eyes were wide and filled with panic as he searched your face as if he were trying to find a way to undo the damage, to take back the words that had slipped from his mouth. His lips parted slightly, as if he was trying to speak, but no words came out. The tension in his posture was so palpable, it was as if the weight of the world was on his shoulders, each raindrop a reminder of his mistake.

And yet, there was something more in his eyes than just worry. Something deeper.

Guilt.

It was written across his face in every line and every flicker of uncertainty that crossed his features. You had seen him worried before, but never like this. Never with that quiet, broken look, as though he was carrying the burden of something he couldn’t undo.

He stepped forward, his soaked shoes making soft squelching sounds against the wet pavement, but you took a step back, not wanting to get too close, not yet.

"Y/N…" His voice cracked slightly, sounding hoarse and unsure, swallowed by the sound of the rain that fell in torrents around you both. His hand reached out, but it hung in the air, trembling as if he wasn’t sure whether he had the right to touch you, whether you would let him.

You felt a shiver run down your spine, but your heart felt heavy, the anger and hurt still so fresh. "You don’t need to worry about me, Jeongin," you said softly, pulling away, "I’m fine."

"Stop," he said, his voice trembling. "I care about you. I... I didn’t mean to say those things to you earlier." His voice cracked, and for a moment, you saw how broken he looked. "I was just so tired, and I… I took it all out on you."

You shook your head, still not meeting his gaze. "It’s fine. I understand."

"No," he said urgently, his hands reaching for you, cupping your face gently to make you look at him. "No, it’s not fine. It’s not fine at all. I was stupid, Y/N. You’ve always been there for me, supporting me, and I pushed you away. I hurt you… and I never meant to."

His hands were warm against your cold cheeks, his touch almost like a lifeline. "I was just so tired. So overworked. I didn’t know what to say, and the worst thing is that none of I what I said was true. I… I’m so sorry."

The sincerity in his voice made your chest tighten, and for the first time since you had left, you allowed yourself to cry. The tears flowed freely, mixing with the rain that poured down, but this time, you didn’t feel as alone.

Jeongin gently wiped the tears from your face with his thumb, his own eyes glistening with unshed tears. "I never should’ve said that to you. You mean so much to me. I’m so sorry for everything."

You took a deep breath, letting his words wash over you, and nodded slowly. "I know you didn’t mean it. I just… I just want you to know you don’t have to push me away. I care about you, Jeongin. I want to help you."

He pulled you into a tight hug, his arms wrapping around you as if he were trying to hold onto you, as if he were afraid you’d slip away. "I won’t push you away again. I promise. I’m so sorry."

You let yourself sink into him, the warmth of his embrace pushing away the cold of the rain. You could feel the weight lifting off your chest, the hurt slowly fading, replaced by the quiet reassurance that everything would be okay.

"I’ll always be here," you whispered, and for the first time that night, Jeongin smiled softly against your hair.

#stray kids #yang jeongin #fanfic #skz x reader #skz #skz imagines #stray kids imagines #jeongin x reader #jeongin angst #skz angst #stray kids angst #i.n x reader

255 notes · View notes

thewindigo · 3 days ago

Text

“Lockjaw”

sum. who knew you’re loving boyfriend okarun could be so… rough?

warnings. 18+ NSFW MDNI. aged up characters. ken “okarun” takakura x fem! reader, porn w/o plot, blowjob, hair pulling, facefucking, deepthroating, accidental overstimulation?, he gives you a facial😋

wc. 861

notes. sorry if there are mistakes! I legit just made a post abt writing this so it’s my first actual attempt at a fic. (he’s so ooc)

NSFW UNDER THE CUT

“f-fuck..” he groans, as his tip continues to slide along the back of your throat, as your lips enclose around takakura’s shaft, you feel him shudder with delight. his hands bury themselves in your hair, gripping firmly but not too roughly. he gazes down at you with a mix of passion and desire as you swirl your tongue along the sensitive length of him.

"sososo good.." ken murmurs, his voice heavy with yearning. he begins to move slowly, guiding himself deeper into your warm, wet mouth. your eyes meet his, a silent understanding passing between you.

he starts to pick up the pace, his hips thrusting with building urgency. your fingers dig into his soft thighs, a muffled protest escaping you as he pushes ever deeper. the head of him hits the back of your throat, making you gag slightly.

"please I c-can’t.." he whines, his breath coming in ragged gasps. with each thrust, his fingers tighten in your hair, angling your head to take him even deeper. the musky scent of him fills your senses as you surrender yourself to the exquisite feel of him gliding over your tongue again and again.

you feel his movements becoming more erratic, his restraint slipping further as the pleasure mounts. he whines “oh god, your mouth feels so good..”

he buries himself to the hilt, the swollen tip hitting the back of your throat forcefully with each pounding stroke. tears sting your eyes, but you press on, determined not to back down.

the sound of his hips colliding with your chin echoes through the room, punctuated by the wet, slick noises of your joining. ken's breath hitches, his fingers twisting in your tresses as he gazes down at you with an intensity that makes your heart pound.

his pace becomes relentless, driving himself deeper, seeking that sweet release. unconsciously, your hands reach up to grasp his thighs. your lips part from him with an audible pop, a string of his essence stretching before snapping. his hands immediately grasp himself, taking over the rhythmic glide of what was just inside your warmth.

gazing down at you with hazy eyes, he strokes faster, his movements more primal now. with each pump, he watches yourself under him, seeking to push himself back to that ecstatic peak.

the room echoes with the sounds of his hand moving along his member. his jaw tightens, teeth gritted as he chases his high,

his once steady pace dwindles down to a sloppy mess as he reaches his peak, arching his back and whines as hot ropes of cum land on your face - warm and thick as he paints you with his release. you feel the wetness trickling over your features, marking you as his. the sight makes his brain short-circuit, drawing out deep, shuddering whimpers from deep within his chest. as the last drops of him fall away, you use your fingers to carefully gather his essence from your face, raising them to your lips and sucking them clean. the taste of him lingers on your tongue, visceral and undeniable proof of the passion shared.

with deliberate slowness, you turn your attention to the cock that so recently occupied your mouth. your tongue darts out, lapping up every trace of his cum, relishing the intimate connection. the salty tang mingles with the musky flavor of his arousal, driving you to savor each moment.

he watches this display with rapt fascination, his breath coming in short pants. the sight of you so consumed, so devoted to claiming every bit of him, is too much. you feel him shudder as you tenderly clean him, the intensity of the aftermath crashing down on him in waves.

finally, spent and overwhelmed, he brings you up to meet him, capturing your lips in a searing kiss. the taste of himself still on both of you only heightens the intimacy. confused desire and tenderness battle within his eyes as he holds you close.

"Y-you..." he stammers out, still catching his breath. "f-fuck..”

#dandadan #okarun x reader #ken takakura x reader #dandadan x reader #dandadan smut #ken takakura smut #Spotify #okarun x reader smut

125 notes · View notes

fangdokja · 1 day ago

Text

🔞"I trusted you, wife, and now I'll teach you what betrayal feels like."

❤︎ Synopsis. Caught in a web of lies, a spy's double life unravels when her mafia husband discovers her betrayal—turning their love into a merciless game of dominance, vengeance, and obsession. She was his wife, his possession, and now, his prisoner.

♡ Book. A Heart Devoured: A Dark Yandere Anthology

♡ Pairing. Yandere! Russian! Mafia Boss x Reader

♡ Novelette. #1 -The Enemy in His Bed

♡ Word Count. 8,853

♡ TW. non-con, rape, blood play, forced oral, fear play, knife play, needle play, heavy bodily injury, slut shaming, objectification, psychological torment, actual torture methods, mature language, humiliation, degradation, forced orgasms, sadism, BDSM, groping, biting, bondage, nudity, fire play, gagging, physical assault and violence, choking / breath play

You are in a room that reeks of blood and mildew, the air so heavy it feels like it’s pressing down on your lungs. The faint hum of a fluorescent bulb flickering above casts the space in a sickly yellow light, illuminating the cold, concrete walls streaked with rust-colored stains. You’re tied to a chair—no, anchored. The ropes around your wrists and ankles are so tight you can feel the pulse of your blood struggling beneath them, the fibers cutting deep into your flesh. Your breathing is shallow, ragged, your chest rising and falling as if every breath might be your last.

He stands in front of you, a towering figure cloaked in shadow. His silhouette is broad and unyielding, the kind of presence that fills every corner of the room with an oppressive weight. This man—the man who used to call you lyubov moya—is no longer the husband you once knew. The ruthless Russian mafia boss whose name is whispered like a curse. His eyes, dark as pitch, are fixed on you with a predator’s focus, glinting with something primal, something vile. He’s not here to forgive. He’s here to destroy.

“Do you feel it?” His voice is low, gravelly, but it carries the force of an earthquake. He steps closer, the sound of his boots hitting the floor like a countdown. “That crawling under your skin? That’s fear. That’s regret. And yet, you still sit there,” he hisses, his tone sharp enough to flay skin, “with that fucking look in your eyes.”

His hand shoots out, grabbing your chin with bruising force. His thumb digs into the soft flesh just below your cheekbone, forcing your face upward. The light catches his features, and for a moment, you see the rage carved into every hard line of his face. But it’s his eyes that terrify you most. They’re dead things, black holes where love once flickered.

“You betrayed me,” he snarls, the words laced with venom. His grip tightens, and you hear the faint crackle of cartilage in your jaw. “My wife. My fucking wife. And all this time, you were a spy. An actress in my bed, a liar in my world.” He releases you with a violent shove, and your head snaps back, the base of your skull colliding with the chair’s hard frame. Pain blooms, hot and electric, as blood trickles from your nose, the metallic tang filling your mouth.

The room is silent except for the sound of his breathing, heavy and deliberate, like a beast stalking its prey. He circles you now, each step echoing like the tolling of a bell. “Did you think I wouldn’t find out?” he asks, his voice quieter but infinitely more dangerous. He crouches down beside you, the leather of his gloves creaking as he pulls a blade from his belt. It’s thin, surgical, the kind of tool meant for precision rather than brute force. “Did you think I wouldn’t break you?”

The blade glides along your collarbone, its edge so sharp it almost feels cold. He presses just enough for the skin to part, a shallow cut that wells with blood and sends a sharp sting radiating through your nerves. “This is just the beginning,” he whispers, his lips so close to your ear you can feel the heat of his breath. “You don’t get to die yet. Not until I’ve carved every secret out of you. Not until you understand what betrayal costs.”

Your pulse is erratic, hammering in your chest as he stands again, looming over you like some ancient lord of vengeance. His fist connects with your cheek, and the world spins, your vision blurring as pain explodes across your face. Blood spatters across the floor in a violent arc, warm and sticky as it drips from the corner of your mouth.

“Where’s your defiance now?” he growls, his voice shaking with fury. He grabs a fistful of your hair, wrenching your head back so your gaze meets his. “You want to look brave, milaya, but I know better. I can see it in your eyes. You’re already breaking.”

His lips curl into a cruel smile as he lets go, letting your head drop forward. The room seems to tilt, the edges of your vision darkening, but you won’t give him the satisfaction of your surrender. Not yet. Not while there’s still air in your lungs.

But he’s not done. He won’t be until every inch of you is stripped raw, every nerve exposed and screaming. He reaches for a switch on the wall, and with a flick, the room is bathed in red light. It casts his shadow on the walls, grotesque and distorted, like a demon looming over the damned.

────────────

The door creaks open, and a figure, one of his subordinates, enters the room, dragging a metal tray laden with an assortment of cruel instruments. Your heart races as the cold steel glints under the flickering lights, each tool designed for a specific kind of torment.

The Russian mafia boss nods curtly, his eyes never leaving yours as the man sets the tray down with a clatter. "You're going to tell me everything," he says, his voice low and deadly.

"And then, I'm going to show you what it means to betray the one who gave you everything." He leans in, his hot breath on your neck, his grip on your chin painful.

"But first, I want you to remember what you used to be to me," he murmurs, the words a dark caress that sends a shiver down your spine.

His hand travels down, cupping your bruised cheek before sliding down to grasp your throat. You swallow hard, the fear rising like bile in your throat, but you refuse to show it. He squeezes, the pressure increasing until your eyes water, but you don't make a sound, not even a whimper.

His eyes narrow in frustration before he releases you, the hand moving to grip your jaw instead, forcing your mouth open.

With a sneer, he brings his face closer, his stubble scraping against your skin as he whispers, "You were once my sweet little bird, singing only for me. Now, you're a caged whore for the highest bidder." He slams his mouth down on yours, his kiss bruising and possessive.

You taste the rage and desperation in him, and for a fleeting moment, you feel a pang of pity.

But it's quickly replaced with a fiery resolve to survive, to somehow escape his clutches.

His tongue forces its way into your mouth, and you bite down, hard. He pulls back with a growl of annoyance, but instead of releasing you, he laughs, a dark, chilling sound. "Good girl," he says, wiping the blood from his lip with the back of his hand.

"You still have some fight left in you." His eyes scan the tray, and he selects a pair of pliers. "Let's see how much you can take."

He reaches for your shirt, his fingers deftly unbuttoning it despite your struggling. The fabric tears away from your body, exposing your bruised and bound breasts. He squeezes them, watching the pain flicker in your eyes with a twisted pleasure. "These used to be mine," he says, his voice filled with a sadistic glee. He leans in again, his teeth grazing your earlobe. "But now, I'll make sure no one else ever touches them again."

The air in the dimly lit room reeked of sweat and copper, a metallic tang that coated your tongue as you gasped for breath. His shadow loomed large, an oppressive specter that seemed to drink in your pain. The pliers in his hand gleamed under the flickering light—a surgeon’s precision wrapped in a sadist’s grip.

His voice slithered through the silence, low and venomous. “Tell me,” he hissed, his words thick with cruelty, “whose touch you’ve dared to crave besides mine.”

Your chest rose and fell, trembling under his gaze. You held your tongue, the taste of defiance as bitter as bile. His jaw tightened. Then, without hesitation, he snapped the cold steel jaws of the pliers onto your right nipple.

The first twist came like lightning, sharp and blinding, a searing current that jolted through your body. The delicate tissues twisted under the unyielding bite of the metal, the nerve endings igniting like fireworks. You clenched your teeth so hard your jaw ached, your scream lodged in your throat like a jagged stone.

He leaned in closer, his breath an unwanted warmth against your cheek. “Still stubborn, aren’t we?” he murmured, his tone laced with mockery and dark amusement. “Let’s see how long that lasts.”

The second twist was slower, deliberate—a calculated cruelty that made your skin crawl. He pulled, the pliers dragging the sensitive flesh in directions it was never meant to go. You could feel the tissue straining, tearing, fibers unraveling like the threads of a fragile tapestry.

Your vision swam, black spots blooming like ink blots against the edges of your sight. He laughed softly, the sound of a predator savoring its kill. “Beautiful,” he said, almost reverent. “Even in pain, you’re mine. Always mine.”

The climax of his sadistic art came with a grotesque pop, the sound of tissue surrendering to force. The pain was an inferno, all-consuming, burning through every nerve as he wrenched the nipple free from your body. Warm blood spilled in rivulets, pooling on the filthy floor beneath you. The ruined flesh hung like a torn petal before he carelessly tossed it aside, letting it hit the ground with a wet slap.

He stepped back, his gaze fixed on your bloodied chest—a grotesque canvas of raw meat and trembling sinew. The shredded skin wept crimson tears, each droplet sliding down to trace the curve of your ribs. The room tilted; your body screamed for reprieve, but there was none to be had.

“You’re breathtaking like this,” he said softly, running a gloved hand over your mutilated breast. His touch was clinical, detached, as if admiring the precision of his own handiwork. “But we’re far from finished.”

The metal tray clattered as he reached for his next tool—a scalpel, gleaming with sterile menace. But before he could wield it, he paused, considering. With a dark smile, he reached instead for the salt.

The coarse grains glittered like tiny shards of glass as he grabbed a fistful. “Let’s ensure you remember this moment,” he whispered, and then he scattered the salt into the gaping wound.

It was as if the salt detonated on contact, each granule a fresh explosion of agony. Your body bucked involuntarily, the ropes digging into your wrists as you thrashed against your bindings. The scream that tore from your throat was raw and primal, reverberating off the walls like a wounded animal’s last cry.

His smile widened, a cruel crescent etched into his face. “Much better,” he said, almost soothingly. “Now we’re making progress.”

The pliers returned, their jaws still slick with blood as they moved to your remaining nipple. This time, you could see the shadow of his intent, the cold malice in his eyes as he clamped down. The pain came like a tidal wave, drowning you in its depths as he twisted, pulled, and twisted again.

The nipple tore loose with a sickening crunch, cartilage snapping, blood spurting in a violent arc. Your chest was no longer your own—it was a ravaged landscape of gore, a grotesque testament to his control. The raw, exposed tissue oozed and quivered, a mockery of what it once was.

He stepped back, his chest heaving with exertion, his eyes drinking in the destruction he’d wrought. “You’re exquisite when you break,” he murmured, his voice tinged with satisfaction. “But don’t worry, little wife. There’s so much more of you left to ruin.”

You hung limp in the chair, your body trembling, every nerve ablaze. Your silence persisted, but his words lingered, curling around you like smoke, a promise of horrors yet to come.

────────────

The mafia boss steps back, his chest heaving with exertion, his eyes never leaving the destruction he's wrought upon your body. His hand reaches down to adjust his crotch, where a noticeable bulge has formed.

He's enjoying this, the sadist, getting off on your suffering.

"You're going to scream for me," he says, his voice low and filled with a primal hunger. "You're going to beg for me to stop. And when you do, I'll make sure you never forget who you belong to."

He moves to stand in front of you, his pants tenting obscenely. He unbuckles his belt, the leather making a harsh sound as it's pulled from the loops, the anticipation in the air thick and suffocating. He unbuttons his pants, and his cock springs free, hard and angry. He strokes it, the motion taunting you, a silent challenge to see how much more you can endure.

"Look at me," he commands, his voice a whip crack that slices through the pain.

You refuse to give him the satisfaction, keeping your eyes cast down, focusing on the puddle of blood forming around your chair.

He grabs your chin, forcing your gaze to meet his. "Look at what you've done to me," he snarls. "You've turned me into a monster."

He steps closer, pressing his cock against your bruised and bleeding chest, the heat from his arousal a stark contrast to the cold steel of the pliers still digging into your skin. He grinds against you, his hips moving in a slow, deliberate rhythm.

"You're going to take this," he says, his voice a mix of anger and lust. "You're going to take every inch of me until you remember who you are."

With a brutal yank, he twists the pliers on your nipples even more so, and you feel your body convulse in a silent scream.

He takes the opportunity to force himself inside your mouth, his cock hitting the back of your throat, making you gag. "Suck it," he orders, his hand fisted in your hair, pushing your face closer to his crotch.

With a burst of defiance, you clamp down on his cock with your teeth, biting as hard as you can, feeling the warm flesh between your teeth, the taste of his pre-cum mixing with the coppery tang of your own blood.

He roars in a mix of pain and pleasure, his grip on your hair tightening as he thrusts deeper into your mouth.

The mafia boss’s eyes widen in shock, but the arousal in them doesn't waver. Instead, it seems to intensify, his pupils dilating with a dark excitement.

"Fuck, you little bitch," he growls, his voice a mix of anger and desire. "You're going to regret that." His hand moves from your hair to the back of your head, pushing down harder, his cock sliding in and out of your mouth with a sickening rhythm.

You refuse to give in, biting down again, the pain in your breasts and the metallic taste of blood only fueling your resolve to fight back.

He responds by slamming your head into the chair, stars exploding across your vision, but you don't let go. The pain radiates through your skull, but you hold on, biting even harder.

The Russian's hand trembles with a mix of rage and arousal as he pours an unmerciful amount of salt into the gaping wounds on your chest.

The agony is instant and overwhelming, your body arching off the chair as the salt sears into your flesh, setting every nerve ending alight with pain.

The scream that rips from your throat is muffled by his thick cock, still lodged in your mouth. His grip on the back of your head tightens even more, his hips jerking as your teeth graze his shaft, the scream vibrating along his length.

He watches your face contort in torment, his own expression a twisted blend of love and hatred. "That's it," he murmurs, his voice thick with desire. "Scream for me."

He pours more salt, the grains falling like a sadistic rain upon your ravaged breasts. Your teeth clench around his cock as you fight back the urge to pass out from the pain. Your eyes squeeze shut, and tears stream down your face, mixing with the blood and saliva that coats your chin. He seems to revel in your suffering, his thrusts becoming more erratic, his breaths more ragged.

The henchman, his eyes wide and slightly horrified, watches from the corner, unsure of what to do. The Russian mafia boss, noticing his employee's discomfort, turns to him with a wicked smile. "You want a taste?" he asks, his voice a dark promise.

The man shakes his head, unable to tear his gaze away from the macabre scene unfolding before him. The mafia boss laughs, a low, chilling sound that sends a shiver down your spine. "Then get the fuck out," he snaps. "I'll handle this one."

The henchman nods hastily, retreating from the room, the door slamming shut behind him.

You're alone with the monster you once called your husband.

The salt has stopped falling, but the pain remains, a constant reminder of your betrayal and his wrath.

He pulls back a bit, panting heavily, his cock still hard and slick with your saliva. He looks at your destroyed breasts with a twisted kind of fascination, the blood and salt creating a gruesome tableau. "You're so beautiful when you scream," he murmurs, his voice almost tender.

His hand reaches out to trace the edge of one of the wounds, his touch surprisingly gentle amidst the chaos.

You flinch away, the slightest of movements, but it's enough to snap him out of his daze.

The mafia boss’s hand clamps down on the back of your neck, forcing you to look at him again. His eyes are dark with lust and anger, a storm brewing in their depths. "You're going to pay for every lie," he says, his voice a promise of unspeakable torment.

He then pulls his cock from your mouth with a wet pop, the sound echoing through the room. You gasp for air, your throat raw from his rough treatment. He steps back, his gaze traveling down your body, taking in every bruise and tear. "But not before I make you feel everything I felt when I found out you were whoring around."

He grabs you by the hair, yanking you to your feet, the ropes around your ankles making you stumble. He pulls you to the tray of instruments, his eyes lingering on a long, thin knife.

The blade glitters in the light, a silent threat of the pain to come. He picks it up, his hand steady, his movements deliberate. "You're going to tell me who else has had you," he says, the knife hovering just above your skin. "Every name, every touch, every time you spread your legs for someone who wasn't me."

His grip tightens, his thumb tracing a line along your jaw. "And for every lie, I'll make sure you feel it here," he says, pressing the knife against your throat, the cold steel a stark reminder of the power he holds over you.

You stand before him, your body shaking with pain and fear, but you refuse to speak.

The Russian's eyes narrow, and he presses the knife harder, a thin line of blood welling up. "Tell me," he demands, his voice a low, dangerous growl.

But you remain silent, your teeth clenched, your eyes locked on his.

He sighs, a sound filled with disappointment and resentment. "Very well," he says, moving the knife to your chest.

He slices through your shredded shirt, the fabric giving way easily to reveal your bruised and bloodied skin. "If you won't tell me willingly, I'll make you confess."

He starts to cut, the blade digging into your flesh, tracing patterns of agony across your stomach and ribs. You bite your lip, the pain a living entity consuming you, but you refuse to break.

He pauses, looking up at you with a mix of admiration and anger. "You're so stubborn," he murmurs, almost to himself. "I used to love that about you."

His hand moves lower, the knife grazing your navel, leaving a trail of fire in its wake. You can feel your body responding despite the pain, a traitorous arousal building within you. He notices and smirks, the knife moving lower, hovering just above the fabric of your pants. "But now, it's just another reason to make you suffer."

With a quick movement, he slices through the fabric, exposing your nakedness to the cold room. He traces the edge of the knife along the line of your underwear, the threat of what's to come clear in his eyes. "You're going to tell me," he says, his voice a seductive whisper. "Or I'll start peeling you like a damn orange."

You force yourself to remain still, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing you flinch.

He leans in, his breath hot on your skin as he presses the knife against your inner thigh, the tip just barely breaking the surface. "Who else has been here?" he asks, his voice a dark caress.

You bite down on your tongue, tasting blood, but still you don't speak. The mafia boss’s eyes flash with anger, and he presses harder, the blade cutting through your skin. You grit your teeth, willing yourself not to scream, not to give in.

With a snarl of frustration, he slices through your underwear, the fabric falling away to reveal your most vulnerable areas. His hand moves to cup your pussy, his grip bruising. "So wet," he murmurs, his voice thick with lust.

"Do you get off on the pain I give you?" He strokes you roughly, the knife still pressing against your thigh, a constant reminder of the power he holds. "Or is it the fear?"

His thumb brushes against your clit, and despite the horror of the situation, you feel yourself respond. It's a traitorous betrayal of your own body, but you can't help it; his touch has always had this effect on you.

"You're mine," he says, his voice a low growl. "You'll always be mine." His hand moves from your pussy to your throat, squeezing tightly. You gasp for air, your eyes watering as he forces you to look at him.

"Say it," he demands. "Say you're mine."

You refuse, the word 'no' lodged in your throat, unspoken but clear.

His grip tightens, your vision swimming, but you stand firm, your resolve unbroken. He laughs, the sound a chilling echo in the room. "Fine," he says, his voice a harsh whisper. "We'll do this the hard way."

The mafias boss’s patience is at an end, his rage and lust boiling over. He yanks the knife away from your throat, the sharp tip of the blade leaving a trail of fire across your skin as he moves it downward.

With a quick, violent thrust, he pushes the knife into your pussy, the cold steel parting your wet folds with ease.

You scream, the sound a mix of agony and despair, your body trembling as he uses the knife to fuck you.

He's merciless, his strokes deep and hard, the blade sliding in and out of your tight hole, the edges scraping against your inner walls with each brutal thrust. You can feel the warmth of your blood mingling with your arousal, the sensation making you want to gag.

"You like that, don't you?" he whispers, his breath hot on your ear. "You like it when I hurt you. Fucking masochist." His free hand snakes around your throat, squeezing just enough to keep you on the edge of consciousness.

"You're such a good little slut, taking it all." He continues to use the knife, his knife thrusts growing more erratic as he gets closer to climax.

"Tell me," he grunts, his voice strained. "Tell me who you've been fucking." But you remain silent, your teeth clenched in a silent snarl of defiance.

The room spins around you, the pain in your breasts and the invasion of the knife in your pussy making it difficult to think straight.

Yet, you refuse to give him the satisfaction of an answer.

The Russian's grip on the knife tightens, his strokes growing faster, harder. "I'll make you talk," he says, his voice a dark promise. "You can't hide from me forever."

The knife twists, hitting a particularly sensitive spot, and you can't help the scream that tears from your throat. He smiles, the sight of your pain seemingly pushing him closer to the edge.

As you feel the world fading around you, the older man’s grip on your throat tightens, his eyes wild with a mix of anger and arousal.

He slams the knife into your pussy one final time, the pain so intense you think you might actually pass out.

But just as the darkness begins to claim you, he pulls the knife out, the absence of the cold steel leaving you feeling violated and empty.

He throws the knife aside, his own breaths ragged and desperate, his cock pulsing with need.

"Fine," he snarls, his voice a harsh rasp. "We'll do it the old-fashioned way."

With a quick movement, he unbuckles his belt and pulls his pants down, his cock springing free, thick and hard. He grabs your hips, spinning you around so that you face the chair, your destroyed breasts pressed against the cold metal. He kicks your legs apart, and you feel the tip of his cock nudge against your bruised and bloodied entrance.

"You're going to tell me," he says, his breath hot against your neck. "You're going to tell me every name, every face, every cock that's been inside you."

His hand moves to the back of your head, pushing down until you're bent over the chair, your ass in the air. "And when you do, I'll make it all better. I'll make you forget them all."

His cock slams into you without warning, the pain so intense you can't help but cry out.

He's rough, his movements punishing, his anger and pain manifesting in every thrust. You can feel him stretching you, filling you completely, his cock hitting a spot that makes you see stars.

The Russian's cock slams into you with the force of a battering ram, the pain so intense it steals your breath away. He's not gentle; every thrust is a declaration of his dominance, a punishment for your silence.

Your body shakes with the impact, your bruised breasts smacking against the cold metal chair, the pain from the fresh wounds sending jolts of agony through your system. His hands are like iron bars, holding your hips in place as he uses you, his grip bruising your skin.

Each time he pulls out, you feel the warm gush of your blood and arousal, mixing with the sticky mess he's creating inside you.

"Who else?" he snarls, his teeth sinking into the soft flesh of your shoulder. The pain is a white-hot brand, but you refuse to give him what he wants.

Instead, you spit in his face, the saliva mixing with the sweat and blood that coats his skin.

He rears back, his eyes flashing with fury, and then he slams into you again, his hips moving like pistons, his cock a weapon of torment. "You think you can resist me?" he growls, his voice a dark whisper that sends shivers down your spine. "I'll make you beg for mercy, cunt."

You bite back a scream as he hits your g-spot, his fingers digging into your hips as he uses your body for his own sadistic pleasure. You can feel him thickening inside you, his orgasm building with every punishing thrust. "Tell me!" he roars, his hand reaching around to squeeze your throat again, cutting off your air supply.

"Tell me who you've been fucking, and maybe I'll let you live." Your eyes bulge, your nails clawing at the chair as you fight the urge to pass out.

After a particularly brutal thrust, the mafia boss releases your throat, and you gasp for air, your lungs burning. "You're going to tell me," he whispers, his voice a promise of more pain to come. "You're going to tell me, or I'll make sure you never feel anything but pain again."

His grip on your hips tightens, and he starts to move faster, his cock pistoning in and out of you with a wet, slapping sound. You feel your body betraying you, your walls clenching around his shaft despite the pain, the traitorous orgasm building within you.

"Never," you croak out, your voice barely a whisper.

It's all you can manage, but it's enough to fuel his rage. He slams into you again, his cock hitting a spot that makes you see white. "You're mine," he says, his voice a harsh rasp. "You've always been mine."

His hand moves from your hip to your clit, and he starts to rub it roughly, the friction sending sparks of pain through your body. "You're going to come for me," he says, his voice a dark command. "And then you're going to tell me everything."

Your body is pushed to its limits as the Russian's relentless assault continues. Each thrust feels like a hot iron rod being driven into your soul, the pain unbearable as your body is stretched and filled with his monstrous cock.

The sound of your flesh slapping against his is like a grim symphony of agony, echoing through the cold, sterile room. You can feel your insides tearing, the warmth of your blood mixing with his seed, a grim reminder of his ownership over you. His hand on your clit is a sadistic maestro's touch, forcing pleasure from your bruised and abused body despite the pain.

"Tell me!" he roars, his grip on your hips like vice. "Tell me who's been inside you, and maybe I'll stop." His voice is desperate now, a mix of anger and love warring within him, his need for control overshadowing any shred of humanity he might have once had.

But you remain silent, your eyes squeezed shut, your mind a haze of torment. The only sound in the room is the harsh grunts of his exertion and your muffled whimpers.

The mafia boss’s sadistic stroking of your clit reaches a crescendo, and despite the agony of your injuries, your body responds to his command. You cum around his cock, your muscles clenching tightly, trying to push him out even as they pull him deeper.

He groans in victory, feeling your pussy pulse and spasm around him, his own orgasm building. He fucks you harder, his hand moving faster, his thumb pressing down mercilessly on your clit, forcing wave after wave of unwanted pleasure through your trembling form. You scream, the sound a mix of pain and climax, your body shaking as you cum for the second time, blood and fluids painting the chair beneath you.

"Fuck," he whispers, his breath hot against your ear. "You're so fucking beautiful when you're in pain."

He doesn't stop, his thrusts growing more frantic as he chases his own release. You feel his cock thicken, his grip on your hips tightening until it's almost painful. "Again," he says, his voice a dark whisper. "Cum for me again." And despite yourself, you do, your body responding to the twisted game he's playing with your emotions and your pain.

The mafia man’s orgasm hits like a freight train, his cock pulsing inside you as he fills you with his seed. You feel the warmth of his cum mixing with your blood, the sensation making you want to retch.

But you stay silent, refusing to give him the satisfaction of hearing your despair.

He pulls out, his cock slick with your blood and his cum, and you collapse onto the chair, your legs giving out beneath you. You're sobbing now, the pain and humiliation too much to hold in.

He stands over you, his chest heaving, his cock still hard and glistening. "Look at what you've done to yourself," he says, his voice a mix of anger and pity.

"This is what happens when you betray me." He grabs a handful of your hair, forcing your head up so you have to meet his gaze.

His eyes are wild, the love and hurt swirling together in a toxic brew. "But I can fix you," he says, his voice dropping to a whisper.

"I can make you mine again." He releases you, and you slump back down, your head hanging limply.

The mafia boss stares down at you, his chest heaving with his own release. The rage in his eyes hasn't dimmed, but there's something else there now. Something that looks almost like hope.

"Look at you," he murmurs, his voice a mix of disgust and admiration. "You're still fighting." He steps closer, his hand reaching out to trace the line of your jaw, his touch gentle despite the bruises he's left there.

"But you can't win, my love."

You spit in his face again, the defiance burning in your eyes like a dying ember.

It's all you have left, and you cling to it with everything you have.

He wipes the spit away with the back of his hand, his smile twisted. "Oh, how I've missed your fire," he says, his voice a low growl. He grabs you by the shoulders, spinning you around to face him. "But it's time to put it out."

With a swift movement, he pulls you to your feet, the ropes around your ankles cutting into your skin as you stand. He yanks your torn shirt up, the fabric sticking to your blood-covered breasts.

His eyes travel over your body, a mix of hunger and disgust. "You're a mess," he says, his voice filled with contempt. "But I'll make you clean again."

He pulls you closer, his cock still hard against your stomach. "You're going to tell me," he murmurs, his voice a dark promise. "And when you do, I'll make you forget all about them."

The Russian's eyes gleam with a dark excitement as he takes in your bruised and bloodied form. He grabs a fistful of your hair, yanking your head back to expose your throat.

His free hand reaches down to a specific part of his belt, unbuckling it with a sharp click that echoes through the room. He then pulls out a set of keys from it and unlocks a drawer in the desk, revealing an assortment of whips, chains, and other tools of torture. His hand lingers over them, a sadistic smile playing on his lips as he selects a particularly vicious-looking whip.

The mafia boss selects the spiked whip, the leather crackling with anticipation. He takes a moment to appreciate the gleaming metal spikes, the sight of them making your stomach churn. He grabs a bottle of vodka from the same drawer, the clear liquid sloshing in the bottle as he brings it to your blood-soaked crotch.

You try to jerk away, but his grip on your hair is unyielding. With a cruel smirk, he pours the alcohol over your wounds, the stinging pain making your vision swim.

You scream as the liquid seeps into your freshly torn flesh, the coldness of the vodka a stark contrast to the heat of your blood.

He doesn't give you a chance to recover, instead bringing the whip down in a vicious arc that connects with your bruised and abused pussy with a wet slap.

The pain is a white-hot brand, searing through you as the spikes tear into your sensitive flesh.

You can feel the alcohol burning into your wounds, a fresh agony added to the symphony of pain already playing in your body.

He doesn't stop there, though; he brings the whip down again and again, each strike more precise and brutal than the last.

You thrash in his grip, trying to escape the torment, but he's too strong, too determined to break you. His strikes are methodical, a twisted dance of pain and power, the whip's spikes digging deeper with every hit.

The mafia boss then wraps the end of the whip around your throat, the spikes biting into your tender flesh as he squeezes, cutting off your air supply. You claw at his wrist, your nails leaving bloody furrows in his skin, but he only tightens his grip.

Your eyes bulge, your chest heaving for air that won't come, your vision swimming with stars.

He leans in, his breath hot against your face, his eyes gleaming with a sick satisfaction as he watches the life drain from you. "Tell me," he whispers, his voice a dark promise of more pain if you don't.

But you refuse to give in, even as your lungs burn and your chest feels like it's going to explode.

Your hands fall to your sides, your body going limp in his grip, the only sound in the room the wet, gurgling noise of your struggles. He holds you there for a moment longer, watching you with a twisted fascination before finally letting go.

You gasp for air, your throat raw and burning, the coppery taste of blood filling your mouth. He smiles, a twisted parody of affection, and pulls out another tool from the drawer.

It's a metal rod, the end shaped into a cruel hook.

"This," he says, his voice a dark purr, "Is for when you decide to be more… cooperative."

He steps closer, the rod in his hand glinting in the harsh light of the room.

You can see your reflection in the gleaming surface, a broken doll covered in blood and sweat. He runs the hook over your skin, tracing the curves of your body with a featherlight touch that's somehow more terrifying than the pain of the whip.

"You're going to tell me," he says, his voice a gentle coaxing that's more unsettling than his previous roars. "And when you do, I'll make it all better."

You spit blood in his face again, your voice a harsh whisper. "Never."

The word is a declaration of war, a challenge he seems to relish.

He laughs, a sound devoid of humor, and brings the hook closer to your pussy.

"We'll see about that," he murmurs, the hook pressing against your bruised and swollen flesh.

You tense, expecting the worst, but he surprises you by sliding it along your slit, the cold metal a stark contrast to the heat of your pain. The mafia boss uses the hook to spread your labia, exposing the raw, bloody mess he's made of your most intimate parts.

"Look at this," he says, his voice filled with a twisted admiration. "You're so beautiful when you're broken."

He leans in, his breath hot against your skin as he runs the tip of the hook along your clit. The sensation is so intense, you almost pass out from the pain.

"But you're going to be even more beautiful when you're mine again."

He pushes the hook inside you, the spikes scraping along the inside of your pussy, and you scream hysterically, your body arching in agony.

The mafia boss’s smile widens as he watches you writhe in pain, the hook still embedded in your pussy. He takes a step back, admiring his handiwork, and then reaches for a small, black case on the desk.

Inside, you see a collection of needles, glinting in the cold light of the room.

His eyes never leave yours as he selects one, long and thin, with a wicked curve at the end. You can feel your body tightening around the hook, your muscles spasming in a futile attempt to push it out.

"This is for when you're feeling particularly uncooperative," he says, his voice a dark purr. He takes the needle between his thumb and forefinger, rolling it gently.

"But I suspect you're going to be feeling quite cooperative very soon." He brings the needle closer to your pussy, the curve lining up with your clit.

You can feel the sharpness of the tip against your swollen flesh, and you fight the urge to beg him to stop.

But you won't give him that power.

With a swift, precise movement, he inserts the needle, the point piercing your clit and sliding deep into your pussy.

The pain is like nothing you've ever felt before, a searing agony that makes you want to pass out.

You scream, your body jerking against the chair, but he holds you steady, his grip unyielding. "That's it," he murmurs, his voice thick with arousal.

"Take it like the good little whore you are." He starts to move the needle, twisting it inside you, the curve scraping along your inner walls.

Each twist sends a fresh wave of pain through you, making you want to vomit.

The mafia boss steps back, admiring his work, as you sob and whimper in pain. "You see," he says, his voice almost gentle, "It doesn't have to be this way. Tell me what I want to know, and I can make this all stop."

But you stay silent, your teeth clenched, your eyes squeezed shut.

He sighs, the sound filled with disappointment. "Very well," he says, his voice cold again. "But you're going to wish you had talked sooner."

He selects another needle from the case, his eyes never leaving yours.

He brings it to your pussy, the tip hovering just above your clit. "I'll give you one more chance," he says, his voice a deadly whisper. "Tell me who's been fucking you, and maybe I'll go easy on you."

You remain silent, your chest heaving with the effort of holding back your screams.

With a shrug, he pushes the second needle in alongside the first, the sensation of the sharp points tearing through your tender flesh making you want to pass out.

The Russian's eyes darken as he watches your silent defiance.

He starts to play with the needles, twisting and moving them with a precision that speaks of practice and skill. You bite down on your lip so hard you taste blood, trying not to give him the satisfaction of hearing your pain.

"So stubborn," he murmurs, his voice a mix of admiration and anger. "But you'll break eventually." He grabs another handful of needles, his eyes traveling over your body, considering where to insert them next. You can feel the cold sweat trickling down your back, the pain making your vision blur.

The mafia boss’s hand moves with the precision of a surgeon, inserting needle after needle into your pussy. Each one sinks into your flesh with a sickening pop, the pain so intense you feel like you're being torn apart from the inside.

You're a pincushion of pain, each movement sending a fresh wave of agony through your body.

The needles are inserted at different angles, some going deep while others skim the surface, the varying depths creating a tapestry of torment that makes you want to scream.

Then the Russian's hand moves with a newfound fervor, the needles sliding into your flesh with an eerie grace.

The hook remains lodged deep inside you, the spikes scraping along your swollen walls as he twists it in a sickening rhythm that matches the insertion of the needles.

The pain is so intense, it feels like your entire body is on fire, your pussy a focal point of agony that threatens to consume you.

You feel the wetness of your blood mixing with the lubricant he's used, creating a macabre dance of red and clear fluids that dribble down your thighs.

He leans in, his breath hot against your ear. "You're mine," he whispers, his voice a dark promise. "You've always been mine, and you always will be."

His words are a knife, twisting in the wound of your soul, as he adds another needle, the metal scraping against the hook with an almost musical sound. You can feel the sharp points digging in deeper, the pain an almost tangible presence in the room. "Tell me," he says, his voice a gentle coaxing that makes your skin crawl. "Tell me who's been fucking my wife."

The mafia boss slightly smirks, stepping back from you, as his eyes gleaming with a twisted excitement.

He reaches for a small, red canister on the desk, the label written in a language you don't recognize.

You know what it is, though; you've seen it used in interrogations before. It's a can of lighter fluid, and you know what he's planning.

He douses the needles and the hook with the fluid, the harsh smell of the gasoline-like substance filling the room.

Your heart races, fear mixing with the pain as he takes a step back and flicks open a lighter.

The flame dances in the air, the light flickering over the needles embedded in your pussy, making the metal glint ominously.

"This is your last chance," he says, his voice low and dangerous. "Tell me, and I'll make it quick."

The flame hovers near the needles, the heat making your skin crawl. You clench your eyes shut, bracing yourself for the unimaginable agony that's about to come. "Who have you been fucking?" he demands again.

But you stay silent, your resolve unbroken despite the hell you're enduring.

With a snarl of frustration, he brings the flame closer, the heat growing more intense until it's almost unbearable.

You can feel your skin blistering around the base of the needles, the smell of burning flesh making you gag.

The mafia boss’s hand hovers over the needles, the flame reflecting in his eyes. "Fine," he says, his voice cold. "You want to play the martyr, I'll give you a performance to remember."

In one swift motion, he presses the lighter to the needles.

The fluid catches fire, the heat searing through your pussy in an explosion of agony that makes you arch off the chair.

You scream, the sound echoing through the room as the flames dance along the metal, the heat spreading through your insides like molten lava. The mafia boss watches you burn, his expression a twisted mix of anger and fascination.

The needles glow red-hot, the heat so intense it feels like your soul is being torn from your body. You can feel the flesh around the hook contracting, the spikes and needles digging deeper with each spasm of pain.

The flames lick at your tender flesh, the pain so intense that it's all you can focus on.

Your screams fill the room, a cacophony of agony and despair that seems to echo off the walls.

The mafia boss watches, his eyes alight with a perverse excitement as he sees you finally break.

Your body jerks and spasms against the chair, the ropes cutting into your skin as you struggle to escape the fire.

The needles are embedded so deeply now, the metal searing your insides as the flames dance around them.

The smell of your burning flesh fills the room, a sickeningly sweet aroma that makes your stomach churn.

────────────

The flames from the needles flicker and die out, leaving behind smoking metal embedded in your burnt flesh. The hook remains lodged deep inside you, a constant reminder of his dominance.

Your body is a wreck, a canvas of bruises, cuts, and burns, a testament to the extreme lengths he's willing to go to break you. Your breathing is shallow and erratic, each inhale a battle against the pain that threatens to swallow you whole.

The mafia boss’s smile fades as he watches you slip into unconsciousness, your body a broken doll in the chair.

He sighs, his frustration clear as he puts out the last of the flames with a damp cloth. He's impressed by your endurance, by the sheer force of your will to survive and not give him what he wants.

But he's not done with you yet.

He can't be.

You're his, and he won't let you die until you're his again.

The mafia boss leans in, his breath warm against your cheek, as he presses a soft, almost tender kiss to your bruised and bloody lips.

The contrast between his gentle touch and the agony of your burnt flesh sends a shiver down your spine.

His hand moves to the hook, gripping it firmly as he slowly pulls it out of you, the spikes tearing through your raw, swollen pussy with a wet, squelching sound that makes you whimper despite being unconscious.

The hook comes out with a final, sickening pop, leaving a gaping wound in its place.

"You're so stubborn," he murmurs, his voice a soft caress that seems to mock the pain he's inflicted on you. He carefully removes the needles one by one, his movements efficient and precise despite the anger that still lingers in his eyes.

Each removal sends a fresh wave of pain through your body, making you jerk and gasp even in your unconscious state. "But that's what I love about you," he says, his voice a mix of admiration and frustration.

The mafia boss sets aside the bloody needles and hook, reaching for a first aid kit that seems out of place in the room of torture.

He cleans your wounds with a gentle touch, his fingers deftly applying ointment and bandages to the burns and cuts. You can feel the coolness of the medical supplies against your skin, a stark contrast to the heat of the flames that had just been there.

He seems almost disappointed that you're not awake to see his 'care' for you, his eyes lingering on your bruised and broken form with a disturbing mix of love and anger.

"You're going to be okay," he whispers, his voice a strange blend of sweetness and malice. "I'll make sure of it."

He tapes the last bandage into place, his eyes lingering on the gaping hole where the hook had been. His thumb traces the edge of the wound, the pad of his finger coming away sticky with your blood.

He brings it to his lips, tasting you, his eyes closing for a brief moment before he opens them again, the anger in them burning like the embers of a dying fire.

You're vaguely aware of the pain as he tends to you, the fog of unconsciousness lifting slightly.

Each touch feels like a brand, a reminder of your submission to his will.

He wraps you in a blanket, lifting you with surprising gentleness from the chair, and carries you to a cot in the corner of the room.

He lays you down, his hand brushing through your hair, his touch surprisingly tender. "Rest," he says, his voice a command wrapped in a velvet glove. "You'll need your strength for tomorrow."

The mafia boss locks the door behind him with a final click, leaving you alone in the cold, sterile room.

The cot is hard and uncomfortable, but it's the closest thing to relief you've felt in what seems like an eternity.

Your eyes fully drift shut, the darkness behind your lids offering a temporary reprieve from the horrors you've endured.

But sleep doesn't come easy.

The pain keeps you on the edge of consciousness, a constant reminder of the hell you're in.

117 notes · View notes

stevie-petey · 20 hours ago

Text

growing pains

But you’re tired of pretending. “Why am I here, Steve?” “I thought we already established it’s because you walked in the snow.” He’s dodging. Avoiding the question and the truths that will come with it. “Steve.” Hissing his name is familiar, it feels more natural. This is how it should be between you. Anger, disdain, raw. “And there it is,” He winces. “The fighting begins. We lasted, what? Ten minutes? Merry Christmas to us.”

Summary: steve buys you shitty coffee five years after your breakup.

Rating: general, swearing

Warnings: fem! reader, use of y/n, exes!au, slight unhealthy relationship if u squint, ambiguous ending (kinda)

Words: 8k

Before you swing in: hi my dears ! heres a very sad/bittersweet coffee shop conversation with far too many flashbacks and miscommunication. yummy ! unintentionally made this a christmas fic, so the bleachers song merry christmas please dont call is very fitting lmao. enjoy !

A flurry of snow coats Hawkins. Christmas lights reflect off the pristine white as the quiet stills everything in the town. There are no cars that drive past you. Hardly anyone littering the sidewalk as your footsteps trace a path in the freshly fallen snow. In the small, rundown cafe there is only one other patron brave enough to face the winter cold.

The bell above the door signals your arrival.

Steve looks up at you.

The flush of cold air stains your cheeks a ruddy red, though his gaze tinges the hue pink. The blush gives away the fondness you hoped you had buried below your sternum; but the fondness is still there. It will always be there.

Steve gestures silently, offering you the seat in front of him. He’s chosen a small table in the back of the room. Secluded. Private. But he doesn’t stand to greet you.

You sit. The cold makes your body slow. Steve’s presence makes your posture stiff. Your hands remain folded in your lap. You don’t place them on the table, too reminiscent of the times he would reach across and interlace your fingers together.

The deliberate act is small, your only defiance, but still, after all these years, Steve sees it for what it really is. You’re still exactly as he remembers. The corner of his lip twitches, hiding a smile that you still know the weight of. How it felt against your own lips.

“The whole town is buzzing about a white Christmas. We haven’t gotten snow like this in years.”

Inconsequential. Steve’s first words to you in five years are inconsequential.

There are still flecks of snow on your clothes. A snowflake melts slowly on your scarf. You watch its demise. There is nothing you want to say to him.

Steve shifts slightly. Clears his throat. You still make him nervous. “I wasn’t sure you’d still come.”

“I walked.” Your first words to Steve are inconsequential, too.

“In all this snow?” His surprise is soft, bordering on amusement. He takes his coat off, and underneath is a cheesy holiday sweater that makes your throat clench. “Aren’t you freezing?”

You shake your head. “I like the cold.”

And then Steve smiles. Genuine, it stretches across his entire face. “Yeah,” a breathy laugh that echoes in your ears. “I remember.”

–

“I can’t feel my legs.” Steve whines, lagging behind you as the two of you trek through the snow. You’re at the bottom of the hill, still a long way from the top. “How are you still alive?”

You’re flushed in excitement and youth. The apples of your cheeks match the pink hat that keeps sliding into your eyes. Planting your feet firmly into the snow, you continue to climb. “It’s not that cold.”

“It’s freezing–shit!” Steve slips on a patch of ice. His voice cracks as he yelps, and you giggle at his embarrassment. He glares at you. “Please don’t laugh at me. I’m miserable here, Y/N.”

“You’re the one who wanted to come. I was perfectly happy going sledding alone.” You’re halfway up the hill now. The flimsy plastic tube you’re using to sled hangs loosely from your hand. “Don’t be such a baby.”

Steve scoffs. “God forbid I try to be romantic and go sledding with my girlfriend.”

Your cheeks flush an even deeper shade of pink. It still feels weird, hearing him call you his girlfriend. The word is new, foreign, but the warmth that accompanies it is one that you hope you never get used to.

“Besides, who even goes sledding alone?” Steve continues, still pathetically behind you. “What if you got hurt? No good boyfriend should allow that to happen.”

You snort. “What, are you my knight in shining armor now?” Shifting low, you start scooping up some snow. “Is that what you want me to say?”

“All I’m saying is that I’m totally a saint.”

You laugh, now packing the snow into your hands as you form a snowball. “Oh, I’m sure you are.” Steve hasn’t noticed what you’re doing yet. He doesn’t know that in a matter of seconds you’ll cover his face in snow. Sneaking a glance at him, your breath catches.

There are snowflakes in Steve’s hair. A few kiss his cheeks, dancing along his freckles. The brown of his eyes glow warm ember in the white snow. His skin is pink, alive and pure. He’s beautiful. Devastatingly beautiful in a way that makes you ache.

“Why are you staring at me like that?” Steve asks you, face wrinkling in confusion.

You cough, embarrassed to have been caught. The snow in your hands starts to sting. The pain grounds you, clears your mind, and you try to pretend that the molasses in your bloodstream isn’t love.

Throwing the snowball, it explodes in Steve’s face. He shrieks, sputtering at the cold shock. “Y/N!”

You laugh, loud and happily. Your ribs ache and your breaths escape your lungs in a burn that soothes you. Steve lunges toward you, hands finding your waist as he pulls you close. He grips you tightly, he can feel your laughter in his chest.

“You’ll pay for that!” he buries his nose in your neck and you squeal, laughing even harder. Steve pulls you impossibly closer. He relishes in your warmth. He relishes in the way you squeal when he starts to tickle you.

Warm. Everything about you is warm.

You are sunshine against Steve’s skin.

–

Someone else walks into the cafe, the sound of the bell echoes in the chasm between you and Steve. There are no more snowflakes on your scarf. The warmth of the cafe is stifling, although there is a comforting familiarity to it.

“How are you?”

Another inconsequential question, although you can’t fault Steve for it. He’s trying. More than you are, anyways. But what are you supposed to say? What are you supposed to do, seeing your first love after five years of silence and absence?

“Fine.” The response falls flat, mundane. Disinterested. Wincing, you really do try to sound as if you want to be here. “Good. I-I’ve been good.”

“Yeah?” Steve raises his eyebrow, leaning in. “I mean, I’m not surprised.”

Your shoulders tense. “What do you mean?”

Seeing your unease, Steve quickly explains himself. “Shit. That sounded ominous. I’m sorry,” he runs his fingers through his hair. The same way he used to do when he was seventeen. “What I meant is that Robin told me. About what you’ve been up to these last few years.”

Your shoulders drop. Of course Robin still talks to him about you. You suppose it’s only fair, seeing as how she tells you about him, too. She remained friends with you both after the breakup. She hadn’t wanted to take anyone’s side, and she’s kept true to that.

“What has she told you?”

It’s a real question. You know Robin would never tell Steve anything embarrassing or incriminating. But curiously gnaws at you.

“Nothing bad, unfortunately.” Steve gently teases, but his prodding is only met with your uninterested gaze. He sighs, clears his throat. “She told me you moved to New York. Nearly screamed my ear off when your publishing deal got accepted. It’s pretty incredible.”

Your fingers pick at the skin underneath your nails. “It’s only for one book.”

“Five years, and you still can’t accept a compliment.”

“You’d be surprised by what can change in five years,” your eyes avoid his. “Is the coffee any good here?”

“It’s terrible,” Steve slides his mug over to you. Steam rises from the black liquid inside. “Milk and sugar. Hope it’s still how you like it.”

You take a sip, cringing at the taste. You’ve come to prefer your coffee black, bitter but rich. The coffee Steve has bought you is too sweet, but you drink more anyways. It gives you something to do.

“I’ve been good, too. Thanks for asking.” Steve leans against his seat, placing his hands behind his head. He’s as coy as ever. The years haven’t made him humble. “I’m sure you were wondering.”

“I wasn’t wondering.” You set the mug down. “I heard you made history being the youngest English teacher at Hawkins High.”

Steve’s mouth parts in shock. In another life, you pinch his lips together and kiss the tip of his nose. In another life, five years ago, you did.

But not this life. “Robin talks about you, too.”

“Of course she does,” Steve echoes your earlier thoughts. He leans back again, eyes never leaving your face. “Were you surprised? Steve Harrington. English teacher.”

The answer comes easily. “No.”

“No?”

“No,” you twist the mug around. Steve stares at you and you wish he would stop. He’ll see through you, he’ll see the fondness and he’ll know everything you’ve tried to erase. “You were always interested in what I was reading. You didn’t hide it very well.”

Steve smiles to himself, his own fondness leaking over. “Yeah, I guess I didn’t.”

He could never hide anything from you.

–

You’re in the classics section of Hawkins’ library. You wanted to check out a few books they recently collected. The librarian has your personal landline. You’ve spent more and more time in the building, reading all of the greatest authors.

Steve always comes with you.

“Look, Y/N. I adore you, but if there aren’t any ass-kicking spies or alien babes, then I’m not reading it.” He shoves the book you hold in front of him away. “What the hell is a Brontie, anyways?”

“It’s Bronte,” you poke Steve’s cheek. “And I really need you to stop pretending that you don’t know these authors. It’s gotta be exhausting.”

He grabs the hand poking his face and twists it, forcing you to spin and land against his chest. “I’m not pretending, sweetheart. I don’t know any of these names.”

Steve claims he comes to the library with you because he gets lonely without you, but you’ve caught him rifting through Albert Camus and Erich Fromm. He could spend hours paging through their works.

But you’ll allow him to keep this one secret from you.

“C’mon,” you laugh, tugging Steve’s arm towards a new section. “Help me find Fyodor Dostoevsky. I want to study the way he writes his characters’ inner monologues.”

“No way that’s a real name.”

You laugh again. “Just shut up and help me, please.”

Eventually you find Dostoevsky and you become engrossed in his words. They’re intricate and complex, yet there’s a simplicity and plainness that strikes you. You write down a flurry of notes, not wanting to forget a thing; one day you want to command words the way all the authors you’ve studied seemed to do.

You’re so lost in the world Dostoevsky has built, that you don’t notice Steve’s absence until he returns again.

“Hey, check this out.” He’s holding a book, his finger saving the line he wants to show you. “This Pablo Neruda dude was like, a total romantic. Wanna hear?”

You lean against the bookshelf, curious. “Are you going to read to me?”

The only response is Steve’s charming smile. He steps closer to you, your breath mixes with his. “‘I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where, I love you simply, without problems or pride: I love you in this way because I don’t know any other way of loving.’”

He closes the book, but he doesn’t move away. Your foreheads touch.

“Love”. A word neither one of you has said until now. Until Steve read you a poem and uttered the word three separate times.

He loves you, and you love him.

Standing on your tiptoes, you kiss him. Steve kisses you back.

–

“Do you enjoy it?”

Steve drums his fingers on the table. “Enjoy what?”

“Being someone that kids look up to.”

He breathes out slowly. “I forgot how much you love asking heavy questions.”

You finally look at him. “You’re the one that asked to meet for coffee.”

“Fair point,” Steve scratches the back of his head. “Thank you, by the way. For agreeing.”

“I was in town.” You look away again. “The holidays. And the wedding, I guess. Nancy asked me to come.”

“I still can’t believe she got Byers to agree to a winter wedding.” Steve shakes his head, smiles to himself. “Anyways, to answer your shockingly emotional question: I do enjoy it. I love teaching. I love being someone that kids can come to. Is it terrifying? Absolutely. But selfishly, I like to think I’m good at it.”

Even though you don’t want to, you smile at him. “You’ve always been good with kids.”

Steve doesn’t expect your sincerity. The praise is small, a throwaway comment more than anything else, but it’s the nicest thing you’ve said to him in years. He’s suddenly shy, ducking his head. “I don’t know. Those little bastards were really difficult to handle.”

The little bastards being Dustin, Mike, Lucas, Will, Max, and El. The kids you grew up with, a consequence of being neighbors with the Wheelers. One day there was a kid on your doorstep demanding you let him use your old scooter.

Mike had been only nine then, but he had been fierce and persuasive. After giving the scooter over, Mike forced you into his life. Then the rest of the party’s lives.

Nancy came later, then Jonathan, and then, eventually, Steve.

“They admired you.” You tell Steve, honest. “They still do.”

He blushes again. “You really think so?”

“I remember more than you think,” you whisper, voice cracking. “I remember everything, too.”

–

The morning of the kids’ graduation, it’s a blur of packed cars and nervous excitement. Steve offered to drive everyone, giving the parents time to get situated and find seats at the high school.

“Your car reeks.” Mike kicks Steve’s seat.

He glares at the kid. “Why didn’t you ride in Nancy’s car, then?”

“Her and Jonathan are gross.”

Lucas fixes his graduation cap. “They whisper to themselves a lot. It’s creepy.”

Max elbows him. “It’s because they’re in love, doofus.”

“Steve and Y/N are in love, and you don’t see them whispering to themselves.” Dustin points out, which you laugh at.

“I’ll be sure to never whisper to Steve with you guys around.”

Will pokes the back of your head. “Can you tell your boyfriend to drive faster? If we’re late, I think Hopper might actually kill him.”

“My dad would not kill Steve.” El corrects. “He would only hurt him. A lot.”

Steve pales slightly, stepping on the gas. “Alright. Guess we’re getting a speeding ticket, then.”

You end up arriving at the high school with a few minutes to spare. All the kids run out the car, throwing a quick thanks as they scatter. They’re gone in a heartbeat, a mass of green caps and gowns.

“We’ll see you guys on stage!” You shout through the window, waving as they leave.

“Remember how nervous we were when we graduated?” Steve asks you.

You shake your head fondly at the memory. “You wouldn’t stop sneezing. I had no idea you were a nervous sneezer until then. Robin thought it was the most embarrassing thing ever. I contemplated breaking up with you.”

“It’s a debilitating condition, Y/N.”

The graduation is long, but with six separate kids to listen for and cheer on, it passes quickly. When their names get called, you and Steve are the loudest ones who cheer. Robin calls you guys dramatic, but she screams her heart out when Dustin walks the stage.

Nancy cries when Mike walks, and Jonathan, who had only just stopped crying after seeing Will walk, has to hold back his tears yet again as he consoles her.

The five of you are a mess, and when the kids find you after graduation, you aren’t sure who starts running first. They swarm you, arms encase you and you hold onto them tightly. Will is crying, El can’t stop jumping, the kids are all a mix of emotions, yet they all remain fixated on Steve.

“Did you see the way I walked?”

“I waved at you! Did you see me?”

“You’re really loud when you scream, ya know that?”

“A poster would’ve nice. Just saying.”

All their eyes are on him. Their questions directed at him, eager to be answered. They seek Steve’s praise, like sunflowers following the sun’s rays.

As you stand back, watching the way Steve is so loved by the kids, you fall in love with him all over again.

–

Steve picks at the frayed edges of his old jacket. It’s the same one he bought with you, back when winter in Hawkins was warm and yellow and light. Now everything is dull. Grey and bleak.

“I never thought that you’d forget.” He acknowledges your hurtful words. He doesn’t like their implications. “I’d never think that.”

Steve’s clipped words make you defensive. Heat rises to your face. It makes your heartbeat spike. “There are a lot of things I thought you’d never do.”

He sucks in a breath.

The cafe is quiet again. Your coffee remains untouched, cold.

Steve finally tears his eyes from you, and the loss of his gaze feels colder than you expected it to. That’s what you wanted, isn’t it? To see his disdain for you on his pretty face, for him to hurt how you had. Isn’t that why you agreed to this?

The way Steve’s entire demeanor changes, how quickly his smile slips from his face, makes you question why you’re even here. Suddenly you want to take it all back. To mold his face into a happier one, get him to look at you again and trick yourself into believing that the tenderness in his eyes is real.

“I’m sorry.” The apology comes out fast, the words mesh together, but it’s the best you can manage. “That… that was mean.”

“I think mean is fair.” Steve looks at you, his lighthearted smile is back, but it doesn’t shine like before. “Honestly, I’m relieved you’re being mean.”

You’re confused. Everything he does confuses you. “Is that why you asked me to coffee? Because you wanted me to be mean to you?”

“Partially.” He sips your discarded coffee and quickly spits it out. He wipes his mouth, gagging. “Jesus, that’s fucking rancid. I don’t even know why I did that. I hate coffee, and it’s even worse when it’s cold.”

He’s making a whole show of this. The way Steve talks to you, the questions he’s asking and the way he responds to whatever you tell him. He’s trying to recreate something that isn’t there anymore. Treating your time in the coffee shop together as if you’re two friends catching up.

But you’re tired of pretending. “Why am I here, Steve?”

“I thought we already established it’s because you walked in the snow.”

He’s dodging. Avoiding the question and the truths that will come with it.

“Steve.” Hissing his name is familiar, it feels more natural. This is how it should be between you. Anger, disdain, raw.

“And there it is,” He winces. “The fighting begins. We lasted, what? Ten minutes? Merry Christmas to us.”

Fed up, you slam your chair back and stand. If Steve wants to evade every question and act as if this is all some giant joke, then he can go fuck himself.

The sudden motion makes Steve jump, but he quickly stands up with you when he realizes that you’re leaving. “Shit, wait–”

Steve’s hand grazes yours and you flinch away, reeling back. “Don’t fucking touch me.”

“Y/N…” He stands still, the venom in your voice cementing him to the ground. In all the time he’s known you, you’ve never rejected his touch. Bitterly, he thinks that you were right about what you said when you first arrived at the cafe.

A lot can change in five years.

You press the back of your hand to your forehead, trying to calm yourself down. Even though there’s no one else in the shop, you still don’t want to cause a scene. Not here. Not like this.

“This was a mistake.” You swallow down bile. Steve still manages to get such a vulgar rise out of you, and you hate it. “At Nancy and Jonathan’s wedding, we won’t speak to one another. We won’t ruin their day, and you can sit with Robin. I don’t care. We can just pretend that we don’t–”

Your words die in your throat. You can’t bring yourself to finish them.

“That we don’t what, Y/N?” Steve knows exactly what you mean to say. He narrows his eyes at you, pushes you to lay the final blow.

Your breath stutters. Your body is cold. You may still make Steve nervous, but he still makes you nervous as well. He can still cut through you viciously in a way only someone who has truly loved you can.

He stands before you, begging. “Say it.”

You’ve always been weak for him. “That we don’t hate each other.”

But your words are meaningless. As if you could ever hate each other.

Steve lets out a bitter laugh. “The one thing I can’t do when it comes to you is hate you.”

“Steve–” You want to take it all back. You shouldn’t have said it. You don’t know why you even said it, but you did.

“I can go five years without hearing your voice. I can wake up without you next to me. I can spend the rest of my life regretting that I lost you.” Steve doesn’t move, he doesn’t come near you. He’s hurt and he’s in pain and you don’t know how to be the one to help him anymore. “But what I can’t do, the only thing I can’t do, is hate you.”

–

The bay window caught your eye first. Then it was the rich brown wood floors, and then the garden that overlooks Lover’s Lake. Inside the apartment there are vintage tiles that you adore and the baby-blue walls make you feel faint.

The home Steve finds for the two of you is, unsurprisingly, perfect.

“Do we really get to live here?” You ask, breathless as you wander through the empty hallways and bedroom. Never before have you had such endless space to yourself. It feels very adult, very final, and you wouldn’t have chosen anyone else to experience this first with than Steve.

“We better get to live here.” Steve huffs, setting down another box. You tried offering to help, but he scoffed at the idea and told you to admire the apartment instead. “The deposit was fucking expensive.”

Your fingers brush over the cream white curtains. They’re soft beneath your touch. “At least your dad was kind enough to pay it.”

“And if by ‘kind enough’, you mean ‘wanted his son to move out already’, you’d be right.”

“Same difference.”

Steve laughs and the sound echoes through the empty room that you know you’ll have years together to fill. You already have a million things you want to purchase for the apartment. Steve’s only request had been that you make the apartment feel like a home.

As if anywhere with Steve doesn’t already feel like a home.

Later in the night you order pizza, starving and exhausted from moving. There’s no table for you and Steve to sit at. No chairs to rest on. You eat your first meal in your new home on the floor, surrounded by boxes and laughter.

It’s perfect.

“While I’m grateful for Mrs. Wheeler for giving us her spare bedding and all,” Steve wraps the blanket tighter around the two of you. The bed beneath you is lumpy and old, the only furniture that came with the apartment, but a bed is a bed. “I feel weird sleeping in her sheets.”

You press your nose against Steve’s neck, feeling your bones sag with relief. “She’s hot. I’d sleep in her sheets any day.”

Steve chokes on his spit, falling into a coughing fit while you giggle hysterically. He hits his chest, tries to suck air back in, and you’re laughing so hard there’s tears in your eyes.

“You can’t just say that!” He sputters, still coughing.

“I know you were thinking it!” You giggle again, your smile presses against Steve’s cheek. His body is warm and soft and he smells like home; it's addicting. He’s still coughing when you kiss his cheek and brush his hair back. “Can you stop dying already? I’m trying to kiss you here.”

Steve wraps his arms around you and throws his body on top, smushing you beneath him. You squeal, giggling even harder now as he litters your skin with feathery kisses. “You’re trying to kiss me, huh?”

His nose runs down your cheek. Down across your forehead, to the tips of your ears. He kisses every inch of skin he can reach. “I don’t think you’re doing much kissing here, Y/N.” Steve kisses your eyebrow. His lips skim your chin, they linger in your laugh lines as endless laughter pours from you.

“It-it tickles!” More laughter, you try to shove Steve away, but he places all his weight against you and kisses the apples of your cheeks. His fingers curl around your waist, nails digging in softly. He has you right where he wants you.

“Kiss me,” he breathes into you. Over and over he repeats himself, kissing you with every enunciation. “Kiss me, kiss me, kiss me.”

Steve begs you and you ache. He never has to ask you. You would do anything for him.

You tilt your head, find his lips, and you get lost in each other. He kisses you slowly, intentionally. With a softness that makes you shiver. He whispers how beautiful you are, how much he loves you, and the syrup in your lungs simmers.

“I love you,” you murmur, lips kissing his chest. “I think you’re my favorite person in the world.”

A childish praise, but it’s everything to Steve.

–

Steve orders you another coffee. Black this time, no sugar. The barista brings the cup over when it’s ready, the steam the only source of warmth between you and him.

Snow falls outside and Steve hasn’t been able to look at you since you sat back down.

You’re not entirely sure why you’re still here. Neither one of you talk. There is no more disingenuous small talk between you. No more forced smiles. Polite questions about how the other has been.

All there that remains between you and Steve is the absence of what was.

“Robin said we’d only last five minutes.”

You remember the surprise on her face when you told her you’d accept Steve’s offer for coffee. She didn’t think you’d say yes, and the surprise quickly morphed into skepticism. She placed her book down, patted your hand, and told you good luck.

Steve laughs, short and staccato. “She has such shit faith in us. We’re nearing twelve minutes now.”

“We’re stubborn.” The coffee is disgusting even without the excess sweetness. Steve is right. The coffee here is truly horrible.

“If I remember correctly, you’ve always been the more stubborn one.” He isn’t mean when he says this. More observant, stating a fact.

You set the coffee down. “And if I remember correctly, you hit your head a lot when we were kids.”

A small smile. “Which would mean?”

“That it’s possible you don’t remember anything correctly.” You tug at your scarf. “Maybe I wasn’t as stubborn as you’re remembering.”

Steve laughs this time, a real laugh that melts the ice that froze over moments ago. “Whenever we argued, you never let me get a word in. I’ll never forget that. I would’ve found it impressive, if it weren’t directed at me.”

Snippets of memories flash through your mind. You and Steve hardly argued throughout your entire relationship, but when you did, the fallout was always scattered pieces.

“Doesn’t mean I’m stubborn.” You say weakly, still not quite ready to admit otherwise.

“I’d argue with you, but I was hoping we’d make it to fifteen minutes.” Steve takes your coffee, sips it again and cringes like he did before. Only he doesn’t say anything this time.

“Is there a prize if we make it to fifteen?”

He smiles into the coffee. “Possibly.”

Silence again.

Steve keeps the mug in his hands, using its warmth to soothe his cold fingers. Years ago, he would use the heat of your hands to warm him. But your hands remain folded in your lap and you no longer want his touch.

The silence eats at you. You bite your lip, twist your fingers together. You don’t know why you stayed, but you don’t know why Steve stayed, either.

“I was pretty stubborn, wasn’t I?”

Steve looks at you. His eyes shine for a brief moment. “Maybe a little.”

–

Shortly after moving into your apartment, you started writing. After years of reading other people’s stories, you felt that it was time to write your own. But finding the story was difficult. Every night you stared at your blank pages, willing them to fill with the words you were unable to write.

As for Steve, he started picking up spare shifts at the local diner. He hated being a waiter. He thought it was degrading, but as a twenty-two year old with no college degree or work experience, it was all he could do.

Money was tight, you were both starting to feel the weight of truly being on your own. You weren’t just two kids anymore. There were real responsibilities now. Grappling with your futures rather than imagining them.

And then one day you got a phone call that changed everything.

“I can’t miss this interview!”

“And I can’t just leave work in the middle of the day to drive you, Y/N.” Steve sighs deeply over the phone. You can practically envision the way he pinches the bridge of his nose and tugs at his hair. It’s grown long. Longer than it’s ever been before. You like it this way.

You glance at your watch and curse, frustrated tears burning your eyes. “Steve, please. This could make or break my entire future.”

“Sweetheart, I understand that, but if I leave work early, I’m getting fired.”

“You don’t know that!” You need him to say yes. You need him to drop everything for you and drive you to Bedford so that you can meet with a literary agent and discuss your work.

It all happened so fast. One moment you were sending yet another draft of short story ideas to random agents. The next, you’re getting a phone call offering an interview in a town an hour away from Hawkins.

None of it felt real. That is, until the catch fell against you: the agent can only meet today and you don’t have a car.

“David explicitly told me that if I leave work early one more time, my ass is grass.” Steve rubs his face, exhausted. He wants to help you, he wants you to finally get your big break. You’re far too talented for Hawkins, you deserve to be somewhere better; but the reality is that you can’t afford it right now. “Can’t someone else drive you?”

“I already called everyone else.” Your face is hot from anxiety. “Robin. Nancy. Jonathan. Hell, even Mike and the kids! But no one can take me and I have to be there in two hours.”

“Y/N…”

Your head falls against the wall. “This is everything I’ve ever wanted.”

Steve’s heart clenches. He sucks in a breath. “I know that, okay? I-I do. But I can’t afford to lose this job. We’re already behind on rent, we still owe my dad for the deposit–”

“But you can always get another job!” You exclaim, losing whatever grasp you have left of your sanity. “I mean, Jesus, Steve. You’re just a waiter.”

The line is silent for a moment.

“I’m sorry?”

His tone is quiet, it laces guilt into your veins.

“I-I just meant that there’s a shitload of restaurants in Hawkins,” you’re rambling now, regretting everything. You shouldn’t have called. You shouldn’t have said what you did. But now it’s too late and you’re in too deep. Letting out a breath, your lips tremble. “But there’s only one literary agent who wants to meet with me.”

There’s yelling in the background. Steve mumbles something to someone, you think you hear David yelling at him to get back to work. Muffled rustling, followed by a string of curses.

“I gotta get back to work.” Steve says curtly, not even giving you a chance to respond before he’s already hanging up the phone.

The dial tone rings in your ear.

You never make it to your interview.

Steve gets home late that night. He walks past you, he doesn’t acknowledge you besides the slam of the bedroom door.

–

“I never apologized to you.”

Steve sets the mug down. He doesn’t ask you what you mean. “No, you didn’t.”

You swallow. “I… I’m really sorry, Steve.”

He shrugs. It was a long time ago. He’s forgotten the sting of your words. The marks they left have long since faded. “It was your dream.”

“But you were more than just a waiter. Hell, you were the only reason we didn’t lose the apartment.” You rub the back of your neck, relieving the tension that knots it. “God, I was so fucking naive. I’m sorry for not realizing sooner, for not appreciating everything you did for us.”

Steve shrugs again. “We were just kids.”

The coffee you drank suddenly sinks in your stomach.

We were just kids.

Sometimes you forget that your relationship with Steve had been your childhood. The two of you met when you were fifteen, fell in love when you were seventeen, and fell apart when you were twenty-three.

You’d been so young together. The mistakes you made, the hurt you caused, were childish gashes with bullet-sized exit wounds.

“We were just kids, weren’t we?” The nostalgia in your voice surprises even you.

A fond smile ghosts Steve’s face. It’s barely there, almost imperceptible, but it’s there. “Young and in love. Now we’re just old.”

“At least we aged well.”

Steve raises his eyebrow at you. “Was that a compliment, Y/N?”

You smile, coy. “Who said anything about you? I was referring to myself.”

Steve scoffs, light hearted. You expect him to retaliate, to tease you how you’re teasing him. Instead, his gaze softens. He leans forward, drawn into you as he always is, and lowers his voice. “You’re as beautiful as ever.”

Years separate you and Steve. It’s been nearly a decade since love first tied you to each other. There used to be a knot, tied into something intricate, small, yet lovely, that connected you to Steve.

And yet, with one sentence, the strings come together again.

“I still haven’t forgotten,” you fall back in your seat, away from Steve. “How you hurt me.”

He mirrors your body language, moving away as well. “And what about how you hurt me?”

You cross your arms. Steve crosses his. Staring at one another, a stalemate is reached. The memories that tie you together are both your vice and your virtue. The love is still remembered, it’s still warm to the touch, but so is the hurt.

Robin would call you both childish if she were here right now. You can practically hear her now, annoyance in her voice as she rolls her eyes at the staring contest unfolding. She’s always resented how stubborn you both are.

“Why did you call me?”

Steve inhales sharply. He knows he has to answer the question. It’s only fair that he gives you an explanation for why he decided to call you at three in the morning the Friday before your plane was due to arrive in Hawkins’ small airport for Christmas and a wedding you both were invited to.

But he can’t. Not yet, at least.

“If it makes me look any better, I called Robin first.” Steve forces a laugh out. “Granted, she told that if I called you that I’d probably die. But still. Blame her.”

Everything unravels after that.

“You never showed up.”

“Y/N.”

A crack to the surface, followed by a fist of anger that shatters everything. “You promised me you’d be there.”

“I was dick, I know–”

“Do you know how humiliated I was?” Steve winces, and his shame only enrages you more. “How utterly shitty it was when all our friends, our families, asked me where you were, and I couldn’t answer them?”

“Y/N, please just let me explain–”

“No.” The mug spills over as you hit the table, standing up furiously. You’re crying. You don’t remember the tears building. “You don’t get to call me in the middle of the night, buy me dogshit coffee, and then spoon feed me shitty excuses! You were my boyfriend, I wanted to marry you, and you abandoned me.”

“Is the coffee really that bad?”

Your jaw clenches. Steve rubs his neck, looking everywhere but at you. He’s trying to be funny. His first words to you in five years were inconsequential, and now he’s trying to use humor to ease the sting of guilt that he feels seeing you.

The decision is an easy one.

“Goodbye, Steve.”

His hand grips yours before you can even turn away. Startled by his sudden touch, you don’t pull back. Not this time, at least. You’re frozen, staring at Steve as he stares at you. He’s pale. His chest heaves and there’s terror in his eyes.

“Don’t.” It’s all he can say to you.

“Let me go.” But still you don’t pull away.

Let us go. Please.

“I…” He blinks, almost winces to himself. Steve doesn’t know how to tell you the truth. Not anymore. Not like how he used to. But you’re pulling away again and he’s just gotten you back and he can’t lose you. Not again. “I resented you.”

Your back straightens. “Excuse me?”

“I-I know how bad it sounds, but if you just–” Steve gestures behind him, tries to sit you back down. But you don’t move. His eyes plead with you. “Y/N, please.”

He looks so akin to the boy you once knew. The resemblance twists the tendons in your chest, forces the air out of your lungs. You don’t move, but you don’t leave, either.

Steve accepts all that you’ll give him.

–

The home you built with Steve loses its warmth. Lazy Sunday mornings cease to exist. He doesn’t hold you at night. Dates go unplanned, dinners eaten alone. Laughter dies and you stop waiting for Steve to come home. Everything stills. Lost in a time capsule that was once your dream.

Winter comes and the snow that blankets Hawkins softens the dull ache of the distance that’s built between you and Steve. He starts taking night classes at a local community college and you spend your nights writing.

The first story you write is about a lonely barn owl who hops through dwindling branches trying to find its mate. The creature calls out for someone, its wails echoing through the deserted forest that once was alive with creation.

A snowflake that gets lost in a storm that it created becomes your second story. Its frail, lithe body too transparent to be anything other than alone.

Then you write about a dandelion that mourns for its seeds that have been cruelly torn from its body.

Over and over you write about loss. How cold it leaves a person, the emptiness that can never quite be filled.

In the end, it’s this sense of loss that gives you everything you’ve ever wanted, yet leaves you with nothing to show for it.

“I sent my writing to a short story show. I got in.”

Steve unbuttons his work shirt. He worked a double shift at the restaurant, but spares you a tired smile. “That’s great.”

The praise is small, but the rarity of it makes it feel like gold upon your skin. Cheeks flushed, you smile back at him shyly. “Thank you.”

Steve goes back to changing out of his clothes and you’re left to deal with the silence that always seems to follow you these days. Your feet carry you to the bed, sitting down gently as you watch him. He doesn’t shy away from your gaze, but he doesn’t acknowledge it, either.

“The show is in two weeks. Christmas Eve.”

“Oh,” Steve pauses in the closet’s doorway. His hand rests on an old sweater you got him when you first started dating. He pulls out a different one instead. “Well. I already took the day off, so I’ll come.”

You try not to focus on the fact that he makes attending sound like an obligation. A dull chore he has to complete.

“Robin already promised she’d be front row. Jonathan and Nancy, too.” You get up, stand behind Steve, rest your head on the back of his neck and encircle your arms around him. He stiffens at the touch, so do you. But you can’t let him go. “I think even some of the kids will come. And my parents, obviously.”

“Sounds like you’ll have an entire crowd devoted to you.”

“Yeah, but I only really want you there.” You whisper, vulnerable.

Steve sucks in a breath, releases it. He doesn’t say anything else.

The next two weeks you read your collection of short stories aloud for hours on end. You rehearse how to present them, the right cadence and intonations. How to make the loneliness heavier, the serenity sweeter. You don’t let Steve listen, claiming you want to surprise him alongside everyone else the day of the show.

Later, you’ll come to understand that you had been afraid of how he’d react. If he’d even react at all.

The show is a haze of people and praise. Robin brings you flowers, Jonathan takes pictures of you with all the kids. Dustin surprises you with an old leather journal he found for you to write all your ideas in and El hands you a ribbon to bind it.

Your mother cries and your father hugs you warmly. Mrs. Wheeler and Nancy bring Christmas cookies and organize the large audience you’ve built for yourself in the seats provided by the show. It takes two entire rows to seat everyone you love.

Robin saves a seat for Steve. He’s late.

The night is spent listening to brilliant writers reading their stories to a small, but kind, audience. There are a total of eight featured writers. You’re scheduled to read your writing last.

After the second writer finishes, you look anxiously over at the audience and bite your lip when you still don’t see Steve. The fifth writer goes on and your nails are bloody from picking at them. Mike murmurs something to Robin, who shakes her head and nervously shifts in her seat, eyes never leaving the empty seat next to her.

The seventh writer shares a story about newfound love and its warmth.

Nancy finds your gaze and the pitying look in her eyes makes your nausea even worse.

You stand in front of a mass of people who lean into every word you read aloud. The seat next to Robin remains empty.

Steve never comes.

And it’s the last time you ever wait for him.

–

“I really was proud of you, you know.” Steve says softly, regretfully. “Robin told me you won an award later that night.”

“I did.” The award had been your ticket out of Hawkins. It got you money, connections with publishing agents. You moved to New York not even a week later.

Steve looks down. “I should’ve been there.”

You don’t bother to agree with him. You don’t want to coddle him, lessen the guilt he feels for how cruelly he hurt you. You’ll never forget the pit that formed in your stomach when you realized he wasn’t coming.

“I regret what I did. Every single day I wish I had gone.”

“You resented me instead, apparently.” Your laugh is cruel, cold.

Steve sits back down numbly, his body falls and the seat beneath him catches it. He places his hands on the table, slowly, defeated. He looks up at you, allows himself to finally confess everything. “I resented how easy everything seemed for you. I mean, you were making a name for yourself while I waited shitty tables and slept through grueling night courses.”

You clench your fists, still refusing to sit down. “And that gave you a right to diminish my own accomplishments?”

“Nothing makes sense when you’re twenty-three.”

Not an omission of truth, but rather acknowledgement of how differently you see the world when you’re young. Though you want more from Steve, you accept this. In a way, you suppose he’s right.

“I didn’t go to the show because I was scared of how much I was falling behind.” Steve doesn’t look away from you. He’s laying all his cards on the table, open and waiting for you to read them. “We were in over our heads, but somehow only I was the one drowning.”

Rent, bills owed, grappling with adulthood while still shedding your adolescence. Loneliness while being together. Careers that hurt and dreams that struggled for breath. You and Steve had been drowning together. Until one day you weren’t.

Steve drinks the coffee, he doesn’t pressure you to sit down again. Instead, he sighs. “I let your words get into my head. In your mind I was just a waiter, and I felt that nothing I was doing with my life was worthwhile. The only thing I had done right by the time I was twenty was having you love me.”

The anger that was quick to rise is also quick to dim. There isn’t any left for you to fight.

Finally, you sit. You take the coffee from Steve and the now cold liquid is a reminder of how much time has passed. “The age old question: do actions speak louder than words?”

Did what I say justify what you did? Or did they cause each other, creating a cycle that we can never escape?

You won’t forgive him, but you understand him. Steve was hurting just as much as you were, only his hurt came from your own insecure and unsure words. You told him he was just a waiter because you were scared all you’d ever be was an unknown writer. The weight of your future made you scared, the uncertainty of it all overwhelmed you and made you cruel.

Steve had fallen victim to the same fate.

“Robin told me it was growing pains.” Steve says. “What happened between us. It was all just growing pains.”

Begrudgingly you smile. Your cards are on the table as well. “You called me to discuss growing pains?”

The crinkle of Steve’s smile warms the cold cafe. “Yeah. I guess I did.”

“Tell me, then. Are we done growing?” You lean forward, allow your body to be near Steve’s again and the buzz of the proximity sets your skin on fire. He breathes in sharply. He hasn’t been this close to you in what’s felt like a lifetime.

Steve leans forward too. You can smell his cologne, his eyes still shine how you remember them. His face is the same, though weathered with age and experiences you no longer know about. You count the moles that scatter his face, heart thumping wildly when you realize you still remember how many there are.

He’s still so beautiful.

You’re weak for Steve. Your bones still remember the weight of his love.

“I don’t think we’ll ever be done.” Steve sinks even closer, nose almost bumping your cheek. You hold your breath, body humming.

Breathless, you ask him, “then where does that leave us?”

Steve pulls back slightly, just enough to look at you. He studies your face, the familiar angles and peaks of your nose. Your eyes, how they’re still his favorite color. Your hair is the same, maybe a little shorter now, and your perfume still the warm vanilla that reminds him of home.

You’re still the girl Steve fell in love with when he was a kid. He’s still the boy you fell in love with when you were a child. There is still hurt, memories you both want to forget, but there is love within it. Young love can be formed anew, if someone lets it.

“Together.” Steve finally says. “It leaves us together.”

⌑ writing masterlist

⌑ please feel free to like, reblog, and comment. i adore hearing from you guys :)

#steve harrington x reader #steve harrington x you #steve harrington fanfic #steve harrington x fem #stranger things #steve harrington angst #m's writing #ambiguous ending but not really #writing this felt like a warm but final hug

98 notes · View notes

tojiscrack · 2 days ago

Text

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐎𝐏𝐄𝐍 𝐆𝐀𝐌𝐄

summary: 11.4k words — you spend some time at megumi and yuji’s open game, but spend some more time with someone else there

notes: i was overwhelmed with the amount of asks, messages, comments, and dm’s the last chapter provoked! (in a good way ofc, i loved it 😭). now i’m just curious — a lot of you (as predicted) hated the events of last chapter. you’re definitely not gonna enjoy this one :) anyway, it’s 1hr past the 22nd of dec, and i intended to get this out for megumi’s birthday, so pretend i did. HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO OUR GRUMPY PORCUPINE! <3

tw: shouting, BELLOWING, yelling, whatever other words you might use for that lol, and blood, criminals, and gangs

i do not own any of the characters of jjk, i only own the character of y/n and her mother. the other characters belong to gege akutami.

previous chapter :)

next chapter :)

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・

"the raven himself is hoarse that croaks the fatal entrance of duncan under my battlements ... come, you spirits that tend on mortal thoughts!"

the stage lights cast a soft glow, illuminating you as you delivered your lines with striking conviction. it wasn't a performance for a packed auditorium, but a rehearsal for your extracurricular theatre club.

the room was mostly empty, save for a few of your peers and your director, yet megumi could feel the atmosphere buzzing with quiet focus. your voice filled the space, and he silently appreciated how you could throw yourself into a character so conniving like lady macbeth and then jump right into being your bubbly self once again, as though you hadn't just emasculated poor macbeth trembling on the other side of the stage.

not that he'd ever tell you that. the most you'd get is a pat on the head, and even that seemed to be a bit much for megumi.

the lack of an audience didn't matter to you, it seemed; you poured your entire heart into the scene, as if the world were watching.

but it was easy to remind himself of the fact that it was a rehearsal and not a real performance, for every time you reached that exact line, you'd let out a snort and turn away with the same maturity as a child. megumi became more and more unimpressed each time it happened.

"y/n," the director called out, her voice made ten times louder from the echo of the megaphone.

you nodded, but still failed to wipe that grin off your face.

"i got it," you assured her, and megumi had almost missed what you'd said when the loud movement of the seats from somewhere in the backrow had sounded for the nth time. you schooled your face with an expression of determination, but megumi could see the underlying hint of amusement, clear as day. "unsex me here! and fill me from the —"

you'd cut yourself off with your laughter, the sound of it only resulting in more groans from your peers backstage, but megumi only watched you with a raised brow, mentally cursing whoever was making that stupid chair noise from the backrow — your laughter had been drowned out by it.

"i can't do it," you chortled, using the pages of your script to hide your face. "i can't do it!"

the director's sigh echoed around the hall.

"right, adjust the flower crown 'cause it's sitting on the edge of your head, and let's do act five, scene one."

megumi leaned back in his chair, arms crossed as he observed the stage's organised chaos. you and your peers bustled about, setting up for the transition to the next scene.

the props crew adjusted the minimalistic set pieces while one of your friends struggled to untangle a misplaced curtain cord. you briefly stepped offstage, laughing with another castmate as they adjusted your flower crown to sit properly atop your head.

as the lights dimmed slightly in preparation, megumi looked up again, his patience steady, fully expecting to see you dive back into the character of lady macbeth without skipping a beat.

and you had — straight away.

you were now at the centre of the stage once more, standing by a fake sink — a prop — your arms extended before you, one hand holding your script, the other with fingers curled towards yourself.

"out, damned spot!" you began, voice striking. "out, i say!"

there was a pause, and megumi half believed that you had forgotten the rest of your lines (even though you were reading out of a paper script held in your hand) but then you looked up, apparently going to improv.

"out, damned fricking spot! get out of here! you damned — damned spot, get away and just — just go and leave and why don't you just leave —"

"y/n," the director called out your name, tone firm and scolding. "stick to the scri— oh for god's —"

you laughed loudly, shaking your head and standing still, your hands back at your side.

"'kay i'm sorry," you sighed, and megumi could tell that you were genuine, but he knew the director couldn't. from his seat in the audience, the director's eyes had narrowed, her megaphone now at her side as she raised a brow at you, the lines on her forehead prominent as ever.

"i'll start again," you told her, and megumi had to strain to catch that, for the stupid chair noise had echoed around the hall again.

you had lifted your script and began hurriedly rereading your lines, but when your eyes had lifted and skimmed the hall, passing megumi's, he frowned when you stumbled, almost looking as though you had attempted to retreat in fear.

"what just happened?" the director's voice called out through the megaphone again.

you furrowed your brows and squinted your eyes. megumi held back a scowl. what the hell were you up to now?

you eventually answered the question, but only after you'd become comfortable at the centre of the stage again, nodding to yourself with a smile.

"ah, sorry," you said, meeting her stern gaze sheepishly. "the outline of megumi's head just scared me for a second —"

the scowl that he'd been trying his hardest to hold back had been released, and it only deepened at the sound of the people backstage — your foolish classmates — laughing along.

there was nothing funny about that, and if he chose to tell all of them about your mermaid fiasco several years ago, you wouldn't find it funny then.

he sunk in his seat, throwing you a glare you probably couldn't see very well seeing as the rest of the auditorium was dark; the only lights being shun were the ones on the stage.

"if she wasn't my best lead, i would've kicked her out by now," the director whispered, only, it had been (accidentally) spoken with the megaphone on.

she quickly turned it off, but it had been too late: you'd already heard it.

your lips parted slightly, eyebrows raised in mild offense, but the glimmer in your eyes betrayed a certain smugness. you glanced briefly at the director with mock indignation, a hand coming to rest on your hip as if you were about to deliver a snarky comeback, but instead, you simply shook your head and turned back to your script, a faint, satisfied smile tugging at the corners of your mouth.

megumi watched this unfold, his expression still maintaining that bitter scowl.

while the comment seemed to have both bruised and inflated your ego, he wasn't surprised. you'd always had this uncanny ability to balance between taking yourself seriously and not at all. best lead, he thought dryly, watching with half lidded eyes as you delivered your next few lines correctly. if only she knew how many times he'd seen you trip over thin air or forget half your lines in the name of a 'creative process'. still, he begrudgingly admitted to himself that, onstage, you were captivating — even if it happened to be for the wrong reasons half the time.

as the rehearsal wound down, you and your peers began packing up on stage. megumi used his phone to check the time.

it was time to go home.

scripts were gathered and props carefully returned to their designated spots by the crew. the faint creak of the stageboards accompanied the bustle, with one of your classmates complaining about how she couldn't find her missing pencil while another laughed at something whispered behind the curtains.

you slipped off your flower crown, adjusting it absentmindedly before tossing it onto a nearby prop table, and joined the group tidying up. the director had long since stopped barking orders and now stood by the edge of the stage, chatting with one of the seniors about next week's rehearsal schedule.

megumi stood from his seat with a quiet sigh, stuffing his hands into his pockets as he made his way towards the backstage area, but not without stopping to throw the annoying person at the back row with the noisy chair a glance.

the person was now standing, but the automatic chair had slammed itself shut, allowing that loud noise to carry itself around the hall.

megumi had made his way towards the wall by the side curtain, his nose scrunched at the person — their silhouette showing that it was a guy around the same height as himself.

he had left the hall abruptly as megumi leaned against the wall, waiting for you to finish up, his gaze idly tracking your movements.

you turned around and jumped.

"ah, porcupine!" you gasped, unclipping your bracelets absentmindedly. "you need to announce your arrival, you scared m—"

"shut up, mermaid," he snapped, his patience running thin.

your lips pressed themselves into a tight line, eyes narrowing as you straightened your posture and clenched your jaw, willing yourself to keep your composure, though the sharpness in your movements — tossing your bracelets into the props table with more force than necessary —betrayed your irritation.

"i'm gonna call security on you," you threatened him, the corner of your mouth twitching as if you were fighting the urge to scowl outright, but instead, you busied yourself with adjusting your hair. the flower crown had messed the top of it.

"why are you tapping your head like that?" he questioned, not even entertaining the empty threat you'd shot at him.

"'cause if i'm not careful, i'll end up looking like a punk," you answered, before intentionally eyeing his dishevelled, fluffy hair. you met his sharpened gaze with a look of faux remorse. "yikes."

there was a glint of something dangerous in his eyes as he watched you try to unclip the necklace hanging delicately on your collarbone — a warning, sharp and unspoken, that clearly said: watch it.

"turn around," he grumbled, when it became apparent that it was going to take a while for you to finally manage taking the ugly necklace off.

you complied without much protest. however, that didn't mean that you did so silently:

"could be nicer about i— ow, porcupine! it's got my hair, it's got my hair!"

"stop moving," megumi demanded, messily throwing your hair over your shoulder to your front. he grunted under his breath when you continued to struggle against him. "squirming like a mermaid —"

your reaction was immediate, bristling with indignation as your head snapped around to glare at him, though the position made it awkward. if he wasn't fiddling with the clasp at the base of your neck, you might've been tempted to swat at his hands, but instead, you turned your focus forward, muttering something unintelligible under your breath that was undoubtedly not complimentary.

you flinched when he had finally managed to successfully unclip the necklace, but only when it continued to tug at the hairs at the back of your neck.

"porcupine — ow! oh my g— stop!" you complained, your eyes watering and knees bending as megumi tugged at the necklace again.

"how else am i supposed to take it off?" he shot back, grumpy.

"i'mgonnaendupinahospitalbedlikeallthoseyearsagoandnearlydie—"

"you never nearly died," said megumi, emphasising his point by cruelly pulling the necklace down again. you had stumbled back into him, but he remained stagnant where he stood, brows furrowed in both annoyance and deep concentration. "don't be stupid."

"ouch! you're doing it on purpose now, you — porcu—"

"right, who is porcupine?" the director's voice cut through the air like a whip, sharp and demanding attention.

the two of you looked up abruptly: she was standing before you, arms raised (and brows furrowed) in confusion.

deadpanned, you shot megumi a quick glance before addressing her.

"... is it really that hard to guess, looking between the two of us?"

at that, megumi had harshly pulled the necklace, taking some of your hair with it.

you squeaked, your hand immediately going up to ease the pain as you spun around and stared at his hand, the necklace holding bits of your hair cut fresh from the top of your neck.

"..."

"... okay, what is going on here?" the director asked, her eyes following the prop as megumi casually threw it over your head and onto the table behind you.

megumi barely had time to blink after that before you lunged at him, your hands diving into his hair with startling precision.

you yanked back with just enough force to rip out a few strands, his grunt of annoyance and pain echoing around the hall as the director stood frozen, her expression caught somewhere between bewildered disbelief and an exasperated sigh, as though contemplating whether this entire exchange was even worth addressing.

"right, y/n —"

"now we're even!" you snapped, as though the woman beside you hadn't spoken at all. you presented the dark hairs to megumi, and then purposefully made him watch as you slowly pocketed them, taking your sweet time and relishing in the crease between his brows that continued to deepen the longer you drew it out.

"you're a weirdo," he stated icily, but you turned away, paying him no mind.

"keep talking and i'm gonna get nobara's voodoo doll."

the two of you exited the auditorium together, the air practically vibrating with the quiet reluctance of megumi's brooding presence beside you.

he strode with his hands shoved deep into his pockets, meanwhile, you walked with an air of triumph, your fingers slipping into your own pocket every so often to toy with the strands of his hair, a small grin tugging at your lips every time you caught the subtle crackle of his growing irritation.

he deserved it.

"what did you think of rehearsal?" you asked him curiously. "lady macbeth's lines are so funny —"

"they're not funny," megumi disagreed bluntly. he sounded genuine. "you're just immature."

you showed him the strands of his hair that you'd passionately held onto in your pocket.

"say that again," you challenged, brows raised.

he merely swatted your wrist away with a scowl; you pocketed his hair with a shrug.

"as i was saying," you continued, as the two of you exited the school, "the macbeth play isn't gonna have a proper audience anyway, so i'm not too fussed about perfecting lady macbeth's lines. it's gonna be recorded tho! what did you think of it so far?"

megumi narrowed his eyes, the sun peeking out from over the clouds bright enough to blind him momentarily.

"couldn't even hear anything 'cause of the idiot sitting at the back," he told you with a scowl.

you laughed, brows raised in intrigue.

"yeah, they've been here for the past week or so," you informed your friend, chuckling at his sour expression.

"why don't you kick him out?"

"if we were to kick out every single disturbance, you would be sitting outside every day, porcupine."

"i'm not a disturbance."

"your hair is though."

"shut up."

as you neared the bike rack, you spotted yuji and nobara waiting for the two of you by their respective bikes.

yuji's was unmistakably bright — an electric blue frame with neon green accents that megumi thought perfectly screamed his excitable personality, complete with a flashy bell he had been spinning absentmindedly. nobara's, in contrast, was a sleek, matte-black with a subtle crimson stripe running along the frame. as the two of them looked up at your approach, yuji tilted his head with a toothy grin, arm raised in the air, already waving.

megumi believed that your bike stood out against the others, its pastel yellow frame and front basket adorned with a bunch of small, faux daisies that gave it a cheerful, almost whimsical vibe.

he approached his own as the three of you jumped into conversation with one another.

megumi's bike, dark navy and utterly plain, had been parked beside yours — you never failed to remind him how it looked like a sullen counterpart. he didn't care: it was his bike after all, not yours.

"my parents are working late again," yuji added brightly. he was sitting on his bike, waiting for the rest of you to clip on your helmets and do the same. "grandpa's home, and choso's at his place, so we basically have the house to ourselves tonight."

you silently nodded, hanging your bag on the right handlebar.

megumi scowled at nobara, who had seated herself on her bike, discarding her phone in her bag and zipping it up without another word.

"put your helmet on," he demanded her.

she looked up at him with a stony expression, her lips set in a straight line and brows furrowed as though to say 'are you talking to me?'.

"i'm having a bad hair day today —"

yuji frowned, looking bewildered:

"— but your hair looks nice —"

"shut up," snapped nobara, continuing as though you had not laughed loudly at the falter in yuji's bemused smile. you swerved away from his leg when he extended it to kick at your bike. "i'm not gonna make it worse by putting on that helmet."

megumi did not look impressed by her answer, throwing one of his legs over his bike to sit down and unclip his own helmet, glaring at her all the while.

"you're turning into the mermaid —"

"what the hell?" you demanded angrily, gesturing to your own helmet, which was conveniently sitting on your head. "i'm wearing mine!"

megumi's face tightened, jaw tensed as though he were biting back a sharp retort. one hand gripped the handlebar of his bike firmly, while the other toyed with the edge of his helmet, spinning it idly in a way that betrayed his rising frustration.

"i know why you're hesitating to wear yours," you shot back, offended by his jab at you, unprovoked. "it'll flatten down your sea-urchin hair and make you look like your dad —"

"watch it," he warned you icily, a short, clipped exhale leaving his nose as he glanced between you and nobara, his expression a mix of exasperation and resignation, like he'd just resigned to a battle he never wanted to fight in the first place.

the sky stretched above in a pale canvas of soft blues and muted golds, the sun dipping lazily towards the horizon, its warm light spilling across the school front in delicate, golden hues. the four of you had mounted your bikes and had already begun cycling down the road, away from the busy bus route yuji would usually take and down the quiet neighbourhood, away from the loud traffic lights.

wisps of cotton-like clouds floated idly, their edges tinged with blush and amber as the day prepared to give way to the evening the longer the four of you bickered and laughed, simultaneously being wary of the occasional car that would pass by every now and then. the faint rustle of leaves stirred by the gentle breeze whispered through the air, carrying with it the crisp, earthy scent of early autumn. your shadows stretched long across the crosswalk, mingling with the sporadic glint of sunlight reflecting off the polished metal frames of your bikes.

"grandpa went to the store the other day," yuji loudly spoke. he was riding his bike beside you while megumi and nobara cycled just ahead. "he bought a bunch of new films for us! we can watch the nun tonight!"

"is it wise to watch a horror movie at your place?" nobara called out, her hair a lighter shade where the sun hit it.

yuji looked bewildered at her question. "but we always watch horror movies at my place..."

"no, she's right!" you added, eyes wide. "what if we accidentally trigger the s word somehow?"

yuji's expression shifted almost comically as the realisation dawned on him, his brows furrowing in confusion before lifting in sudden clarity. he sat upright on his bike, one hand tightening on the handlebars as if steadying himself, while his other hand shot up to nervously scratch the back of his head.

"oi, use both hands," megumi demanded from up front.

yuji silently complied, though his eyes remained glued on you.

"sukuna won't —"

"don't say his name," you hissed, brows furrowed in both anger and panic.

yuji's wide-eyed expression stayed constant as the conversation continued.

"wait, it should be fine, guys," nobara had intervened, one hand holding onto her bike while the other extended itself towards the brooding, dark-haired male cycling beside her. "we have megumi — he's great at protecting us!"

megumi shot her a sharp look as he swatted her hand away. apparently, he did not agree with this idea.

"remember when he pushed su—"

"nobara!"

"— the s word away from us when he said he'd rip our hair out and use them as handcuffs?" she continued, as you cycled behind her with a wariness only the demon could bring out of you. "he comes up with the most creative threats, y'know. sometimes i'm a little impressed, but my hair's too short for handcuffs —"

"he wanted us bald," you reminded her helpfully, "so that means ripping your hair from the roots, which is long enough for handcuffs, paired with mine, too."

"that's irrelevant," said megumi, his hair standing up as the four of you cycled through the breeze. you imagined him looking rather silly from the front, seeing as the back was serving enough laughs out of both you and yuji. "and i can't do much today anyway. after the movie, i have to look over sharmin and miwa's history homework."

you frowned at the back of his head.

"you're doing their homework?" you asked, sounding offended.

"they asked me to look over it before practice today," megumi answered calmly, "but i didn't have time, so i said i'd do it later today and give it back to them tomorrow."

that did not sit right with you, not when megumi always refused to do your homework whenever you asked.

you pedalled faster and slipped in between megumi and nobara, shooting him a look of disapproval.

"any time i ask you to do my homework, you refuse," you told him with a raised brow.

"same goes for them," megumi responded, throwing nobara (who was now behind the two of you) and yuji both a look a warning glance for arguing over nothing loudly. "i'm not doing their homework. i'm looking over it."

you shrugged. "yeah that's what i ask you to do, too."

"no you don't."

"yes i do!"

"you don't."

"i do!"

"you don't," megumi snapped, his patience thin. "you lie about being sick and try to guilt trip me into it —"

"accusations!" you gasped, lifting one hand to point at him dramatically. "false accusations!"

you'd nearly lost your balance on your bike due to how quickly you had sat up and let go of the handlebars. megumi, once again, extended his own arm and directed your bike properly again, but not without clicking his tongue at you in distaste.

"y/n!" nobara called for you from behind.

you looked over your shoulder and then regretted it when megumi flicked your forehead in warning. you turned back around abruptly, narrowing your eyes at him as they watered.

he didn't have to do it so hard, you thought to yourself grumpily.

"nobara, i can't look at you 'cause of the bike police over here —"

"shut up."

despite megumi's harsh criticism, nobara had continued to talk anyway.

"yuji's hair is nothing like miwa's, right?" she said, and you did not have to look back to be aware of yuji's frown of both annoyance and disappointment. "his is like a dull pink —"

yuji did not like that. "hey!"

"miwa's looks better," you responded easily. it hadn't been a difficult decision after all: you remembered the day miwa had walked past the school doors with the long, blue hair that ran past her shoulders and spine. "the blue suits her! and the bangs too!"

"told you," you heard nobara's smug voice add.

"it also matches her eyes," you commented with a smile. "you can't say the same, yuji."

"wha— megumi!" yuji shouted desperately. "help me out!"

you glanced over at megumi's face. he seemed indifferent, as always, but his response had said otherwise.

he had shrugged, relaxed. "they're right."

yuji's wail of misery only had the three of you threatening to leave him behind. he had sulked for a bit, but eventually joined in on the next set of conversations you found yourself immersed in for a portion of the remainder of the journey.

the sun hung low on the horizon, its amber glow spilling across the quiet neighborhood like molten gold. the bungalows stood neatly in rows, their silhouettes softened by the warm, fading light, and the occasional flicker of a porch light hinted at the coming dusk, while the air seemed to grow still, as though welcoming the four of you to yuji's neighbourhood again.

"you can't do it," you told yuji, who had been adamant in showing all of you a trick that choso had taught him on his bike the other day. you threw him a look of disbelief from over your shoulder.

your bike had swerved unexpectedly, and when you turned back around to regain control, you noted that it was megumi, who had his hand on the front of your bike, apparently saving you from having ridden over a large rock in the middle of the road.

"i can!" yuji protested, riding past both you and megumi to keep up with nobara, who had long since ridden ahead. "just watch!"

"don't do it, you idiot," megumi chided, glaring at the back of yuji's pink head.

"but —"

megumi cut across him harshly. "you're gonna fall."

"i won't!" yuji shouted back, eyes wide with exhilaration. "i've done it a hundred times already! just look!"

yuji surged forwards on his bike, his grin brimming with confidence as he positioned himself to attempt the trick. he shifted his weight back, tugging up on the handlebars with a flourish to lift the front wheel off the ground.

for a brief, fleeting moment, the bike wobbled in perfect balance, his exhilarated laughter ringing out in triumph.

but then the balance tipped — too far back — and the wheel slammed down awkwardly.

yuji, unable to steady himself, tumbled sideways onto the road with a loud thud, his limbs sprawling across the sidewalk. his bike clattered noisily beside him, the bell letting out an inadvertent chime as it hit the ground.

the three of you stopped, a beat of stunned silence passing before laughter broke out simultaneously: nobara had doubled over her handlebars, wheezing as she clutched her side, while you clapped a hand over your mouth, struggling to stifle your snickers. even megumi's usual stoic expression cracked slightly, his lips twitching as he muttered something under his breath and shook his head.

yuji groaned dramatically, sprawled out on the concrete road like a tragic hero, but none of you made a move to help him, not even when he asked.

"guys..." he called out weakly, face scrunched in pain. he extended his arm shakily, eyes half-lidded. "help..."

you shot a glance at nobara, holding your breath to try and stop yourself from snorting out another round of laughs, before turning your bike around and cycling away.

"just go, leave him," you hurriedly told her, your legs working quickly on the pedals of your bike.

yuji lifted his head.

she did not hesitate in following suit.

"we warned you!" she called out with a wide grin.

megumi had not said a word as he, too, seemed to agree with the both of you, his feet pressing down on the pedals a little faster.

"go, don't look back," you muttered, kicking off your bikes to continue cycling down the road.

you laughed merrily as his calls of protest grew faint the further you rode away, leaving him to flail on the ground, loudly lamenting his fate.

but of course, you weren't evil — perhaps nobara was, though — for you and megumi had turned on your bikes to get him, and she had been the only one who let out a groan of exhaustion at the mere thought of it.

but the funniest part wasn't the way you'd found yuji lying on the road in the exact same way you'd left him, nor was it the way his eyes had lightened up at the sight of you...

it was how he had remained firm on giving you all the silent treatment the rest of the way to his house, and how he had been struggling to do so, for if anyone was an expert, qualified chatter, it was yuji itadori.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・

the football field stretched wide under the fading light, its green expanse marked with crisp white lines that gleamed faintly in the late afternoon. you were standing on the bench at the front row, watching the football players dart across the field.

it was jujutsu high's open game for the football team, which (by the school's definition) was a practice session open for the general school public to attend.

your eyes followed the ball as it sailed through the air, a blur of motion intercepted by a leaping player — chad, you noticed with raised brows, as the whistle from coach yaga encouraged the rest of the team to push forward.

your eyes had scoured the players in search of your friends. you couldn't exactly tell who was who because of the uniform and helmet that would conceal both their bodies and their faces, so you could only rely on their player numbers displayed on both the fronts and backs of their jerseys.

player number one — who was currently sprinting alongside massive player number six — was yuji. you never bothered him when he concentrated on the game. you usually saved the disturbance for when he'd done something to piss you off (like intentionally telling your spanish teacher that you deleted duolingo off your phone to spare some storage).

player number two was who you were really looking for, and it only brought a smile to your face when you'd found him — megumi — sprinting the other way.

"you're going the wrong way, megumi!" you helpfully reminded him.

he ignored you, as per usual. but you noticed, with triumph, how his legs had started to slow down.

beneath his helmet, you were certain he was gritting his teeth.

"the ball's that's way!" you called out, one hand cupping the side of your mouth, the other benevolently pointing at player number eight, who was now in possession of the ball. "what are you doing?"

megumi had approached coach yaga, and from where you were stood, accompanied by the chatter of the other onlookers, you could not hear what was being exchanged between the two. the sharp glare that coach yaga had shot you was a lot to go by, however, not that you cared.

you hadn't cared in middle school, you wouldn't care now.

yaga knew that very well.

megumi turned away and had begun jogging towards his teammates again. you shook your head, your foot tapping the metal of the bench impatiently.

"well it's too late for that now!" you told him, tutting in disapproval. "they've gone and scored without you! oh — hi toge!"

player number six, todo, was a towering presence, and you watched as he charged across the field with the ball tucked firmly under his arm, shrugging off attempted tackles like they were nothing more than minor inconveniences. close behind, yuji darted around the defence with his usual agility, his movements quick and unpredictable, drawing shouts of encouragement from somewhere behind you, because — right, that was a thing now — he had gained quite a few admirers over the last week, not that he had been aware of it. the only reason you knew was because of an occasion last week where you and nobara had camped inside a singular stall in the girls' toilets, overhearing a conversation between a few sophomores and juniors.

megumi was now in possession of the ball, and though he wasn't as speedy as yuji, he excelled in the game by being strategic, which compensated for the lack of agility.

he's doing well, you thought to yourself. it was too bad you enjoyed poking fun at him.

you exaggeratedly waved both arms in the air as if directing imaginary traffic, calling out random, unhelpful advice about the game. his head had turned for a fraction of a second, and that had been enough to encourage you to go further.

"quick! the small one's behind you!" you called out, your expression grave. you chuckled when he actually looked over his shoulder. "haha! made you look —"

"— l/n!"

your eyes travelled across the field to meet yaga's, shielded by his sunglasses. he didn't look pleased in the slightest, but he hadn't said anything else when you stared back at him.

your name was his first warning.

you shrugged and turned back to the game, mimicking a referee's whistle sound — poorly, of course — just to see if it would make megumi glance your way again.

it didn't, but you had not missed the way he'd quickened his steps, an act to try and free himself from being forced to listen to your constant shouts and yells.

"megumi! spell red!" you called out to him, your hands cupping your mouth. he turned around and narrowed his eyes at you, a menacing glint circling in each of his irises. "no? okay, i'll do it for you! L — S — T — E — R —"

the field erupted with laughter.

number six, todo, was the first to lose it, nearly doubling over as he slapped his thigh, while yuji could barely stay upright, clutching his sides and wheezing between gasps of air. the entire team seemed to pause, their focus on the game completely derailed, as they recalled the viral meme and the ridiculousness of your performance.

yaga, however, was not amused. he blew his whistle sharply, barking at the players to get back into formation, his forehead veins looking like they might burst at any second.

"keep laughing, and you'll all be running laps until the sun sets!" he roared, but his threats only managed to stifle the laughter into barely concealed snickers. "and you — stop opening that damned mouth of yours!"

meanwhile, megumi shot you a glare so venomous, it could have melted steel. his fists clenched at his sides, and you could see the subtle rise and fall of his shoulders as he tried to rein in his irritation.

"stop," he snapped, his voice dripping with exasperation.

"all right, all right," you sighed, before cupping your mouth again. "spell megumi! T — O — J — Y!"

megumi stood in the centre of the grassy field, arms by his sides, like a child refusing to comply to rules. you could see the way his jaw had clenched at your joke.

he had always had this incessant need to be right. to correct you when you were wrong. to show off his brilliance.

you could see him fighting a losing battle.

"that's not how you spell my dad's name —" he'd started angrily, but the sound of yaga's whistle had cut through anything you had wanted to say in response.

"IS THIS THE SPELLING BEE?" he demanded, irate. "fushiguro!" he'd all but bellowed, teeth gritted. "why are your legs not moving?"

megumi turned to face his teacher.

"she spelled my dad's name wrong —"

"IS YOUR DAD HERE TO BEAR WITNESS?"

"..."

"GET BACK TO YOUR TEAMMATES!"

megumi had made a move to leave, but at the sound of your snickers, he stopped, lifting his arm and pointing it in your direction.

"kick her out," he'd said — correction: demanded — without hesitation.

your mouth fell open in sheer disbelief, arms extended outwards in confusion as you glared at megumi like he'd just committed the ultimate betrayal.

kick you out? the audacity, you mentally marvelled.

you weren't even on the field, which you could've easily invaded if you had wanted to. you were merely offering a bit of moral support (albeit in your own unique, slightly chaotic way).

"that's a breach of my human rights," you alerted both your teacher and your friend. then, you shifted your attention to only coach yaga. "he's not even participating! personally, i think he should be benched!"

"l/n, sit down and SHUT UP!"

"no, seriously!" you insisted, crouching down to untie your shoelaces. "i can replace him on the field!"

megumi turned around again to face you this time. even though his helmet made it hard to see his face properly, you could see the way he'd narrowed his eyes at you. "you don't even know how to play properly —"

"well i'd do a hell of a lot better than what you're doing," you told him, standing up again and folding your arms over your chest. "which is nothing, by the way."

coach yaga had had enough:

"FUSHIGURO, STOP ENGAGING WITH HER AND MOVE UP THE FIELD!"

megumi faced the angry man with, no doubt, a glare of his own. "she's —"

"NOW!" yaga had bellowed, and you could only laugh at the way megumi's fists had clenched, but he'd obediently ran towards the other players (not without shooting you a glower, though).

you chuckled at his reaction, but choked on it when coach yaga had mercilessly turned to you next.

"SIT. DOWN. L/N," he ordered you, the hand holding the whistle lined with angry veins threatening to pop. you could see one on his forehead, too.

you opened your mouth to oppose, but he'd blown his whistle so you couldn't even hear yourself speak.

and this had become a recurring theme.

any time your lips would part — whether to cheer for a play, yell sarcastic advice at megumi, or protest yaga's increasingly dictatorial tone — the sharp, ear-piercing sound of his whistle cut through the air, drowning you out completely. he'd positioned himself nearby, whistle ready at his lips, as though waiting for the exact moment you dared to utter a sound.

you even tried whispering once, only for him to blow it louder than ever, causing you to flinch and clutch your ears.

the message was clear: coach yaga would not tolerate your antics.

but his overzealous whistle-blowing had unintended consequences, ones that had you giggling into your hands.

the players, accustomed to the whistle being a signal for key game instructions, had begun growing confused by the constant interruptions. at one point, both kamo and logan parker hesitated mid-play, unsure whether the sharp whistle had been meant to signal an offside or something else entirely, and this had led to an awkward collision on the field — logal tripping over kamo as the latter tried to pivot too late — and the two of them ended up sprawled in a tangled heap.

and yaga, visibly frustrated by both the situation at hand and the rhythm of your constant laughter, had no choice but to bench them both, muttering something about how some people were ruining his practice.

"your hair's a mess," you told kamo, when he'd approached the bench you were standing on with his helmet beneath his arm.

"thanks, didn't notice," he responded, blowing the loose strands of his hair out of his face.

you eyed him carefully as he sat by your feet, his knees an angry shade of red where he'd fallen due to the collision.

"does that hurt?" you asked, frowning. "you could sue yaga for blowing his whistle and causing confusion."

kamo peered up at you, his elbows resting on his thighs, his back hunched over in such a way that chiropractors would be disappointed by. you couldn't quite paint what he was thinking, for his face, so devoid of any and all emotion, made it so that his lips were set in a straight line and his eyes would remain half-lidded.

"you can!" you continued, as though he'd voiced his uncertainty to you. "and you can show your knees for proof!"

kamo kept his gaze fixed on the game, following the flow of plays that unfolded without him. you couldn't quite paint what he was feeling in that moment, for his expression was a mix of irritation and fatigue as he lazily tossed his helmet to the ground with a dull clatter.

"i'll remember to bring in a formal complaint tomorrow, then," he added, his eyes following player number five, who was in possession of the ball.

"i'll be your backup!" you told him enthusiastically. when he peered up at you, expectant, you clarified yourself. "y'know, for moral support."

"hold my hand and everything?"

you grinned. "all right, don't get ahead of yourself now."

"my bad," he said, bringing a hand up to brush the stray hairs out of his face. his dark hair had been tied back with a flimsy rubber-band into a low, loose bun, which apparently proved worthless in a rough game of football.

at the centre of the field, andre johnson clapped his hands loudly, rallying the players into position as he directed the next play with precision. toge stood further back, his sharp eyes scanning the field, ready to intercept, while todo, living up to his reputation, plowed through the defence like a battering ram, drawing cheers from his teammates.

you felt bad for the players that had ended up on the floor because of his onslaught of attacks.

one of them just so happened to be yuji.

and as you jested loudly at his limp body, todo stared back at him, horrified:

"BROTHER —"

"ooh..." you marvelled, standing on your tip-toes as todo ignored the game altogether and charged the other way. everyone except for megumi had moved out of the way. "might wanna put that one on a leash..."

your eyes had darted from the game to kamo, and back again.

"no offence, kamotionless..."

"none taken."

the two of you watched as megumi extended his hand to your pink-haired, groaning friend on the floor, intrigued as he accepted his help in pulling himself up.

both their heads had turned to face you.

yuji's lips parted in a comical frown, his hand clutching his lower back as he turned to glare at you with all the indignation he could muster. you could only chuckle at him, for his pink hair was dusted with grass and dirt from the collision, and his expression screamed betrayal.

raising one hand, he offered you an exaggerated thumbs-down, shaking it slowly as though to emphasise just how unimpressed he was.

you stared back at him, brow raised as you placed a pointer finger on your chest, mouthing 'me?'.

his exaggerated nod made you scowl at him and look at megumi instead, but his stare wasn't any better, for it had lingered on you longer than necessary: his sharp eyes had darkened as they subtly drifted downwards, his expression tightening ever so slightly, though it was hard to tell if it was irritation or something else entirely.

he was still pissed at your interruption of the game from earlier, clearly, for his stance had been tinged with quiet discontent, as though he'd seen something he didn't quite like.

rude, you thought to yourself, i stopped yelling at him and i'm likeable.

whatever it was, he said nothing, his eyes snapping back to the field with a stoicism that betrayed nothing outwardly.

across the field, yaga's voice thundered over the chaos.

"ITADORI! FUSHIGURO! get back to your positions — NOW!"

yuji jumped slightly at the sheer force of his command, but megumi had barely looked fazed, as though this was a common occurrence during practice.

yuji shot one last mournful look in your direction before jogging into place, his steps a little heavier than before. megumi, on the other hand, walked briskly back into formation, his gaze focused ahead, though the rigid set of his shoulders suggested he wasn't entirely composed. yaga's glare followed them both until they were back in line, his frustration simmering visibly as he blew his whistle to resume the play.

"what's the history with you and coach yaga?" kamo had asked, which had greatly surprised, your brows raised as you stared down at him. he took your silence as a sign to continue. "yuji said you met coach yaga in middle school."

"oh my god," you beamed, hopping off the bench to sit down on it. "i'm so glad you asked!"

you dug into your pocket and retrieved your phone, tapping on it excitedly to pull up the set of images in your camera roll that you'd visit so often, it would never catch dust.

the academic years of twenty-fourteen to twenty-sixteen.

"so i met him in the sixth grade," you explained, selecting an image of him from the time you had unexpectedly pulled your phone out in the middle of the corridor and snapped a headshot. "that's what he looked like back then, so, not that different. still got that weird spiky hairstyle, except it's longer now, but you get the idea."

kamo nodded, his front leaning forward to get a good look at your phone.

"he's angry," he commented idly.

"er... yeah," you confirmed, hesitant. you slowly swiped to the next photo — yaga's realisation of the image being taken. "that's 'cause i took his photo in the middle of the hallway, so..." you shook your head quickly. "but anyway! i met him during our first middle school p.e class. we were playing dodgeball and i was standing at the back to support yuji, even though we'd just met through megumi, but if megumi liked him, then i knew he was good. and then yaga just got mad at me."

kamo watched as you showed him another picture of an angry coach yaga.

"and it was a whole thing," you settled on saying at last. "rest of our time during middle school went by with a theme of pissing yaga off. it's tradition now."

kamo raised a brow, the corner of his lips tugging upwards in mild amusement as he listened.

"sounds like you've had a pretty clear mission since day one," he said, his tone dry but his gaze alight with curiosity. he tilted his head slightly as he regarded the photo on your screen, his hand brushing back a loose strand of hair as he continued. "coach only ever turns red when you're around."

there was no judgment in his voice, just a quiet humour that seemed to match the slight, crooked smile now playing on his face.

without a word, kamo shifted subtly closer to you, leaning in as though to get a better look at the next photo. his arm rested lightly on the bench beside you, and while the movement was casual, the reduced space between you both went unnoticed — or perhaps, just unacknowledged.

you didn't seem to mind at all, and the easy flow of your conversation remained uninterrupted. if anything, the proximity only added to the comfortable rhythm of your storytelling:

"there's actually a legacy," you grinned, swiping several times to get to a particular image. "you know s— mr gojo, miss ieiri, mr nanami, and mr haibara were yaga's students back when they were in school?"

kamo didn't say anything at that. some part of you couldn't blame him, especially when you would constantly spew out nonsense that megumi would immediately shut down in front of everyone.

if you weren't you, you probably wouldn't have believed yourself either.

"at least try to look like you believe me," you scowled.

"no, i do," kamo insisted, though not very convincingly.

"no you don't."

"yeah i don't."

"okay, well, now you will," you stated, showing him the photo you'd been searching for in your packed camera roll.

it was yaga's wedding in january of two-thousand-and-six. you had chosen this particular photo because of the scene in the background: the men you knew dressed sharply in suits and ties, and the women you knew also elegantly adorned in dresses and heels.

"he's married?" kamo asked, looking genuinely surprised. it was the only time you had seen any form of emotion cross his face.

"was married," you corrected him, and then laughed as you zoomed in on his face. "got divorced years ago — look, he's bald!"

as you and kamo continued discussing yaga's wedding, the conversation spiralled into unexpected detail. you pointed out the floral arrangements in the background, commenting on how they looked oddly mismatched with the formal attire of the guests. kamo had raised an eyebrow, countering that maybe yaga had bad taste in decorators. from there, the discussion veered into an animated debate over who had possibly caught the bouquet, with you insisting it was nanami and kamo scoffing at the idea of him even participating.

but just as kamo parted his lips to counter your next argument, yaga's unmistakable voice had cut through the air.

"LOVEBIRDS!" he'd roared, the two of you looking up simultaneously towards the field where yaga stood, hands on his hips, thoroughly exasperated. "FOCUS ON THE GAME, OR LEAVE!"

you pocketed your phone again, glaring at yaga like he'd personally offended you on a cosmic level.

"he's just salty we have luscious hair," you muttered under your breath bitterly. the fact that the entire field had fallen silent didn't deter you from adding more in the slightest. "got a lot of nerve for someone with a wedding album collecting dust..."

unbeknownst to you, chad smirked knowingly, glancing towards kamo with an exaggeratedly teasing expression, waggling his eyebrows as if he'd just uncovered the secret of the universe. kamo, predictably, ignored him entirely, his focus unshaken.

meanwhile, megumi's reaction had been far sharper.

his eyes darted between you and kamo before settling firmly on you, his brow furrowing so deeply it looked like he was judging you for a crime against humanity. his glare lingered, sharp and unyielding, like you'd just desecrated something sacred — which, knowing megumi, might've been the concept of behaving during practice.

"just get him back on the field," he stated firmly, shooting coach yaga a glare.

"kid's right," said yaga, before blowing his whistle again. "KAMO, PARKER — BOTH OF YOU — BACK ON THE FIELD!"

obediently, kamo rose to his feet, brushing off his knees before bending down and retrieving his discarded helmet, and then giving a short, wordless nod to logan parker, who had been waiting nearby.

from the sidelines, yaga's gaze immediately zeroed in on you.

"AND YOU!" he barked, pointing a commanding finger. "stop distracting my players! you've got five seconds to zip it, or you're out of here!" his voice had carried across the field with the same force as his whistle.

you frowned deeply. his reaction felt like an overreaction to you — typical yaga behavior.

but then, the realisation hit you like a sudden spotlight. you glanced at your watch and felt a jolt of panic. you were supposed to stay for only a bit before heading to rehearsal.

"ah, shit! i'm late for rehearsal!" you panicked, hurriedly grabbing your bag and scrambling to leave. the theatre director was definitely not going to forgive you for being late again, especially with the lead role hanging in the balance.

as you ran across the benches, you looked over your shoulder, ignoring the crowd and team laughing at you.

"lady yaga, this is all your fault by the way!"

as you darted towards the building, the teasing chants from the football team had started fading behind you. despite the growing distance between you and them, you could hear yaga cursing you from where he stood, as though he were right next to you.

you were not, however, aware of the two pairs of eyes watching you retreat, one of them mildly amused, the other beyond annoyed.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・

bonus scene:

the cracked pavement beneath satoru's feet echoed faintly as he strolled through the unfamiliar neighbourhood.

during a conversation about toji's dark past, he had showed off to the family about never having stolen anything, as well as never being stolen from, which only resulted in ogi demanding that he walk in a sketchier neighbourhood and see if he could come back saying the same thing.

and he had been confident, of course, as he looked around at the graffiti-covered walls and flickering streetlights, which might have seemed intimidating to anyone else, but he remained blissfully unfazed, humming a tune under his breath.

in one hand, he'd held a slightly squished cupcake, the frosting a little smeared but no less delightful to him. his sunglasses perched jauntily on his nose, and his long strides carried him through the shadows as though the neighbourhood itself were lucky to have him gracing its streets.

...

that had been before he'd found himself trapped in a phone-box, the gang that had caused his sealing surrounding the box in awe.

'we seriously stole the gojo guy's money?'

'aw heck yeah! he's filthy rich, too!'

'look at that sleek, black card!'

'awesome! his phone's the new model as well!'

satoru stared at the gang leader, scowling.

his balaclava had fallen when satoru had thrown a punch at him earlier, exposing his tattooed face, the dark line that crossed his nose and the thin arrowed lines that went down his eyes.

satoru thought he looked silly with those pigtails.

"how much are those glasses?" the leader had asked, throwing his balaclava over his shoulder for one of his minions to scramble for.

satoru, his neck bent in an attempt to not bump his head, flashed him a grin.

"more than you can afford."

the guy gritted his teeth at him. satoru felt satisfaction bloom in his chest at that, but he noted how the tattooed male could be no older than seventeen or eighteen. what the hell was he doing as a leader of a gang?

"but you should probably open the door to try and get them," satoru suggested, bending down a little to meet the kid's face.

"i'm not stupid," the kid scowled. he was bagging all of satoru's expensive belongings right in front of him.

"if you were smart, you wouldn't style your hair like a five year old girl."

"if you were smart, you would dye your hair."

satoru scowled at him. "if you continued your education, you wouldn't need to join a gang for money."

the kid didn't look too pleased with satoru's rapid riposte, for he looked around at his minions, slinging the bag of satoru's possessions over his shoulder, and turning away with a raised brow.

"come and get your stuff," he had challenged the trapped, white-haired male, who could only watch in anger as one of the minions marvelled at his stolen cupcake.

his cupcake.

satoru let out an exaggerated groan, his head lightly thudding against the very top of the glass wall of the phone box as he tilted his chin to the ceiling (that happened to be so very close to his face).

this was beyond annoying; his cupcake was gone, his wallet and phone stolen, and now he was cramped into this tiny, outdated relic of communication...

but then, a flicker of excitement sparked across his face, the edges of his mouth curling upwards.

out of all the traps he could've been stuck in, it had to be a phone box. how retro. how tragically iconic.

with a sigh, he tapped the dusty dial pad, punching in one of the numbers he knew by heart: shoko's.

the faint hum of the dial tone filled the tiny space as he leaned back, arms crossed, waiting with a fading grin to hear her undoubtedly sarcastic greeting.

but it had been taking a while.

"this is such a pain," he grumbled to himself, annoyed.

and then looked up excitedly when her voice sounded through the speaker.

"hello?"

"shoko, i'm trapped in a phone box 'cause some poor kid with his gang jumped me," he explained hurriedly. it wasn't a completely accurate retelling of the story, but it got the main gist of it, and he was punched for time. "i need your help!"

there was a pause. was she seriously contemplating helping him?

"..."

"shoko?"

"hm," she hummed, her voice nasally. it usually got like that when she was working. "have you returned my lighter?"

satoru furrowed his brows. he had never promised to give that back, not when he hated it when she smoked.

"no —"

BEEEEEEP...

she had hung up.

satoru angrily punched in the numbers of another friend, one who had to be more sensible than her.

"hope she has an asthma attack," he cursed quietly, as he expectantly waited for nanami to pick up the phone.

"kento nanami, who's calling?"

as formal as ever; satoru expected no less. had he been in a better predicament, he would have made a joke about it.

"nanami!" he cheered, and then hurriedly got to the point. perhaps he ought to go a different route, if only to avoid the same outcome with smoke-addict-shoko. "remember when i helped you pay for yuu's birthday expenses?"

he heard him let out a breathy sigh from the other end of the call.

"what's this about, gojo?" he asked, sounding exhausted.

satoru explained his situation as best as he could. he had high hopes for this call — nanami was always the serious, sensible one. there was no way he'd turn him down now.

"you're stuck in a phone box with no way out?" he repeated, though even nanami wouldn't be able to fake amusement even if he tried. satoru felt his stomach drop. "what a shame."

BEEEEEEP...

and he was left with that same ringing beep...

no, the next one would work. he was certain of it.

the kfc disagreement might have occurred a year or two ago, but it was all right. satoru knew that.

they were best friends, after all.

he hurriedly pressed suguru's phone number into the dial and waited.

and waited.

and waited...

...and waited...

and then gave up.

i would've picked up his call, he thought to himself bitterly, before dialling the fushiguros' telephone.

he prayed to god that megumi would answer, and not —

"erm... hello!"

you.

he found you funny, a great kid, one to match the zenins' wit in every way. but you could be so very... chatty.

especially when he didn't have the time.

"y/n, i'm trapped in a phone box 'cause of some sketchy kids in a gang," he explained, though something in his gut knew that this was futile, "where's megumi's mom? where's your mom? in the event that she'd even care —"

"my mom is —"

but you had paused, for megumi's voice had entered the line, but distant:

"i know you stole my book, y/n. give it back."

"i didn't — ugh! satoru, i can't talk to you right now 'cause i'm in the middle of making fun of megumi 'cause he said i stole his boring, non-fiction book when i didn't —"

"— yeah i don't give a shit, where's your mom?" he interrupted, because there was only so much he could take.

your gasp on the other end of the line was telling.

and it came as no surprise to him when you hung up as revenge:

"oh you— okay! bye!"

"wait, y/n —"

BEEEEEEP...

"oh for fucks —" he began, but kept his cool as he pictured his wife. his wife who, surely, would help him. she was his only hope at this point, because if not her, then it had to be ogi.

if not her, then it had to be toji.

he shivered at the thought.

he waited for her to pick up.

"hello? who is this?"

he had no time to waste.

there was a long pause after satoru's rushed explanation, the muffled static on the other end of the line filling the silence. he leaned forwards slightly, gripping the receiver, his hope wavering as the seconds stretched on. surely, his wife was gearing up for some clever solution, for she was smart, he remembered that well during high school and college — or at least, that's what he convinced himself of.

then came the sound of her laughter.

it started low, building into something unrestrained and far too amused for his liking.

and before he could say or do anything else, she ended the call with a click, hanging up the phone herself. satoru stood there, staring at the receiver in disbelief, the faint beep of the disconnected line mocking him.

BEEEEEEP...

reluctantly, he had called both ogi and toji next, and each regret stung more than the last. ogi sounded all too pleased by the event, and had hung up to, no doubt, inform everyone he knew of 'the gojo heir' being a victim of mugging.

toji's brutal honesty hit harder.

his voice had been laced with smug amusement, delivering one dismissive insult after another before abruptly cutting the call. by the time the phone clicked silent again, satoru felt something he rarely experienced — genuine, soul-deep irritation.

with a frustrated growl, satoru clenched his fist and swung it towards the glass, the impact reverberating through the phone box.

a sharp crack echoed as small fractures spread across the surface, and a few shards broke loose, tumbling to the ground.

he flexed his fingers, inspecting the streaks of red beginning to stain his knuckles. the sight annoyed him more than the pain — bleeding wasn't part of the plan. still, the partial break in the glass was hopeful, and he prepared himself for another attempt.

as he paused to assess his next move, his gaze caught on a young blonde-haired girl walking along the street nearby. she couldn't have been older than you or megumi, about ten, her small figure striking against the gritty surroundings.

desperation took over as he called out to her, motioning with his uninjured hand. the girl stopped and turned towards him, but her wide, wary eyes said it all — she clearly thought he was some sort of lunatic. satoru would have tried to understand his viewpoint if he wasn't so irritated with his situation.

she hesitated, clutching her backpack tighter, and stared at him as though deciding whether to run or stay.

"you're a pedo!" she'd decided altogether, which only got satoru to clench his jaw at her.

his neck was starting to hurt with how the height of the phone box had bent him at its will.

"i'm not a pedo, and if i was, you'd be safe, you blonde, bob-headed, little shit."

she furrowed her brows at him, but she'd taken several steps closer, which told him that there was a certain level of trust there between them.

"i'm trapped," he explained, for the eighth time. he looked around and saw a discarded hammer on the dusty floor. "get that hammer and pass it to me through the hole i made."

"my mom told me not to speak to strangers," said the child, her white dress notable in comparison to all the dust and dirt surrounding them.

"your mom also left you unattended in this sketchy neighbourhood," said satoru, brows raised. "you think her opinion matters? help me out."

the child still seemed reluctant. satoru groaned loudly.

"i'll buy you a cupcake."

she ran over to the hammer and presented it to him. satoru encouraged her to push it through the hole, but the way she was looking at it made him pause.

and he was right to do so, for she unexpectedly held it over her head, and then slammed it into the glass window, his hands immediately going over his head to prevent the glass from cutting into his face and sensitive areas.

"sick," he marvelled, as she continued to smash up the glass.

and after a little more smashing, she had finally had her fun and handed the hammer over to satoru through a much wider hole.

he took it gratefully, looking down at her through his round glasses with his head tilted.

"might wanna step back, kid," he warned her, before releasing all his pent-up anger on the phone box, enough to smash its front in a way that made it unrecognisable.

he stepped out, throwing the hammer away, leaving it discarded somewhere forgettable behind him.

"i'm getting my stuff back."

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・

the gang gathered around satoru's possessions with wide eyes, each of them marvelling at the loot they'd just stolen. the leader, with a smug grin on his face, rifled through his wallet, fascinated by the sleek, black card inside.

"this guy's loaded," he muttered to himself, feeling more than a little victorious, for there had been four different sleek cards, and he was certain if they chose to rob his house next, they'd find more.

his fingers hovered over satoru's phone, still in pristine condition despite the earlier struggle.

the rest of the gang members, too, admired the items with greedy satisfaction.

but their smugness was short-lived.

in a blur, everything around them seemed to freeze for a moment, only to snap back into chaos. one second, they were standing in the middle of the street, basking in their victory, and the next — a flash of white filled their vision.

it was as if the world had shifted, disorienting them completely. the last thing they saw was satoru's towering presence, the white of his hair and his eyes like blinding light.

then, with only one warning from one of the members ("guys, he's coming! he's coming!"), they found themselves in a dark alley, each of them battered and exhausted, sprawled out on the ground.

the gang leader himself could taste blood in his mouth, his head swimming as he tried to piece together what had just happened in the space of five minutes. his body screamed in pain, the bruises already beginning to form, and his mind struggled to understand the impossible speed of the attack.

they hadn't stood a chance.

satoru stood over him now, his foot casually pressing down on the younger man's face, pinning him to the ground with alarming ease. his grin was feral, manic — a dangerous gleam in his eyes.

his possessions, now securely back in his grasp, were scattered around him, including the cupcake, which he held up to his lips, barely noticing the bloodstained mess of the street around him. his body was tense, like a coiled spring, filled with untamed energy as he looked down at the leader with barely-contained excitement...

there was something unnerving about the way he was smiling — something wild and unhinged, as if the fight, the chase, and the thrill had unlocked something primal within him. he was terrifying, but utterly in control of himself, and the chaos surrounding him.

"heh," he laughed to himself, throwing the bag over his shoulder. "i get why toji used to do this all the time. look at your faces!"

he eyed them all, noticing one thing they all had in common. he laughed loudly.

they were all japanese.

"what is this, the yakuza?" he joked, taking a bite out of his cupcake.

he deserved more sweet treats, he decided. perhaps he would go downtown to treat himself again.

his eyes had landed on the very criminal that had taken his cupcake intentionally. he walked away from the gang leader and bent down to present it to him again.

"want a bite?" he teased.

when he didn't respond, satoru stood up straight again.

"what, you scared?"

but despite asking the question, he didn't wait for a response. instead, he turned around, spotting the little, blonde girl that had helped him out, and walked off without looking back.

"go back to school," he advised them. "you guys are shit criminals."

satoru strolled over to the little blonde girl, who looked up at him expectantly, her bright eyes wide and curious. her expression was a mix of confusion and caution, as though she wasn't quite sure what to make of the strange man who had just singlehandedly obliterated a gang.

satoru, unfazed, reached into his wallet with a casual flick of his wrist, extracting a five-dollar bill. he held it out to her with a grin, his earlier manic energy fading into something far more playful.

"here, kid. get yourself something nice," he said with a wink.

"my name's hana," she told him, taking the bill. "hana kurusu."

he raised his brows at her.

"good to know," he'd said, and without waiting for a reply, turned on his heel, the faintest chuckle escaping his lips as he walked away.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・

notes: turns out my law exam i told you about went super well (got an A, woohoo!) and i was being dramatic lmao. so half this chapter was scenes i knew you’d be happy with, the other half was a lot of kamo, which i knew a lot of you hate me for, but it had to be done ‘cause i was right about the shit sociology test :/ lmao anyway, this was basically just some filler hahaa (with semi-plot!) 😼

previous chapter :)

next chapter :)

taglist (send an ask or comment to be added):

@1l-ynn @shaigimo @shuupiu @nappingnai @xbarrjallenx @reinaswrld @anintrovertedechoe @momoewn @polarbvnny @lailuv21 @cherriee-ee @hfuensiekabhsufnd @k0z3me @laughingfcx @jelly-fsh @anonymity-222 @blubearxy @jamypam @thelost-child @anotherwriternamedclara @ist0leurc0ffee @spookypeacesandwich @jvpit3rr

i do not own any of the characters of jjk, i only own the character of y/n and her mother. the other characters belong to gege akutami.

if you enjoyed my writing, i’d really appreciate it if you tipped me — tumblr no longer has the tip function, so maybe here in my tip jar :)

93 notes · View notes

rafemotherfuckingcameron · 2 days ago

Note

Rafe finding out your boyfriend hits you

HURT

Word Count: 1.0K

Pairing(s): Reader x Rafe x Wheezie

Warnings: Domestic abuse, injury

Summary: Rafe finds out your boyfriend hit you

The house was still as you slipped through the front door, the soft click echoing faintly in the darkness. Your hands trembled slightly as you locked it behind you, pausing to take a breath. It had been a long, grueling evening—one you didn’t want anyone in the Cameron household to know about. With your hood pulled over your head, you made your way quietly down the hall, your only goal to disappear upstairs before anyone noticed you’d come home.

Your heartbeat thundered in your ears as you climbed the stairs, the dull sting from the cut on your cheek serving as a constant reminder of the night’s events. You pressed the cuff of your sleeve against it in an attempt to stop the bleeding, but the fabric was already damp, and you weren’t sure if it was helping.

You’d thought everyone would be asleep by now—it was late enough—but as you turned the corner at the top of the stairs, you nearly collided with Wheezie.

“Whoa, hey!” she said, startled, clutching her phone to her chest. The light from the screen illuminated her face—and, unfortunately, yours. Her gaze dropped to the visible cut below your eye, and her expression immediately shifted from surprise to alarm. “Oh my God, what happened to you?”

“Nothing,” you muttered, pulling your hood tighter around your head as you tried to brush past her. “It’s fine.”

“Stop,” she said, stepping in front of you and squinting in the dim light. “That’s not fine. Is that blood?”

You hesitated, feeling the lump in your throat grow. “Wheezie, just—just forget it, okay? Please.”

But she wasn’t backing down. “No way. You’re hurt. Come on.” Her tone was softer now, but there was no room for argument. Gently, she took your arm and guided you toward your room.

“Sit here,” she instructed, pointing to the edge of your bed. “I’ll grab some bandages.”

You nodded silently, not trusting your voice to stay steady. As soon as she left, you buried your face in your hands, willing the tears threatening to spill over to stay back. You didn’t want to cry anymore. You didn’t want to feel this way anymore.

In the bathroom, Wheezie was rummaging through cabinets, pulling out antiseptic wipes, gauze, and bandages. She moved quickly, muttering under her breath about how the medical supplies were never where they were supposed to be. She was so focused that she didn’t notice Rafe appear in the doorway until he spoke.

“Wheezie, what are you doing?” he asked, his voice low and slightly rough from sleep. He was leaning against the frame, arms crossed, his expression curious but tinged with suspicion.

Wheezie jumped, nearly dropping the wipes. “God, Rafe, you scared me!”

“Why are you tearing the bathroom apart at—” he glanced at his watch—“midnight?”

She hesitated, clutching the supplies closer to her chest. “I’m helping someone.”

“Who?” he pressed, his brows furrowing.

“They don’t want anyone to know,” she said quickly, stepping toward the door.

Rafe’s gaze dropped to the supplies in her hands, and his jaw tightened. “What’s going on, Wheezie?” His tone was sharper now, more insistent. “Who’s hurt?”

She bit her lip, her wide eyes darting between him and the bandages. Finally, with a heavy sigh, she muttered, “It’s her. She came home hurt.”

His entire demeanor shifted in an instant. Without another word, he turned and walked briskly toward your room.

You were sitting on the edge of your bed, staring at the floor when the door opened. You looked up, startled, to see Rafe standing there. His eyes immediately went to the cut on your cheek, then back to your tear-streaked face.

“Rafe,” you croaked, your voice barely audible.

He didn’t say anything at first, just stood there, his eyes scanning you like he was trying to piece together a puzzle. The tension in his jaw was unmistakable, and his fists clenched at his sides. Finally, he stepped inside and shut the door behind him.

“What happened?” he asked, his voice soft but laced with barely controlled anger.

You shook your head, fresh tears spilling over. “It’s—it’s nothing.”

“Don’t,” he interrupted, his tone firmer now but not unkind. “Don’t say it’s nothing.” He moved closer, crouching in front of you so you had no choice but to meet his gaze. “Who did this to you?”

Your lip quivered as you tried to form the words, but they stuck in your throat. Finally, in a shaky whisper, you said, “It was him.”

Rafe didn’t need you to elaborate. The rage that flickered across his face was immediate and undeniable, but he didn’t lash out or yell. Instead, he took a deep breath, his hands resting on his knees as he forced himself to stay calm.

“I’m so sorry,” he said after a moment, his voice soft. “That shouldn’t have happened to you. Ever.”

Wheezie returned then, her arms full of supplies. She handed the antiseptic wipes to Rafe, her expression a mix of concern and guilt.

“I’ll help,” she said quietly, kneeling beside him.

Together, the two of them worked in silence, Rafe gently cleaning the cut on your cheek while Wheezie prepared the bandages. You winced as the antiseptic stung, and Rafe murmured an apology, his touch surprisingly gentle.

“It’s not too deep,” he said after a moment, his eyes meeting yours. “But you’re going to have a bruise.”

You nodded, your voice failing you again.

Once the cut was cleaned and bandaged, Wheezie gave you a small, reassuring smile. “You’re gonna be okay,” she said, squeezing your shoulder. “If you need anything, just wake me up, okay?”

“Thank you,” you whispered, managing a faint smile.

With that, she left the room, leaving you alone with Rafe.

He didn’t say anything right away, just pulled the chair from your desk over and sat down, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. His eyes were fixed on you, a mix of concern and something else you couldn’t quite place.

“You should get some rest,” he said finally.

You nodded, but you didn’t move. The adrenaline was wearing off, leaving behind a wave of exhaustion and sadness that felt impossible to shake.

Rafe seemed to sense this. He stood, walking over to your bed and sitting on the edge. “Come on,” he said softly, patting the mattress. “Lie down.”

You hesitated, but the weight of the night was too much to resist. Slowly, you lay down, pulling the blanket up to your chin.

Rafe stayed where he was, his hand coming up to stroke your hair in slow, soothing motions.

“You’re safe here,” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. “I won’t let anything happen to you.”

For the first time that night, you felt yourself relax. The tears stopped, and your breathing steadied as his presence grounded you.

And as your eyes finally closed, you knew you weren’t alone anymore.

#rafe cameron x reader #rafe cameron concepts #rafe cameron prompt #rafe cameron blurb #outerbanks rafe #rafe outer banks #drew starkey #drew starkey x reader #obx #outer banks #obx fanfiction #OBX4

87 notes · View notes

sasheemo · 13 hours ago

Text

Friday Thoughts

Chapter 4

Chapter Summary: Sunday morning at Agatha’s house starts innocently enough… until it doesn’t. Turns out, the kitchen has more to offer than just coffee.

Chapter Tags: Power Dynamics, Ethics Are for Mortals, Soft Moments Amidst the Heat, Smut, Fingering, Oral Sex, Mommy Kink, Dom/sub Undertones, Kitchen Sesbian Lex

Word Count: 9k

A/N: It’s 5 AM here, and I have no one to blame for my lack of sleep but Agatha Harkness and this absolute filth I've been pouring my soul into for the past four days. I had plans to be a functioning adult tomorrow since I am the designated xmas chef in my family, but instead, I stayed up crafting kitchen sesbian lex for you gorgeous, unhinged humans in my phone. Priorities, am I right?

And remember when I said Chapter 3 was the longest thing I’d ever written? Yeah, well… that record didn't last long. Behold 9k words of depravity only mommy!Agatha could inspire. So, I hope you’re ready to spend your xmas in the sin bin with me.

Happy reading, my fellow degenerates 💜

Chapter Index

Read on AO3

The next morning, you awaken gradually, muffled sounds drifting up from downstairs, gently drawing you back to wakefulness.

You immediately recognize Agatha’s voice, rich, melodic, carrying that unmistakable tone that shifts effortlessly between alluring and intimidating. Nicholas’s laughter echoes in the background, joined by another voice you don’t recognize.

They’re talking, but the words are indistinct, a steady murmur. Then you hear the sound of the front door closing, and silence falls.

Groaning softly, you let consciousness settle, the faint throb of a headache a subtle reminder of the wine from the night before.

Bit by bit, the blurry details of last night start to piece themselves together: you and Agatha almost kissing, her voice soft as she asked you to stay, and the haunting sound of her pleasure echoing in your mind as you retreated to the guest room to lose yourself in your own.

The memory makes heat rise to your cheeks, but you push it aside, shaking your head as if to clear it.

Deciding not to dwell on it, you swing your legs over the edge of the bed and stand. You’re still wearing the oversized t-shirt Agatha gave you to sleep in, its hem brushing against your thighs as you pad barefoot across the room and into the hallway to head downstairs.

The house is silent, so quiet that you assume Agatha and Nicholas must have gone out. The thought of being alone eases some of your tension, though it leaves you feeling a bit… off.

You make your way into the kitchen, still half-asleep and craving coffee, but the moment you step through the doorway your breath catches in your throat.

Agatha is sitting at the table, two stacked empty plates and a half-filled mug of coffee in front of her. She looks completely at ease, a quiet aura of domestic bliss enveloping her, and the sight almost knocks you off balance.

She’s not wearing her usual tailored work outfits or the expensive accessories you’ve come to associate with her presence. Instead, she’s dressed in a dark grey sweatshirt and matching sweatpants—comfortable, simple, but somehow still effortlessly refined.

Her hair cascades in loose, wild waves over her shoulders and down her back, and her face is bare, untouched by the usual hint of makeup. The simplicity does nothing to diminish her allure—if anything, it magnifies it, leaving you unable to look away.

Agatha senses your presence instantly.

Her head turns, and her gaze finds yours, steady and piercing. With an almost languid motion, she brings her mug to her lips and takes a slow sip, never once breaking the connection between your eyes.

You’re suddenly acutely aware that her t-shirt is the only thing you’re wearing, the soft fabric skimming over bare skin and leaving far too much of you exposed.

You shift awkwardly, feeling her gaze linger before she finally speaks.

“Good morning, hon.” she says with that ever-present undertone of playfulness.

“Good morning.” you groan back, your own voice still thick and raspy from sleep, betraying the weight of the night before.

The silence stretches, taut and charged, its heaviness almost laughable this early in the day. You clear your throat, forcing out the first question that drifts into your thoughts.

“Where’s Nicky?” you ask, tilting your head slightly, the movement unconsciously mirroring your curiosity.

“Rio picked him up this morning. They had a trip planned for today.” Agatha replies casually, her tone breezy, almost dismissive as she takes another sip of her coffee.

Her words click in your mind, and you realize the voice you heard earlier must have been hers, Rio’s. It feels odd to know that Nicholas and Rio were here just moments ago, yet now the house is empty except for you and Agatha.

“Did you sleep well?” her question seems innocuous, but it lands like a jarring interruption, scattering your thoughts before you can fully process them.

“Yes.” you answer, forcing yourself to sound steady. “The bed was really comfortable. Honestly, I think I slept better than I do at home.”

“The guest bed is nice, but it’s not the most comfortable one in the house.” she quips, the curve of her lips dancing on the edge of saccharine charm and predatory intent, her eyes alight with unmistakable mischief.

The meaning behind her words is impossible to miss. It lands with striking clarity, and for an instant, you falter.

Then, slowly, you arch a brow, pairing it with a half-smile that practically screams, I can’t cope with your teasing first thing in the morning.

“I really, really, need coffee right now.” you mutter, turning toward the counter to prepare some, your heart still racing from her comment.

The hum of the coffee machine fills the room as you busy yourself. As you reach for a mug in one of the top cabinets, you glance over your shoulder.

“Do you want some more cof—” the words catch in your throat. Agatha’s eyes aren’t on your face. They’re fixed, unmistakably, on your ass.

She doesn’t look away quickly enough, and for a split second, you see something flicker across her face—surprise, maybe even the faintest hint of embarrassment.

You blink, then a grin spreads across your lips as you seize the moment, not thinking too much about the words slipping from your lips.

“Something on your mind, Agatha?” you tease, your tone dripping with feigned innocence.

Agatha leans back slightly in her chair, recovering quickly. A slow, unapologetic smile curves her lips as she meets your gaze.

“Maybe.” she replies nonchalantly, though there’s a fiery spark in her eyes that betrays her.

The tension thickens, and your heart pounds in your chest as a satisfied smirk spreads across your lips, impossible to suppress.

The coffee machine beeps, signaling that your morning fuel is ready, the sound slicing through the air like a blade.

With your mug now filled, you turn and lean against the counter, your grip on the handle a little too tight.

The room feels quiet, too quiet, and you try to ignore how aware you are of her—how the air feels heavier with her in it. Then, her voice weaves itself into the stillness.

“I wanted to say…” she begins, her tone dropping lower, carrying a careful edge as if she’s testing the waters. “I hope I didn’t make you uncomfortable last night, hon.”

Your stomach twists, a pang of disappointment spreading through your chest. You manage a soft laugh, hoping it sounds casual.

“No, of course not.” you say, waving it off. “I figured… I mean, I knew it was just the wine.”

“The wine?” Agatha asks, her brows knitting together as confusion flickers across her face.

Her reaction is subtle but unmistakable, and you realize instantly that your answer wasn’t what she expected, or wanted, to hear.

“Yeah. You know, it… loosened things up a little.” you nod quickly, looking away as you bring the mug to your lips.

When you glance back, her expression has changed—sharper, more focused. Her eyes lock onto yours, and the intensity of her gaze makes you seriously consider crawling into the dishwasher for cover.

“It wasn’t the wine.” she scoffs, her voice firmer now, frustrated almost, cutting cleanly through the space between you. There’s no room for misinterpretation, no hesitation in her tone.

The air shifts as she pushes her chair back with a deliberate slowness, rising to her feet with an elegance that feels almost dangerous.

How is it possible for someone’s movements alone to change the entire atmosphere of a room? The look on her face—annoyed, almost angry—isn’t one you see often, but it’s impossible to misread. It’s the expression of someone who’s extremely close to reaching the limit of their patience, and the tension radiating from her seems to charge the very air between you.

“Tell me, is it Nicholas?” she asks abruptly, her tone laced with mock curiosity and dripping with provocation, her lips curling into a wicked, knowing smirk. “Is that what’s holding you back? The fact that I’m his mother? Or is it the fact that you work for me? Does that little moral compass of yours make this feel wrong, unethical?”

Your heart stutters, her questions catching you completely off guard, every coherent thought scattering like leaves in the wind.

You can’t answer because, truthfully, you don’t know. Maybe it’s all of those things, or maybe it’s none. Perhaps you’ve clung to the excuse of ethics as a way to convince yourself you’re not selfish, to believe you’re a good person, whatever that means. But does that even matter when, for months, you’ve been lying in bed at night, your fingers between your thighs, her name a whisper on your lips, and the dark corners of your mind drowning in visions of her?

You honestly never thought Agatha would ever look at you like this, like she wants you, like she’s already decided you’re hers. And now, faced with the reality of it, you’re completely unprepared. You’d convinced yourself she was an indulgence, a fantasy to steal yourself away from reality at night. But now that she’s here, so real and so close, you have no idea what to do, no idea how to reconcile the fantasy with the reality.

And worse, you can’t find a single excuse for what might happen next. If ethics were just a convenient mask for your own fears, if it’s obvious now that she wants you as much as you’ve always wanted her… then what’s left to hide behind?

Her smirk deepens at your wordless floundering, her eyes gleaming with the satisfaction of unspoken triumph. She steps closer, the heat of her presence enveloping you, the air between you crackling with intensity.

“Don’t get me wrong, I’d never do anything to hurt Nicky. He’s my priority, always. But don’t confuse that with restraint.” her tone drops, low and velvety, her words wrapping around you like a silk ribbon pulling tight.

You know that she is right, about all of it. Agatha Harkness isn’t the kind of woman who lets anything—ethics, doubts, or even the love she has for her son—stand between her and what she wants. You know she’d never risk Nicholas’ well-being, but you also know that nothing gets in her way. Not morality, not caution, and certainly not you.

You blink once, twice, your grip on the mug tightening to the point you’re genuinely surprised it hasn’t cracked yet.

The room seems to shrink, the walls pressing closer as she takes one step forward, then another, each movement unhurried yet charged with intent.

Your pulse thunders in your ears, each beat echoing louder as she closes the distance. She doesn’t stop until she’s standing inches away, so close that you can feel the heat radiating from her skin, mingling with the inebriating scent of her perfume.

Slowly, she reaches out and takes the mug from your hands, her fingers grazing yours as she sets it down on the counter, the touch lingering just long enough to leave your skin tingling.

Her gaze drops, settling on the oversized t-shirt that hangs loosely over your frame. Her lips curve into one of those knowing smiles of hers, the kind that always makes you feel like she can see straight through you.

“This looks good on you, hon.” she murmurs, each word curling through the air like a caress. Her eyes drift back up, locking onto yours, and the intensity in her gaze knocks the breath from your lungs.

“I like seeing you in something of mine.” she adds, each syllable dripping with meaning.

You can’t move, can’t speak. All you can do is stand there, your chest rising and falling in shallow breaths as the tension between you hums like a live wire.

For a moment, time seems to pause. Then, without warning, a flood of memories crashes over you, unbidden and vivid, rushing through your mind like a reel on fast-forward.

You see it all in an instant, the whole past 4 months: the first time you stepped into this house and were struck by Agatha’s presence, how you immediately felt her gravitational pull. The way her voice always seemed to carry an edge of authority that made your pulse quicken and your thighs clench. The fleeting glances, the teasing comments, the nights you spent lying awake replaying the moments you could swear were more than just polite and casual conversation. Her scent lingering on the sofa after she left for one of her Friday night outings. The way her laughter filled the kitchen, rich and melodic, when Nicholas shared one of his funny anecdotes.

And then, last night. Her face mere inches from yours, close enough to see every intricate shade of blue in her eyes. The way her voice dipped when she asked you to stay. The sound of her, breathless and undone, breaking the silence of the night.

Your grip on reality snaps.

Fuck it.

You are done. So. Fucking. Done. With this game, with her teasing, with the endless tug-of-war between your self-doubt and the ache that consumes you every time she’s near.

Your voice is low but steady as you finally speak, your lips curving into a sly smile.

“You know…” you pause, letting the tension hang between you, your eyes locking onto hers with bold intent. “I can think of a few other things of yours I’d rather have on me.”

It takes a heartbeat for your words to sink in, but when they do, the shift in her is instantaneous.

Her pupils dilate, the faintest twitch of her lips betraying her composure. She takes one final step forward, and the space between you vanishes entirely.

Your breath hitches as she leans in, the warmth of her body enveloping you, the faint brush of her exhale against your cheek.

It feels just like last night, on the couch. But this time, there’s no wine to blur the edges, no excuses to hide behind.

“Agatha…” you whisper, her name barely more than a breath, but it’s enough for her eyes to flicker with something raw, something unrestrained.

“Do you have any idea…” she murmurs, her voice a husky rasp “how long I’ve wanted this? How long I’ve wanted you?”

Her words slam into you like a shockwave, your knees threatening to buckle as a rush of heat coils low in your abdomen. You take in the raw hunger on her face, the barely restrained need, and with it, the last fragile threads of your restraint finally snap.

Your voice trembles, dripping with desire, as it escapes your lips.

“Then fucking take me already.”

Yours words hang in the air for the briefest second before she closes the distance, her movements charged with unbridled need.

She grabs you like she’s starving. One hand clamps firmly around your waist, pulling you flush against her, while the other slides up to the back of your neck, her fingers tangling in your hair.

The heat of her palm burns through the fabric of her t-shirt, branding itself onto your skin as her mouth crashes against yours.

The kiss starts slow, teasing, her lips achingly soft as they claim yours, drawing you in until nothing else exists.

Without thinking, you let your tongue flick against her lower lip. And then, the dam breaks.

Your small, tentative act unleashes something feral and untamed in her. She deepens the kiss, her lips pressing harder, more demanding as her tongue curls and twists with yours, exploring, tasting, claiming with a hunger that leaves you dizzy and reeling. Each stroke feels purposeful, like she’s determined to make you forget how to breathe, how to think.

Completely lost in the sensation, you cling to her, your fingers curling into the fabric of her sweatshirt as she presses closer. The edge of the counter bites into your back, but it’s a distant ache, overshadowed by the heat of her body against yours.

The moan that just slipped from your lips is still echoing in the air when you feel Agatha’s hands slide down, firm and purposeful, gripping your thighs just beneath your ass.

You catch on quickly, instinctively bracing on the counter for leverage. It happens seamlessly, her hands guiding you upward as you hoist yourself up with your arms.

In the process, for the briefest, agonizing moment, her lips leave yours, and it feels like a punishment. But the second you’re seated, she’s back, her mouth claiming yours with even more intensity than before.

Her body slots perfectly between your thighs, her hips pressing insistently against yours as the kiss turns hotter, rougher.

You pull back just enough to gasp for air, your eyes half-lidded and dazed as you look at her.

“I need to see you.” you whisper, your voice breathless and thick with desperation as your fingers tug lightly at the hem of her sweatshirt. “I want to see you.”

“Oh, you want to see me?” she coos, her tone low and laced with amusement as her breath ghosts over your cheek. “Then ask nicely, sweetheart.”

“Please, mo-” the word catches in your throat, half-formed, and your entire body stiffens at the realization of what you were about to say.

Shit, really?! That fast?! you think, half-mortified, half in awe of just how quickly you were folding for her. You’ve barely even started, and here you are, ready to hand over your dignity on a silver platter.

But Agatha’s eyes darken, her eyebrows arching in feigned surprise, while her lips curl into the most depraved smirk you’ve ever seen.

“Go on, baby. Say it.” she murmurs, a velvet invitation laced with command. “I know you want to.”

The air crackles with anticipation, every nerve in your body screaming at you to let go.

You try to hold back, clinging to the last shred of composure you have left, but it’s futile. The way she looks at you, the way her touch sends fire racing through your veins, makes it impossible to resist.

“Please, mommy.” you whisper, the words trembling but filled with raw, unfiltered need. “Please, let me see you.”

Sinfulness flares up in her eyes, and the grin that spreads across her lips is equal parts dangerous and thrilling.

“That’s my good girl.” she praises, her voice dripping with satisfaction as her hands move to the hem of her sweatshirt.

When Agatha’s hands leave your body, you can’t stop the whine that slips from your lips. It’s needy and pathetic, but you’re already too far gone to care.

“Oh, sweetheart…” she mocks as she tilts her head. “You really are that desperate, aren’t you?”

Her words make your cheeks burn, and you bite your lip hard, swallowing back another whine. But the look on her face, so smug and in control, has you clenching your thighs around the edge of the counter.

Your gaze is locked on her hands as they slowly, tantalizingly lift the fabric. Her eyes never leave yours as she teases you with every inch of skin revealed, and when the sweatshirt comes off entirely, you feel your breath catch in your throat.

She’s bare beneath it. Completely bare.

Your mouth goes dry, and then the exact opposite—you feel your tongue press against the roof of your mouth as you practically salivate at the sight of her.

“Look at you.” she purrs, a wicked grin spreading across her lips as she tosses the sweatshirt aside. Her hands slide to her hips, her fingers brushing over her skin as if to emphasize the curves you can’t stop staring at. “You’re such a fucking mess for me.”

Your teeth sink harder into your lip, your eyes shamelessly roaming her chest. You’re utterly entranced—the fullness of her breasts, the way her nipples harden in the cool air, her confidence radiating off her in waves. Everything about her leaves you utterly speechless.

She notices, of course she does, and her grin sharpens, cruel and knowing.

“This little shirt of mine… it’s cute on you. But wouldn’t it look better crumpled on the floor?” she coos as her fingers hook under the hem of your t-shirt, lifting the fabric just enough to expose a sliver of your stomach.

“Tell me, sweetheart…” she drawls, her tone dripping with mockery as she leans in closer, her breath brushing the shell of your ear. “Do you want mommy to strip you down? Hmm? Want me to see every inch of that needy little body of yours?”

Your body reacts before your brain can catch up. You nod quickly, far too eagerly, your thighs pressing against her hips as your breath comes in short, uneven bursts.

She smirks at your silent response, her nails dragging upward, grazing the underside of your breasts.

“You’re gonna have to use your words, baby.” she whispers, her tone dark and commanding. “Tell me how bad you want it.”

Your voice seems nowhere to be found, the weight of her touch and her voice combined too much to bear. But, when her nails scrape higher, barely brushing your nipples, words spill out in a rushed, broken plea.

“Take it off, mommy, please.” you whimper, your voice shaky and drenched in desperation. “I need you, I need you touch me.”

Her laugh is low, and entirely self-satisfied.

“That’s better.” she murmurs, pulling back just enough to meet your eyes. “Such a good girl, begging so pretty for me.”

In one fluid motion, she yanks the t-shirt over your head, tossing it aside with a flick of her wrist. Her eyes rake over your bare skin, the hunger in her gaze making your thighs tremble.

“You’re perfect, baby.” she breathes, her voice rough and uneven, her restraint barely in check.

Agatha doesn’t hesitate. Her lips descend on your breasts with a ferocity that makes your entire body jolt. Her tongue flicks over a sensitive peak, and you can’t stop the cry that rips from your throat as your head falls back against the cabinet with a soft thud.

“Fuck!” you gasp, your body arching into her mouth as her teeth graze you, the sharp sting sending a delicious pulse straight between your legs.

She doesn’t stop. Her tongue circles the hardened bud, before sucking hard enough to pull a strangled moan from your lips. The sound only seems to spur her on, her mouth devouring you with unrelenting hunger.

Her finger slides up your thigh, nails dragging across your skin, stopping at the edge of your panties, teasing, her thumb brushing over the damp fabric.

You’re completely lost in the moment, drowning in the heat of her mouth on your chest and the agonizing proximity of her fingers to where you crave her touch the most.

But as her lips move to your other nipple, sucking it into her mouth with equal fervor, one frustrating realization claws its way through the haze of your pleasure.

She’s still wearing her sweatpants.

For some lame, inexplicable reason, the thought makes your blood boil, snapping you out of your trance just enough to notice the imbalance. She’s standing there, all smug dominance, fully in control while you’re bare and completely at her mercy.

It won’t do.

One of your hands finds her chest, cupping her breast with a boldness that earns a muffled groan against your skin. You squeeze, your thumb flicking over her nipple just as your other hand trails downward, nails scraping over the curve of her hip before hooking under the waistband of her sweatpants.

The sudden touch makes her pause. Her lips leave your chest abruptly and her head snaps up, narrowed eyes locking onto yours. For a moment, she looks almost… intrigued.

“What do you think you’re doing?” she asks, a dangerous edge lacing her tone.

Your fingers tug lightly at the waistband, your lips curving into a smirk.

“Catching up.” you murmur, your voice breathy but steady, even as your fingers push lower.

“Is that right? And here I thought you couldn’t wait for mommy to take what’s hers.” she purrs, her voice as cocky and controlled as ever. But the faint roll of her hips, the way her body leans just slightly into your touch, betrays the fire burning under her skin.

Your hand moves decisively, slipping lower and sliding beneath the fabric of her sweatpants and underwear in one seamless, fluid motion.

The second your fingers touch her folds, you both moan obscenely loudly.

“Fuck, you’re dripping for me.” you whisper, reverent and breathless, as your fingers slide through her slick heat.

Her groan is low and guttural, her control slipping as both of her hands fly to your hips, gripping you tightly as her head dips closer to your ear.

“You have no idea what you’re doing to me.” she growls, her breath hot and ragged against your skin. “But if you think you’re calling the shots, baby, think again.”

But you barely register Agatha’s words. You’re too lost in her—the way she feels against your fingers, wet and burning hot, the slight roll of her hips against your hand.

You realize that your own hips have started moving on the counter, mirroring her rhythm, your body subconsciously chasing the same friction.

The heat between you is unbearable, your body responding to every movement, every sound, every flicker of dominance she tries to hold onto. You can’t help but press your fingers deeper, teasing her entrance, dipping just enough to feel the way she clenches around you.

But, of course, Agatha won’t give in and relinquish control that easily. One of her hands snaps to your wrist, her grip firm and unyielding, halting your movements in an instant.

“Mmh, looks like I’ve got a greedy little brat on my hands.” she purrs, her voice a silky threat. Her eyes gleam with intent as she removes your hand. “Let’s fix that.”

Before you can respond, her hands grip your hips firmly, dragging you forward off the counter in one fluid, confident motion.

You instinctively wrap your legs around her waist, your arms looping around her neck for balance. Your chest is pressed flush against hers as she effortlessly takes back control.

“W-what are-” you stammer, but your words are cut off as her lips find yours again, her mouth devouring yours with a ravenousness that leaves you lightheaded.

You immediately kiss her back with equal fervor, your fingers tangling in her hair, your teeth catching her bottom lip in a teasing nip. The combination earns you a raspy moan slipping from her throat, and your hips grind instinctively against hers.

You assume she’s taking you to the table to set you down, the same way you were perched on the counter. But when her stride slows, instead of placing you on the table, Agatha lowers you to the ground.

The second your feet touch the floor, her hands are on your waist, spinning you around with a forceful motion.

You gasp as your hips meet the edge of the table and a knee slots between your legs to part them. Your palms fly forward, bracing yourself on the cold wood as her presence looms behind you, her breath warm against your neck.

Her front presses against your back, and the fabric of her sweatpants brushes against the bare skin of your ass. The contrast—soft cotton against heated skin—is maddening, and you push back instinctively, grinding against her.

“Let’s get rid of these, shall we?” she murmurs, her tone carrying the faint lilt of a question, though it’s clear no answer is required, no permission sought. Her fingers hook under the waistband of your panties, her intent already decided.

She pulls them down in one smooth motion, the fabric slipping over your thighs and pooling around your ankles. The cool air brushes against your wet core, but you barely have time to process the sensation before her hands are back on you, landing on your hips with a firm and possessive grip.

One hand stays there, squeezing tightly, grounding you while the other slides lower. Her fingers graze your ass before dipping further between your thighs to brush against the wetness dripping down your legs.

Her touch is maddening—a tantalizing blend of featherlight and firm—as her fingers glide through your folds. The wet mess she finds draws a low groan from her throat, a sound that’s both satisfied and utterly depraved.

“God, you’re soaked.” she growls, her voice rough and thick with lust as her other hand tightens its grip on your hip, holding you firmly in place as you instinctively try to roll them.

Her fingers press against your entrance, circling, teasing, never giving you the satisfaction of what you need. Your knees threaten to give out as you cling to the table for support.

“Agatha—” you choke out, your voice trembling with desperation. Your hips buck involuntarily, seeking friction, seeking her, but she pulls her fingers away just enough to leave you whining.

“That’s not how you address me, sweetheart.” she murmurs as her nails dig into your hip just enough to promise marks you’ll feel later.

You shake your head, your breath coming in short bursts as you try to find the words.

“Please.” you manage, your voice barely above a whisper. “Please, mommy, I need—”

Before you can finish, two fingers plunge into you, your breath catching at the sudden fullness.

Your body arches instinctively, your walls fluttering around her fingers as she sets an infuriatingly controlled rhythm. You can feel every drag of her fingertips against your inner walls, waves of pleasure crashing over you with each calculated stroke.

“Look at you.” she coos, her own tone ragged and breathy, but never losing its condescending edge. “Dripping down my table, clenching around me like you don’t ever want me to stop. Is that it, baby? You don’t want mommy to stop?”

“Fuck! Don’t stop!” you gasp, your voice barely recognizable, breaking on the words as your fingers dig into the edge of the table. “Please mommy, don’t stop!”

Your words are still hanging in the air when she slams a third finger into you, the stretch pulling a sharp cry from your lips.

She chuckles darkly, and even without seeing her face, you can picture it perfectly—that satisfied, smug grin of hers, curling across her lips, oozing with triumph.

Her fingers thrust harder now, deeper, each movement striking that perfect spot inside you with unerring precision, sending tremors through your thighs. The sheer pleasure sends your body folding forward, your elbows replacing your palms on the table as your head dips low.

You can hear it, the obscene sound of how wet you are as she sinks into you over and over again. The slick, rhythmic noises filling the space between her low groans and your soft mewls.

Her pace is merciless as her fingers drive you closer and closer to the brink, your body trembling under the unbearable pressure as it builds to a breaking point. Every nerve is alive, ablaze and hypersensitive, and you’re so close, so achingly close—the coil inside you feels stretched to its limit, ready to snap and drag you under completely.

And, apparently, Agatha feels it too.

Her fingers slide out of you slowly, and your walls clench around the sudden emptiness, making you whimper. But before you can beg, before you can even think, her hand comes down hard on your ass, the sharp crack of her palm against your skin echoing through the room.

The sting is immediate—electric, and utterly unexpected—dragging a strangled gasp from your lips. The sheer force and suddenness make your elbows buckle, your upper body collapsing fully onto the table, palms splayed weakly on either side of your head.

“That’s for making me wait so damn long.” she snarls, her voice dripping with controlled anger as her fingers ghost over the burning outline of where her hand just landed. “For wasting my time when we both knew you were already mine.”

Her words send a fresh wave of heat pooling between your legs, but before you can process it, another spank lands on your other cheek, just as sharp, just as precise.

You cry out, your hands scrambling for purchase on the table as the sting radiates through you, mixing pain with a sickeningly addictive pleasure.

“Say you’re sorry, baby.” she commands, her free hand sliding up your back to press between your shoulder blades, holding you firmly in place.

“I—I’m sorry, mommy!” you manage, your voice trembling as your nails dig into the wood beneath you.

“Louder.” she growls as her nails lightly scrape the tender flesh of your ass, making you hiss.

“I’m sorry, mommy!” you cry, your voice breaking on the words as your thighs clench together instinctively, desperate for any friction, any relief.

“Good girl.” she praises, her tone softening just a fraction. “Apology accepted.”

Her fingers plunge back into you with a roughness that makes your body instinctively try to arch off the table, but the hand forcefully planted between your shoulder blades keeps you pinned in place, pressing you down and keeping you bent over, completely at her mercy.

“Do you hear yourself, baby? How good you sound when I’m ruining you?” she groans, her tone husky and frayed as the wet, filthy sounds of her thrusts fill the air once more.

You don’t even try to answer, you can’t. You’re too far gone, blissed out beyond reason, your mind an empty haze, her fingers fucking every last coherent thought straight out of your head until all that’s left is her.

Agatha’s pace is so brutal and purposeful that it seems impossible it could increase, that her fervor could intensify. But then the pressure on your shoulder blades vanishes and her hand moves back to your hip.

She grips you with bruising strength as she pulls you back onto her fingers, forcing you to take her deeper, faster, leaving you no room to escape the overwhelming sensation.

“You want to come, don’t you?” she scoffs, her breath hot against your neck as she leans in closer, her teeth grazing the shell of your ear. “You want me to let you fall apart right here on this table?”

“Yes!” you gasp, your voice breaking as you cling to the edge of the table for dear life. “Yes, please, mommy—please let me come—I can’t—”

“Not until I say so.” she warns, cutting you off. “You’ll come when I tell you to, and not a second before.”

“Please!” you beg, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes, the need for release becoming too much to bear. “Please, mommy, I’ll be good—I’ll be so good, just please—fuck!”

It’s clear that your pleading isn’t just affecting you—it’s unraveling her too, every word dragging her closer to giving in and granting you what you’re unashamedly begging for. The proof is in the sounds spilling from her lips, perfectly synchronized with each slide of her fingers into your dripping hole. Each thrust draws a deep hum, a choked groan, as if your submission alone is enough to push her to the edge. It’s intoxicating, the way her pleasure seems to mirror yours, feeding off your helplessness, as though dominating you is quickly becoming her favorite indulgence.

As her fingers curl insistently against that delicious spot inside you, her other hand leaves your hip, gliding between your thighs to find your clit.

There’s no room for teasing as her fingers press and circle it with merciless speed, each motion exquisitely calibrated to make you clench greedily around her fingers buried deep inside you.

You bite down hard on your lip, the sharp sting an attempt to ground yourself, but it’s no use. The dual assault of her thrusts and the devastating rhythm against your clit is too much, too perfect, her control over your body absolute.

You’re barely holding on by a thread, fighting desperately to keep the orgasm at bay.

Your knuckles turn white as your grip tightens on the edge of the table, searching for any semblance of stability while your hips twitch erratically. Your whole body is trembling, helplessly teetering on the edge of blissful oblivion, every muscle locking tight as the inevitable surges closer.

Agatha knows. She feels it—the way your walls flutter around her fingers, the way your thighs quake with each jolt of pleasure, the way your cries are pitched higher and higher. Her voice cuts through the haze, a final push into the abyss.

“Come for me, baby. Now.” she commands, and the finality in her voice does it.

The words hit you with thundering force, igniting every nerve in your body as the orgasm crashes through you—it’s blinding, a white-hot explosion that obliterates everything else, consuming you entirely.

You’re breathless, helpless as she continues to thrust into you, wringing every last drop of ecstasy, guiding you through the aftershocks as your body twitches with lingering tremors.

“Yes, just like that.” she murmurs, her voice soft and brimming with pride. “Such a good girl for me.”

The hand on your clit withdraws, only for her arm to slip between your body and the table, wrapping securely around your waist as she gently pulls you upright.

A few seconds later, her other hand stills, and her fingers slip out of your core, leaving a hollow ache that draws a soft whine from your lips. But the tenderness in her touch as she turns you around and envelops you into her arms quiets your mind completely.

You collapse against her, your legs barely able to hold you up as you rest your head on her shoulder, her lips brushing your temple in a soothing kiss.

“You did so well, baby.” she praises, her voice like velvet wrapping around your senses as her hands trace slow, idle patterns along your back. “So fucking perfect for me.”

You nod weakly, too spent to speak, your body still trembling in her arms. The world feels distant and blurred, but the warmth of her embrace grounds you, pulling you back piece by piece.

“You’re everything I imagined.” she murmurs, her voice carrying that playful edge you’ve come to crave.

“And trust me, I imagined this—” her lips curl into a smirk that you can feel against your temple. “—a lot.”

Your head tilts back just enough to meet her gaze, and the glint in her eyes makes your stomach flip.

“Oh?” you ask, a hint of a laugh in your voice. “Care to elaborate?”

“I’ve pictured bending you over this table more times than I care to admit.” she says, the corners of her mouth tugging upward. “And now that I finally have…”

Her words trail off, unfinished but loaded with meaning.

Her eyes roam your face, taking in every detail as if she’s trying to commit you to memory. You feel the heat rise in your cheeks, and a new warmth stirs low in your belly, reigniting the fire you thought had been temporarily quenched.

“Well…” you murmur, your voice soft but full of intent “you’re not the only one who’s been fantasizing about this table.”

Her brow arches, the flicker of intrigue and surprise in her expression sparking a surge of confidence in you. Before she can respond, you move.

Your hands find her waist, gripping her firmly as you spin her around and guide her back toward the table. She lets you, her movements uncharacteristically yielding as she stumbles slightly, her smirk faltering into something curious, fascinated.

“Sweetheart, what are you—”

You don’t let her finish. Your lips crash into hers with all the passion you’ve been holding back. The kiss is deep, slow, a manifestation of everything you’ve been feeling—the pent-up longing, the intensity of what just happened, the desire that refuses to fade.

She responds immediately, her hands gripping your waist as the back of her thighs hits the edge of the table.

One of your hands slides up her side, your palm grazing the curve of her breast before cupping it fully. Your thumb circles her nipple, the taut peak hardening under your touch as she moans into your mouth, the sound vibrating against your lips and spurring you on.

Your lips trail away from hers, leaving a path of open-mouthed kisses along her jaw, her neck, her collarbone, slowly working your way down.

Once you reach her chest you take your time there, lavishing her with attention. Your hands knead her breasts while your tongue teases one peak, flicking and swirling before closing your lips around it and sucking hard.

Agatha’s head falls back and her body arches into your touch, a sharp gasp tearing from her throat as her nails bite into your waist.

You switch sides, your mouth now focused on her other breast while your hand continues to play with the first, pinching and rolling her nipple between your fingers.

You can hear her uneven breathing, her chest rising and falling rapidly as you worship her, but it’s not enough.

Your hand trails lower, your fingers finding the waistband of her sweatpants. You glance up at her, and the impatience in her eyes makes your lips twitch into a smirk.

You hook your fingers into both her sweatpants and underwear, yanking them down in one swift, decisive motion. For a fleeting moment, the field seems leveled—Agatha now as bare as you, her body exposed to your gaze. It’s almost enough to fool you into thinking she’s relinquished some of her control.

But you know better. No missing layer will strip her of the commanding presence she effortlessly exudes. If anything, her confidence seems to grow sharper, like she knows exactly how her body affects you, how completely entranced you are by every inch of her now on display.

Agatha carelessly kicks the discarded fabric to the side and leans back against the table, hands gripping the edge with an ease that feels almost like a challenge—an unspoken dare for you to come forward.

The morning light streaming through the kitchen windows catches on her skin, as if the sun itself is conspiring to exalt her, highlighting every sharp line and soft curve of her body.

You scoff quietly at yourself, almost amused by the thought that you ever believed, even for a second, that you could resist her. As if morality, self-doubt, or even the frailest shred of common sense could have won against her. Against this.

Not that you wanted to resist—not really. And now, with her standing there like this, completely bare and unapologetically commanding, the only thing you can think about is how badly you want her, how you can’t wait a second longer to taste her.

You drop to your knees slowly, the cool floor biting into your skin but only serving to heighten your anticipation. Your hands glide down her thighs and her stance shifts, her legs parting instinctively to make room for you.

Agatha’s breath catches almost imperceptibly as she looks down at you, her expression a mix of dominance and barely restrained need.

From this angle, she looks even more imperious, and the thought that you’ve put her in this position, that you’ve brought her to this point, sends a fresh wave of heat pooling between your own thighs.

“Oh, baby…” she purrs, her tone dark and laced with sin. “How many times have you thought about this, hmm? About getting on your knees for me like a good little girl. Every time you walked into my kitchen?”

Your cheeks burn at her words, but the heat only fuels your resolve. Instead of responding right away, you lean forward, your lips brushing her inner thigh. She’s dripping, and the glistening evidence of her arousal makes your mouth water and your lips curve into a smug grin.

You look up at her from beneath your lashes, your breath ghosting over her slick heat. She tenses, a sharp inhale escaping her as you trail soft kisses upward, closer and closer to where she wants you most.

“You talk too much… mommy.” you murmur sultrily against her skin, the emphasis on that last word a bold, blatant act of defiance.

Then, without warning, you dive in, tasting her for the first time.

The first glide of your tongue through her folds draws a strangled moan from her lips, her body jerking involuntarily as her fingers tighten against the edge of the table.

The taste of her—rich, and utterly addictive—sends a rush of heat straight through you. It’s overwhelming in the best way, every nerve in your body coming alive as you bury your face between her legs, your tongue moving with purpose.

Her slickness coats your tongue with every stroke, and you can’t stop the soft whimper that escapes you at the sheer decadence of it. Her hips buck against your mouth, seeking more, and you eagerly give it to her, your tongue circling her clit before dipping into her entrance, savoring the way she clenches around you.

“Fuck.” Agatha hisses, her composure beginning to crack. “That’s it- deeper.”

You press your tongue further, sliding it in and out of her languidly, curling it just right and relishing the way her walls flutter in response. The husky sound that escapes her throat makes your thighs clamp instinctively, the rawness of it fueling your determination.

You feast on her, losing yourself in the act of pleasing her, in how her body arches slightly as if trying to take more of you, in the way her scent and taste consume you entirely.

As you bask in the illusion of control, one of her hands leaves the table, drifting to the back of your head. Her fingers weave into your hair, tightening their hold—not enough to hurt, but firmly enough to remind you exactly who’s in charge.

“Stay still now, baby.” she growls, her voice edged with impatience and laced with unyielding authority. “Let me take what I want.”

Her words make your core clench so hard it aches, slickness dripping shamelessly down your thighs as you eagerly offer your tongue, sticking it out for her to use as she pleases.

Her rhythm starts slow, her hips grinding lazily against your mouth, each movement steeped in self-satisfaction. The wet, decadent sounds of her arousal fill the room, blending with the throaty cries spilling from her lips, each one more unrestrained than the last.

You realize that despite every fantasy you’ve ever had, nothing could have prepared you for this. For her.

You’ve dreamed about this for months—what she’d taste like, how she’d sound, how she’d react to your touch—but the reality is so much more intense, it’s almost too much to bear. Every flick of her hips, every whimper, every broken curse escaping her throat makes your head spin, your body aching with the need to please her. Her dominance is inebriating, her pleasure a reward you’d gladly chase forever, and all you can do is hold on as she uses you, as she takes what she wants, what she needs.

She starts grinding faster on your mouth, her pace growing relentless, chasing her release with increasing desperation.

“God, you feel so fucking good.” she groans, her voice hitching as your lips close around her clit to suck softly. “Always knew you’d be perfect on your knees.”

Her words set your cheeks ablaze, but the heat only emboldens you. Your fingers dig into the pale flesh of her thighs, steadying her as you redouble your efforts—your tongue circling her clit before flicking over it in quick, precise strokes.

“Right there- fuck, don’t stop.” she gasps, her head falling back as she cries out.

You can tell she is close and you obey without hesitation, your tongue pressing harder against her clit, driving her higher and higher.

You glance up at her through your lashes, and the sight—her head thrown back, lips parted in ecstasy, chest heaving, her entire body trembling with pleasure—almost makes you come on the spot.

This is all you’ve ever wanted. Her. Like this. Falling apart under your touch. And God, you’ll do whatever it takes to make her come undone completely.

Suddenly, her grip in your hair tightens, almost painfully, and she pulls you impossibly closer, her thighs tightening around your head. Her hips grind against your mouth with wild abandon, and you realize she’s taking over completely, using you to push herself over the edge.

“Fuck, yes- take it, baby.” she snarls, her voice cracking as she rides your face with frantic movements, her nails digging into your scalp with each snap of her hips.

The mix of sensations makes you moan loudly against her, and it’s the vibrations reverberating through her that ultimately tip her over the edge.

Her hips stutter and her release hits with devastating force, her body shuddering violently as her pants and groans grow into sharp cries.

Her juices flood your mouth as she comes undone, and you don’t stop, your tongue working her through every wave of her orgasm, lapping up every last drop and savoring each second of her shaking, gasping form.

When her movements finally slow, her grip on your hair loosens, and she slumps back against the table, her chest rising and falling as she struggles to catch her breath.

Her hand slides from the back of your head to cradle your cheek, her thumb brushing gently over your flushed skin. The tender touch makes your eyes flutter closed, but the moment shifts as she smears her arousal deliberately across your lips, the gesture both possessive and searingly intimate.

When your eyes open and your gaze lifts to meet hers, the sight of her staring down at you leaves you breathless. Passion smolders in her darkened eyes, with a glimmer of admiration flickering in the depths of her blown-wide pupils, making it impossible to look away.

“Good girl.” she murmurs, her voice rough yet rich with praise. “You’ve outdone yourself, baby.”

Agatha’s hand glides down your arm, steadying you as she helps you stand. Once you’re upright, her fingers trail back up, brushing over your skin until they reach your jaw, gently tilting your face toward hers.

Her lips capture yours in a kiss that’s slow and indulgent, her tongue brushing against yours as she moans softly, tasting herself on you.

You let out a quiet whimper as her tongue flicks over your lower lip, savoring the evidence of her own release.

The kiss deepens, and time seems to dissolve, the world narrowing to just the two of you, the warmth of her mouth, the press of her body, the way her hands skim possessively over your waist.

When you finally pull back, breathless and dazed, you let out a faint chuckle, shaking your head.

“If we keep going like this, we’ll end up spending the entire Sunday fucking.” you joke, your tone light and playful despite the lingering breathlessness in your voice.

Agatha snorts, a short, genuine laugh spilling from her lips as she rests her forehead against yours.

“Tempting as that sounds…” she murmurs, her eyes glinting with amusement “I was actually thinking about taking a shower, care to join me?”

You nod, your voice caught in your throat, as she takes your hand and leads you out of the kitchen. The gesture catches you off guard, and you can’t help but glance down at her fingers intertwined with yours—her grip firm yet tender, guiding you into this uncharted territory with quiet confidence.

You follow her up the stairs, your eyes drawn to the sway of her hips and the cascade of her wild hair tumbling down her bare back. Even in this quieter moment, her confidence radiates effortlessly, pulling your attention with every step.

You thought you were just going to take a simple shower. Adorable. Truly, the height of naivety.

The moment your back meets the cold tiles, Agatha’s hands are on you. One grips your thigh firmly before sliding down to hook under your knee, lifting it effortlessly and wrapping your leg around her waist. The hot water beats down, soaking you both, but all you can feel is the heat of her mouth tracing over your skin and the relentless thrust of her fingers inside you.

Her body presses yours firmly against the wall, her wet hair sticking to her face in chaotic strands that only make her look more feral, more untamed. You can’t even focus on the steam blurring your vision or the water rushing over you—just her teeth grazing your collarbone, her nails digging into your thigh, and the delicious stretch of her fingers curling just right. It’s messy, slippery, and you can’t stop the breathless laugh that escapes your lips between gasps of pleasure.

By the time you step out of the shower, your legs are unsteady, and your chest heaves with exhaustion. Agatha wraps a towel around you, her touch uncharacteristically caring as she gently pats you dry before tending to herself.

In her bedroom, she hands you another oversized shirt and a pair of loose-fitting shorts. You dress in comfortable silence, but as the two of you change, a strange, heavy realization settles over you.

This changes everything.

Your gaze flits to Agatha as she adjusts the waistband of her pants, and an unexpected pang of uncertainty grips you—not about her, or even about everything that just happened, but about what it means for everything beyond this moment. For you, for her, and for Nicholas.

You’re not sure how to voice it, but the weight of it presses on your chest, and Agatha seems to notice. She steps closer, her brows furrowing slightly as she tilts her head, studying your expression.

“Hey…” she murmurs, her usual teasing edge replaced by something softer, almost disarming. “What’s rattling around in that pretty little head of yours, hmm?”

Her hand comes to rest lightly on your arm, and the way she looks at you—steady, calculating, yet undeniably understanding—makes your heart skip a beat. She’s not demanding, but offering, giving you room to decide whether to speak or retreat.

You’re not sure what to say, or even where to start, but the warmth of her hand on your arm tell you it’s okay. That whatever you need to say, she’ll listen.

#agatha harkness x reader #agatha harkness x you #agatha harkness x female reader #agatha x reader #agatha x you #agatha x y/n #agatha harkness #aaa #agatha all along #aaa fanfic #agatha harkness fanfic #agatha all along fanfic #agatha harkness au

84 notes · View notes

jackles010378 · 3 days ago

Text

A Christmas wish

Weeks after the death of Dean in that barn, y/n was nearing her first Christmas without her boyfriend, as she sat under the stars and saw a shooting star she prayed to Jack for one last day with Dean as she didn't get the chance to say a proper goodbye, but knowing Jack was hands off she didn't hold her breath. As she woke up on christmas morning a surprise was waiting for her in the bunker library...........

No warnings needed, a bit sad but I really needed to write this so I hope you like it 🥹💚 little nervous about posting this, not gonna lie 🫣

Y/n's heart felt heavier with each passing day as Christmas approached. Days had turned into weeks since Dean's tragic death in the barn. The painful memories haunted her every waking moment, and the thought of celebrating Christmas without him was unbearable.

On Christmas Eve, y/n decided to spend the night under the stars with Miracle by her side, seeking solace in their twinkling beauty.

As she gazed up at the sky, a shooting star streaked across the darkness. In that moment, a surge of emotion welled up inside her, and she whispered a silent prayer to Jack, the all-powerful entity she had encountered on her adventures with Dean.

She prayed for just one more day with Dean, a chance to say a proper goodbye and find closure in their tumultuous journey. But y/n knew deep down that Jack was a hands-off observer, and the chances of her prayer being answered were slim.

The cold night air seemed to echo her silent pleas as she ad Miracle finally retreated inside the bunker, bracing herself for the emptiness of Christmas morning. When she woke up, something was different. Miracle seemed to sense the change too and ran off before y/n could stop him.

Y/n made her way to the bunker's library, her heart heavy with grief and longing. As she entered the room, a gasp escaped her lips. There, standing in the dim light of the Christmas tree, was Dean. He crouched down ruffling Miracles fur, he was excited to see him.

Tears blurred y/n's vision as she rushed forward, unsure if she was dreaming or if this was some cruel twist of fate. But as Dean turned to her with a smile that reached his eyes, she knew this was real. "how, I mean, are you really here?" y/n asked him, looking him up and down in disbelief". Dean reached out to her, his fingers brushing against her arm. She flinched at his touch, her eyes going wide as she realised he was really standing in front of her.

Dean pulled her in for a hug. His hand gently landing on the back of her head as she sobbed quietly against his chest. He cleared his throat as he began to talk to her. "it seems that your little wish you made, Jack heard." y/n's head snapped up and found those glistening green orbs staring back at her. "I thought............ I didn't think he........... I can't believe your here" she struggled to get the words to describe how she was dealing with this. Dean held her a little tighter as they embraced each other still standing by the tree.

For a moment time seemed to stand still. They were holding onto each other as if they would never let go. Dean's presence was warm and solid, his familiar scent filling the room and easing the ache in y/n's heart. Dean walked them over to the couch, holding her close to him. He wasn't going to waste a single second of his time with her. He knew he had to explain this was a one time deal, but for now he would just take in the moment and cuddle with his girl.

As they sat together by the twinkling lights of the Christmas tree, Dean recounted his journey after his death, the battles he had fought, and the sacrifices he had made. He spoke of his love for y/n, a love that transcended time and space, a love that had brought him back to her side on this special day. With Jack's help of course. Dean then told her that this wasn't permanent, but he would always be watching over her. Nothing really stays dead in the world of supernatural, even if he wasnt coming back for good this time, he would always look out for her.

And as they exchanged words of love and forgiveness, y/n realized that this unexpected gift was more than just a Christmas miracle. It was a chance to say goodbye, to find closure, and to cherish the memories they had shared. As the day turned to evening, y/n and Dean spent one last night together. They made love to each other, Dean not rushing a single moment of it. He wanted to make sure she knew how much he loved her, that she would always be his soul mate.

As the first light of dawn broke, Dean woke up with y/n still in his arms. He pushed the hair away from her face and placed a sweet kiss on her cheek. She stirred as he was standing at the edge of the bed looking down at her. Tears formed in her eyes as she knew this was her final goodbye. She knelt in front of him and kissed him one last time. As she pulled away their foreheads touching, Dean's form began to fade. His final words echoed in y/n's heart. "I'll always be with you," he whispered, his voice filled with love and warmth.

And as y/n watched him disappear into the light, she knew that Dean Winchester would forever be a part of her, guiding her through the darkness and lighting up her world with his love. And on that Christmas morning, y/n found peace in the knowledge that love never truly dies, it simply transforms into something eternal and divine.

TAGLIST : @nescavaneckdaily @k-slla @cevansbaby-dove @kaleldobrev @janineb86 @deans-daydream @alternativeprincess94 @angelbabyyy99 @cheynovak @winchesterwild78 @suckitands33

Let me know what you think, I hope you guys liked it 🥰 💚

#jensen ackles #dean winchester #jackles #jensen ross ackles #supernatural #spn cast #deanwinchtser #jensen ackles gifs #soldier boy #beau arlen #dean winchester fanfic #dean winchester fic #dean winchester fanfiction #dean winchester x y/n #dean winchester x you #dean winchester x female!reader

94 notes · View notes

jhyoos · 1 day ago

Text

Dreams Come True

Chapter 1: Breaking The Ice

modern au! hockey star! vi x idol! reader

inspo: @shouyuus

summary : reader, a weary trainee chasing fading dreams the more she is held back from debuting, finds their worlds colliding with vi, a rising star on a college hockey team. but as vi’s successes shine brighter and their paths diverge, the weight of mismatched futures becomes unbearable. vi “takes it upon herself” to end their relationship.

warnings: cocky!vi (only for this chapter), modern au!, little of college au!, and lots of angst for this chapter.

notes: im still editing this! but please enjoy!

The mirrored walls of the practice room reflected every imperfect detail—the smudge of sweat on your forehead, the slight tremor in your legs as you held your final pose, and the hollow look in your eyes you tried to ignore. The beat of the music faded, leaving only the sound of your labored breathing and the dull ache in your muscles.

“Again,” your dance instructor said, clapping their hands sharply. No sympathy, no reprieve. Just endless push to perfection.

You wiped your brow with the back of your hand, your eyes darting to the clock. It was late.

Vi’s hockey game had probably ended hours ago, but you hadn’t checked your phone. You couldn’t afford distraction. Not now.

As the music restarted, you pushed yourself through the choreography, your movements robotic, devoid of the passion you once had. You stumbled on a turn, your ankle wobbling slightly, and your dance instructor’s glare could cut through the mirror she was staring at you through.

“Focus or you’ll never make it.”

The words stung, but they weren’t untrue. You bit your lip, swallowing the lump in your throat. You couldn’t afford falter. Not when the dream you had chased for years was so close, yet so far out of reach.

When practice ended, you sank onto the floor, your back against the cold wall. Your chest heaved, and your hands trembled as you reached for your phone.

No new messages

You stared at the blank screen for a moment longer than you should have. It wasn’t like Vi to go silent, but maybe that was just another sign of how things were unraveling.

With a shaky breath, you typed out a message: “Hey are you okay? Haven’t heard from you. I miss you.”

Your finger hovered over the send button, but before you could press it, a voice interrupted your thoughts.

“You’re still here?”

You looked up to see one of your fellow trainees, Mel, already in a coat and standing by the door.

“Yeah, just…catching my breath,” you lied.

Mel bid her farewells to you and left without saying another word, the sound of the door clicking shut leaving her alone in the room.

You sent the message before you could overthink it and stood, grabbing your bag. The night outside was cold, and you already feel the soreness settling into your body. But what hurt more was the absence of Vi—the one person who had always been your escape from the endless cycle of training and exhaustion.

You needed her.

The rink was silent, the cold biting at her skin as she stepped inside. Vi was on the ice, skating back and forth in a sharp, aggressive movements, her stick slamming the puck against the boards with a hollow thud. It wasn’t practice—it was something else, something restless and angry.

“Vi,” you called softly, standing at the edge of the rink. Your voice echoed, but Vi didn’t stop. She kept skating, kept hitting the puck as if trying to drown out the sound of her name.

Finally, the reader stepped closer, her sneakers crushing against frost. “Vi stop.”

With a frustrated groan, Vi came to a halt, her skates screeching against the ice. She turned to face you, her expression hard, almost unrecognizable. “What are you doing here?”

“I came because you didn’t answer me. Again,” you said, crossing your arms against the cold. “You’ve been avoiding me lately and I wanna know why…I deserve to know why.”

Vi leaned her stick against the boards, running a hand through her hair “I’ve been busy.”

“Busy?” You repeated, your voice rising. “You’ve think that’s an excuse? I’ve stayed up with you until three in the morning when you couldn’t sleep because of a bad game. I’ve massaged your shoulders after every practice when you were too sore to move. I’ve made sure you ate when you forgot, Vi. But now you’re too ‘busy’ to answer my text?”

Vi’s jaw tightened, her eyes flickering with something unreadable. “I’ve never asked you to do any of that.”

The words hit you like a slap. You couldn’t help but let out of a chuckle, stunned. “What?”

“I’ve never asked you to stay up, or to take care of me, or drop everything for me,” Vi says coldly. “That was your choice.”

Your chest tightened, anger and hurt bubbling to the surface. “My choice? You didn’t seem to mind when I was helping you through every breakdown, every bad practice, every injury. But now that things are hard for me, you can’t be bothered to check in?”

Vi’s gaze hardened, and she stepped off the ice, her skates crunching against the rubber mats. “This isn’t about you. It’s about us. And us doesn’t work…”

“Why?” You demanded, your voice trembling. “Because I’m not as successful as you yet? Because I’m not shining as bright as your hockey career?”

“Because we are on different paths,” Vi snapped, her tone sharp. “You’re barely holding it together, and I can’t be the one to carry you through it.”

Your eyes filled with tears, but you refused to let them fall. “Carry me? I’ve done nothing but support you, Vi. Every step of the way. And you want to act like I’m the one that’s dragging you down?”

Vi shrugged, her face mask of indifference. “Maybe you are.”

The words cut deeper than any slap or any ache that you felt on your body. “You don’t mean that,” you whispered.

“Don’t I?” Vi said, her voice devoid of emotion. “This is exhausting. You are exhausting. And I think it’s better if both of us stop pretending this will work.”

Your breath hitched, your hands shaking. “I loved you,” you say quietly, the words trembling with pain. “I gave you everything, and this is what I get in return?”

Vi didn’t reply, her silence colder than the air around them.

You scoffed “Cool.”

With that, you turned and walked away, your footsteps echoing in the empty rink. Behind her, Vi stayed silent, unmoving as if she’d decided already there was nothing left to fight for.

The outside cold stung your face, but it wasn’t nearly as sharp as the ache in your chest.

The morning was quiet, but not in a peaceful way. You had to skip your classes after an emergency meeting at your company. All of the trainees were scattered throughout the room, discussing amongst each other.

You sat in the corner of the studio, your knees drawn to your chest. Your phone buzzed on the floor beside you but you didn’t bother picking it up. You already knew it wasn’t Vi.

You hadn’t slept much, not that it was new. But this time, it wasn’t the pressure of training or fear of failing—it was the look on Vi’s face, the cold finality of her words

“I never asked you to do anything of that”

You repeated those words in your head so many times it felt like they’d been etched into you. Each time they came back, they stung a little less, leaving behind a dull, empty ache.

“Hey”

You looked up to see one of your close friends, Mel standing over you with a water bottle in her hands and her usual casual smirk softened into something more thoughtful. “You look like hell…”

You let out a humorless laugh “Thanks…that’s exactly what I needed to hear.”

Mel sat down beside you, sliding the water bottle into your lap. “Drink that. You’ll feel less like death.”

You took it without arguing, twisting it off the cap and taking a sip. Mel leaned back on her hands, watching her movement before speaking again “Let me guess, Vi?”

You froze, your fingers tightening around the water bottle. You didn’t answer, but the silence was enough.

“I saw her before I left this morning,” Mel said her voice careful. “She looked like hell too. I mean, hides it well, but you can tell when you’ve been around her enough.”

“Good,” you muttered, staring down at the water bottle. “She should feel like hell after what she said.”

Mel let out a low whistle “Shit girl…”

The instructor walked into the room, silence falling instantly. He scanned the group, a stern look on his face. “Alright,” he said, his voice cutting through the tension. “We’ve seen what you’re all capable of. Today, we’re announcing the new members of the upcoming girl group AURORA. Listen carefully.”

Your heart raced as you sat up straighter , trying to calm the pounding of your chest. You’ve been training under this company for over 3 years now. You just knew your time would soon come.

The instructor called out a 3 girls names. None of them were yours and honestly you were starting to lose hope.

“Mel Merdarda.”

Mel’s name was called, and the room filled with automatic claps and cheers. You turned to your friend with a wide grin, though she noticed a flash of concern in your eyes when Mel caught your gaze.

Who were you gonna talk shit with now?

And then the instructor paused, scanning the room once more. There was a slight hesitation before he said the words that would change everything.

“(Y/N) (L/N)”

Your chest tightened. You barely registered the sound of applause as you stood frozen for a beat longer than you should have. Your name.

You had finally made it.

#vi fanfic #arcane #modern #college #hockey players #x reader #idol #singer #vi x reader #vi headcanons #arcane fanfic #arcane fandom #mel medarda

89 notes · View notes

milk-tea-sakura · 1 day ago

Text

𝐵𝒶𝒸𝓀 𝒮𝓉𝑜𝓇𝓎- 𝒮𝒾𝓂𝑜𝓃 𝒹𝑒𝒸𝒾𝒹𝑒𝓈 𝓉𝑜 𝑔𝒾𝓋𝑒 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝒷𝑒𝓈𝓉 𝒞𝒽𝓇𝒾𝓈𝓉𝓂𝒶𝓈 𝑔𝒾𝒻𝓉 𝓎𝑜𝓊'𝓋𝑒 𝒷𝑒𝑒𝓃 𝓌𝒶𝓃𝓉𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝒻𝑜𝓇 𝒶 𝓌𝒽𝒾𝓁𝑒, 𝒶 𝒷𝒶𝒷𝓎. 𝑀𝒶𝓎𝒷𝑒 𝒷𝑒𝒸𝒶𝓊𝓈𝑒 𝒽𝑒 𝓌𝒶𝓃𝓉𝓈 𝓉𝑜 𝑜𝓃𝑒 𝓊𝓅 𝒥𝑜𝒽𝓃𝓃𝓎 𝒷𝓊𝓉 𝓂𝑜𝓈𝓉𝓁𝓎 𝒷𝑒𝒸𝒶𝓊𝓈𝑒 𝒽𝑒 𝓀𝓃𝑜𝓌𝓈 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝓌𝒶𝓃𝓉 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝓌𝒶𝓃𝓉 𝓉𝑜 𝒷𝑒𝒸𝑜𝓂𝑒 𝒶 𝓂𝑜𝓂.

𝒞𝓌: 𝒮𝓂𝓊𝓉, 𝐵𝓇𝑒𝑒𝒹𝒾𝓃𝑔, 𝐵𝒶𝒷𝓎 𝓉𝒶𝓁𝓀

Ghost sat on their couch, a thoughtful expression on his face as he watched you from across the room. He had been contemplating something for quite some time, a secret plan forming in his mind. The Christmas season was approaching, and he wanted to give you the best gift he could think of. He knew there was one thing you had been longing for a while, and he was determined to make it happen.

As you chatted idly with him, sipping on a steaming cup of tea, Ghost's eyes softened, reflecting the warmth of the fireplace nearby.

"Hey, love," he called out, breaking the comfortable silence that had settled between you two. "Can I talk to you about something important?"

You set your tea down on the coffee table and turned your attention to Ghost. Sensing the seriousness in his tone, you nodded silently, giving him your full attention.

Ghost patted the empty space on the couch next to him, silently signaling for you to join him. You obliged, crossing the room to take a seat beside him, your heart suddenly beating a bit faster, curiosity piqued.

"What's wrong?" You ask, getting serious

Ghost took a deep breath, his expression growing serious as well. "It's nothing wrong, love," he reassured you. "But I do have something I want to discuss with you. Something that's been on my mind for a while now."

He took your hand in his, his touch gentle yet firm. His thumb traced idle patterns on the back of your hand as he gathered his thoughts, preparing to voice what had been on his mind.

"You know I love you, right?" he asked, his voice low and earnest. "And I know how much you've wanted a baby."

Your heart skipped a beat at his words, your mind instantly understanding the direction this conversation was going in. You felt a mixture of hope and anticipation building within you, nodding silently in response.

Ghost's grip on your hand tightened slightly, almost as if he was drawing strength from your touch. He met your gaze, his eyes filled with a mixture of desire and determination.

"Is this because we just found out that Johnny and his wife are pregnant?" You ask

Ghost's expression darkened slightly, a flicker of irritation passing through his eyes. "Partially," he admitted, his voice holding a hint of bitterness. "But it's not just about that, love. Seeing them together, knowing they have what you've been wishing for...it's made me realize something."

His hand cupped your cheek, his touch gentle but firm. "I know how much you want a child. And I want to give that to you. I want to hear the sounds of a baby's laughter echoing in our home, and see the joy in your eyes when you hold our child in your arms. I want to make you a mother, love. More than anything."

Your heart swelled with love and hope at his words, a lump forming in your throat. You knew that Ghost had his own reservations and fears about becoming a father, but hearing him speak so passionately about it now only reaffirmed your belief in his love for you.

"I know I'm not the best at expressing my emotions, love," Ghost continued, his voice filled with vulnerability. "But I want this with you. I want us to start a family together. I want to see you become the amazing mother I know you'll be."

"And I'm sure you'll be an amazing father since you already know how not to act, you know with your childhood..."

Ghost chuckled wryly, his eyes betraying a hint of pain as the topic of his childhood came up. "Yeah, I guess you've got a point there," he admitted. "My upbringing wasn't the best, but I'm damn determined to be a better father than mine ever was."

He paused, his thumb tracing lazy patterns on your knuckles as he continued. "I want our child to have everything I didn't. A loving, stable home. Parents who are there for them through thick and thin. A happy childhood filled with laughter and love."

His gaze met yours, his eyes holding nothing but tenderness and determination. "And I know you'll be an amazing mother, love. You have such a nurturing, caring spirit. You'll give our child everything they need to grow up strong and happy."

Ghost's hand moved from your cheek to the nape of your neck, his touch a gentle yet possessive gesture. He pulled you closer to him, his body heat suddenly noticeable in the small space between you.

"You know, love," he whispered, his voice dropping to a huskier tone. "There is one aspect of making a baby that I'm quite fond of."

A mischievous twinkle came into his eyes, his fingers gently caressing the sensitive skin on the back of your neck. He leaned in closer to you, his lips so close that you could feel the warmth of his breath against your skin. "Maybe you'd like to hear about it?"

"Is it the sex part?"

Ghost's smirk widened at your blunt response. "You read me too well," he said, his tone laced with a hint of amusement. "But yeah, that's exactly what I was referring to, love."

He gently guided you down onto the couch, his body hovering above yours. His hands explored your curves, tracing a path from your shoulders down to your hips. Leaning in, he buried his face in the crook of your neck, his lips brushing against the sensitive skin there.

"The thought of creating life with you...it does things to me, love," he murmured, his voice heavy with desire. His hands continued their exploration of your body, his touch growing more urgent, more possessive.

He angled his body so that he was fully on top of you now, his weight pressing you into the cushions of the couch. His lips left a trail of kisses along your jawline, his gaze filled with hunger and need.

"The idea that something we created, something made from our love, will be growing inside you..." he whispered, his words sending shivers down your spine. "It's the most beautiful and primal kind of connection, love."

"I'm starting to think you have somewhat of a breeding kink." You joke.

Ghost chuckled, his lips still tracing a path along your neck. "Mmm, maybe I do," he admitted, his hand moving down to grip your hip possessively. "There's just something about the thought of making a baby with you that drives me wild, love."

His other hand slid under your shirt, his fingers splaying across your bare stomach. "Maybe we should start a family sooner rather than later," he murmured, his voice taking on a more seductive tone. "After all, practice makes perfect love."

"How many kids?"

Ghost leaned back slightly so he could meet your gaze, a mischievous smile on his face. "You want me to put a number on it?" he teased, his hand idly tracing circles on your stomach but getting lower, lower, lower.

"I just want to have an estimate on how many kids you're wanting me to carry because I might have to make a limit."

Ghost chuckled, his hand stopping its descent just above the waistband of your pants. "Oh, there's no limit, love," he purred, his eyes darkening with desire. "I want to get you pregnant over and over again until you're completely overflowing with our children."

"Can we financially handle that?"

Ghost's smirk faded slightly, his mind briefly sobering at your pragmatic question. "Ah, you always have to be the voice of reason, don't you love?" he teased, his hand moving back up to rest on your hip.

"How about the most we have is 5. That's the max I'm willing to go to."

Ghost pretended to consider for a moment, his expression one of mock contemplation. "Mmm, five, huh? That's...acceptable. For now." He leaned back in, his lips hovering inches from yours. "But who knows what could happen once we start love..."

You roll your eyes "Yeah, yeah, Just fuck me already."

Ghost chuckled, his eyes sparking with mischief and desire. "Eager, are we?"

He leaned in, his lips gently grazing over yours in a teasingly light kiss. "Don't worry, love," he murmured, his hand moving to toy with the hem of your shirt. "You'll get what you want."

He slowly lifted your shirt, his fingers gently caressing your skin as he exposed your flesh to his hungry gaze. He took in the sight of you, his eyes darkening with a mixture of desire and possessiveness.

Ghost's hands roamed over your now exposed skin, his touch hungry and possessive. He leaned down, his lips leaving a trail of hot, open-mouth kisses along your collarbone and down to your chest.

"You're absolutely gorgeous, love," he murmured, his voice heavy with desire. "Seeing you like this under me...it's enough to drive me insane."

His hands continued their exploration of your body, tracing a path down your sides and settling on your hips. "I can't wait any longer, love," he breathed, his eyes locking with yours. "I need you now."

With a swift motion, he lifted you up into his arms, the strength he held in his lean form evident as he carried you effortlessly to the bedroom. He placed you gently down onto the bed, his body immediately covering yours.

His lips found yours in a hungry kiss, his tongue delving into your mouth with an urgency that mirrored his growing need. His hands roamed over your body, his touch becoming more desperate and bruising as his desire for you overwhelmed him.

Getting a bit more desperate, you try and fail pulling Simon's shirt off of him.

Ghost chuckled against your lips, his hands moving to help you with his shirt. As you struggled to pull it over his head, he broke the kiss for just a moment, a wry smile on his face.

"Eager, love?" he teased, his voice low and rough. "Let me take care of it."

With one swift movement, he whipped off his shirt, revealing his toned chest and abs. The sight of his bare skin sent a thrill through you, your hands immediately reaching out to explore the expanse of muscle and warm flesh.

Ghost let out a low moan as your hands roamed over his chest, his eyes darkening with barely contained desire. He leaned back down, his naked chest pressing against yours as he captured your lips in another deep, hungry kiss.

His body pressed against yours, Ghost's tongue delved deeper into your mouth, his kiss growing more urgent and demanding. You gasped as he deepened the kiss, his grip on your hips tightening possessively.

"I need to feel you, love," he murmured between kisses, his voice rough with desire. "I need all of you."

"Please, I can't wait any longer"

Ghost let out a low growl, his eyes darkening with a primal hunger. "Patience, love," he chided, although his own patience was clearly thinning by the second. "I need to make sure you're ready for me first."

"Ghost" You say desperately "Please, I can take it, you know I can we've done it before."

Ghost's body trembled at your desperate plea, his control starting to unravel. "Love, you're not making this easy for me," he groaned, his hands kneading your hips roughly. "I don't want to hurt you..."

But the look in your eyes and the need in your voice was too much for him to resist. He couldn't deny you any longer. With a mixture of tenderness and possessiveness, he leaned down and whispered in your ear. "But...if you're sure you're ready..."

His hands moved to the waistband of your pants, his fingers deftly working to undo the buttons and zips. He slowly pulled the fabric down over your hips, his eyes never leaving your face as he watched your expression.

Once the pants were gone, he gently parted your legs, his touch both reverent and greedy. "You're so beautiful, love," he murmured, his voice hoarse with need. "So perfect..."

He moved between your thighs, his body fitting snugly between them. "Are you sure you're ready for me, love?" he asked again, his gaze locked on yours. "There's no going back once we start."

"Yes, I'm ready, I'm so ready."

Ghost's resolve finally broke, the last bit of his self-control shattered by your desperate plea. He lunged forward, his lips capturing yours in a deep and hungry kiss. At the same time, he repositioned himself, his body lining up perfectly with yours.

"Hold on tight, love," he rasped against your lips, his voice laden with primal need. "This might get rough."

With one swift, fluid motion, he entered you, filling you completely in one deep thrust. You gaspered at the sudden intrusion, your body arching against his. Ghost let out a low, guttural moan, his hands gripping your hips tightly as he held himself still for a moment, allowing you to adjust to the feel of him inside you.

"Oh, love..." he groaned, his face buried in the crook of your neck. "You feel so good, so perfect. I don't think I'll be able to hold back."

"Don't hold back, I want you to breed me."

Ghost's eyes darkened at your words, a feral, primal light sparking in them. "As you wish, love," he growled, his voice a rough, ragged rumble. "But I warned you..."

With a guttural moan, he began to move, his hips pistoning into you with a primal, almost brutal rhythm. His lips found your neck, his teeth nipping and biting at the sensitive flesh as he claimed you, marking you as his own.

Each thrust was deep and hard, his body pinning you to the bed as he took what he had been yearning for. "You're mine," he growled, his voice guttural with possession. "You always have been and always will be. I'm going to fill you up, love, fill you up until you're overflowing with me, until there's no doubt in anyone's mind that you belong to me."

His words sent a thrill through you, your body responding to his primal assertiveness with a wave of desire of your own. You wrapped your legs around his hips, pulling him as close as possible, your nails digging into the muscled expanse of his back.

He groaned at the feel of you pulling him in, his movements becoming more forceful, more urgent. "You're mine," he repeated, his voice a rough rasp against your skin. "Say it, love. Say you're mine."

"I'm yours," you gasped, your voice breathless and desperate. "I'm all yours, Simon. Please, don't stop."

Ghost's movements became more frantic, more desperate. His breathing was harsh and ragged as he pounded into you, his grip on your hips sure to bruise. "That's right," he grunted, his voice ragged with primal possession.

"You're mine. All mine. Mine to love, mine to take, and mine to claim. I'm going to fill you up, love. Fill you up with my seed, with a part of me growing inside you. You're going to carry my child, love. You're going to have a part of me inside you, a bond that can never be broken. You'll be mine forever, in the most primal and intimate way possible. And I'll be yours, love. Yours to love, yours to mark, and yours to claim. We'll be bound together, forever one."

His words sent a wave of emotion through you, your body arching up against his as the pleasure built to almost unbearable heights. "I want that, Simon," you gasped, your fingers digging into his back. "I want to be yours, forever."

"You are," he growled, his voice a rough, possessive rumble. "You're mine, love, and I'm never letting you go. You're going to carry my child, grow round with my baby, and I'm going to be here, every step of the way."

"And after that first child, love, I'm going to fill you up again and again until you can't take it anymore, until your beautiful body is overflowing with my seed and my children. You're going to know what it means to be mine, love, in every possible way."

"You're going to know the depth of my love and my possession, love. You're mine, body and soul, and there's nothing in this world that can change that. I'm going to make sure of it, love. And nothing, no one will come between us."

With that, Ghost leaned down, his lips finding yours in a deep, possessive kiss, claiming you completely and utterly.

“Merry Christmas, My Love.”

115 notes · View notes